A Blessing In Disguise (36 page)

We both solemnly promise that we will.

‘I'll tell you what!' Imogen says suddenly. ‘Missie hasn't had her walk today. If I leash her up you can take her across the lawns and back.'

We do just that. Heavenly bliss! Imogen goes with us. Missie is very well behaved. In the end I have to drag Becky away and we go home. She spends the journey in bursts of talking fifty to the dozen alternated with longish periods of deep, wonder-filled silence.

We haven't been home more than ten minutes, just long enough to put the kettle on to make a cup of instant coffee, when there's a ring at the door, and when I go to answer it Nigel Baines is standing there.

‘I had a visit to make in the village so I thought I'd look in. Is it convenient?'

‘Absolutely!' I tell him. He follows me through to the kitchen.

Before he can say a word Becky says, ‘We're getting a dog! She's black-and-white and she's called Missie. We took her for a walk and she licked my hand. We can't bring her home just yet and we shall have to go to a training class but we can take her for another walk next Saturday. I'm going to get her a new collar and a lead and she'll have a Lucky Dog disc from the Rescue Centre so that if she gets lost they'll know to bring her back to the Vicarage but she won't get lost because I'll be with her when she comes to live here!'

When she pauses for breath Nigel looks at me.

‘All true!' I say. ‘Or it will come true if they approve of us, and that does seem likely. Actually I was going to make some lunch when I got my breath back. We've only just come in. We missed out on lunch . . .'

‘Oh! don't let me stop you!' Nigel says. ‘I'll be gone in a few minutes. I just wanted to ask you . . .'

‘I wasn't meaning you to rush off,' I say. ‘In fact, I was going to ask if you'd like to have some lunch with us. Nothing special! An omelette, most likely. You haven't had lunch, have you?'

‘No. I've had a busy surgery, and two visits even though it is Saturday. I was going to drop in at the Black Cat Café for something. They do meals all day. Why don't you both come with me. Please!'

‘I'd like that best!' Becky says quickly. ‘It's a lot better than omelettes. Also we could call in the pet shop on the way down and I could look at collars and leads. And toys. Imogen says dogs like toys, though Missie already has a teddy bear but I don't suppose she'd mind having a few other toys as well. And we'll need dog biscuits.'

Nigel and I look at each other.

‘Black Cat here we come!' he says. ‘What do you like for lunch, Becky?' He seems at ease with her, but then I'd say he gets on with everyone.

‘Chicken!' she replies. ‘I expect Missie will like chicken.'

‘Most dogs do!' Nigel says.

I haven't been in the Black Cat Café before. I suppose if it weren't for Becky being with us we'd be lunching in the Ewe Lamb but in fact the Black Cat is fine. It's small, wherever you sit you can see everyone else, and it's a bit old-fashioned; flowered wallpaper, checked tablecloths. Although lunchtime is almost over several tables are still occupied, the clientele mostly middle-aged, except for a couple with two children. Two or three customers recognize Nigel and speak to him briefly. I expect this happens wherever he goes in the village. What I'd like to ask him is, when he meets with a patient outside the surgery does he identify him or her by what's wrong with them? ‘Ah, yes! Mrs-What's-her-name. Hiatus hernia! Mr Thingummy. Hypertension!' And although I don't see anyone I know from church I am still wearing my dog collar, and as women in dog collars are not thick on the ground I am noticed and it must be easy to work out who I am. So a certain amount of interest is being taken, especially, I imagine, since I am lunching with their doctor.

Luckily, roast chicken is on the menu, and we all three choose it. Becky, who either talks volubly about dogs in general and Missie in particular, or goes into a deep reverie at the thought of joys to come, eats well, emptying her plate.

‘Did you say you called to ask me something?' I remind Nigel.

‘Yes, I did,' he says – but doesn't continue.

‘So?' I prompt him.

‘There's a concert in Brampton tomorrow week. I wondered if you'd like to come? It's in the afternoon, so Becky could go with us.'

Becky looks horrified at the thought, but she has the perfect excuse. ‘We might have Missie by then,' she points out. ‘We're not supposed to leave her long at first.'

I shake my head. ‘Darling, there's no chance we'll have Missie so soon.'

Actually, I would very much like to go to the concert. Classical music is my thing. I listen to it in the house but it's ages since I went to a concert. And apart from the music, I'd enjoy the outing. But Becky would hate it.

‘Thank you very much,' I say to Nigel. ‘I'd like that very much, but I'll have to see what I can arrange.' And then it occurs to me that perhaps Sally Brent would have Becky for the afternoon. I'm sure both Becky and Anna would enjoy that.

‘When would you need to know?' I ask.

‘Well,' he says, sounding a little bit embarrassed, ‘actually I've already got the tickets. I took a chance. I do hope you'll be able to make it. Please do!'

‘I'll let you know as soon as I can,' I promise.

I must say, I really enjoyed yesterday: all of it, the dogs, the lunch with Nigel, everything, but Sunday is still the best. Sunday is the day when all the people in my care – that's not quite true, I should say as many of the people in my care as wish to do so – come together to celebrate. It's the family day – by which I don't mean a family like myself and Becky, and occasionally my parents, but an extended family such as one might have on a special occasion, friends included and there to share a meal, which is what we do in the Eucharist. And it isn't just any old meal, it's a feast, a celebration.

Of course I don't decry those small weekday services attended by just a few devoted people. They have their importance, but the Sunday Eucharist
is
different. There is a diversity of people, of ages, the atmosphere is different. It isn't as quiet as some people might like, there's singing, there's more chattering as people come into church and leave it. There's more an air of – I think ‘rejoicing' is the word – in what we're doing and if there isn't, we're getting something wrong – or I am. There's also the fact that gathering together on a day set apart is what Christians have been doing for two thousand years, and in St Mary's, Thurston we are a small but real part of that. That's a feeling at the same time both awesome and comforting.

A slight shadow over this morning is again what Miss Frazer might get up to, but whatever form that takes I shan't allow it to darken the day.

So far, and the church clock has just started to strike ten, there is no sign of her. The usual stragglers are hurrying up the path and today, a yard or two behind the rest, is little Mrs Bateman. She is not – the Lord's name be praised – accompanied by Miss Frazer. I don't know why I think of her as ‘little' Mrs Bateman. She's several inches taller than I am, and rather plump, though her voice is thin. It's just that she always seems as though she's in need of care and attention, but not getting it, and I can't give her it at this moment because Mr Blatchford is coming to the end of his organ voluntary which is a sure sign that I must now walk with some dignity up the aisle to the front of the church.

She comes into the porch with the other latecomers just as I'm about to move away and I see at once that she's in a real state! Her face is blotchy red and tear-stained, moreover she looks as though there are more tears to come. Quickly, I turn to one of the latecomers and say, ‘Go up to the organ and tell Mr Blatchford to go on playing for another minute or two.'

‘What do you want him to play?' the messenger enquires, helpfully.

‘How do I know? Anything! It's not a request programme. Just tell him to keep on playing until he sees me walk up the aisle. The rest of you please go in! We're late.'

‘Now, Mrs Bateman,' I say, I hope soothingly, ‘you can see I can't stop for more than two seconds right now. So just tell me quickly what the matter is and then I'll spend as long as you like with you when the service is over.'

‘Oh, Vicar!' Mrs Bateman cries – she is really anguished. ‘Oh, it was dreadful! It's Miss Frazer!'

I take a firm grip on myself – after all, I am about to celebrate the Holy Eucharist – and drive away all thoughts, let alone hopes, that Miss Frazer might have suffered something unpleasant – not too unpleasant, nothing painful, just something which will keep her away from me.

‘Well, tell me very briefly, and then go into church,' I say firmly. ‘I'm sure Miss Frazer will be all right.'

‘It's not her, it's me!' Mrs Bateman says, the tears starting to flow again. ‘I went to call for her, I always do that, and when she came to the door she turned on me like a wildcat! She said the most terrible things! She said if it was my intention to go to church this morning then I was a traitor! “You are a tool of the devil!” she said. “But be sure your sin will find you out! Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and he will punish you as you deserve!” She said a lot more, I can't remember it all. At first I couldn't move, and then in the end I ran away as fast as I could. She was shouting at me all the time. Awful things!'

I am furious, but I mustn't show it. Not right now. I must keep calm.

‘None of the things she said to you are true,' I say firmly. ‘Neither God nor anyone else will punish you. You have done nothing wrong. Now dry your eyes, Mrs Bateman, and go into church. Sit quietly for a moment. I will pray for you very specially, though not by name because you wouldn't want that.'

‘No! I wouldn't!' she says.

‘We'll talk afterwards,' I promise. ‘Just remember, you've done nothing wrong. It's not you.'

It's me, of course, I'm thinking as I walk down the aisle. Poor Mrs Bateman is taking the punishment Miss Frazer would like to heap on me. I shall have to think hard about this, and most of all I will have to pray. And I'm well aware that, even at this moment when, to put it mildly, my thoughts towards her are not charitable, I shall have to pray for Miss Frazer as well as for Mrs Bateman and myself. That's in the Gospels also. They're not always easy, are they? Do you wonder Christians sometimes get cross with God? He does ask some very difficult things of us! Love your enemies! Do good to them that persecute you! One thing is sure, I shall never make a saint.

The service proceeds as if nothing untoward had happened, though I keep an eye on Mrs Bateman.

When it's over it's my firm intention to collar her on her way out and to take her into the parish office where I shall do everything I can to reassure her, but unfortunately I am buttonholed by a woman who is anxious to question me about the arrangements for the British Legion (Women's Section) Annual Service which I have never done before and she's clearly not sure that she can trust me with it – so Mrs Bateman eludes me. I decide she must have gone home, and if so I must visit her quite soon, but when I go into coffee, there she is, sitting at a table with four others and in full spate with her story. Carla Brown signals to me to join them and, as usual, orders Walter to get my coffee.

‘Mrs Bateman has just been telling us,' she says dramatically as I sit down. ‘Isn't it dreadful! That Frazer woman should have been drowned at birth! I know
you
can't say that, Venus, but me not being a true-blooded Christian, I can!'

There are two other women at the table whom I don't yet know, though I've seen them before in church. They look askance, more at Carla than at Mrs Bateman's revelations. I wonder where they stand?

‘What am I to do, Vicar?' Mrs Bateman says. ‘I want to come to church, but Miss Frazer has always been a friend, sort of . . . She was good to me when my husband died.'

‘You mean you've always done as she's told you,' Carla Brown interrupts.

Mrs Bateman ignores her and looks appealingly at me, as if I can wave a magic wand.

‘My dear,' I say, ‘first and foremost you must realize that you have done nothing wrong, nothing at all. You must get that firmly into your head. But what you do about coming to church is entirely up to you. You mustn't come from pressure, nor must you stay away because of pressure. You are your own person.' But the truth is that that's what she finds it most difficult to be. She's one of those women who needs a prop. I expect that was the late Mr Bateman's role.

I look around the table.

‘That goes for all of us,' I say. ‘We must all make our own decisions. Even when we know the way it's up to us whether we take it or not. But if we do follow it then it should be done in love. Fear or coercion, or blind obedience, should have no part at all.'

Walter puts my coffee before me and I change the subject, telling them that I hope to have a parish meeting at which we can discuss where we think St Mary's should be going.

‘I hope you'll all be there,' I say (I am touting this wherever I can). ‘I want to have it in the Vicarage if I can squeeze everyone in.'

‘That would be nice,' Carla says. ‘I don't suppose anyone will mind being squashed.'

Neither Mrs Bateman nor the other two women have anything to say to that.

On Monday, it being my day off, I manage some gardening in the morning, and in the afternoon I go to Mark Dover's for my third and, presumably, last sitting. He's been working on the portrait since last Wednesday and it's a great deal further on than when I saw it then. In spite of the fact that quite a bit of the canvas is taken up by my black cassock, the painting glows with colour, even the cassock itself. I hadn't realized there were so many shades of black. I also reckon it's a bit flattering. Well, if that's how he sees me! But I'm not going to say that to him. Last Wednesday he was a bit silly. He paid me several compliments and when he'd finished painting he helped me from my chair – quite unnecessary – and put his arms around me. All right, only in a friendly way perhaps, though I thought for one second he was going to kiss me. I wriggled away very pointedly.