Cast the First Stone (29 page)

Oh, dearie me! she thought. This was one item of gossip she would not be repeating to Fiona. She knew that what was affecting Ethel Bayliss was pure and simple jealousy. The rector's young wife was proving very popular in the parish. The more people got to know her the more they liked her, especially since she had started the new group in which Ethel, to her annoyance, could have no part.

Fiona was pleased at the way the carol service had gone. Everyone she had spoken to had said how much they had enjoyed it, particularly the new items. She had noticed, however, that Mrs Bayliss was at the centre of a group of women, laying the law down about something or other. It was Mrs B who was doing most of the talking, and it appeared that she was not getting a great deal of encouragement from the others. Fiona turned away. As Simon often said, you couldn't please all the people all the time. So long as his decisions regarding church matters squared with his conscience and what he felt was right with God, then he had no qualms about going ahead. Simon, too, had been gratified at the way the ‘new look' service had been received.

Christmas Day fell on a Saturday that year. Boxing Day, therefore, was on a Sunday, which was, in truth, an awkward time for the clergymen. After consultation with the church council it had been agreed that there would be only a short service on the Sunday morning, after which Simon would be free for the next few days so that he could spend time with his family.

There was, of course, the customary Midnight service on Christmas Eve, and Simon had agreed that this should be very traditional; no guitar groups or anything that might be termed ‘mod' or ‘way out'.

Fiona had never felt so happy as she did on that occasion, sitting with the rest of the choir and singing the well-loved old hymns, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing' and ‘It came upon the Midnight Clear'; listening to Simon's short address about the love brought to the world by the Babe of Bethlehem, love we should feel for one another, or try to feel for the ones we might find it difficult to love; smelling the fragrance of the pine needles from the tall tree that stood at the side of the chancel. It had been decorated by members of the Youth Club the previous week, and the nativity scene on the straw-strewn table beneath it had been added to, week by week, during Advent by the Sunday school children; Mary and Joseph, shepherds, angels and wise men, and the baby would be placed in the manger the following morning at the Toy service.

It was a cold still night with a sprinkling of snow on the ground and the branches of the trees silvered with hoar frost as Simon and Fiona walked home to the rectory hand in hand. There was no need for words as they smiled at one another. Fiona knew that Simon was filled with the same delight as she was. The warmth in his eyes spoke of his love for her as they celebrated their first Christmas together as husband and wife.

The Toy service on Christmas morning provided an opportunity for the children to bring along a toy that Father Christmas had brought. As Fiona watched the bright-eyed boys and girls chatting to Simon about a new baby doll, a fire engine, racing car or cuddly panda, she hoped that soon she might have some special news for her husband. She knew that he wanted a child, and they were doing nothing to prevent this happening.

He would – or will – make a wonderful father, she pondered as they spent the rest of the day quietly together. She hoped that she, too, would be a good mother. And this thought gave rise to another one . . . Somewhere there was a thirteen – almost fourteen – year-old girl who was unaware of her, Fiona's, existence. Unless, of course, she had been told of her adoption . . . She tried to banish the thought, as she knew she must.

‘What's the matter, darling?' asked Simon coming upon her in the kitchen, staring into space.

‘Nothing, Simon.' She smiled, shaking her head. ‘I'm just waiting for these roast potatoes to brown. They're taking ages.'

‘Never mind,' he replied. ‘We've got all day. The chicken looks delicious.'

They were having what Fiona called a ‘mini' Christmas dinner as they would be celebrating on the following day with Simon's family. She had bought just a small chicken which had cooked to perfection whilst they had been at church, and a minute Christmas pudding, big enough for the two of them, which was steaming away on top of the stove. They had decorated a small tree and strung their myriad Christmas cards on ribbons across the walls of the lounge. They would be away from home until the Wednesday of the following week, giving Simon a well-earned rest from his parish duties.

After the short service on Boxing Day morning – Fiona felt that she had spent nearly all her time at church recently – they set off southwards across the hills and dales of North Yorkshire. It was not a long journey ‘as the crow flies', but some of the roads meandered between the steep hills and alongside the rivers. The scenery was familiar to both of them but neither of them ever tired of the beauty of their home county. The day was perfect for travelling, the roads clear of the snow that had fallen before Christmas, now lying in drifts at either side of country lanes.

They arrived in Baildon mid-afternoon to an enthusiastic welcome by Simon's parents, his sister, Christine, and her husband, Tom, and their two teenage children Susan and Michael. It was a happy few days with lots of fun and laughter. Fiona had met Christine a few times, but came to know her much better during this Christmas period. They found that they got on amazingly well together, and Fiona also enjoyed the company of Tom, a dales farmer who had left the farm in the capable hands of his second in command.

This was family life at its best, Fiona thought, and she felt that she was experiencing it for almost the first time. She had been happy enough with her mother and father, she recalled, until ‘that' happened, and then it had never been the same again. Even as a child, though, she had known nothing of this camaraderie and affection, along with the good-humoured bickering from time to time that made it all the more realistic and wholesome. Only once before had she known a similar kind of family love, she remembered; that was the time that she had spent with her aunt and uncle and her cousin and the children, when she had been sent, in disgrace, to the wilds of Northumberland.

Christine and Tom had been married in 1945, when the war had ended. Christine had been twenty-five then, and Tom, she guessed, a year or so older. Their children were now fourteen and sixteen. She and Simon, especially Simon, would be older parents, but she hoped that she too, some day, would experience the sort of happiness and unity that this family shared.

The rectory felt cold after their few days' absence but, fortunately, there were no burst pipes, a continual fear during the winter months. They warmed the house with roaring fires in the lounge and dining room, plus electric fires to take the chill off the bedroom and study. It had been agreed, however, by the church council that the rectory should now be centrally heated, and this work was to begin in the early spring. There was ample room in the kitchen for a boiler to be installed. Fiona was looking forward to instant heat at the touch of a switch instead of the arduous ritual of laying and lighting fires each day, although Simon often undertook this task.

The ‘Watchnight' service on New Year's Eve, to celebrate the start of the New Year, 1966, was well attended. Fiona was beginning to feel that she was surrounded by friends, and as they all embraced and exchanged good wishes for a ‘Happy New Year' she had a feeling that it would be a momentous year for herself and Simon.

The next event on the social calendar at St Peter's was to be a springtime concert featuring the various talents of the members of the congregation. The choir was to sing songs of a secular, rather than a religious, nature. Ivor Novello and Jerome Kern were found to be the favourite choices of the older members of the choir, so Henry Tweedale had arranged two medleys featuring the songs of these two popular composers. The younger choir members were to sing a selection of traditional songs, such as ‘Hearts of Oak', ‘The British Grenadiers', and ‘Strawberry Fair'. They had learnt them at school and enjoyed singing them, and they would, no doubt, be popular with the audience.

There were, inevitably, amongst the congregation, a man who recited humorous monologues such as ‘Albert and the Lion'; another who was something of a stand-up comic; a conjuror; a very competent lady pianist; and a man who played the ukulele in the style of George Formby.

Fiona had been asked to sing a solo, but she had demurred, not feeling confident enough to sing on her own. She had agreed, though, to take part in a trio with two other young women. One was Sandra Jarvis, the young mother of three who had come along to the first meeting of the Young Wives' group and was still a keen member, and Denise who was an alto in the church choir.

They had opted to sing ‘Three Little Maids from School' from
The Mikado
. Fiona was a keen fan of the music of Gilbert and Sullivan. She had seen several of their comic operas when she lived in Leeds, and had even suggested to Simon that they might consider starting a G and S group at the church.

‘Er . . . maybe sometime in the future,' he had said, warily. ‘It's a good idea, but we have rather a lot going on at the moment. Let's not run before we can walk, eh? I'm pleased you're singing in the concert though. That's great, darling. Good for you!'

The concert was planned for the last Saturday in March, the week in which spring officially started, according to the calendar. It was on the Friday morning that Fiona told Simon that, ‘One of the three little maids from school is in danger of being expelled.'

‘What do you mean, love?' he asked.

‘Well, it seems that she's in an interesting condition,' she answered. ‘It's sure to be frowned upon by the “genius tutelary”.' She smiled roguishly at him.

‘You mean . . . you? You're telling me that you're . . .' Simon's mouth stayed open in astonishment.

‘Yes . . . I'm pregnant,' she replied. ‘We're having a baby, Simon. At least . . . well, yes, I'm almost certain.'

‘Oh, my darling!' He got up from where he was sitting at the breakfast table and went over to her. ‘That's the most wonderful news. When . . . do you know?'

‘As I said, Simon, I can't be absolutely certain, not yet. But I'm pretty sure, and I have a feeling that I am.' She was only just over a week late, but that was unusual for her; besides, she felt confident in her mind that it was so. ‘Sometime in December, I think.'

‘A Christmas baby! Better than ever,' Simon exclaimed. He kissed her soundly on the lips.

‘Rather earlier than that, I think,' she replied. ‘I shall have to find out definitely. I'll wait a week or so, then I'll go and see Dr Entwistle and make sure.'

‘It's wonderful news,' said Simon again. ‘I feel as though I want to go and tell everybody, to shout it from the roof tops.'

Fiona laughed. ‘Hold your horses, darling. We'll know for sure in a little while. Until then it's our secret, isn't it?'

‘Three little maids who all unwary,

Come from a ladies' seminary,

Free from a genius tutelary,

Three little maids from school,

Three little maids from school.'

Simon and Fiona exchanged a fleeting glance and a secret smile as the trio of Japanese schoolgirls sang the popular chorus. Simon was seated in the centre of the front row, while his wife performed. He was taking no part in the concert apart from doing the welcome speech, and he would give the appropriate word of thanks at the end. Nor had he had much to do with the arrangements. They had been done by a committee chaired by Henry, the organist, who, with Fiona and four others, had planned the programme. Fiona, however, had asked Mrs Bayliss if she would take charge of the refreshments, as she usually did; a sop, in truth, because the said lady had no part in the organization of the concert itself. Fiona had told Simon that she had graciously inclined her head and agreed to do so, adding, a trifle grudgingly, that she was looking forward to the event although, for her part, she preferred music of a more serious nature.

Fiona looked very different in her black wig with the pink lotus flower, wearing her brightly flowered pink and blue kimono and fluttering a gaily painted fan. He was proud of her. She had a lovely singing voice along with her many other attributes.

This was the last act before the interval; Simon then mingled with the members of the audience who all agreed that it was a superb performance. It had attracted a goodly number of folk who didn't normally attend the church services; but he would invite them, at the end of the evening, to join in the worship at St Peter's the following day if they wished to do so. He was pleased that the new guitar group, playing and singing a medley of Beatles' numbers, had been well received. Most people, he believed, even if they insisted it was not to their liking, found themselves humming or singing quietly along to such numbers as ‘She Loves you', ‘Eleanor Rigby', or ‘When I'm Sixty-four'. Simon had done so and had been unable to stop his feet from tapping in time to the rhythm.

He did not see his wife as she was changing out of her Japanese costume into the choir ‘uniform' for the final act of the show. On a Sunday they wore their traditional robes and the ladies wore a sort of mortar-board hat. Tonight, though, they had agreed to dress in black and white – black trousers or long skirts, white tops or shirts – with red ties for the men or red scarves for the ladies.

Simon enjoyed the second half just as much as the first. It didn't matter that a couple of the conjuror's tricks were transparently obvious, or that some of the comedian's jokes ‘came out of the ark'. The lady pianist's performance of ‘Clair de Lune' was note perfect, and the monologue ‘Albert and the Lion' was still as amusing no matter how many times one heard it.