Cast the First Stone (32 page)

She invited Dora into the living room at the back of the house; she was wearing the flowered apron and the turban that indicated that she was busy with housework. ‘I was just about to tackle the bedrooms, with it being Thursday,' she said, looking a little flustered. She had a set pattern for her cleaning, Thursday being bedroom day. ‘But I can put it off for ten minutes or so.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hinder you, but I've got something to tell you. I was at the clinic yesterday and . . .'

‘Oh yes, how did you go on?' enquired Mabel. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Yes, all in order,' said Dora. ‘Only another three months to go, thank God.'

‘I expect you'll be wanting a little girl, will you, this time, after your two boys?'

‘Well, our Susan's dying for a little sister, but I've told her not to set her heart on it. Anyroad, like I said, I've got something to tell you. You'll never guess who I saw at the clinic!'

‘I'm not much good at guessing games,' said Mabel with a sniff, ‘but I can see you won't rest till you've told me. I reckon I'd best put the kettle on and make us a pot of tea, seeing as I've been interrupted . . . Sit yourself down. I won't be long.'

‘Well, who did you see then?' asked Mabel a few moments later, when they were both seated with a drink of tea, in Mabel's second-best china, and a digestive biscuit.

‘I only saw your rector's wife!' replied Dora, as though she was pulling a rabbit from a hat. ‘Going in to see that important chap, Doctor – no, they call him Mister, don't they? – Mr Bellingham, the one I saw the first time.'

‘You mean she's . . . ?' Mabel's eyes behind her small wire-framed spectacles were wide with curiosity.

‘Pregnant? Aye, I suppose she must be. But you won't believe this!' Dora leaned forward, holding tightly to her cup. ‘It's not her first baby! Oh no, would you believe . . . she had a baby fourteen years ago!'

‘What !' Mabel's tea spilled over into her saucer, and she hastily put it down on the stool at her side. ‘You mean . . . before she was married? Or . . . perhaps she was married before . . . Hang on a minute, Dora . . . How do you know all this?'

Dora embarked on the tale of the woman who had sat next to her. ‘Rather a common sort of woman, actually; definitely not “out of the top drawer” if you know what I mean – dyed blonde hair, and a bit tarty looking. But what she told me was God's honest truth, I'm sure of that. She wouldn't make it up, would she? She recognized her alright, knew her name and everything, and you don't come across women called Fiona all that often, do you? How old is she anyroad, your rector's wife? Do you know?'

‘Oh, a good bit younger than he is. I've heard tell she's in her early thirties. So she must have been – what? – only seventeen or so when she had the first one. The little madam! Of course, some of us have had reservations about her all along. She can be as nice as pie, but this shows her in her true colours, doesn't it? And human nature doesn't change.'

‘I wonder if he knows about it, the rector?' mused Dora.

‘I doubt it,' replied Mabel. ‘Surely he wouldn't have married her if he'd known about it. I mean to say, a girl like that! You never know though. Love is blind, so they say, and he fusses around after her as though she's the Queen of Sheba. He's had his head turned all right, I know that.'

‘Not the first one, nor will he be the last to have his head turned by a pretty face,' observed Dora. ‘And she's a pretty lass, I'll give her that.'

‘Handsome is as handsome does,' countered Mabel. ‘And have you noticed the length of her skirts? Honestly, it's disgraceful! I tell you what; if the rector doesn't know about it, then I think it's our duty to make sure he does, as soon as possible.'

‘And how do you intend to do that?' asked Dora. She was feeling a little fearful now that she might have opened a whole can of worms. ‘I mean . . . is it really any of our business?' She knew she had made it her business, though, hadn't she, by gossiping about it? And it was too late now to start feeling guilty about what she had done.

‘Of course it's our business,' retorted Mabel. ‘He's our rector, and we think a lot about him. I'll tell my sister and see what she thinks. And Mrs Bayliss – Ethel – she'll know what to do if anybody does. But I'll go and see our Gladys first, this afternoon.'

Mabel Thorpe's bedrooms didn't get done that day. Dora stayed too long as she often tended to do, but this time Mabel didn't fidget and keep watching the clock as the rector's wife's reputation was torn to shreds. She had an early makeshift lunch, then set off to see her sister, Gladys Parker, who lived about five minutes' walk away.

‘Hello; what brings you here?' asked Gladys, opening the door in her pinny and with a pot towel in her hand. ‘We've only just finished our dinner, Wally and me. Anyroad, come on in. There's nothing wrong, is there?'

‘It depends on how you look at it,' said Mabel darkly. ‘You'll never guess what I heard this morning!'

‘No, I don't suppose I will, but you're dying to tell me. What's up? You've not had a win on the pools, have you?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Gladys. You know I don't hold with gambling.' Mabel was very strait-laced; neither did she have much sense of humour.

‘Just joking, dear,' said Gladys, who had only said it to rile her. Gladys's husband, Wally, did the ‘pools' religiously every week, far more religiously than he attended church. It was a bone of contention between the sisters, as it had been between Gladys and Wally at one time. But she tended now to live and let live; Wally was not a bad husband all things considered, and she had learnt to count her blessings. She had watched her sister grow more and more embittered over the years since she had lost her Cyril in the first war.

‘Here, help me dry these pots.' Gladys thrust a pot towel into her sister's hand. ‘Then you can spill the beans.'

Wally left his fireside chair when he saw that the sisters were getting ready for a fair old chinwag. ‘I'll go and take a toddle round t'garden,' he said, lighting up his pipe, ‘then I'll not be stinking t'place out, eh, Mabel?' Another of her bugbears was how the air in her sister's house was often blue with tobacco smoke.

‘So what's eating at you then?' asked Gladys when they were both furnished with a cup of tea, a necessity when there was serious gossiping to be done.

Gladys's expression changed from interest to surprise, then to shock almost verging on horror as she listened to the tale her sister was telling. ‘Well, I never did!' she said at last. ‘Little Miss “Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth”! A child born out of wedlock! Well, I've heard everything now. Do you suppose he knows about it, our Simon?'

‘I've no idea. I wouldn't think so. A Church of England clergyman! They have to be careful, don't they, about who they ask to marry them? I mean to say, Millicent was the perfect vicar's wife, wasn't she? What a pity she died!'

‘In some ways she was,' replied Gladys. ‘But I got the impression that they weren't all that happy together, her and Simon. And he and Fiona do seem to be happy, don't they?'

‘It looks as though he's just the same as all fellows, though,' said Mabel with a sniff. ‘Taken in by a pretty face and blonde hair. Well, he's burnt his bridges now, hasn't he, whether he knows about it or not.'

‘To be honest, I was getting to like her a bit more now,' said Gladys. ‘She's always so nice and friendly, and it must be hard for her sometimes, with us older ladies. She must know there are some who resent her.' Gladys, in fact, was feeling a pang of guilt after her initial outburst. They didn't really know all the facts, did they? And there must have been thousands of girls over the years who had made the same mistake as Fiona had done. Gladys recalled now, with a stab of conscience, that their own brother, Bert, had ‘had to be married' way back in 1920. She was remembering, fleetingly, her own courting days, too. Almost impossible to think of Wally in that guise now . . . She pulled her thoughts back to the present.

‘She's tried hard, hasn't she?' she continued. ‘To pull her weight in the church, I mean. She teaches in Sunday school, she's in the choir, and she's started that Young Wives' group. And that concert not long ago, that was lovely; Fiona had a lot to do with that.'

‘Hmm . . . you're changing your tune,' snapped Mabel. ‘Should she really be teaching innocent children in Sunday school, and be in charge of a group when her morals are obviously not what they ought to be?'

‘And what are you suggesting we should do about it?' enquired Gladys. ‘I think that maybe we should just . . . leave well alone.'

‘At least we should go and talk it over with Ethel Bayliss,' said Mabel. ‘She's the one we always look to for a lead, isn't she? And she really ought to know about this. Ethel will decide what needs to be done.'

Gladys decided to take the line of least resistance. She was in a quandary. In one way, she wished she hadn't heard about all this and that the woman, Hazel, whoever she was, had kept her mouth shut. But they did know, and she could see that it wouldn't be right to keep it to themselves. And it was true that Ethel Bayliss was always regarded as the fount of all wisdom as far as the womenfolk of the congregation were concerned.

Ethel's reaction was predictable. ‘I'm not a bit surprised,' she declared, even though the others knew that she was, in truth, just as surprised as they were. ‘Didn't I say he would live to regret it? Marry in haste and repent at leisure; that's what I said. And you can be sure he'll be regretting it now!'

‘That is . . . if he knows about it,' ventured Gladys, a mite fearfully. Ethel, in high dudgeon, was a force to be reckoned with.

‘You think that Simon might still be unaware, then, about the trollop he's married?' countered Ethel.

‘Oh, come on now! That's a bit harsh,' said Gladys. She was not feeling quite so sure now about this scheme, this vendetta or whatever it was, that they were embarking upon.

‘I speak as I find,' retorted Ethel. ‘And you know that I've had my doubts about her right from the start. Well, if Simon doesn't know, then it's up to us to make sure that he does, and as quickly as possible.'

‘And how do you think we should do that?' queried Mabel. ‘Should we write to him, perhaps? What about an anonymous letter?'

‘You've been reading too much Agatha Christie!' snapped Ethel. ‘No; I don't approve of anonymous letters.'

‘You don't propose telling him to his face, do you?' asked Gladys. Rather you than me, she thought, fervently wishing at that moment that she were anywhere but in Ethel Bayliss's house drinking yet another cup of tea. They would all be drowning in it soon.

‘No . . . but there are more subtle ways of going about it,' replied Ethel. ‘Word will soon get round about our dear Fiona, you can be sure of that. And some folk may well decide that she is not a fit person to be teaching their children in Sunday school. Or they may decide to boycott her precious Young Wives' group. Do you see what I mean?'

What Gladys could see, in fact, was that Ethel Bayliss did not have the courage of her convictions. It was all very well talking about what must be done, but Ethel was not brave enough to beard the lion in his den. What she was proposing seemed, to Gladys, to be somewhat underhand and invidious.

‘I wonder if Joan Tweedale knows anything about this?' said Mabel. ‘They've become very pally, haven't they, Joan and . . . Fiona?'

‘Yes, so I've noticed,' replied Ethel. ‘But I don't intend to tell Joan Tweedale. She and I have crossed swords more than once, so I steer clear of her now, if I can. She'll find out though, soon enough, then we'll see what she thinks about her bosom pal, won't we? Just leave it to me, and I'll drop the word into a few ears . . .'

Miss Mabel Thorpe, however, could not resist calling into Joan Tweedale's shop on the High Street the following morning.

‘Hello, Joan,' she said brightly as the door bell jingled its welcome. ‘Lovely morning, isn't it?'

‘Good morning, Mabel,' replied Joan, rather less cheerily. Mabel was not one of her favourite people, but she reminded herself that the woman was a customer, and it was her policy to treat all her clients with respect and friendliness. ‘Yes, it looks as though it'll be a fine day. Now, what can I do for you this morning?'

‘Well . . . actually, dear, I haven't come to buy anything, not just now,' replied Mabel. ‘I've come to see if you've heard the news?'

A titbit of gossip, no doubt, thought Joan. Out loud she said, ‘I don't know, do I, until you tell me what it is?'

‘Well, fancy that! I felt sure you would know, with her being such a good friend of yours . . .'

‘And which good friend of mine is it that you're talking about?' asked Joan. She had an inkling as to who it might be and wondered what Fiona might have been doing now to set Mabel Thorpe's tongue wagging.

‘Well . . . it's the rector's wife, Fiona,' whispered Mabel, leaning across the counter in a conspiratorial way. ‘I have heard – from a very reliable source – that she's . . . pregnant!' The last word was spoken in a hushed tone.

Joan, admittedly, was a little taken aback that this inveterate busybody should know before she did – and no doubt half the parish would know as well – but she did not let her slight feeling of pique show. ‘Well, that is very good news,' she said. ‘I'm sure they must be thrilled to bits.'

‘Ah, but that's not all,' said Mabel. ‘It seems that it isn't her first child.' Joan's puzzled frown caused Mabel to pause for a moment before going on. ‘Oh no – and I've heard this on very good authority – she had a baby when she was only seventeen years old! In one of those homes for unmarried mothers, up north somewhere. And we were all wondering, Gladys and Ethel and me . . .'