FATHER RODNEY WOKE EARLY. HE TURNED IN HIS LARGE BED and looked at the clock. Half past six. Too early to get up, even though Sunday was his busiest working day. His first service was a nine o’clock Communion over at Waltonby. The sun was shining strongly through the flowery curtains his late wife, Anthea, had loved so much, and he wondered whether to get up and get some fresh air before spending most of the day in the cold, stony interiors of his village churches. He had four parishes in his benefice: Long Farnden, where he lived, Waltonby, Fletching and a tiny village, Hallhouse, with only half a dozen cottages and an ancient Saxon church, beautiful in its plainness. He tried to give them all services most Sundays, and today Holy Communion was in Waltonby, followed by Matins in Farnden church, and then home to a cold lunch. Evensong was at Fletching, and the tiny village had no service until next Sunday.
His wife had died unexpectedly, five years ago, when she was only thirty-nine. She had been a successful athlete, particularly good at short-distance sprinting. They had had no children, and she was the centre of his world. When she collapsed one hot afternoon at an athletics meeting, he had prayed as he had never prayed before for her recovery, but in vain. She had died four hours after being taken to hospital, where they discovered she had had an undiagnosed damaged heart.
Now he soldiered on alone. He knew he was regarded as an eligible bachelor by presentable spinsters in his parishes, but he could not imagine sharing his life with anyone but his beloved Anthea.
He put his legs over the side of the bed, thinking that by doing so the rest of his body had no alternative but to follow. This always worked, and once upright, he drew back the curtains and was glad. It was a beautiful morning, and he pulled on some casual clothes and set off up the Waltonby road at a brisk pace. Anthea would not have liked to see him go to seed.
As he passed by the hall he quickened his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by Mrs. T-J and forced to listen to her version of the Gospel according to St. Mark. She must, as a child, have been made to absorb the entire Old and New Testaments by heart. He had learned very early on never to contradict her on a matter of dogma or Biblical reference. She would have made an excellent bishop!
He had been astonished when he heard she was intending to drive the WI soap box. Was there nothing this woman could not do?
“Father Rodney! Helloeee!”
Dear God, could you not have held her back until I was well out of sight? Father Rodney turned and saw a perfectly turned-out Mrs. T-J striding towards him. He smiled his friendliest smile, just to show he could, and wished her good morning.
“Just the person I wanted to see!” she said. “There’s always such a crowd waiting to speak to you after the service, and now here you are and I’ve got you all to myself!”
Alarm bells rang. Surely she was not about to make him some discreet partnership proposal-or worse, suggest… But no, she was years older than him, and could not possibly…
“How can I help?” he said coolly. “I am up and about early to make the most of this beautiful morning before the nine o’clock at Waltonby.”
She looked at her watch. “You’ve got another hour yet. May I join you? I am quite a fast walker.” And a fast worker, Father Rodney said to himself in dismay.
“I was just thinking of turning back,” he explained. “Have to get showered and togged up in ecclesiasticals, you know. My Sunday best, as they say.”
“In that case,” she said, “we’ll walk up the drive to the hall, you shall have a quick glass of water and I’ll run you back to the vicarage.”
Father Rodney gave up. He fell in with her now much slower pace, and to his relief she announced that she had a problem with her gardener. “He is such a good worker, but I find it difficult to get much out of him about his private life.”
“Perhaps he regards that as his private affair,” Father Rodney said gently.
Mrs. T-J puffed up like a pigeon. “Oh, no. I think as his employer I have every right to know what kind of man I am allowing free run of my estate, don’t you? He gave me his name and address, and that is all. I have checked both, and find them fictitious. No such name at no such address.”
“So what have you done about it? That surely is enough to justify asking for an explanation?”
“Of course. But so far I have done nothing. There is something about the man that warns you off. As you know, I am a strong character. Used to be called fearless on the back of a horse! But I feel I must tread warily. For once, Father Rodney, I am not sure. That’s why I wanted your advice. What do you think?”
He reflected that she probably would take no notice of anything he advised, so it didn’t much matter what he said. “I think your instincts are probably right,” he said. “Go slowly. Perhaps you could ask around and find out if anyone knows anything about him? You must have a friendly policeman you could consult, you being a magistrate and so on?”
“Of course I know the commissioner, but it’s rather a small matter…”
“So far it may be,” said Father Rodney. “But he must have a reason for giving false details. Obviously he doesn’t want his real identity known. Why? That is the question you need answering. Have you thought of asking Mrs. Meade at New Brooms? Her girls go cleaning all round the county. They are sure to know something about him. Doesn’t one of them work for you?”
Mrs. T-J nodded. “Mrs. Hickson, yes. But she doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with him. I’ve watched her, and when he comes towards the house she retreats upstairs.”
“There you are, then!” he said triumphantly. “She knows something about him, and maybe something bad, if she seems scared. Ask her, Mrs. T-J, that’s my advice.”
They had now arrived in the stable yard, where her large limousine was parked. In no time at all, he was more or less ejected outside the vicarage with plenty of time to prepare for the service. So much for his solitary, contemplative morning stroll! Ah, well, no doubt He had a reason that would in due course emerge.
THE VILLAGE CHURCH CHOIR WAS NOW REDUCED TO THREE sopranos, one alto, two tenors and a bass who could not read music and made it up as he went along. Their robes were assorted shades of red, resulting in uncomfortable clashes, and their singing was much along the same lines. The popular singing teacher who had been their director of music had left a year ago, and things had gone downhill ever since.
Father Rodney was tone deaf, fortunately, and so continued to congratulate them on their rendering of four-part discord, and the few who remained were intensely loyal to him and to each other. Every so often, they tried a recruiting campaign, and occasionally a couple of new people would try it out. But they faded away quickly, and the small band of pilgrims remained.
“I wonder if young Jack Hickson would be interested in joining us?” said Tony Dibson, the improvising bass choir member. He had been impressed by efforts made by several villagers to get the lad to join in, and now he thought how good it would be to have a treble voice amongst them.
“No harm in trying, Tony,” said Father Rodney, as he prepared the bread and wine. He insisted on having small pieces of real bread and not the usual papery wafers that were impossible to swallow before the wine came along the row of communicants. “Why don’t you have a word with his mother?” How extraordinary, he thought, that this new family in the village should have come up twice in one morning! But perhaps not so extraordinary. Life in this small community was often nothing like the tranquil existence some incomers seemed to expect, but when presented with a problem, or somebody genuinely needing help, many of the real villagers rallied round, as it seemed they had done for the Hicksons. Derek Meade, he had heard, was offering young Jack some work in the school holidays, and the church should certainly not be the last to stretch out a welcoming hand.
“So can I leave it to you?” he said, smiling at old Tony. “And how is Irene? I see she is with us as usual, and looking very pretty, if I may say so.”
She’d be a lot happier if she could be ugly and on her feet, Tony said to himself, but nodded and said how much she had enjoyed last week’s sermon.
THE CHANCE CAME TO SPEAK TO JACK JR. AS TONY PUSHED IRENE back home after the service. The boy was kicking a football up and down the lane that led to the village hall, and as Tony passed by, the ball came fast directly towards Irene in her chair.
Jack had chased it desperately, but not fast enough, and Tony caught it with a nifty sidestep and grab. He held on to it and frowned sternly as Jack stood looking fixedly at the ground. “So what d’you say?” Tony growled at him.
“Sorry,” muttered Jack.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, boy!” said an exasperated Tony. “That was a very stupid and dangerous thing to do. The playing field is the place for football. So how’s about making amends?”
Jack frowned and looked up at him. “Making what?” he said.
“Amends,” repeated Tony. “Showing just how sorry you are. You could have injured my wife, and she’s got enough to put up with without that.”
“What do you want me to do?” said Jack, now seeing a possible escape from yet another lecture from his mother.
“You can put your back behind pushing this wheelchair to our house,” said Tony. “But only if Irene allows it.”
Irene was looking distinctly alarmed, but took a deep breath and said that was fine, so long as Jack was really careful and made sure they were at the dropped curb before crossing the road. They set off, and when Tony said that they were safely home, Irene said, “Thanks, lad. D’you fancy a smoothie? Hard work pushing the chair, I know. Come on in, we don’t bite.”
By the time Jack said it was time he went, he had reluctantly agreed to give the choir a go, but only to see if he liked it, and only if the Dibsons agreed not to tell anybody. “The kids on the bus would give me hell if they knew I was a choirboy,” Jack said, and one of his rare grins crossed his face.
“See you next Tuesday, then, for practise in the church, seven o’clock sharp,” Tony said, and watched as Jack walked off home. “I doubt he’ll be there,” he said to Irene, as he set the potatoes on the stove, “but at least we’ve tried.”