CHAPTER FIVE
The Other Cheek
Rosemary had always seen it as her job as vicar’s wife to provide a practical backup to her husband’s ministry. Paul went round to see the sick and the dying, providing them with spiritual comfort and a shoulder to cry on. Rosemary dropped in on the same people to make sure they had home helps, meals on wheels and plenty of reading matter. The young mothers mostly ran their own groups in the church hall or the vestry, but Rosemary went along to them now and then and was always in the background willing to give advice when problems arose. They seldom did, because the young mothers were too busy for the rumour-mongering and backbiting that the older members of the congregation went in for. Thus, her role was practical, and she tried to avoid involvement with any of the parish groups or diocesan bodies. Those were the sorts of activity she found boring and shouldered with reluctance.
Nevertheless she was vice-chair of the local Mothers’ Union branch, and she was on the various committees that arranged such parish events as the harvest festival, fetes and bring-and-buy sales. They were positions she would have relinquished very readily if it had not been Florrie Harridance who was trying to shoulder her off. She kept in the forefront of her mind a mental picture of Florrie, with her bustle, her bulk and her endless steam-kettle monologue, as she went about her business as Paul’s pastoral adjunct.
She called next morning on Violet Gumbold, a Mothers’ Union stalwart, though her children, like Rosemary’s, were grown up and had moved away. Mrs Gumbold had broken her leg on the day Rosemary went to Scarborough, and as her husband was a commercial traveller and away much of the time, she needed all the help from the parish that she could get.
Rosemary took away a list of shopping basics Violet needed and three library books to change, repressing the feeling that Stephen King and Robert B. Parker were not the sickbed reading she would have chosen. When she came back Violet Gumbold had hobbled round to make tea and biscuits. Together they sat down comfortably over them.
“Did you enjoy Scarborough?” Rosemary was asked.
“Yes, I did. Lots of fresh, clean air and good walks.”
“They say you’re going through a sort of . . . crisis.”
“You could say that. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it, Violet? I seem to have done nothing but talk it over with Paul and others in the family.”
“I’m sorry, Rosemary. I should have thought. Will this make any . . . any difference?”
“I really don’t know. If people want me to withdraw, then there are plenty of things I could do.”
“Oh no, Rosemary, nobody wants that.” Rosemary waited for her to say what they did want, and Violet began to flounder and go rather red. “You do the parish work so wonderfully well we couldn’t possibly manage without you. We’d all be at sea . . . . Mrs Harridance came round the other day.”
“That was nice of her, to come and help,” said Rosemary, meekly and maliciously.
“She didn’t actually h—. Well, but while she was here she said she thought, since you had lost your faith, maybe you shouldn’t stay on as vice-chair in the Mothers’ Union, and the way she put it it did seem . . .”
Mrs Gumbold’s attitude appeared to be akin to saying it was all right for her to muck out the stables so long as she didn’t try to ride the horses. She was not the strongest brain in the parish, though Rosemary had always found her well-meaning. She just said, “I’ll leave that entirely up to the members. I wouldn’t dream of staying on if that wasn’t what they wanted.”
Mrs Gumbold looked relieved, as if she had in some way done her duty, or done what she had been told.
“Oh well—that’s all right then. I’m sure . . . Mrs Harridance was talking about the chairmanship as well.”
“Of the Mothers’ Union? Yes, she rang me about that.”
“I believe Mrs Munson is adamant that this time she will go.”
“She’s done a wonderful job over the years. I’m sure everyone will understand.”
“And if it goes by hard work then Mrs Harridance has worked like a Trojan too, and you could say . . .”
She faded into silence and looked at Rosemary. Once again Rosemary had the sense that she had said what she had been told to say. She also had the feeling that Violet Gumbold didn’t actually like Mrs Harridance any more than she did.
“We’re so lucky in the Mothers’ Union, aren’t we?” Rosemary said brightly, feeling herself an awful hypocrite. “There’s so many who are willing to work hard for us. There’s Mrs Macauley, and there’s Mrs Bannerman, who can never do enough, and—”
“Oh, do you think Mrs Bannerman could be the chairwoman of the Mothers’ Union? That would be nice—she’s such a pleasant person, and very efficient.” Mrs Gumbold frowned, uncertainly. “But she’s not an educated woman.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” Rosemary said briskly. “What we need is someone hard-working and capable, and she certainly is that. So is Mrs Harridance, of course, but she’s hardly an educated person either.”
“No . . . . Do have another biscuit, Rosemary.”
That conversation was the first of several Rosemary was to have over the next few days. She never brought up the subject of her loss of faith or her position in the parish, but when it came up she always expressed herself quite happy to abide by the views of the majority. She suspected that her apparent determination not to put up a fight meant that many resolved to put up a fight for her. She became quite certain Mrs Harridance wanted her off the committee because she knew her opinion of her. She accordingly never wavered from her expressed belief that Mrs Harridance would make an excellent chairwoman, and that they were lucky to have so many hard workers who would all do a splendid job if they were to think of putting up for the chairwoman’s position.
“I do think a real election is often a good idea,” said Mrs Munson, the retiring chair. “Rather than its just going to someone by default.”
“It does clear the air,” Rosemary agreed.
Such conversations were always conducted with the utmost meekness (which was a bit of a strain). They did seem to Rosemary after a time to be bearing fruit. Her antennae were keenly attuned to the niceties of parish opinion, she having been among these people for the last twelve years, and when she saw people talking together in muted tones she could tell from their stance and the way they looked at her whether they were on her side or against her. She rather thought that by and large they were on her side. It occurred to her that Mrs Harridance, for all her appearance of steamrolling forward and never hearing a word anyone else said, also had antennae that were at least sensitive enough to get the same message. If they were, she suspected that she might be getting a social call from her.
It came when she had been home a little more than a week. She saw Florrie approaching from the direction of the park, her ample figure wrapped in a bright blue coat, with a large, flowery hat covering her tight curls. Her somewhat protuberant eyes had the glint of purpose in them, but then they always did. Florrie had something of the purposive air of an outsize rodent.
Rosemary did not rush down to let her in, but waited till she heard the doorbell, then walked down to her visitor in a leisurely fashion.
“Rosemary, you do look well.”
“Thank you, Florrie.”
“People have been saying you did, but we don’t run into each other like we used to, with you not coming to church.”
“No, we don’t,” said Rosemary neutrally.
“It’s a pity, that. Means you’re bound to be a bit out of touch.”
She had taken off her hat and come through to the living room, where she sat down determinedly on the sofa. Rosemary did not offer her coffee or tea because Florrie always refused them (they interfered with her monologues). Rosemary sat opposite her in the big armchair, wondering which cheek was the other one that she ought to turn.
“Because naturally we’ve all been thinking about you and your position, Rosemary—in a Christia
n spirit, of course . . .” She stared at Rosemary, as if daring her to object, or to laugh. “Because of course we all hope you’ll be back with us fully before long, I mean in spirit as well, but really what we do feel is that the Mothers’ Union is a church group, a Christian group. So we understand your still wanting to be part of it, but on the other hand . . .”
Rosemary sat back and let it roll over her. It wasn’t pleasant, but these days one’s ear was used to unrelenting noise: one had only to go into the centre of Leeds to be assaulted by sounds of diggers, demolition trucks, high-speed drills and chain saws, and every pub she knew had music in various degrees of loudness in the background. Florrie in a small room produced much the same effect as the drills and the chain saws. Sometimes Rosemary made an effort to check her flow, but on this occasion she knew that eventually Florrie was going to have to get to a question that demanded from her an answer. After ten minutes or so it came.
“Now, what I’m sure would be best, Rosemary dear, would be if you resigned now as vice-chair, just went quietly. Everyone will understand, and there certainly won’t be any criticism, and that way there won’t be any nastiness, and I’m sure that for Paul’s sake—who we all respect so much—that’s what you’d want to avoid.”
Rosemary wanted to object that bringing Paul into it like that was fighting dirty, but she kept the other cheek resolutely turned. The monologue went on a bit longer, but eventually Florrie had to draw to a close and look interrogatively at Rosemary.
“I’m just going to leave it to the members,” she said.
There was a silence of several seconds. Florrie glared, then smiled forgivingly.
“I don’t think you’ve been following, Rosemary dear. What we felt was there’ll be so much less nastiness if you—”
“There’s been no nastiness, Florrie. You’ve all been very nice about it. So there’ll be no need for any in the future. I’ll just go to the next full meeting, tell them the problem (though of course everyone knows by now) and then leave the meeting and they can take the decision.”
“Oh Rosemary dear that is awfully unwise. Because if you were quietly to resign now saying it’s because after all it is a church organisation and you’d feel out of place now, you wouldn’t get the same feeling of rejection as you will if—”
“I’m sorry, Florrie. I won’t feel rejected at all. I’ve made up my mind. I’m afraid I have to go now. I’ve said I’d go and do some shopping for Mrs Gumbold. I believe you’ve been helping her since she’s been laid up. She told me about your visit. So kind. She needs everyone rallying around now . . .”
And she ushered her to the front door, through it and out to the gate, leaving her time for only a few parting shots.
“I wish you would think again Rosemary, because we’ve all got your interests at heart and—”
Rosemary was just turning to go in again when she realised that a BMW had pulled up in the road opposite, on the park side, its windows down. Dark Satanic Mills got out and lounged over the road, a smile playing on the corners of his lips.
“Good for you, Rosemary. I like a woman who fights.”
He didn’t say it sexily, but somehow there was sex in the background.
“Good morning, Stephen. What can I do for you?”
He left a pause, to suggest that there was a variety of things he could think of. That was the trouble with overtly sexy people: almost anything one said seemed capable of a second meaning when one talked with them.
“I think Paul has missed out on one of the account books for the Rotarians,” he said easily. “Not important, but I need it to get the whole picture. I should think it will be in his study. Any chance of my coming in to have a look for it?”
Rosemary led the way in, and then watched him as he rummaged around for it. As she was watching she considered her reactions to him. Of course the “Satanic” epithet was absurd. No one imagined him indulging in devil-worshipping rituals with children, or dipping his hands into disembowelled animals or birds. Still, the word somehow did seem to fit him: there hovered over him the possibility of evil. In fact, Rosemary could imagine all sorts of nastinesses, shading off into outright evil, and could fit them in with his character. And yet, as Paul said, he had been a regular churchgoer in the parish for well over a decade now.
Why did he come? There was not the slightest suspicion of anything spiritual about him. Yet on consideration Rosemary would have had to admit that the same was true of quite a number of the St Saviour’s regulars. Yet about Dark Satanic Mills there hung an air of earthiness, greed, sensuality and a total lack of scruple, and that was not something that could be said of the other less-than-spiritual communicants. He’s not at all churchy, she said to herself. He’s amoral, outside any code of ethics, totally self-absorbed. Perhaps in the nineteenth century such a man would go along to church to establish some kind of credentials, leading enthusiastically a second life of sin and corruption. But at the latter end of the twentieth century? Today nobody could be bothered with that sort of hypocrisy. So why was Mills?
“There it is,” said Stephen Mills, making a quick dart and taking a heavy ledger from among books of theology and paperbacks of popular devotion. “What an odd shelving system your husband has.”
“It’s all his own,” agreed Rosemary, waiting for him to go. He stood there, clutching the book to his chest, smiling at her—knowing she was wanting him gone.
“So what are the old biddies on about?” he asked.
Rosemary played for time, unwilling to discuss her personal position with him.
“Mrs Harridance wouldn’t thank you for calling her an old biddy. She’s a woman in the prime of life.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t think I need to, Stephen. You always have your finger on the pulse of the parish.”
He smiled, almost purred, in self-satisfaction.
“So it’s your sudden godlessness, is it? I guessed as much. What do they want? For you to parade down the Ilkley Road in penitential sackcloth?”
“They want—Mrs Harridance wants—me to give up any parish positions I hold.”
“And you?”
“I’m just leaving it up to the members.”
“Isn’t that good enough for her?”
“No. Because she’s afraid they’ll support me. She wants me to resign quietly so there’s no contest.”
“Why?”
“Because she wants to be chairwoman of the Mothers’ Union, and she wants one of her cronies as deputy, not someone who knows her for what she is—on the make.”
She regretted saying that as soon as it was out of her mouth. What was it about Dark Satanic Mills, that he could screw things out of you even as you felt distrustful and repelled? And what else was Mills himself but on the make?
“What is there in these jobs?” asked Mills, seemingly genuinely curious. “What’s in it for them?”
“Nothing in your sense,” said Rosemary. “Nothing in the way of money or contacts or suchlike. But position, prestige, something to bustle about, be self-important about.”
Mills had nodded when she talked about money and contacts, the little smile playing around his lips as she showed him how she viewed him—which was probably why he had asked the question in that form in the first place. As usual, he’d got what he wanted. Now he started for the door.
“Very odd, that’s what I say. Well, I must be on my way. Tell Paul I’ve collected this, will you, Rosemary? And—” he put his face close to hers—“go on fighting back. Show them what you’re made of.”
But over the next week Rosemary found very little call for fighting or for showing what she was made of. If anybody brought up the matter of her loss of faith she repeated the formula of “leaving it up to the members” of any organisation she was involved with to decide whether it made any difference. But very few people brought it up. It was increasingly accepted: it had happened, it was nobody’s fault, and Rosemary was just the same person she had alw
ays been. It had been a nine days’ wonder, and the nine days were over. Rosemary could imagine that when she brought the matter before the Mothers’ Union committee the members’ main reaction would be to wonder why she had raised it at all.
She was told by a friend that Florrie Harridance had tried to get a local Yorkshire Post reporter interested in the matter as a news story. But in the reporter’s view it had not had the human interest to compete with the declining fortunes of Leeds United or the total hopelessness of the Yorkshire cricket team. It lacked sex, passion or fanaticism, and news stories involving clergy and their families had to have at least one of those. The reporter had shaken his head and gone on his way.
Rosemary went about her parish work as usual, but she no longer went to church on a Sunday. This meant that she saw much less of Florrie Harridance and her cronies. She did bump into Selena Meadowes one day in the library, and they fell into their usual topic of conversation, the needs of several elderly members of the congregation. For once, though, Selena gave the conversation a personal twist.
“You can’t tell me anything about the decline of the elderly,” she said, still in her bright tone which seemed so inappropriate. “My poor old Mum seems to have less and less interest in life every time I see her or call her.”
“I didn’t know you had elderly parents, Selena.”
“One, just the one: my mother.”
“You must have been a late child.”
“I was. What can you do, Rosemary, if they just seem not to want to go on living any more?”
“I don’t know. My mother’s still very lively. Isn’t she interested in the grandchildren?”
“Not very. Oh—I’m being unfair. She likes to see them, but then quite soon she’s had enough and wishes they’d go away. I wonder whether I shouldn’t try a change of scene for her.”
“Where does she live?”
“Near Skipton. She used to go to Morecambe for her holidays when my father was alive, but she says she wouldn’t want to go back, with all the changes, and from what I hear it’s a depressing place now. I wondered whether to try to get her to Scarborough.”
The Bad Samaritan Page 5