Cast the First Stone

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘Almost,’ said Fiona, ‘if you can believe in such a thing. I was attracted to him straightaway, and I could hardly believe it when I realized he felt the same way about me. I’d almost given up hope, you see, of finding somebody that I could really care about. I was thirty-one; most of the girls – well, women I should say – that I knew were married, and I felt that I was being left on the shelf, as they used to say.’ She laughed. ‘So I was concentrating on my career; I’d just got the job as chief librarian, and I was saving up to buy a place of my own. Then Simon came along, and that was that!’

  ‘You’re a beautiful girl, though, Fiona. Lovely looking, as I’m sure you must know, and so personable. You must have had lots of admirers. Sorry; I’m being nosy, aren’t I?’ said Joan. Fiona was looking a little fazed. ‘But I couldn’t help wondering.’

  ‘Not all that many admirers!’ smiled Fiona. ‘Let’s say I was being extra cautious. I’d had one or two friendships that showed signs of developing, but nothing significant. I knew I had to be really sure.’ She was tempted, for a moment, to confide in Joan about what had happened fourteen years ago, about Dave and the consequences . . . She had a strong feeling sometimes that she must confide in someone, but she hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her husband. And Simon would be appearing soon to see how she had gone on with the meeting.

  He popped his head round the kitchen door at that moment. ‘Hello, love. Hello there, Joan. Well, how did it go?’

  It was Joan who answered. ‘She did marvellously, Simon. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘As indeed I am,’ agreed Simon. ‘I was coming to help with the washing up, and then the phone rang. It seems that I’m too late.’

  ‘That’s a good excuse,’ laughed Joan. ‘We’ve finished now. So I’ll be on my way. It’s been a lovely evening . . .’

  ‘Now, tell me all about it,’ said Simon when they had said goodnight to Joan. ‘I always knew, though, that you’d make a go of it. I am very proud of you, my darling.’

  Fiona felt a pang of conscience. She hoped her husband would never have a reason to feel disappointed in her.

  Twenty-Three

  The Young Wives and Friends’ group proved to be a successful venture, and several new members joined during the autumn. By the early spring of 1966 the number would grow to sixteen, which was just about right for the size of the rectory lounge.

  Elsewhere in the church community the organizations were continuing to thrive. It had been agreed by the church council that children should be admitted to the choir; not young ones, though; boys – and girls – over the age of eleven. Six youngsters had joined, three boys and three girls, and had proved to be an asset to the choir. And a guitar group for teenagers had been started. Graham Heap, the church treasurer had, it seemed, been hiding his light under a bushel. He was a competent guitarist and had agreed to take charge of the new group. There were six members, seven including Graham, two of them being his own children, Nigel and Jennifer, plus two more boys and two girls, all aged from fourteen to sixteen.

  The carol service, held on the Sunday evening before Christmas in 1965, included several new items, appreciated by most, but not all, members of the congregation. One of the new choristers, a twelve-year-old boy called Kevin, was found to have quite an exceptional voice. It was decided that he should sing the first verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ as the choir processed round the church, the choir joining in with the second verse, and the rest of the verses being sung by the congregation. It was the way it was done in all the big churches and cathedrals, and Fiona, herself a member of the choir, found she was moved almost to tears by the feeling of reverence and quiet joy engendered by this opening hymn.

  Later in the service there was an anthem sung by the choir, ‘Tomorrow shall be my Dancing Day’.

  ‘It’s rather challenging,’ Henry Tweedale, the choir master had told them, ‘and no doubt there will be some who don’t appreciate it. But we must try to stretch ourselves; we can’t do the same old things year after year.’

  There were a few puzzled faces in the congregation as the choir sang the unfamiliar words:

  ‘Tomorrow shall be my dancing day,

  I would my true love did so chance,

  To see the legend of my play,

  To call my true love to my dance.’

  Going on then to sing of the virgin pure and the babe laid in a manger, ‘betwixt an ox and a silly poor ass’. Strange words, to be sure, dating from as early as the seventeenth century, Henry had told them, and based on the idea of associating religion with the dance of life.

  Fiona had found it strange at first, but it had a haunting melody and the four-part harmony enhanced the music and made it a joy to sing. But maybe not to listen to, at least not to everyone, she pondered as she saw Mrs Bayliss, sitting near the front of the church, turn to her neighbour Mrs Fowler at the end of the song, clearly making what was a derogatory remark.

  The congregation was all smiles later though as the six new young choristers sang ‘How far is it to Bethlehem?’. Some had objected to children joining the choir, but now Simon’s and Henry’s decision to allow this seemed to have been vindicated.

  The item by the guitar group, however, a simple modern setting of the popular carol ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, met with a mixed response. To use guitars in a church service was a very new idea, one that was not universally popular. This was made clear when the church members met together in the hall after the service for a cup of tea and a biscuit.

  Ethel Bayliss very soon voiced her objections to Henry Tweedale. ‘We used to have a very good choir, Henry, when you sang things that we could understand. Mind you, I’m not saying anything about the quality of the singing. They still make a pleasant sound, and the children have fitted in quite well, though I must admit I had my doubts about them at the beginning.’

  ‘So what exactly are you objecting to, Mrs Bayliss?’ asked Henry.

  ‘That silly anthem,’ she replied. ‘What on earth has dancing got to do with baby Jesus and the Christmas story? Why can’t you stick to nice carols that we know, like “The First Noel” and “Away in a Manger”? Never mind your newfangled nonsense. The traditional ones are the best, and I’m sure most people would agree with me.’

  Henry smiled, a trifle pompously. ‘You couldn’t get anything more traditional than “Dancing Day”. It dates from the seventeenth century and it’s sung in all the cathedrals. You probably don’t understand it, Mrs Bayliss, that’s all.’

  He could see the lady positively bristling. ‘Nor do I want to,’ she replied. ‘And what about the guitars? It’s coming to something when we’ve got a pop group performing in church!’

  ‘Then you’ll have to take that up with Graham Heap,’ Henry replied. ‘It’s his project, not mine; but one that I approve of wholeheartedly. Surely if it will encourage more young people to join us it is all to the good, isn’t it, Mrs Bayliss?’

  The lady turned away with a derisory snort that sounded like a horse harrumphing. She did not find, though, that all her minions agreed with her.

  ‘This place is getting out of hand since she came on the scene,’ Mrs Bayliss remarked to anyone who would listen; she was at the centre of a group of Mothers’ Union stalwarts. ‘Guitar groups and silly anthems that no one can understand! Whatever next, I wonder?’

  ‘If by “she” you mean our rector’s wife, then I’m sure it’s none of her doing,’ said Blanche Fowler, bravely. ‘You can’t blame Fiona. She’s not responsible for what the choir sings.’

  ‘She’s in it though, isn’t she?’ retorted Ethel. ‘She probably had a lot to do with it.’

  ‘Actually, I quite liked that anthem,’ said Blanche. ‘It was different, and a lovely tune. Personally, I think Fiona’s doing very well. That new group she’s formed is very popular with the younger women, and she’s teaching in Sunday school. If you ask me she’s working very hard.’

  ‘But nobody asked you, did they?’ mumbled Ethel Bayl
iss, almost inaudibly. But Blanche overheard her, and so did Joan Tweedale who had listened to the whole of the interchange.

  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.