‘I don’t know,’ said Greg. ‘As I’ve told you, I didn’t know anything about all this until fairly recently. I don’t think she was all that surprised. She said you were a very nice young man; very respectable and . . . honourable.’
‘I might have been, if I’d known about it,’ said Simon, ruefully. ‘But I didn’t know. It was wartime, and what happened with your mother was . . . well, it was just one of those things. I know it’s easy to say that, but I did think a great deal about her.’
‘She understood all that,’ said Greg, ‘and it was her decision to do what she did. Anyhow, as I say, you were not difficult to trace. My mum’s friend, Eileen, she’s a great one for ferreting things out. So . . . here I am.’
‘Yes, here you are,’ echoed Simon. ‘I can’t pretend it’s not been a shock, but it’s been a very pleasant one. It’s not every day that you discover a long-lost son! You must call me Simon, though; I wouldn’t expect anything else. I’m so pleased you were all happy together as a family. Your father . . . I’m sure he must have been a remarkable man.’
‘Yes, so he was,’ agreed Greg. ‘We all miss him very much, but time moves on and we must do the same.’
‘Are you staying in Aberthwaite, then?’ asked Simon.
‘Yes, I’ve got a week’s leave. I came on Saturday, and booked into a bed and breakfast place near the station. They do evening meals as well, and it’s very comfortable. I intend to do some walking. I’ve not been to this neck of the woods before, and I’ve got my hiking gear with me; I do a little from time to time.’
‘I expect you know quite a lot about me then, don’t you?’ asked Simon.
‘A little,’ Greg admitted. ‘I know you got married last year.’
‘Fiona’s my second wife,’ said Simon. ‘My first wife died several years ago. Fiona and I are expecting our first child.’ In reality, the second child, for both of us, he thought, in what was turning out to be a remarkably ironic coincidence.
‘That’s great,’ said Greg. ‘Congratulations!’
‘You must meet Fiona,’ said Simon, eagerly. But Greg looked a trifle fazed at the idea.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Simon. ‘Now we’ve found one another, you’re not going to disappear again, are you?’
‘Well, no . . .’ said Greg. ‘But I don’t want to be an embarrassment to you. To your wife, I mean, and . . . with you being a vicar. I’m sure you won’t want stories going round. People gossip so much, don’t they?’
Simon laughed. ‘Oh yes; we’re well used to gossip here. But I can tell you, without any hesitation, that my wife will be delighted to meet you. And as for the folk in my congregation . . . I might as well give them something really worthwhile to gossip about!’
Twenty-Nine
Fiona came home at midday for a snack lunch that Simon had prepared, as he always did when she was working for the whole day. It was whilst they were eating their sandwiches of roast beef – cut cold from the joint they had had the previous day – that he broke the news to her.
‘I’ve had a visitor this morning, darling,’ he began.
‘Oh, a welcome one, I hope? I know you don’t like being disturbed when you’re working.’
‘Very welcome, as it turned out,’ he answered, just a little hesitantly. He wasn’t quite sure how Fiona would react to the news, despite his telling Greg that all would be well. ‘It was the young man that I noticed in church yesterday; he was there for both services.’
‘Yes, I think you mentioned it,’ said Fiona, concentrating more on her beef sandwich than on what her husband was saying. She was finding she was always hungry these days. ‘What did he want?’
‘Well, he came to tell me he has discovered that . . . that I am his father.’ Simon felt it was better to come to the crux of the matter straight away, rather than hedge around it. There was a moment’s silence whilst Fiona looked at him in amazement.
Then, ‘What!’ she said. ‘Who is he, then? Some sort of prankster, trying to cause trouble?’
‘Oh no, not at all,’ replied Simon. ‘It’s true, although I had no idea about it, of course. There’s no disputing it. He is . . . my son.’
‘But when . . . who? I don’t understand.’ Fiona shook her head in a bewildered manner. ‘You never said anything about it.’
‘Because I didn’t know,’ said Simon. ‘When I was in the RAF I met a girl called Yvonne; she was a WAAF. We had a brief relationship. We didn’t intend to; we started off as good friends, neither of us really wanted to get too involved, but . . . it was inevitable, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I can understand that,’ said Fiona. ‘I didn’t imagine you were completely without experience when you got married – to Millicent, I mean. You told me that you’d . . . well, that you hadn’t always been a clergyman, and I knew what you meant.’ She smiled. ‘Tit for tat, I suppose. What a coincidence, though, to find out about it just now. Are you going to tell me all about it?’
‘Of course I am, darling. I didn’t mention Yvonne before because it was all so long ago, and I had no idea that there had been any outcome. If I had known that I had a son I would have told you.’
‘Would you? I wonder . . .’ said Fiona. ‘I didn’t tell you, did I, about my daughter?’
‘That’s true,’ Simon agreed. ‘No, to be honest, who knows what I would have done? If I’d known in the first place that Yvonne was expecting a child, things might have turned out very differently. I hope I was the sort of young man who would have faced up to his responsibilities. As it happened, Yvonne got married, and they were very happy. She’s a widow now, but her husband was a very good father to Greg. He believed Keith was his real father until recently, when Yvonne decided she should tell him the truth.’
‘If . . .’ said Fiona. ‘Such a little word. The smallest in the English language – apart from “I” – but it’s one of the most significant. “If this, if that, if only.” We all say it, but it’s futile, isn’t it? We can’t go back, not for all the “ifs” in the world.’
Simon was thoughtful. ‘What would I have done, I wonder? And why didn’t she tell me? I suppose I can understand why she didn’t . . . As I told you, we didn’t intend to get involved, but I was growing very fond of Yvonne. She was a really nice, decent sort of young woman. You told me the same about your boyfriend, Dave, didn’t you?’
Fiona nodded. ‘Yes; he was a decent well-brought-up lad. But we can’t go into the ifs and the what might have beens.’
‘It was 1943,’ Simon went on. ‘It seemed as though the war would never end. The bombing raids over Germany . . . I’ve told you a little about them, haven’t I? Wondering how long I could go on with the meaningless destruction, or so it seemed to me, but we could never say so. It would have been called defeatist talk. Then we lost our skipper, our chief pilot. I saw the plane burst into flames with him inside it. That was when it happened, the next night, with Yvonne and me. I suppose it was inevitable. We comforted one another. It only happened a couple of times . . .’
‘That’s all it takes,’ said Fiona, quietly. ‘I found that out, to my cost.’
‘Then I was injured myself,’ Simon continued. ‘I told you, didn’t I, how I could hardly believe my good fortune when I was told I was to be taken off operational duties to become an instructor. It seemed like an answer to my prayers, although I hadn’t dared to pray for such a selfish request. I went home on leave . . . and when I went back to the camp I found that Yvonne had left, very suddenly. I never saw her again. Now, of course, I know why.’
‘Things worked out well for her, though, didn’t they?’ said Fiona. ‘Just as they did for me, in the end.’
‘Yes; “all things work together for good,”’ said Simon. ‘A favourite text of mine. It’s sometimes hard to see, though, how things will work out.’
‘So . . . what about Greg?’ asked Fiona. ‘You’ll be seeing him again, won’t you?’
‘Yes; he’s staying till next weekend. He’s taken a week’s leave from his work
– he’s a junior solicitor in Manchester – and he intends to do some walking whilst he’s here.’
‘Why don’t you take a day off and go with him?’ suggested Fiona. ‘Get to know him. It sounds as though you got on quite well together?’
‘Yes, so we did. It’s all very strange . . . I asked him if he’d like to meet you, darling, and he said he would. He was worried it might cause trouble, though; not so much with you but with the folk in the congregation. I told him not to worry; I’m well able to cope with the gossip. And I don’t intend to keep it a secret.’
‘You mean . . . you’re going to tell them about Greg?’ asked Fiona. ‘Surely there’s no need to do that. What business is it of anybody’s, except for you and me, and Greg and his mother? And you know how they gossiped about me and tried to make trouble. Some of them are probably still talking, although it does seem to have died down.’
‘That’s precisely why I’m going to tell them about my son,’ said Simon. ‘You know how gossip starts. Someone may see us together this week, and put two and two together. Greg does, actually, look very much like me. I’m surprised I didn’t realize straight away when I saw him; I just though he reminded me of someone.’
‘Yourself,’ smiled Fiona.
‘Yes; myself when younger. He’s a good-looking lad, though I say it myself.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, I shall tell them the truth, straight from the horse’s mouth, as they say. And let them make of it whatever they will.’
‘Hmm . . . if you’re sure,’ said Fiona, doubtfully.
‘Perfectly sure,’ replied Simon. ‘Come on now; you’re going to be late back for work. We’ll have a chat tonight about when to invite Greg to come here. He’s calling again in the morning, because I asked him if he’d like me to show him around the area – go walking, maybe, as you suggested – and he seemed very keen. Anyway . . . off you go now, darling. I’ll do the washing up!’
Simon and his new-found son spent a couple of pleasant days together that week. Simon dug out his hiking gear – he had not done much of late – and they walked in the foothills of Wensleydale and Swaledale. Another day they drove to Richmond in Simon’s car and walked the pathway around the eleventh-century castle, from where there was a magnificent view across the dales as far as the Vale of York.
They agreed that Greg should call Simon by his Christian name. He was really more of a newly discovered friend than a father. They found that they had much in common and conversation between them was easy and companionable. Simon learnt that his son loved books, theatre going and football; he supported Manchester City. He loved sports cars as well, which he could not yet afford, but hoped to do so before very long. Simon was also pleased to learn that Greg attended the local Church of England, having been encouraged to do so by his parents. He had a girlfriend whom he had known only for a few weeks. He assured Simon that he wanted to be sure of his feelings before he committed himself, but he felt that this might well be the right girl for him.
Fiona cooked an evening meal for them after they had spent the day walking. She was very impressed by the young man, and he seemed to be captivated by Fiona. Simon felt it all boded well for the future.
They met him at the station on Saturday morning to see him off on his journey back to Manchester.
‘I’m so pleased that you decided to come and find me, Greg,’ said Simon. ‘It took a lot of courage, I know, and . . . well, it’s been great. We will see you again, won’t we?’
‘Sure thing!’ said Greg. ‘Thank you, both of you, for making me so welcome.’ The two men shook hands, then Simon put his arms around his son, giving him a brief manly hug.
‘You’re a grand young man,’ he said. ‘Tell your mother I said so. And do please give her my best wishes.’ Simon didn’t add that he would like to meet her again, but he felt it might be possible, sometime in the not too distant future.
Greg shook hands with Fiona, then kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Simon’s a lucky chap!’ he said, with a sly wink as he boarded the train.
‘I think Greg has taken rather a shine to you,’ said Simon as they walked back to the rectory. ‘I shall have to watch out, won’t I?’
‘No fear of that,’ smiled Fiona. ‘He’s a very personable young man, though. I’m sure he’ll turn out to be almost as good as his father.’
Simon shook his head confusedly. ‘It’s still hard to take it all in. But I can’t say I have any regrets. It’s just added another dimension to life, one that I was totally unaware of.’
‘Yvonne must have been a very nice person,’ said Fiona quietly. ‘I’m sure she still is.’
‘Yes, she was,’ agreed Simon. ‘I’m pleased she was happy in her marriage, and has the chance to be happy again. And you and I, my darling, have so much to look forward to.’
Thirty
‘Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone.’
The members of the congregation who had been looking forward to a few minutes’ peace and quiet alone with their thoughts, whilst the rector preached his sermon – although he was, admittedly, worth listening to if one felt inclined – were brought back to reality, arrested by his opening words. Did the Reverend Simon intend to take them to task about the stories that had been circulating concerning his wife? If so, then it was no more than some of them deserved, thought the ones who had always liked Fiona and had sympathized with her over the revelations. Others, like Ethel Bayliss and Mabel Thorpe and their cronies, stirred a little uneasily in their pews, looking down at the floor.
‘The text is from chapter eight of John’s gospel,’ Simon continued. ‘It is a story that I am sure you are all familiar with, where Jesus comes upon a crowd of people who are about to stone to death a woman whom they believe to be guilty of adultery. I know that such an extreme punishment is not acceptable in our country although, regrettably, it still takes place occasionally elsewhere. But we live in a Christian country, don’t we? We understand that folk can stray away from the straight and narrow pathway – fall into sin, some might say – and do things that are considered wrong. None of us is perfect. There is a text that says that all of us have sinned – and I do mean each and every one of us – and have fallen short of the standards that God wants from us. There is another quotation, not a biblical one, that says that the person who never made a mistake never made anything.’
He paused for a moment, looking round at the members of the congregation – a goodly number as was usual on a Sunday morning – many of whom were looking at him with great interest, but others whose heads were bowed. ‘There has been a good deal of talk recently,’ he said. ‘My wife and I are well aware of that, but I have the feeling now that common sense has prevailed. The gossip has been nipped in the bud and, I trust, has died down. We all like to point the finger at times, don’t we? To feel that we are in the right and that others are wrong, for whatever reason. My wife, Fiona, made what is sometimes called the oldest mistake in the world; a very human one, I might add. And I trust that by now you have forgiven her, although it is not really our concern, is it? Forgiveness, in a matter like this, comes from God.
‘However, I don’t want to talk about my wife this morning. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed her . . .’ He smiled in the direction of the choir stalls where Fiona was sitting, and she smiled back encouragingly at him. ‘She did have some idea, though, of what I was going to say.’ He paused. ‘I want to tell you another story this morning . . .
‘Some of you may have noticed that there was a strange young man in the congregation last Sunday; he was there at both services. By strange I don’t mean that there was anything odd about him. What I mean is that we hadn’t seen him before. As you know, we do try, here at St Peter’s, to make strangers – newcomers is a better word – to make them feel welcome. But this young man had gone before I had a chance to speak to him. If you saw him you might have noticed that he bore quite a resemblance to me.’ Simon smiled. ‘I thought he looked somewhat familiar, but that was all.’ He paused again
, aware that every eye was upon him now.
‘Anyway, the next morning this young man – his name is Gregory, known as Greg – called at the rectory with some surprising news for me. Yes, some of you may have already guessed what I am about to tell you. Gregory is my son, and until that moment I had no idea of his existence.’
There were a few quiet gasps and surprised looks on faces, more on those of the women than the men. ‘You are no doubt wondering who, when and how? Well, not so much how; it happened in the usual way, of course.’ He smiled to introduce a touch of levity, and many of them smiled back at him. ‘I was in the RAF during the war, as many of you know. I was part of an aircrew, the navigator, and I took part in many bombing raids over Germany. I met a young woman who was a WAAF, as so many young airmen did. Life was lived at fever pitch, as those of you who also served in the forces will remember. You can guess the rest. The inevitable happened, although it was not what we intended when we became friendly. I’m not trying to make excuses, but this happens sometimes . . . doesn’t it? Then as some of you know, I was injured during a bombing raid, not seriously, but I was granted a period of leave.
‘And when I returned to the camp to take up my new position as an instructor, I found that my lady friend had gone; suddenly, quite unexpectedly, to another posting I was told. I never saw her again. I never heard of her again until on Monday I met her son . . . hers and mine.’
The silence in the church was profound. Simon felt, however, that the faces looking up at him seemed to be sympathetic rather than condemning or disapproving.
‘I expect you’re flabbergasted,’ he laughed. ‘So was I! It doesn’t matter how Greg managed to trace me. Suffice it to say that he did, and I am very pleased that he did so. He’s a fine young man. He has had a good upbringing with his mother and stepfather, in a happy family and, may I say, none of us have any regrets. For Fiona and myself the future is full of promise, and now we are delighted to have a new family member, one of whom we were unaware until a week ago.
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