Fisher of Men

by Pam Rhodes

  “How nice to meet you!” Neil said. “I’m your new neighbour. It’s good to be able to say hello so soon. I’m the Reverend Neil…”

  “I don’t give a monkey’s who you are! You can’t leave that car there! Move it!”

  A little uncertain now, Neil glanced back at the offending vehicle.

  “Certainly. I’ll move it as soon as I can. I just need to unpack a few heavy…”

  “Now! Move it now! You’re wrecking that grass verge!”

  “Am I?” stuttered Neil. “Right, well, perhaps you’d be kind enough to direct me to my parking space, then.”

  “You haven’t got one.”

  Neil looked up and down the comparatively empty street before turning back to the man.

  “But there seem to be plenty of parking spaces available. I just thought the one outside my house would be mine.”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “Right,” nodded Neil, still confused as he looked at an elderly Volvo standing nearby. “Then whose is that car outside your house?”

  “That’s mine too.”

  “So you have two parking spaces?”

  “No. I have one parking space – and the grass verge.”

  “On which you also park…?”

  “No!” was the scornful reply. “Only imbeciles park on grass!”

  “So you look after that patch of grass?”

  “I look after that patch of grass, and that one, and that one, and all those down there.” The man’s arms flailed in the direction of every grass strip which lined both sides of the road. “It’s called Vicarage Gardens, you see, not Vicarage Garage! Gardens have grass, and grass is not for parking. So move it!”

  “Right. Ummm…” Neil looked around, anxiously trying to work out where he could park without causing offence, but still close enough so that he could carry the heavier treasures in his car to the door.

  “Alf!”

  A woman’s voice rang out into the garden from the open front door of the neighbouring house.

  “You’re not giving our new curate a hard time, are you?”

  A slightly built, middle-aged woman appeared at the door, then walked briskly out towards the two men.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I do apologize. What a dreadful welcome for you!”

  “Not at all,” replied Neil, unmistakable relief in his voice. “How do you do? I’m the Reverend Neil Fisher.”

  “Maureen Allen, Alf’s carer. I pop in twice a day – but he nipped out just now when I wasn’t looking. I hope he wasn’t bossing you about before you’d even got the key in the door.”

  “Oh no! He was just giving me a few helpful directions.”

  Maureen’s voice was firm as she turned to the elderly man beside her.

  “You were being all possessive about that darn grass again, weren’t you, Alf!”

  Alf’s expression crumbled in indignant misery.

  “Come indoors, you daft old fella. I’ve made your tea – and how about a piece of your favourite cake to go with it?”

  That suggestion definitely caught Alf’s attention, and he was already heading off in the direction of the door.

  “What about you, Vicar? A bit of Battenberg?”

  Neil smiled. “No, thanks all the same. But what about my car? Where should I park it?”

  “Exactly where it is. Just ignore him. Bye, Vicar!”

  And with that, Maureen disappeared into the house, closing the door behind her.

  Neil turned and continued the short walk up to his own front door, a satisfying thrill of accomplishment trickling through his body as he slid the key into the lock to open up his new home and his new life.

  What struck him first was the bright hallway before him, lit by a shaft of sunlight which poured through a side window halfway up the stairs. The house smelt of fresh paint and lemon cleaning fluid. Plainly, the church members had been hard at work on his behalf, and he felt touched and welcomed by that thought.

  Venturing further down the hall, he turned into a large, pleasant living room which was divided by an elegant archway that separated the lounge area towards the front of the house from the dining room at the back, with its French windows leading out to a small garden. In the left-hand wall of the dining room was a large serving hatch through which Neil peered to see a well-fitted, medium-sized kitchen.

  Stepping back into the hall so that he could look round the kitchen properly, he opened a door under the stairs on the way, thinking it might be a downstairs loo, but he was met instead by a collection of practical items such as a vacuum cleaner, a mop and bucket, and an airing frame. They seemed to have thought of everything. It was all immaculate, with many thoughtful touches, like the row of starched tea towels and dishcloths that hung on hooks, and the cutlery drawer filled with neat rows of knives, forks and spoons. There were cereal bowls, serving dishes, sparkling tumblers and brightly coloured egg-cups.

  There was even a flowering pot plant on the windowsill, on which was propped a card blazoned with the word “Welcome!” in large red letters. Touched by their kindness, Neil inwardly registered that with his gardening skills, he didn’t give the pot plant more than a couple of months before, in spite of his best efforts, he’d manage to kill it off.

  Leaving the kitchen, he made his way back to the bottom of the stairs where, to the left, was a door which led into what was obviously a study, complete with mahogany desk and bookshelves, and a matching two-seater settee and comfy armchair in which he could already see himself having heart-to-heart chats with parishioners.

  At the top of the stairs he found the master bedroom, painted in a tasteful shade of beige. Next door was the main bathroom which, to Neil’s fascination and slight alarm, was dominated by an outsized, cream-coloured jacuzzi corner-bath, complete with an impressive array of controls and taps.

  There were two more rooms – the largest kitted out as a spare double bedroom, and the other containing both a fold-up bed and a desk, suggesting that Neil could, if he chose, make this either another spare room, or perhaps a more personal office, less public than the study downstairs, which was likely to play host to a stream of church visitors.

  He couldn’t wait to start settling in, and after several trips to the car, he pottered about, trying to find a place for everything. It helped when he realized that he actually had his own garage at the end of the back garden, and it was in there that he found a corner to stash his fold-away bike, a multi-gym he’d only used twice but thought he should bring anyway, and the stack of empty plastic boxes in which he’d brought everything he’d unpacked so far.

  He decided to put his “reading for pleasure” books (including his complete set of Bernard Cornwell novels) in the lounge, his inspirational and reference books in the study, while his personal papers and folders were neatly stacked on the shelves of the upstairs office. He hung his everyday clothes in the master bedroom wardrobe, then put his clerical robes in the longer wardrobe in the spare room. He laid his shoes out in pairs in a line on the wardrobe floor, saving the last space for the trainers he was actually wearing. His washbag was emptied out into the bathroom cabinet, and his electric toothbrush safely attached to the socket.

  An hour later he sank down on to the bottom stairs with satisfaction, knowing that his home was organized and orderly, just the way he liked it.

  Two brisk rings on the doorbell abruptly broke his thoughts. He opened the door to reveal a silver-haired, tall, distinguished man smiling at him.

  “You must be Neil. Welcome! I’m Peter Fellowes, churchwarden. Just wanted to make sure you’re settling in OK.”

  Neil shook his outstretched hand warmly. “Lovely to meet you, Peter. I think I have you to thank for this wonderful house. I can see you’ve put a lot of work in here.”

  “Well, not just me. It was a team effort. The PCC formed a sub-committee. We’re good at that.”

  “And I,” said a melodious female voice from somewhere behind the flowering honeysuckle that framed the front doo
r, “I prepared your welcome pack for you!”

  Peter was firmly pushed to one side as a woman stepped into view, filling the doorway with her presence. Neil’s gaze took in her elegant high heels, her expertly coiffed hairdo, the tailored cerise jacket which barely covered the neckline of a blouse which seemed, even to Neil’s inexpert eye, surprisingly low for a lady “of a certain age”.

  “Glenda Fellowes,” she drawled, her eyes locked on Neil’s. “I hope you have all you need. Bread, milk, cornflakes, sugar…”

  She rolled the last word round until it sounded almost like a term of endearment. Then, before Neil could see it coming, in two quick paces she was across his threshold, enveloping him in a smothering bear hug. It was an experience he would remember for many years to come, as he found himself firmly clamped against her, almost choking on her heady perfume as his face was squashed down against her generous folds.

  “Welcome, dear Neil,” she whispered huskily into his ear, “on behalf of us all at St Stephen’s. And if you need anything…”

  She untangled him then and held him at arm’s length.

  “… anything at all…”

  Her eyes were burning into him.

  “… just ask. My wish is your command.”

  Mesmerized, Neil felt that his feet were rooted to the ground. A slight cough to one side broke the mood.

  “Right,” said Peter, a note of impatience in his voice. “Let the poor man get on. I’ll probably see you tomorrow, then, Neil, at Morning Prayer. In the week, we only open up the church for the Daily Office on a couple of weekdays, and although there’s just a handful of us, I rather enjoy it.”

  His eyes still fixed in horrified fascination on Glenda, Neil could only manage a nod of his head in Peter’s direction.

  “Come on, Glenda!” Turning on his heel, Peter set off down the garden path.

  And with one last, lingering gaze, Glenda held up her long-nailed hand to pat Neil’s cheek, then tiptoed daintily after her retreating husband as fast as her stilettos would allow her.

  It took Neil a mug of sweet tea and a couple of hours to recover from the encounter with Glenda, but at last, as sunset descended around his new home, he felt calm enough to settle down for his regular evening worship. He thought carefully about where it would feel most appropriate to say the familiar words, read his Bible and pray, and finally decided on the study, with its comfortable armchairs and peaceful air. He considered which words from the Bible would suit the occasion best, and found himself turning to one of his favourite passages, John 14. He read:

  In my Father’s house are many rooms… I am

  going there to prepare a place for you…

  And he did feel that Christ had gone before him to bring him here to the neat, welcoming rooms of this clean, shining house. This was the culmination of more than just a physical journey with its destination here in Dunbridge. This was a spiritual odyssey begun in the heart-warming times he’d shared as a child with his father in churches they had both loved; continued through his struggle to find a role in life which was a vocation rather than just a job; and decided when he recognized at last that God was calling him, and giving him the strength to face whatever lay ahead.

  Theological college had been a joy for him. He loved studying the Scriptures, and the hot debates between students on spiritual and moral issues which their Bible study threw up. He grew confident in the shared fellowship of mission and worship. He began to believe that he had the faith, intellect and instinct he would need to minister to others, and to support them in the ups and downs of their own Christian journey.

  He also recognized his limitations. He didn’t imagine he would ever get a night’s sleep before having to give a sermon, and the thought of actually leading a complete service himself still made him feel very queasy – but every day brought him nearer to his goal, and nearer to God.

  So tonight, on the eve of starting work in his first parish, Neil lowered his head in thanks for simply getting there – and prayed with humble fervour that he could cope with whatever tomorrow might bring.

  CHAPTER 3

  His first full day in the job started with worship too, though this time it was shared with the Reverend Margaret and Frank, who met him at the church gate at half past eight so they could say Morning Prayer together. Neil watched anxiously as the Vicar unlocked the heavy church door which had caused him so many problems on his first visit to St Stephen’s. Noticing his discomfort, she grinned at him before leading the way down the aisle and towards the vestry, taking time on the way to point out where to find whatever he might need whilst in the church. By the time they reappeared, Neil was pleased to see they had been joined by a few other worshippers. Churchwarden Peter, thankfully without his terrifying wife, waved acknowledgment from where he was standing next to a slightly built, middle-aged woman who was smiling warmly up at him as they chatted quietly on the far side of the church. As Neil made his way over to the small side chapel where the Daily Office was usually said, he noticed another new face, an elderly man whose blue eyes twinkled kindly beneath bushy eyebrows and a shock of matching white hair.

  “Harry Holloway,” he said, walking forward to meet Neil. “Welcome to St Stephen’s!”

  “Nice to meet you, Harry,” replied Neil. “You’re an early bird!”

  “Habit of a lifetime,” smiled Harry. “I was a milkman for forty years. Can’t stay asleep once it’s light. I’ve been up since five this morning, so this feels like lunchtime to me.”

  “You’re a regular at Morning Prayer then, are you?”

  “Whenever there’s an early service like this, yes, I usually come – but I’ve always liked my time in this church. It brings back so many memories of my Rose, and I can’t sit here and not think of her. You know, we were married right here in this church fifty-one years ago. She didn’t quite make our Golden Anniversary, which was a shame, because I planned to take her to Rome. She’d always wanted to go there and throw three coins in that fountain…”

  “The Trevi Fountain?”

  “That’s the one. She liked Frank Sinatra singing the song about it.” He chuckled. “You’re too young to remember that record.”

  “I do know the one you mean. It’s a track on the Sinatra compilation CD I bought for my Mum a couple of Christmases ago.”

  “Well, Rose thought that was a really romantic idea, and she was always moaning at me because she said I was never romantic at all. Well, you aren’t, are you, when you’ve been married as long as we were?”

  “Oh, romance isn’t everything,” agreed Neil, hoping he sounded like an authority on the subject when, honestly, his track record with relationships had been bumpy, to say the least. “It’s the love between you that matters…”

  Neil stopped mid-sentence as he noticed Harry’s blue eyes were glistening with tears.

  “Well, that’s the other thing that keeps me awake at night.” Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I loved her, of course I did. She was my world – but I never told her, you see. I thought she just knew how I felt about her. Why else would I work all hours to keep food on the table? Why else would I constantly be doing little jobs to improve the house? I loved her. She should have known that.”

  “But now you’re not sure she did?” asked Neil softly.

  “At her funeral, her friend Elsie – they’d known each other forever, practically grew up together – told me that Rose had been upset for years that I’d never said I loved her.”

  The old man took a neatly ironed white hankie out of his pocket and discreetly dabbed his eyes and nose. Neil watched in silence, uncertain what to say.

  “So I come here most days just so that I can sit in this church where we both sat Sunday after Sunday. Then when I’m praying, I ask God to make sure she’s OK and give her my love. He can do that, can’t he?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Neil.

  “I miss her so much.”

  “How long ago did you lose her?”

  “It’l
l be two years next month – and you know, I feel as raw about it now as I did then, perhaps more. She’s buried in the churchyard, at the back near the gate above the river. That’s where I’ll be one day, and, honestly, I long for that time when we’ll be together again. I can put things right then, can’t I? Tell her what I should have said every day when we were together.”

  “When you’re ready, Neil!”

  Neil looked up to see that Margaret had already taken her place in her stall.

  “Shall we get started?”

  Glancing in Margaret’s direction, Harry gave a wry grin. “That’s women for you! Make you feel guilty even if you’ve done nothing wrong. Rose was good at that too.”

  “And you have done nothing wrong, Harry. I’m sure she recognized your loving care in her own way, even if you never actually said the words.”

  “Neil! Are you joining us?” There was something in the tone of Margaret’s voice that reminded Neil of a headmistress he’d once had.

  “I’m coming!” Neil called back.

  “So is Christmas!” retorted Margaret with a definite twinkle in her eye. “Do you think you could make it a bit quicker than that?”

  Harry grinned to see the red hue of embarrassment that spread upwards across Neil’s face as he rushed to take up his position in the reader’s stall.

  Neil had always found the experience of dedicating the coming day to God reassuring and encouraging. To be speaking these familiar words on the first day in his new role felt personal and special, and by the end of the short service, Neil’s mood was buoyant and confident about whatever this step in life might bring his way. He had hoped to have another word with Harry before he left, but it seemed the older man had slipped away immediately. Instead, the person intent on having a word with Neil was Margaret.