by Pam Rhodes
“Right!” she barked. “I’ve got an appointment to see a parishioner who is going through family problems at the moment. It’s all a bit sensitive, and I think she would be happier if I went alone, for the time being at least. I will introduce you properly in time – in fact, I’ll introduce you to everyone on Sunday morning. We should have a good turnout because, now you’ve finally arrived, most of the congregation are planning to come and give you the once-over.”
“Oh,” sighed Neil, whose natural shyness made the prospect of being assessed and found wanting by this group of fellow Christians very daunting. “I hope they’re not disappointed.”
“Well, that’s up to you!”
Neil was relieved to see that a soft smile had crept over Margaret’s face, in spite of her curt reply. She was right, of course. His life was what he made it. Hadn’t that been the whole point behind the journey he’d already travelled to bring him to this place? A vision of his mother’s face with that familiar expression of exasperation and disappointment suddenly shot into his mind. Straightening up his shoulders, he pulled on his jacket.
“What would you like me to do while you’re busy?”
Margaret glanced at her watch. “It’s nine fifteen now. The playgroup will be starting in the church hall at half past. Ask for Barbara. She’s in charge. Go and say hello. It will be a good way for you to meet some of our locals. Then come back over to the house for a spot of lunch. I’ll get Frank to rustle up a sandwich. We can take a look at what’s happening this week and work out a schedule for you. Right?”
“Right!”
Once the dreaded porch door was safely shut and locked, Neil started to follow Margaret up the path.
“Neil.” Margaret’s voice was deliberately patient. “I’m going this way because my house is in this direction. You’re going to the hall – and that’s over there!”
He felt her hands firmly grip his shoulders, turning him around to face the opposite way completely.
“Down that path, the big building on the right with the leaky roof and the windows that need painting. You can’t miss it!”
And with that, Margaret strode off purposefully. Neil set off too, but at a much slower pace, taking time to glance at the gravestones on either side of the path. Most of them dated back a century or more, but his father had taught him to imagine the stories behind the short, formal words carved in stone. He stopped for a while to consider the fate of the family of William Stephen Allard who had been laid to rest in 1868, three short years after his young wife Mary had died in childbirth. Mother, father and child had been laid in the same plot, together forever. Neil wondered what had caused William’s death. A common illness of the day – or a broken heart? Neil’s heart was touched with compassion as he moved on.
Shafts of sunlight dappled through the row of beech trees with their boughs of green and red leaves arching over the left-hand side of the path. Glancing beyond them, Neil realized that the ground fell away, probably sloping down to the river which Harry had mentioned earlier. Rose’s grave must be over there somewhere – and it didn’t take long for Neil to spot it. It was a blaze of colour, adorned with cheerful polyanthus which had almost certainly been planted there by Harry. It was clear that the imaginative arrangement and obvious care of this plot had come from more than a simple sense of duty or habit. This spoke of dedication. It was for his Rose. The plants here were rooted in love.
Neil’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the church clock chiming the half hour. Turning quickly, he hurried back to the path towards the wrought-iron gate that led through towards the hall. The gate had obviously seen better days, because when Neil undid the latch and tried to push it open, it stuck fast. His first attempts to push it gently developed into a series of sharp thumps with the palm of his hand, followed finally by a kick loaded with all the frustration he felt – which made no impact on the gate whatsoever.
“The other way!”
Neil turned sharply to find himself the object of a cool stare from the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. They belonged to a slightly built, spiky-haired young woman in gumboots who was watching him with detached interest as she leaned over the garden fork she’d plainly just been using on one of the churchyard flowerbeds.
“You’re pushing it the wrong way. It opens inwards.”
“Oh!” mumbled Neil, flushing scarlet as the gate opened with obliging ease the moment he pulled it towards him.
“You must be the new curate,” continued Green Eyes. “I heard you’ve got a problem with locks and latches.”
“Not really,” retorted Neil with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m on my way to the church hall.”
“Through the gate, then go right. The side door will be open.” Her face was suddenly transformed by an impish grin. “Mind you, it probably won’t be if it’s you that tries it. Do you want me to come with you, just to make sure you can manage it all right?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Neil replied stiffly. “Good morning.”
And as he walked away with what he hoped was an air of confidence, he could just picture the look of amusement on her face as she watched him go.
In the end, getting in through the side door of the church hall wasn’t the problem. The challenge was to get anywhere once inside. The door led into a wide entrance hall lined with coat-hooks and benches – at least, that’s what Neil thought he could see through the throng of chattering, occasionally wailing, youngsters and their mums, who bore expressions which ranged from besotted to berating as they prised their excited offspring out of their coats and outdoor shoes, then into their plimsolls and brightly coloured overalls.
“Quietly now! Don’t forget to put your name sticker on so that everyone knows who you are!” A voice of authority rang through the chaos. “Joseph, you want to start in the sandpit, don’t you? Go and find Debbie, then. She’s in charge of sand play today. Phoebe, don’t do that, there’s a good girl! Look, Amy’s over there, waiting for you. In the Wendy house, see! Oh, I’m glad to see you, Mrs Howard. Your subs are a bit behind, did you know? Any chance of making it up today? See Christine. She’s got the books. Yes! Can I help you?”
Neil became aware that the short-haired, loud-voiced woman who had been issuing instructions to all around her was now looking pointedly at him. As the crowd shifted between them, her face broke into a smile as she spotted his dog collar.
“Ah, we meet at last! You must be the new curate.”
“Neil Fisher.” He grinned. “Do I need a name sticker too?”
“Not a bad idea. I’ve got one!” She pointed in the vague direction of her overalled bosom to the large sticky label with “BARBARA” written on it in bold red capitals. Before Neil could draw breath, she had whipped out a felt-tip pen and slapped a label saying “NEIL” on the lapel of his jacket.
“Right, are you any good at making tea? Jan, who normally mans the kettle, has got her ante-natal this morning. The urn should be hot by now. Turn it down to 2 when it starts to boil. Mugs are in the top cupboard, sugar and biscuits down below – oh, and can you go and fetch some milk? Get two two-litre packs of full-fat for the children – and we’ll need a carton of semi-skimmed for the grown-ups. And some Hobnob biscuits… Now, Daniel, I’ve told you before about doing that! Give that doll back to Kylie immediately! Where are her clothes? Why have you taken the dolly’s clothes off? She’ll be freezing…”
And Barbara was gone, disappearing through the door into the melee of small bodies and noise.
Three hours later, Neil had made the decision that he would never have children of his own. He thought it might be because he was an only child, but the awesome prospect of being responsible for one of these demanding, illogical, needy little people was too terrifying to contemplate. Of course, there were exceptions. He’d taken quite a shine to a little angel with a mane of bouncing golden curls who had climbed up on to his lap when he was deep in conversation with one of the mums, popped her thumb into her mouth, then inst
antly nodded off to sleep.
“That’s Chloe,” explained Barbara as she scooped the sleeping child into her arms with a look of real tenderness. “Her Dad’s left. Mum’s not coping very well, and I think Chloe’s missing a father-figure around the place. You must look dependable and comforting…” Barbara’s eyes surveyed him critically, “… to Chloe, at least. Oh goodness, look at the time! The mums will be arriving to collect the little ones for lunch any minute. Help Debbie clear away the sandpit and finger-paints, will you, Neil, there’s a love!”
When Neil was finally free to leave, he shouted out his goodbyes to the staff he’d met, and headed towards the side door through the hallway, where the rush to take off overalls and plimsolls and put on outdoor clothes was, thankfully, beginning to subside. Nevertheless, his eyes were drawn to the nearest corner of the hallway where one mum with her back to him was displaying a very shapely figure in pale-blue jeans as she bent over to buckle up her little boy’s shoes. He didn’t realize his gaze had stayed on her until, seconds later, the apparition stood up and stared back at him, her green eyes blazing.
“Are you trying to find the door?” she asked coolly. “It’s just over there. If you need help opening it, do let me know.”
“I was just going to say hello…”
Toe-curling embarrassment was sending blood coursing up Neil’s neck.
“Best to say it to my face then, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” said Neil, striding across towards her, his hand outstretched. “We met in the churchyard, of course, but seem to have got off on the wrong foot. How do you do? I’m Neil Fisher. The Reverend Neil Fisher.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Her eyes scanned the length of him as if she was deciding whether he was worth bothering with. Apparently not, because without another word, she smiled down at the little boy, then holding hands, they both walked through the door, closing it firmly behind them.
Neil, his hand still outstretched, stared at the door in dazed confusion for several seconds before he stuffed his hand into his pocket and turned on his heel so that he could leave the hall by the door he hoped he’d find at the front of the building. To be honest, any door would do except the one that had just been slammed in his face.
By the time he turned the key in the front door of Number 96 at the end of his first day on the job, his mind was a muddle of things he should remember and moments he’d rather forget.
Had it been a good start? In some ways, yes, with one notable exception…
Had he enjoyed it? On the whole, definitely – but was he really cut out for this type of work?
With a sigh, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. He certainly looked the part, with his neat shirt and jacket starkly black against the gleaming white of his clerical collar. Looking right wasn’t enough, though. How long would it be before he could feel confident in the role? Was he really the sort of person who could be alongside others in the ups and downs of their lives and faith? Was that possible when he remembered how out of depth he’d felt at times that day – and how he had blushed bright red at the slightest suggestion of upset or embarrassment? He was twenty-five years old, for heaven’s sake! There had been times today when he’d felt like a kid who knew absolutely nothing.
He needed to pull himself together. This was only the first day, after all. Suddenly he turned to stride up the stairs, two at a time. It took him minutes to change into jeans and a sweatshirt, and head back down again. He hadn’t had time to do a proper supermarket shop yet, so possibilities for supper were very limited, and from past experience he knew that angst and stress always made him ravenous. Food! That’s what he needed, hot and cooked by someone else. It was time for him to find his way round Dunbridge – and he’d start with the nearest pub with a good bar-snack menu. He’d noticed several pubs in the old market town, some of them advertising their own real ale, which he’d enjoy sampling. If there was one place for a newcomer to meet the locals, it would be in the busiest pub in town.
It was called The Wheatsheaf, and he found it tucked down an alleyway leading off the main market square. One glance at the list of dishes on the blackboard outside the door made the choice easy. Bangers and mash! His mouth watered at the thought of it. Once inside, the range of beers displayed on the pumps brought a smile to his face. If the mash wasn’t lumpy and the gravy was half decent, The Wheatsheaf might well become his local.
“Bangers and mash, please,” he asked the bartender who came to take his order. “And a pint of Bishop’s Finger to wash it down.”
“Do you know,” said another man who was propping up the bar next to where Neil stood, “that they only ever brew that beer on Fridays?”
“Really?” Neil turned with surprise to take a proper look at his companion, a thirty-something man with a round face to match his definitely rotund body. “Why?”
“Some ancient charter says they have to – and they can only brew up in the antique Russian teak mash tun they have there.”
“Where’s that?” asked Neil.
“Somewhere in Kent, I think. I don’t know. I just remember reading that somewhere. If ever I see an article about beers, I read it.”
“Like beer, do you?”
The man raised his half-full beer tankard with a look of pure love. “When it’s real beer, like this, I most certainly do.” He patted his tummy affectionately. “It’s made me the man I am! I’m Graham, by the way – Graham Paterson, Deputy Head of the Maths Department at Dunbridge Upper School by day, and a sociable beer drinker by night.”
Laughing, Neil stretched out to shake Graham’s hand. “Neil Fisher, Reverend.”
“You’re joking!”
“Afraid not. I’m the new curate at St Stephen’s.”
“Ah, well, I wouldn’t know that, being a heathen.”
“No real ale lover could ever be a complete heathen,” grinned Neil. “You don’t happen to like bangers and mash too, do you?”
“Love it!” said Graham. “They do a good one here.”
“That’s a relief. I’ve just ordered it.”
“A sound choice. I wouldn’t expect a curate to have to buy his own dinner, though. Haven’t you got all the ladies of the parish wanting to cook for you?”
“No such luck – not yet, anyway. This is my first day.”
“A tough one, was it?”
“You could say that.”
“Beginning to think you’ve chosen the wrong job?”
“No, the job’s OK – at least it will be. It’s just been a bit overwhelming today – lots of new people to meet and so much to learn about what goes on here in Dunbridge.”
“Not a lot, believe me. You’ll cope.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Man and boy. I went down to Brighton for my teacher training, which was a laugh – great for the beer – but I came back here to take up where I left off. I still go round for my Mum’s Sunday roast every week. I even ended up teaching at my old school, Dunbridge Upper School, except it was the Boys’ High School in my day. At least the little blighters have girls to dribble over during lessons these days.”
“I think I’m supposed to be taking an assembly at the Upper School some time in the next few weeks.”
Graham raised an eyebrow.
“Got body armour, have you?”
“Oh, don’t say that. I’m scared enough at the thought of any public speaking, but a school full of teenagers – well, that’s enough to give me nightmares.”
“But you’re a curate. You have to give all those sermons and take funerals and things. Isn’t speaking in public part of the job?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Graham put his tankard carefully down on the bar so that he could take a long look at Neil.
“Why become a priest, then?”
“It’s a calling. I felt called to do it.”
Graham’s eyebrows shot up
“By God,” continued Neil. “I felt called by God to tak
e up the ministry.”
“How did he call you? What did he say?”
“Well, it wasn’t a face-to-face conversation. I didn’t have a vision, or anything like that. It was just a feeling that sort of crept up on me – a certainty, really, that this is what I’m meant to do.”
Graham stared at Neil curiously for a second or two, before turning back to study his beer.
“Does it pay well?”
“Not really – but I do get my own house while I’m here.”
Graham grinned. “Well, there is that. And I’m told that women love a man in uniform. Where’s yours, by the way? Haven’t you got to keep your dog collar on at all times, just so that all the rest of us know to mind our language?”
Neil chuckled. “My collar was chafing a bit after today. I was glad to get back into civvies.”
“Do you find, when you’re wearing your collar, that people want to pour out their problems to you? You know, a bit like a doctor, when everyone wants to tell them about their aches and pains…”
“If it happens, then honestly I welcome it. That’s probably one of the main reasons why I wanted to become a priest in the first place, so that I could be there for other people when they have concerns or worries.”
Graham snorted as he tipped up the tankard to down a long gulp of beer.
“I’ve never had a problem yet that didn’t seem a lot better after a pint or two,” he said, returning the tankard to the bar with a bang. “A game of darts helps too. Fancy a game before your bangers and mash arrive?”
“I must warn you,” laughed Neil as he rolled up his sweatshirt sleeves ready for action, “that I was undisputed Darts Champion at theological college.”
“And I must warn you that if I don’t feel I’m winning, I’m not above cheating a little!” retorted Graham. “Let battle commence!”
CHAPTER 4
“Can you sing?” asked Margaret the next morning.
“A bit,” replied Neil. “I sang in the choir at college.”
“Perfect! What are you? Bass? Baritone? Surely not a tenor?”