by Joyce Cato
Monica didn’t pursue it further. She knew that Graham was far better at grief counselling than she would ever be, and she trusted his judgement implicitly when it came to pastoral care.
But whilst she knew that Sir Andrew had always been friendly with Graham, without ever regarding himself as a parishioner, per se, to her mind there had always been something intensely private about the man, making the likelihood that he’d ever offer up confidences, rather remote. So she could only hope that, should he need to, he’d find the courage to go to Graham if he ever felt that he needed help.
For Monica never resented the odd hours her husband sometimes kept or the constant demands on his time. He was never ‘off-duty’ and she’d known that before marrying him. She was even becoming more and more used to her own vaguely-defined role of vicar’s wife. At least, she hoped that the village was slowly coming to accept her.
As if sensing her pensive mood, Graham turned back to the conference papers, and was determinedly upbeat. ‘Well, it looks as if we’ve got some good lecturers lined up at any rate.’
‘Including yours,’ Monica couldn’t resist jibing, and looked at him with twinkling eyes. She knew he was nervous about public speaking, which was odd, considering he always did it so well.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carole Anne said, entering into the conversation for the first time. ‘You’ll slay ’em. Won’t you, Pops?’ she drawled. Somewhat inappropriately, it had to be said.
Graham paled slightly. ‘Don’t remind me,’ he groaned. ‘I still don’t know how I let the bishop talk me into giving a paper.’
‘Well, you’re the village’s resident vicar,’ Monica chimed in. ‘They could hardly hold a big clerical conference right on your doorstep without inviting you, now could they? You’ll be very good,’ she said loyally. She was well aware that he was especially nervous about speaking in front of so many of his fellow clerics. And she could see his point. Parishioners, she supposed, were always far less likely to have high expectations!
‘Let’s have a look,’ Monica said encouragingly, holding out her hand.
Wordlessly, Graham complied, and Monica ran her eye over the agenda.
THE SECOND MILLENNIUM CLERIC
A Four-Day Conference
To be held at:
Heyford Bassett Conference Centre
… May to … May … .
Facilities include an enclosed and heating swimming pool; gym; theatre/lecture room, and a fully licensed bar – all situated in extensive and attractive gardens. Every room is en-suite, with colour television, telephone and tea/coffee making facilities. This conference is full board and lodging. Breakfast: 7.30–9.00a.m. Lunch: 1.00–2.00p.m. Dinner, Friday and Saturday: 8.00p.m. Sunday Lunch: 1.00p.m, Sunday Tea, 5.30–6.00p.m.
Arrival: 4.30–5.30p.m. Friday … May.
Depart: 2.30–3.30p.m. Monday … May
GUEST SPEAKERS:
Friday night’s after dinner speech by:
Bishop Arthur Roland Bryce (St Andrew’s Church, Barnsley)
Preaching on the Internet
Saturday, 2.00-3.00p.m. in the Lecture Hall:
Reverend Graham Noble (St Bede’s Church, Heyford Bassett)
A Role For the Young in a Christian Community
Sunday, 7.00p.m. in the Lecture Hall:
Archdeacon Sir Matthew Pierrepont (retired)
Satellite Television – The New Pulpit
Monday, 9.00-10.00a.m. in the Lecture Hall:
Rt. Reverend Jessica Taylor (St Stephen’s Church, Birmingham)
Working Mums and Christ
SUNDAY MORNING SERVICES TO BE HELD AT ST BEDE’S, 10.00a.m. The Reverend Graham Noble presiding.
Workshop information to be displayed in Main Hall.
LECTURES: (with slides)
Saturday, 10.00am-12.00 noon. Dr John R. Burns (Missionary to Chad):
‘AID AFTER AN ACT OF GOD.’
Sunday, 2.30-3.30p.m. The Rev Martin Clarke (Belfast):
Crossing The Gulf In Northern Ireland via Ecumenical Bridges.
A book fair will be held all-day Saturday. Also that afternoon there will be on display a copy of a sixteenth-century manuscript of the Venerable Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum. This rare glimpse of an ancient document comes courtesy of the Black Friar’s Museum, Woodstock.
‘My, my,’ responded Monica. ‘Talk about the great and the good, hmm?’ she teased, her eye lighting on the illustrious names of Archdeacon Sir Matthew Pierrepont and Bishop Arthur Bryce, in particular. ‘You will be hobnobbing with the bigwigs,’ she teased. ‘Think you’ll get a promotion out of it?’ she added, knowing full well that such a thought wouldn’t even have entered her husband’s head. She handed him back the literature with a wink, to show that she was only kidding.
Carole Anne, quickly reading her stepfather’s papers over his shoulder, began to grin. ‘Huh-oh, which pea-brain thought of the title?’ she asked mockingly. ‘Not exactly on the ball, was he?’
Carole Anne, as a then thirteen-year-old, had been shell-shocked to find her mother serious about leaving London for the sticks of darkest, dimmest Oxfordshire, but now had to admit that it hadn’t been all that bad. And Graham was such a good-looking guy, that all her new friends drooled over him. And he wasn’t bad as a step-dad, either. In fact, Carole Anne quite liked him, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged the acknowledgement from her.
‘What’s wrong with the title?’ Graham asked her, scanning the top page.
‘Oh please,’ Carole Anne whined, with all the annoying superiority only a teenager can effect. ‘“The Second Millennium Cleric”,’ she quoted disgustedly.
Monica and Graham exchanged puzzled, but wary glances. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Monica, as the girl’s mother, finally asked. After all, it was only fair that it was up to her to take the bullet whenever necessary. Carole Anne wasn’t easy on anyone’s nerves – let alone those of a mild-mannered vicar such as her husband.
‘Well, this conference is supposed to be all about how modern you’re all going to have to be – the church, I mean – in order to cope with the changes in this new millennium right?’ Carole Anne sighed, leaning over and pointing to the lecture about using the internet.
‘Right,’ Graham agreed warily.
‘So why have they titled it The second Millennium Cleric? The second millennium has been and gone. We’re in the third millennium now. Duh!’
And with that devastating statement, she sauntered off to find some low-fat yoghurt in the fridge.
Graham stared at the title page, with its glossy paper and state-of-the-art computer graphic titles, and felt his lips begin to twitch. Monica already had a hand over her mouth and was trying not to laugh outright.
‘Oh Graham,’ she finally gasped, eyes sparkling. ‘I wonder why nobody else spotted it?’ she whispered, half-appalled, half highly amused. ‘You’d think somebody in the bishop’s office – or even at the printers – would have realized.’
‘Why? We didn’t,’ Graham pointed out reasonably enough. ‘It takes someone like our daughter to spot such a blooper,’ he went on, unaware that Monica had shot him a startled, then loving look.
But the truth was that ‘our daughter’ that he’d so casually come out with, had made her heart swell and ache with loving pride. Not many men, she well knew, would have been willing to take on a woman past her first flush of youth, who also had a rebellious teenage daughter in tow. Let alone be willing to look upon that child as their own.
Even now, she could still hardly believe that she’d been lucky enough to find a husband like Graham.
‘Dr Carew wouldn’t thank me for pointing it out now anyway,’ Graham continued firmly, and with the wisdom of Solomon, thrust the hilariously mistitled conference papers to one side, and took a long, healthy sip of his ice-cold drink.
‘What do you mean?’ Monica asked, checking her watch. The casserole would be done in another ten minutes or so and she didn’t want it to burn. She still didn’t fee
l herself to be much of a cook and she found herself hoping that it would turn out all right.
‘Well, you know what he’s like. He’d insist on getting them all re-done, no matter what the cost or inconvenience,’ her husband pointed out. ‘You know what a bee he’s got in his bonnet about things being done properly. And if he did that, the committee would have a fit about the added expense – and they’re still reeling about his purchase of the St Bede manuscript, even now.’
‘But that was years ago,’ Monica said in disbelief. ‘I hadn’t even met you then.’
‘I know. But it was a very expensive purchase and, some said, totally unnecessary. Of course, the academics on the committee loved it. And I see the crafty old fox has arranged for it to be displayed at the conference. That’s a shot-across-the-bows for his detractors, and no mistake.’
‘Where is it being exhibited now – still at that little place in Woodstock?’ Monica asked.
‘Yes. It’ll do it good to get a proper airing for once. Works of art like that should be seen,’ Graham said firmly. Then catching the lecturing note in his voice, he looked a shade abashed. ‘Sorry, I’m preaching to the converted, aren’t I? Is that dinner I can smell?’ he changed the subject abruptly with a rather angelic smile.
Whenever he smiled at her like that, Monica still felt her heart do a little flip.
‘It is. A humble chicken casserole only, alas. I dare say the diners at this fancy conference of yours will be offered something much more haute cuisine,’ she lamented teasingly.
‘Oh, I should think so,’ Graham teased, aware that his wife still wasn’t too confident of her culinary skills yet. Not that he’d care if she couldn’t whip up baked beans on toast. ‘That chef of Sir Andrew’s gets paid a fortune, or so I’ve heard,’ he continued blithely. ‘Still, you’ll find that out for yourself. You’re invited to Saturday night’s big dinner.’
Monica smiled wryly. ‘Oh, goody! Just the Saturday? Oh well, at least you won’t have to sleep over at the Manor. I don’t mind your sneaking off to eat five-star courses without me, so long as you come back to bed at nights.’
‘There is nothing that would keep me away,’ Graham said, looking at her long and levelly, and making Monica blush.
‘Come on then, let’s eat,’ she growled, fighting the urge to leap on him then and there before dragging him down onto the floor to ravish him.
And what, she wondered, would the village ladies and the church-going faithful have to say about that?
CHAPTER 2
Heyford Bassett Manor House was a big, square, solid-looking Georgian house, the main part of which had been rebuilt in the eighteen hundreds. A huge Victorian fern glasshouse now housed a full-length swimming pool, as well as vines and a variety of more colourful hothouse flowers. The stables had been converted into a cinema and leisure complex which included snooker tables and a portion of the lawns had become a tennis court and croquet lawn.
In his ground-floor office opposite a rather spectacular library, Sir Andrew Courtenay sat reading the same bumper pack of information that had been delivered to the Noble household. Being the manager as well as the owner of the conference centre, he was very conscious that the success of his business rested squarely on his own shoulders. So whereas Graham Noble had barely glanced at the list of guest names, Sir Andrew was staring at it with all the concentration of a cat eying a mouse hole.
He’d been doing so for quite some time.
At first, when he’d opened the pack, his mind had been strictly on his work. Once, a conference on archaeology had consisted almost solely of Jewish academics (something to do with the Dead Sea Scrolls) and the chef had proposed several pork dishes. If it hadn’t been for Sir Andrew’s eagle eye, he dreaded to think what might have happened. Now he always checked out his client lists carefully. And on this occasion, one name on the list of soon-to-be-arriving clerics had stood out as if written in neon.
When he’d first seen the name, he hadn’t been able to believe it. Couldn’t in fact, believe it. Surely, surely not, his brain had screamed. She wouldn’t dare show her face here. Not now. Not after what had happened in February?
But the longer Sir Andrew had stared at the list, the larger her name seemed to be written.
With a sudden snarl of fury, he stood up and crumpled the paper in his hand. Any of his staff would have been stunned to see this unusual display of temper. Unlike some people’s idea of a landed English baronet, Sir Andrew was neither a ‘silly old duffer’ nor a ‘horse-faced, upper-class twit’. At fifty-five, he was a thickset man, dressed not in tweeds, but casual slacks and a sports shirt. He was of medium height, with reddish hair and a florid complexion, and had big brown eyes. He was universally liked, both by his guests and his staff, possessing as he did a naturally friendly manner and a carefully cultivated sense of tact. His employees had never known him to be anything but an unflappable, even-tempered, humorous man, well aware of his good fortune in being born into such a property as the Manor House, and the way of life that it afforded him. And so, from the humblest chambermaid to his right-hand man and under-manager, everyone would have been surprised by the fury now visible on his face.
Not that he’d been himself lately of course, and nobody expected him to be his old cheerful self just yet. It would take time to heal. Everyone knew that. So concessions would have been made.
Sir Andrew, now oblivious to the darkening night outside and the need to go over next week’s staff rosters, walked heavily to the mantelpiece and stood staring down into the fireplace. It was unlit of course, on so warm a May night. Unshed tears made his big brown eyes glitter. He couldn’t believe that fate would be so unfair as to bring her here. Not now.
The heart-wrenching cruelty of it was almost too much to bear. He began to chew on his knuckles and unnoticed, a single trickle of blood trailed down his hand and dripped tiny droplets onto the brown tiles surrounding the hearth.
Sir Andrew closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.
It was raining in Woodstock the following Monday morning, but the owners of that pretty little market town’s many antique shops looked skywards and were cheered by the breaks of blue peeping through. Although the town’s biggest attraction, Blenheim Palace, regularly brought in coaches loaded with tourists, rain tended to keep them from the streets. Of course, the pubs and coffee shops did a roaring trade during such downpours.
Dr Simon Grade drove impatiently through the morning traffic and turned into the tiny car park in front of the Black Friars Woodstock Museum with a distinct sense of pride.
This was his baby, the result of years of hard work, hard study and even harder toadying.
A short man, Simon had smooth silver hair and always wore a well-cut suit. Large grey eyes looked out from a face that was almost good looking, and the aftershave that was currently wafting from him had been a present from a well-to-do aunt who always bought only the best.
It constantly annoyed Dr Simon Grade that he could never quite afford to buy the best for himself, but he was happy to make the most of his aunt’s largess, as well as any other advantages he might happen to stumble upon.
A few years ago, for instance, he’d had the foresight to take singing lessons so that he could join an important local choir. The choirmaster had then very obligingly introduced him to Dr David Carew, the bishop. This had in turn led to the Black Friar’s museum getting the scoop of the decade, when the bishop had bequeathed it a rare sixteenth-century illuminated copy of St Bede’s masterpiece on English history. And, touched by Dr Simon Grade’s brave, but financially-challenged crusade to give Woodstock a museum to be proud of, the bishop had offered him more-or-less permanent guardianship of the document.
It now stood in pride of place in the exact centre of the big exhibition room and was the biggest draw for theologians and other visiting scholars in the entire museum.
Yes, Dr Simon Grade was doing all right for himself, even managing to accrue a nice little nest egg for his retirement
. Not that he intended to spend any of it – at least not yet. It would look far too suspicious if he suddenly became flush.
Now he leaned against the glass casing surrounding the St Bede manuscript and stared at it intently. Finally, he was satisfied. It looked perfect, the superb calligraphy glowing with colour and reeking of antiquity. It was due to be transported to Heyford Bassett at the end of next week for a forthcoming ecclesiastical conference, and he was anxious that the move should go well. He had nightmares about the security van crashing into a ditch, and the manuscript being damaged.
He forced back such pessimistic thoughts and concentrated on something much more pleasing instead. Would he be able to wangle a personal meeting with Sir Andrew Courtenay himself? It would be a real coup if he could. Maybe he could even approach him about lending his name as a ‘Friend of the Museum’?
Whatever else happened, he felt reasonably confident that he would be invited to attend the big Saturday night dinner, which would afford him the chance to cultivate some of the other big names that were sure to be in residence.
As Dr Grade was anticipating making new friends and influencing people, many miles away, in the lovely Roman city of Bath, the Reverend Celia Gordon leaned back in a large leather chair and sighed deeply.
Her unpaid secretary, Felicity, had always been somewhat in awe of Celia – a female cleric who always looked and dressed more like a powerful businesswoman than a humble person of the cloth. And nor was Felicity the only one to have had their breath taken away. When she’d first swept into the diocese, Celia Gordon’s new broom had swept in more like a rocket-powered vacuum cleaner.
‘Right, I think that’s everything,’ the Reverend said, and Felicity felt herself slumping with relief. They’d been going through the church accounts, where Celia had worked her usual magic with numbers and which would certainly please the bishop. It was no wonder that she had just been awarded the Deaconship, in spite of the Reverend Goulder thinking that it was in the bag for himself.