by MARY HOCKING
When she stepped into the street she was aware of the figure she presented, small, compact, resolute, a person who seemed constantly on her way to catch a train and very sure of what she proposed to do when she reached her destination. Who could suspect the turmoil contained within this seemly structure of flesh and bone? What would they think, those friends and neighbours who admired her composure, if they became aware of the unceasing interaction between the imperious demands of the intellect, the insistent needs of the senses for small satisfactions and the longing for joys no longer appropriate which found its chief expression in dreams which troubled the waking hours?
Valentine had told her, ‘You always seem a very held together sort of person.’ It was as well that Valentine had no idea what it was that was being held together this evening. ‘Not disappointment, mind you,’ Hester said aloud as she swept past the war memorial, ‘that is altogether too mild a word. Fury!’ Fury at the interference with her work pattern and the denial of the pleasure which would have come later as she relaxed with a generous gin and gave herself to what distraction television offered. She guarded her time as if it were a small, beleaguered territory over which she was the despotic ruler, ready to punish any invader with the boiling oil of her disfavour.
Briskly she carried her wrath up the high street and down the path into the church hall, where it was fuelled by a woman in a sloppy cardigan who greeted her in honeyed tones, ‘I didn’t expect to see you here among us. How honoured we are!’
Hester, eyeing the flushed face which always had the appearance of having just received a stinging slap, reminded herself that Laura Addison should be cherished as a member of a dying species: womankind would not pass this way again. ‘I’m not in the business of conferring honours,’ she said.
The flush suffused ears and neck, the dry lips quivered. No snub was ever wasted on Laura Addison, yet she continued to invite rebuffs with unremitting earnestness. ‘My dear, you must forgive silly people who aren’t clever with words. We are just happy you could spare us the time.’ A gentle, restraining hand was laid on Hester’s arm. How it comes you still have two hands is beyond comprehension, Hester thought. Laura, who would undoubtedly have accompanied Daniel into the lions’ den, went on, ‘Perhaps you could go and talk to Shirley Treglowan? I don’t think she knows many people here, which is hardly surprising, is it? Since she never comes anywhere near the church. I expect it’s that Desmond of hers. She’s hoping a new vicar may be able to work a miracle, poor soul.’
‘You seem to know more about her soul than I do, so you had better sit beside her.’
Hester was aware that this suggestion would not find favour since it would take Laura Addison away from her self-appointed place as doormat in the House of the Lord. While they were disputing the issue, Norah Kendall seated herself beside Shirley Treglowan.
Although the meeting was not due to start for some seven minutes there were already more women present than Hester had anticipated. She knew that the group had a membership of over thirty, of whom less than ten were regular attenders. Valentine had told her that much emphasis had been placed on the low attendance. ‘They meet in the vicarage, so it suits the hard core not to drum up more support. But I said that if the membership was over thirty we should aim at a regular attendance of over twenty and that was too many bodies for the vicarage sitting-room.’ She had been safeguarding her privacy, but it looked as if she had made a lucky guess. There must be at least fifteen women here. The town did not afford young mothers many pretexts for leaving their husbands to look after the children on at least one evening a week. The advent of a new vicar had no doubt acted as a spur to the wilting spirit of rebellion. ‘There was no need for me to have sacrificed myself,’ Hester thought crossly. But since she had come it was in her nature to make the best of it.
She saw that Valentine was sitting on her own, looking so excessively detached that something must certainly have upset her. As soon as Hester sat down beside her, Valentine demanded, ‘Who is that trousered female who looks like one of Robin Hood’s merrier men?’ She eyed Shirley disdainfully while Hester replied that she was an infant school teacher. ‘I would have thought her talents lay elsewhere.’ Valentine noted bold, brown eyes and a healthy gloss on the cropped chestnut hair. ‘She would be quite attractive to a man, don’t you think? Norah Kendall could learn something from her about making the best of herself, with that fading red hair scragged up on top of her head like a bird’s nest.’
‘Was I relieved to see you here. Nurse!’ Shirley spoke in a whisper which carried to the back of the hall. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t call you Nurse, now?’
‘That’s all right, m’dear. I was thinking of calling on you to find out how my favourite boy is getting on.’
‘It would be nice if you would. Desmond isn’t anyone else’s favourite boy. The things he gets up to! Last night . . .’
‘Why did you come?’ Hester asked Valentine. ‘You don’t have to join in all the activities and I shouldn’t think this is your scene any more than it is mine.’
‘I thought it worth demonstrating that I am the Vicar’s wife and to see who is making the takeover bid in this particular parish. Any other pretensions to status I might have had were soon put down by the little lady with the saintly smile who is taking it upon herself to welcome everyone.’
Hester looked at her in surprise. Even for Valentine this was an unusually sharp rejoinder and she doubted if it had been occasioned by Laura Addison, who was scarcely worth Valentine’s mettle.
Valentine made a pretence of looking around at the women who had gathered here while she listened to Norah Kendall and Shirley Treglowan. It was clear from their conversation that their relationship was a purely professional one. Yet as the two women talked, Valentine could find nothing in Norah’s attitude to which she herself, so exacting in her judgements, could have taken exception. There was not a trace of condescension, no betraying hint – that tidying up of other people’s sentences – of the professional woman used to taking control of others. The pitch and timing of interest, amusement, concern could not be faulted and there was genuine humour in the quiet laughter. Valentine, who had hitherto dismissed her as a subtly attention-seeking parish worker, was forced to the conclusion that Norah Kendall was one of those limited women who, given a suitably structured environment, can function very effectively.
The room was becoming quite crowded. Laura Addison said to the Vicar, ‘Of course, it is just after Easter,’ as though an explanation were required for this untoward show of interest. ‘A lot of people came to Mass on Easter Day whom we never see again for another year. And you did announce the change of venue, if you remember.’
‘So it’s all my fault?’ he said cheerfully.
‘Well, yes, it is.’ She tittered, but he could see that she was troubled.
‘If there’s not enough milk and coffee I could easily go back to the vicarage . . .’
‘Oh no, no! Your wife insisted that I should order another pint of milk and there is plenty of coffee. But I’m afraid I only have one pair of hands.’
‘That is easily remedied. I shall ask for volunteers.’ He turned away and spoke at random to two young women hovering in the doorway. ‘Come in and make yourselves useful.’
Laura Addison looked around for an ally and failed to find one. The newcomers could not be expected to appreciate her peril and among the regular attenders she had no real friend. She had marked out a small terrain for herself which had not been threatened for much the same reason that Switzerland’s neutrality is respected – the domain was barren and contained little to attract the attention of predators. As the Vicar shepherded the two young women into the kitchen, tears dimmed Laura’s eyes.
Hester, who had watched the incident with amusement, decided that this was the moment which justified her presence. As she approached Laura she was dismayed to see how genuine was the woman’s distress.
‘Never, never . . .’ The voice was faint and the slight frame
shook as though a chance gust of wind had blown away her very substance. ‘Never . . . in all my years in this church . . . have I been brushed aside like that.’
She, too, is old, Hester thought, and what little confidence she ever possessed has worn threadbare.
‘Come off it, Laura!’ she said. ‘That was just blundering masculine insensitivity. You get in there and make sure the raw recruits know who is in charge of the cookhouse. They’ll probably be very glad to see you. I’ve never managed to come to terms with that cantankerous old urn.’
The noise level in the room had risen considerably as diffident newcomers identified kindred spirits. Shirley Treglowan, with the advantage of ten minutes’ familiarity, was playing hostess to several friends of her own age. The gas fire was now thought to be giving out too much heat and a window at the far end of the hall was opened. The Vicar was rearranging the chairs. ‘I don’t like to see people sitting in rows at a discussion. Can we form a circle?’
‘I think there are too many people here for a circle,’ one of the regular attenders said, looking accusingly at the newcomers. ‘We don’t want to be shouting across the room at one another, do we?’ Eventually a haphazard arrangement was arrived at which allowed no one person to occupy a prominent position. Even so, it was obvious that most of those present looked to the Vicar to take charge of the proceedings. The regular attenders expected to be led, while the newcomers were interested to see how the priest would perform when freed from the constraints of ritual.
‘We usually start with a prayer,’ Laura Addison whispered. On her return from the kitchen she had contrived to ease a chair to the left of the Vicar. Heads were bowed while Michael Hoath, who did not care for extempore prayer, briefly commended their proceedings to God.
The subject for discussion was the role of the Church in modern life, a weighty matter and certainly broad enough to allow the Vicar to indicate his chief concerns and make his first mistakes. He sat back in his chair, however, and waited for others to speak.
A regular attender passionately advocated the need to support overseas missions and another took up the claims of nuclear disarmament. The problems of the inner cities were mentioned briefly and the closure of the Cornish tin mines at greater length. There were critical references to the appointment of bishops in which London fared somewhat better than Durham. At this point, Laura Addison said she was sorry to see that the chalice was now wiped with a cloth and a dark, gruff little woman remarked that God was not a witch doctor, keeping the faithful pure by the exercise of magical spells. Someone else said that if, in fact, silver was a safeguard against the spread of germs, she thought this was elitist – what about churches which couldn’t afford much in the way of silver? The level of interest had declined. It was apparent that there were a few present who were prepared to debate the matter of the wiping of the chalice for the remainder of the evening. The Vicar intervened.
‘All these issues are important, of course, and I don’t think anyone would deny that mistakes have been made in things both large and small; but we should remember that we are the Church – not archbishops or bishops, or priests, for that matter, but the whole Christian community. Perhaps we should talk about ourselves and what we as Christians feel is our role today.’
He had hoped that one of the younger women who had not previously attended these meetings would speak; but after a short silence, Laura Addison said, ‘We should be concerned with bringing God’s word to people’s hearts and minds.’ As they were not quite sure how this was to be accomplished – or, indeed, what exactly was God’s word for today – her hearers were left to contemplate their inadequacy. Michael Hoath, sitting with bowed head, wondered how long a pause he should allow before he spoke again.
He was saved by Norah Kendall. ‘Are we the Church? I know this is something we are told. But, you don’t think . . .?’ She had the look of a person about to say something which the listener certainly does not think. Michael Hoath smiled at her encouragingly and this seemed to distract her from her purpose. ‘Oh dear, perhaps I should start from somewhere else.’ In spite of her hesitation she was by no means inarticulate, nor, it seemed, were her thoughts as wandering as she would have her audience think. ‘Could it be that one of the reasons the Church has lost its influence is that it has left so much unsaid that needed to be said, and so had to be said by people other than Christians? Sorry about all the saids and unsaids!’
Michael Hoath said politely, ‘Yes, that is undoubtedly true. The Holy Spirit will make sure that the Word is said, even if the Church fails to . . . er . . . articulate it. Had you anything specific in mind?’ She responded with a sureness which suggested that she had never lost the main thread of her argument. ‘I’m back with this question of our being the Church. I was thinking about the position of women. We haven’t really been encouraged to think of ourselves as part of the Church – an equal part – have we?’ Laura Addison gave a little sigh, but the younger women present sat up alertly as if summoned by a bugle call. ‘It’s sometimes difficult for us to think about our role, when for centuries Christianity has been interpreted to women by men – even advice as to how women should dress. I know that sounds a bit trivial, but St Paul didn’t think it too trivial to mention, did he? And men can’t really know the intimate things – the things of the heart – so well as women themselves, can they?’ She looked at Michael Hoath, at once shy and respectful, yet not without a hint of provocation.
Valentine hoped her husband recognized that familiar character, the woman who needs a male priest while having an urge to challenge his authority; but she could see that he was concerned only with the question. This was a subject on which his feelings were ambivalent; he was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of sharing his ministry with women, but he knew that intellectually he was on shaky ground. He rubbed his jaw, reflecting gloomily that it would come anyway, whatever he thought or said.
Norah Kendall took advantage of his silence to continue. ‘If the Church had fulfilled its role – as it did in the emancipation of slaves – not that I’m saying women are slaves’ – a little laugh here, but she had, of course, inferred it – ‘but if the Church had thought about the position of women in a positive way, wouldn’t it have more moral authority now?’
This received vehement support from a deep-chested young woman whose emotions had for the last few minutes laid an increasing strain on her skimpy blouse. ‘Some of us think of it as being rather like a working man’s club – a good bolt-hole where the women can’t get at a chap! Or if you want to go up-market a bit, you can let them into the visitors’ dining-room, but not a step beyond.’
‘I think that is rather a superficial analogy.’ Norah Kendall was quick to regain the initiative. ‘But it does seem to me that the Church can’t speak with real moral authority when the wisdom and experience of women is not used, is so often denied . . .’
‘You are not saying that women have had no voice in the last two thousand years?’ Michael asked.
‘I suppose I am.’ She looked not so much troubled by the statement as apologetic at having cornered him.
He paused, on the verge of mentioning St Teresa and Dame Julian, to ask himself how many others? Not enough in two thousand years to weigh against the number of clergymen in this one diocese. When in trouble, ask a practical question. He said, ‘Allowing for the situation as it is at present, is there any more you feel we should be doing to improve the position of women here in this parish?’
There wasn’t, of course. She had had her say, created a bit of friction, and was now in retreat from assuming responsibility for any new initiatives. But the flood gates had been opened. Michael Hoath was astonished at the eagerness of even the most modest among the younger women, those worthy by their demeanour of a part in any Jane Austen adaptation, to contribute their story of male chauvinism – indeed, not merely to contribute, but to compete. As he listened to Nancy Perrins, who sang so sweetly in the choir, giving tongue to domestic discords which surely
had no place outside the home, it was as if Fanny Price had made a rude gesture at the pious Edmund. Of course, one did sometimes look for a more robust show of spirit in Fanny, but who would have wished the gentle creature to develop into a virago?
‘As soon as I switch on the Open University, he finds something he needs me for,’ she was saying. ‘If they put out the programmes at two in the morning, he’d be up with toothache.’
Others took up the theme. ‘He doesn’t know the first thing about figures. I’m the one who keeps the accounts. But I don’t get any thanks for it because he can’t bear that I do anything better than him.’
‘His co-ordination is poor and he can’t judge distances. The plain fact is he’s a bad driver.’
‘Oh, he can do things about the house, provided everything else stops. There’s got to be a breathless hush followed by a round of applause whenever he knocks a nail in the wall.’
‘I can do just as I like,’ Nancy Perrins came in with her clear soprano. ‘Join the W.I. and the painting group, even go away for a weekend with a girl friend. Anything, so long as I don’t hold opinions that are different from his.’
‘The weekend is like having another child about the place, competing for attention and sulking when he doesn’t get it.’
‘What he really wants is for them to play with him. He’s sick to death because Jamie hasn’t any ball sense.’
‘One evening, one evening in the week, and there’s a fuss when I came out tonight!’
Michael was dismayed that his first discussion with this group should so soon have deteriorated into a recital of marital disharmony which might well have been the introduction to a campaign to find the most selfish husband of the year. It was a relief when Laura Addison, who had retreated to the kitchen, announced that coffee was ready – and, her tone suggested, not a moment too soon.