Time's Legacy

by Barbara Erskine

  Abi nodded.

  ‘And you are ready to start work tomorrow?’

  Abi sat down opposite him. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.’

  ‘And they are all looking forward to meeting you.’ The easy warmth which she had remembered from their first meeting was immediately reassuring. ‘If you shadow me for a few days, just to find out who is who and what is what, then we can decide what part of the load you can take over.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and held her gaze for a moment. ‘I’m going to throw you in at the deep end, Abi.’

  Walking into his study on the ground floor of the Rectory half an hour later, Kier sighed, throwing himself down at his desk. He glanced at the answerphone, saw the number six flashing reproachfully and reluctantly he reached forward to press the play button.

  ‘Kier? Where are you?’ The woman’s voice, exaggeratedly patient, was punctuated with a theatrical sigh. ‘Why don’t you answer my calls?’

  Sue.

  She knew why. He had been out all day, that was why.

  Two calls from parishioners followed, both distressed, both needy, then a second from Sue. The last two were silent.

  He put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. For a moment he was tempted to ignore her. Let it go for tonight. She knew what he did, she knew the pressures, the hours, the battles he was fighting with work, the two parishes, the mess left behind by Luke. But looking on the bright side, that was about to change. His thoughts strayed to his new curate, upstairs in her flat, the smile of welcome she had given him, the suitcases and boxes and bags strewn around the room, as yet unpacked. The glass of wine she had offered him, the way she had thrown herself down on the chair, crossing her legs in the slim-fitting jeans, and casually pulled off the scarf, shaking the long wild hair free on her shoulders.

  He frowned. She was new to the job and obviously still a bit of a free spirit. Time and hard work would cure both character traits and put her on track to being a useful member of the team. He thought back to the interviews before they offered her the position. Enquiries about partners, children, commitments. She was an only child; parents alive and active, so not needing extra help. No partner, no children. One fairly long-term relationship, with a man – he remembered her mischievous smile as she recognised their delicate probing as to her sexuality – no girlfriends in the wings, then, though one glance at her could have told anyone who was interested she was no closet lesbian. It appeared that she had had just the one long and loving relationship which had been brought with mutual agreement to an end when the guy had been offered a job in Australia which he found he couldn’t, hadn’t wanted to, refuse. If she had gone with him it would have put an end to her plans and dreams. They had talked endlessly apparently, and discovered at last that the relationship wasn’t strong enough or deep enough to hold them together. They parted sadly but amicably. Since then, no-one. He pondered the point again and decided that this was probably true, for, as far as he could gather, no-one had accompanied her this afternoon to help her move in. Please God she was as uncomplicated and competent as she seemed.

  Slowly his hand strayed to the phone. Parishioners first. Then Sue.

  2

  The little church of St Hugh’s was tucked away on the edge of the sprawling urban parish up a long deserted country lane. Wedging the door open to let in as much light as possible next morning, Kier ushered Abi inside, then found himself as usual tiptoeing up the aisle between the old oak pews as though afraid someone would hear him. Ridiculous. As though there was someone to hear. He paused, listening. The M11 was less than a couple of miles away and with the wind in the right direction one could hear the reassuring roar of traffic, but on days like today, with no wind at all, he could hear nothing. The silence in the old stone building was profound and it disturbed him. He found himself clenching his fists. It was only in this one place out of the entire parish, that his childhood nightmares surfaced, the certainty that from time to time he could see things, people, hazy images around him; images over which he had no control. He hated it.

  He ran a finger round the inside of his dog collar, feeling it suddenly uncomfortably tight. Any day now permission would arrive from the diocesan office, allowing him to tear the guts out of the church, burn the pews, open everything up so people could use it for meetings, for a playgroup, for line dancing, for a farmers’ market for all he cared. Anything to chase out the ghosts. He glared up at the window over the altar. No chance, sadly, of getting rid of the medieval stained glass and replacing it with something cool and clear, which would let in the light. He sighed. Almost as though someone, somewhere had registered his thoughts he watched a beam of sunlight throw a cold blue wash onto the ancient paving slabs at his feet and he shivered violently.

  ‘So, how do you like it? It’s a bit of an old dump I’m afraid.’ He grinned at Abi. She had been standing staring round the little church with an expression of bemused delight. He shook his head. Until the glorious day came when he could deal with the place, Abi could take the services here. That was one thing she could usefully do where hopefully she couldn’t do any harm and who knows, perhaps she could do something about the atmosphere of the place. One of the things that had attracted him to her, over the other candidates for the curacy, was the fact that she had some kind of indefinable aura of peace about her. If the nightmares got out of hand, he had felt at once, she would know what to do.

  There was a sound behind him in the corner and he spun round, his heart thudding with fear. There was nothing there. It was probably a timber flexing. Wood expanded and contracted. That was one of the problems with old buildings. They made noises all the time. He closed his eyes and breathed a quick prayer. There was no place for superstitious nonsense in his rigid discipline. The structure of his Church did not allow ghosts, spiritualism, mumbo jumbo. His beliefs, carefully honed and pared to a minimum, had been constructed to protect him from those whirling shadows. They kept him safe. And sane.

  Unfortunately Abi was completely unaware that her new boss had spotted some kind of peacefulness about her, and that he had not asked her to join the team for her opinions, so almost from the start they argued. A lot. The truth of the matter was that very quickly she began to find his churchmanship sterile and rigid and totally unappealing; it was austere, verging on the puritan. ‘Can’t you see, Kier, how much the people long for love!’ She shoved her unruly hair back and clamped it into its clips. ‘The love of Jesus and also a vicar who shows that he or she cares. They want informality these days. Joy.’

  Kier shook his head patiently. ‘What these people need is discipline. Without that they are lost. You are too emotional, Abi. You must keep all this passion under wraps.’

  Was he being the tiniest bit patronising? She thought so. ‘What about bringing out the mysticism of the Eucharist? That would appeal to so many people here.’

  Once more he shook his head – a habit which was soon driving her wild with fury. ‘This is a puritan county, Abi. We don’t do mysticism.’ He glanced at her and for a moment she thought he was going to say something else. She waited for yet another criticism, but it didn’t come. At least not then.

  The stresses and strains of the job were a shock, it was so very different from her first curacy. There, the Rev Martin Smith, the training incumbent, had been at pains to help and train her in parish work, to encourage her, and a year into her deaconate, when she was at last made a priest, to stand slowly back, encouraging her to find her feet. Kier was from the start very different. He was, she had seen at once, one of those vicars who saw his training role primarily as a chance to obtain the services of an assistant, while at the same time laying down the law as to the way he felt his curate should behave and what he or she should believe. The churchy bit, to which she had so looked forward, the services, the prayers, were saved for Sundays – Kier said there was no appetite for more at the moment and in church her role was definitely subordinate. She was allocated some of the prayer
s and allowed to help with Communion. Apart from that there was little she was allowed to do.

  Sitting apart from the congregation, in a special chair next to the choir stalls, she was able to watch him. His easy charm made him wildly popular, particularly as she had suspected amongst the female sections of his congregation and St John’s was packed for each of the two Sunday services. What the men – about a third of the congregation – thought of him, she wasn’t sure. It was the women who adored him. There were few children; no teenagers. Hardly any young people. It was as though he was afraid of anyone or anything getting out of hand.

  It was different at St Hugh’s. It was a pretty church and she loved it, but at once she had sensed his dislike of it. It puzzled her that he seemed so uneasy there. To her the atmosphere seemed warm and accepting. The congregation was however tiny and to her disappointment after several weeks she had still not managed to make it grow very much although she was beginning to make some inroads. Kier came and listened to her sermons once or twice, sitting at the back near the door, and he took notes. His comments made her furious. He criticised her for her humour and her warmth. This was not what the people of the parish wanted, he said firmly. They needed guidance. Rules. Threats. Her pleas that this was not the Christianity she recognised were met by a look of pained surprise and she had to let the matter go, curbing her frustration. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they didn’t like her. If there was going to be a time and a place for her views they would have to wait until she was given her own parish. She was here to learn. To watch. She knew she was probably being arrogant, that perhaps he was right in his approach, but still she was finding it all very tough. And puzzling. Why was the flamboyant, confident rector of St Hugh’s afraid of this little church?

  Abi’s flat had its own front door and was self-contained, but to reach it at the top of the main staircase she had to let herself in to the front door of the Rectory and walk through the ground floor hall of the house, onto which opened Kieran’s study, kitchen and sitting room, then up to the first landing onto which opened his own bedroom, two spare rooms and his bathroom. Only when she reached the next flight of stairs did she begin to feel that she was certain of any privacy. Almost never, when he was working at home, which he often was, did she manage to reach this bit of her domain without him hearing her and popping out for a word.

  At first it was reassuring and almost without her noticing it a tentative friendship had begun to develop between them. As long as they kept away from contentious issues they got on well and she was, she realised, not entirely reluctantly, falling more and more under his spell.

  Kieran, not content with greeting her and asking after her day, from time to time invited her into the kitchen for a coffee or a glass of wine or sometimes a quick bite of supper when she returned home in the evening. It allowed them to review the parish work and compare notes about some of Abi’s outstanding problems of which there were many. It allowed them to become friends and even, a little, to flirt.

  Kier kept the weddings, baptisms and funerals, for himself. Abi’s share consisted of counselling, confirmation classes, hospital visits and all the secretarial work, to which after half an hour’s handover period Sandra had abandoned her. It was as much as she could cope with. Life had become very tiring and stressful.

  One aspect of her job, the most important bit that Kier was prepared, in fact almost eager, to hand over, had been the home visits. Over this he was a brilliant delegator and although anxious to prove she could do her share and rise to every challenge he threw at her, she found herself eventually buckling under the load of work.

  One wet evening she had returned to the Rectory feeling unusually low when Kieran put his head round the kitchen door as he heard her key in the lock. He invited her in and she found herself to her surprise pouring out her heart to him. ‘Could you take over some more of the home visits for a week or two?’ she pleaded as she flopped onto a stool at his kitchen counter. Outside the rain was pouring down and it was growing prematurely dark. Her hair was wet through and she thought she was coming down with a cold. ‘I just don’t think I can get round to everyone on my list this week,’ she added wearily. ‘It would give me a chance to catch up on some paperwork and some sleep.’ She couldn’t remember when she had last had a night in on her own and as for a private life, no chance.

  Kieran turned from the sink where he was rinsing a couple of wine glasses under the tap. ‘I didn’t realise you were so tired.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose I keep forgetting you are new at the job.’ He smiled. ‘You are so good with people, Abi, I’ve been taking advantage of your good nature without realising it.’

  She shrugged, fighting the reflex reaction of denying that she couldn’t cope. ‘I suppose it does take a while to get used to the hours. And the misery and the deprivation and the hostility. No peace for the wicked!’ She forced herself to smile at her own feeble attempt at a joke. Her throat was sore and she felt shivery as he put a glass down before her and poured out the wine.

  He stood in front of her for a moment, anxiously studying her face then he reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Abi. I’ve been selfish. I’ll take over the home visits for a bit. Of course I will. I wanted you to experience the realities of this job first hand as soon as possible. I wanted to make sure you understood what the church is all about. I thought if you saw the worst at once, in a sense it could only get better. That was stupid of me. I should have seen it was all too much for you.’ He paused. Then he leaned across and dropped a small dry kiss on her forehead. It was avuncular, she told herself firmly, suppressing a quick shiver of pleasure. His action had conveyed nothing more than affectionate sympathy.

  Which didn’t in the event last long. Within a few days he had gently suggested she resume her duties and she was working as hard as before.

  Wednesday, Abi had discovered, was the day the curate visited the sick and lonely. As she found herself wearily climbing the stairs of a six-storey concrete low-rise off a shabby noisy street half coned off for repairs, she realised this would be her third visit of the day, her fourth in a month to this particular address. She wrinkled her nose at the unedifying odours coming from the suspiciously damp corners on the landings and turned at last to the final flight.

  Ethel Barryman’s door was blistered and scarred. She could see from the marks that the lock had been replaced at least twice. There was no bell. She raised her hand and knocked sharply, wincing as her knuckles met the roughened wood. The door opened so quickly she wondered if the old lady had been standing on the other side, waiting for her.

  ‘Come in, dear.’ Ethel was small, wizened and frail, her face a transparent white, her hair thin, the remains of an ancient perm snaking through the faded hennaed strands.

  In the sparsely furnished living room the table was laid with a white lace cloth on which stood a teapot, a plate of biscuits and two porcelain cups without saucers – those had been smashed by the last pair of thugs who had broken in, seemingly just for the sheer joy of doing it as there had been so little to steal. ‘For after.’ The old lady smiled.

  Abi nodded. ‘Is your granddaughter still doing your shopping?’ She unslung her bag from her shoulder, in it the tools of her trade: small brass candlestick, candle, little cross on a base. Little box containing the necessities for Communion.

  ‘She’s good to me,’ Ethel nodded. ‘Comes twice a week. Sometimes more. And there’s Angela, downstairs. She gives me a hand when the pain is bad.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away sharply. ‘Silly bugger me! Think I’d be used to it, by now.’

  Abi smiled gently. ‘No word yet about a place at the hospice?’ She didn’t need the shaken head to know the answer. ‘Shall we pray together?’ She could feel her hands heating up. The urge to lay them on the woman was overwhelming. The need to draw away the pain, to replace it with gentle cool healing.

  She laid out the little cruet, containers of bread and wine and lit the candle. Then she moved over to
rest her hands on the old lady’s head.

  When the short service was over it was Abi who made the tea. She glanced at Ethel with a smile. The old lady had relaxed. The pain had gone from her eyes. ‘You’re a good girl, Abi,’ Ethel said after a while. ‘I still can’t bring myself to call you vicar!’ She looked up at Abi, her face full of lively humour. ‘Come and see me again soon.’

  ‘You know I will.’ Abi dropped a kiss on her head as she left. From the doorway she turned and raised a hand in blessing.

  The next day Kier told her that Ethel Barryman was dead. Her granddaughter had found her in the chair where Abi had left her.

  Abi stared at him in shock. ‘But she was better! She was cheerful.’

  ‘You gave her Communion?’

  Abi nodded.

  ‘Then you did your best. It’s part of your job, Abi. You’ll get used to it.’ He patted her arm before opening a file on his desk, pulling out another address. ‘Go and see this woman next. Molly Cathcart. Constantly whingeing. Real fuss pot. Wants attention all the time.’ He groaned.

  ‘But Ethel –’ Abi was still thinking about the old lady’s gentle smile. ‘Can I take her funeral, Kier? I’d like to.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll see what the family thinks. They may prefer me.’

  She didn’t argue. What was the point.

  Abi met Sandra in town one Monday a couple of weeks later. Mondays were supposed to be Abi’s day off and she had promised herself time for a trip to visit Marks & Spencer. They talked casually for a few minutes on the pavement then drifted across Sidney Street, dodging through the crowds to find a coffee shop. Sandra ordered coffee and teacakes for both of them then she sat back and looked at Abi closely. ‘So, how are you coping up at Chateau Scott?’