She started there in the early summer of 1967, working only Saturdays at first and the occasional Sunday. When she was asked if she would like to work there for her summer holiday, for the whole month of August she was thrilled at the idea.
What Vera and Stanley did not know was that she had met someone there who made the prospect even more appealing.
Four
Fiona had never been happier than she was at this present time. She had a wonderful husband and an adorable baby girl. Stella was a happy and contented child and a few months after her birth Fiona was able to return to helping Simon with some of his work in the parish.
He had always insisted, however, from the time of their marriage that he did not want his wife to be regarded as what he termed an unpaid curate, which was the lot of many clergy wives. Fiona was a person in her own right – at that time she had worked as a librarian in the Aberthwaite branch – and, therefore, could not be at the beck and call of the parishioners. She had, however, of her own volition, taught a class of girls in the Sunday school, sung in the church choir, and had formed a ‘Young Wives and Friends’ group which met once a fortnight on a Tuesday evening in the rectory lounge.
She also lent a hand when required with the catering at church functions. Mrs Ethel Bayliss, who was in charge of all the catering arrangements and a bigwig in the Mothers’ Union to boot, had resented Fiona at first, considering her to be a most unsuitable rector’s wife; and she it was who had tried to cause trouble when it was discovered that the child that Fiona was expecting was not her first one. Mrs Bayliss now, though, was all sweetness and light compared with how she had acted in the past. Babies, it seemed, sometimes brought about a change in even the most difficult of folk, and now Fiona was made welcome in the kitchen.
‘Wonders never cease!’ she remarked to Simon, following the spring ‘bring and buy’ sale where she, Fiona, had been in charge of the book stall (with baby Stella sleeping peacefully in the nearby pram) and then had helped with the washing up afterwards. ‘Ethel treated me like her best friend, would you believe?’
‘Yes, I suppose I might believe it,’ replied Simon, a trifle unsurely. ‘There’s a good side to everyone, but sometimes it’s a bit difficult to find it. Ethel has been more affable just lately. I dare say she regrets all the trouble she caused, or tried to cause. Most people prefer to make their own judgements, rather than listen to Ethel Bayliss. I shall still be wary of her, though. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m going to apply for a curate. The congregation has increased recently, and I’m hoping that the powers that be might consider that we’re in line for one. But you can be sure that whoever we get there will be something wrong with him,’ he laughed.
‘Now, we don’t know that, do we, Simon? He might turn out to be exactly Ethel’s cup of tea. Like you were when you came here. She never found any fault with you, did she, until I came on the scene?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. We’d had our moments, Ethel and me, long before you arrived. She didn’t like being ousted from her position of enrolling member of the MU, when Millicent took over.’
‘Well, she’s back at the helm now, alright,’ said Fiona. ‘I could never have done that job, not in a thousand years!’
‘Of course you could,’ replied Simon. ‘I’m realizing more and more what a competent person you are, as well as being my lovely adorable wife.’ He teasingly kissed the tip of her nose. ‘But I agree that, under the circumstances, you’re far better taking a lead with the younger women rather than the – what shall I say? – more mature women of the parish. Your Young Wives group is going from strength to strength, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I believe it is,’ agreed Fiona. ‘We’ve had a few new members since the Riverside housing estate was built. We wondered if they might come once, and then decide it wasn’t to their liking. But they seem to be enjoying the things we do, and they’re staying the course, so far.’
‘It’s the same with the new families we’ve acquired from the estate. We’ve had a couple of weddings from there and three christenings, and that funeral last week, although that’s not something to rejoice about. The families living there seem to be mainly the younger age group, so the funerals may be few and far between. It’s quite likely, though, that a lot of the families will be the sort of folk who come to church only three times in their lives.’
‘When they’re born, when they get married and when they die,’ added Fiona. ‘And maybe at Christmas and Easter, and Harvest Festival, of course. We mustn’t forget that,’
‘Don’t let’s be cynical, though,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve always believed that the main thing is to make people welcome, whether they come to church every week, or only once in a while. And if they feel that they’re made welcome they’re far more likely to come again.’
‘Yes; that was one of the first things I noticed when I started coming to St Peter’s,’ said Fiona. ‘I was made so welcome … well, by most people, anyway. Apart from the fact that I was falling in love with the rector,’ she added with a laugh. ‘I felt that they were pleased to see me, and there was none of that ‘holier than thou’ attitude, like there was at that church I went to in Leeds. The feeling that you’re found wanting, instead of being accepted as you are. But I mustn’t get started on that again. It’s all water under the bridge, as they say. The thing is, Simon, you run a happy ship here with contented passengers, if you know what I mean.’
‘And with you as my first mate, how can I go wrong?’ he smiled. ‘You’re such an encouragement to me, darling, in all that I’m trying to do. And you’ve livened up the place no end, starting up the Young Wives group and bringing in the new families. That’s all down to you, you know … I don’t often mention her, but Millicent – God rest her soul – didn’t have the same appeal as you have, especially to the younger women … to say nothing of the men! And that’s what we need. New blood in the church, or else it will stagnate. There are so many other distractions now to lure people away from Sunday worship.’
‘Yes, television for one thing,’ said Fiona. ‘Attendances drop at evening service, don’t they, when there’s a good play on the TV? Or Sunday Night at the London Palladium,’ she added smiling.
‘Yes. How can I compete with Bruce Forsyth?’ laughed Simon. ‘We’ve still got our stalwarts though who come rain or shine. The Sunday school attendances are dropping, too, despite the few new families we’ve got. I think that more families getting cars has a lot to do with it. I was talking to the superintendent, and we agreed that it might be time to think about changing afternoon Sunday school to a morning one.’
‘So that families are free to go out in their cars on Sunday afternoon?’ queried Fiona. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I know it seems like pandering to them, but we’ve got to move with the times. Better to change our routine than risk losing them altogether. I know it might cause a few problems at first. The Sunday school teachers would have to miss the morning service – well, part of it anyway. The idea would be for the children to stay in for the first part of the service, and then go out when it’s time for the sermon.’
Fiona laughed. ‘The teachers might be quite relieved … Only joking!’ she added, as Simon gave her a mock-disapproving look. ‘You know that I think you preach a great sermon, and so do all the people I talk to. They like your touch of humour and the way you keep abreast of the times.’
‘That’s good to know. But they’re not likely to tell you that they think I’m hopeless, are they? All the same …’ he sighed, ‘I must admit I feel rather jaded at times when I’m preaching twice a day, apart from the times when we have a visiting preacher. That’s another reason why I’ve decided to apply for a curate. Never mind, I’ll soldier on and trust that somebody turns up.’
‘Like Mr Micawber,’ remarked Fiona.
‘Quite so! But maybe the boss up there …’ he pointed heavenwards, ‘might listen and lend a hand.’ He smiled. ‘I must be seen to believe in what I tell
others, mustn’t I? To practise what I preach, as they say.’
‘You always do, Simon,’ said his wife seriously. ‘No one could say otherwise.’
Fiona knew that Simon’s trust in the God he served was strong and absolute. And since meeting him, then falling in love with him and marrying him, Fiona’s faith, too, had become stronger. Her reliance on God had lapsed, and she had not attended church for several years, following the trauma of her first baby’s birth. It had been a long time before she had plucked up the courage to tell Simon all the details of her past life. But it was all out in the open now, and it had made them even stronger as a couple.
Fiona had known from the start that Simon had been married previously to a woman called Millicent. She had wondered at first how she, Fiona, would fare in comparison with her. Not so much in Simon’s eyes – she had come to realize, gradually, that it had not been an ideally happy marriage – but rather in the eyes of the older members of the congregation, especially the women of the Mothers’ Union. Millicent had been the enrolling member for the group, which was the prerogative of the rector’s – or vicar’s – wife. As such she had ousted the formidable Ethel Bayliss from the post, and, apparently, this had caused some contention at first. Later, though, it seemed that Millicent could do no wrong; especially since she had died, suddenly, of a severe attack of flu, a couple of years before Simon had met his new wife.
Fiona had suffered by comparison with the older, far more sensible and sober Millicent. She had been deemed young and frivolous, and far too glamorous and fashionable for the wife of a clergyman. But she had proved to her critics that she had what it required, and more besides, to be an admirable rector’s wife.
Simon’s first marriage had been childless. Fiona had known how much he wanted a family, and they had both been thrilled when she became pregnant. It was not until then that Fiona had been forced to tell Simon about her first pregnancy and the birth of a baby daughter. Someone she had known in the home for unmarried mothers had seen her at the clinic, and so the news had leaked out to the folk of the parish. Simon had been a wonderful support to her at that time. She had realized then that she should never have had any fears about telling him.
It had seemed like a coincidence too great to be believed when, quite early in Fiona’s pregnancy, Simon had opened the rectory door to a strange young man. Strange inasmuch as he was someone whom Simon didn’t know, although in his appearance he was far from strange, in fact there seemed to be something familiar about him. Simon had recalled then that the young man had been in church the previous day, at both the morning and evening services, but had disappeared quickly without a word.
Simon was soon to realize why the young man looked familiar. It was as though he was seeing himself when young, although this man was dark-haired whereas Simon was fairish; and there was, inevitably, a look of someone else about him, someone that Simon had once known quite well. He had introduced himself, rather hesitantly and embarrassedly at first, as Simon’s son – a son of whom, until that moment, he had no knowledge. There was no doubt in Simon’s mind that he was speaking the truth. The story he told confirmed it all.
Simon had served in the Second World War as a navigator in an aircrew, planning routes to strategic sites in Germany and taking part in countless bombing raids. When the war was at its height he had met a young WAAF called Yvonne Stevenson. They had not intended their friendship to become too serious – Yvonne already had a boyfriend in the navy – but as the war raged around them they sought comfort with one another and the inevitable happened. Simon had suffered the loss of his skipper, the pilot of the aircrew who had died when the plane burst into flames on arriving back at the airfield, the rest of the crew having managed to escape.
Then Simon had been injured himself, although not too badly, during a further raid, and had been granted a period of leave. He knew by then that he was falling in love with Yvonne and intended to make his feelings clear to her. When he returned to the camp, however, he found that she had been posted to another airfield, and that was the last he saw of her.
And then, twenty-three years later, there was Gregory Challinor, a fine young man whom anyone would be pleased to call their son.
Greg, as he was always called had been shocked, and somewhat dismayed at first, when his mother had told him, soon after his father’s death, that Keith Challinor was not, in fact, his real father. He and his younger brother and sister had always been treated in exactly the same way and there were very few people who knew the truth.
Yvonne had discovered that Simon was now a clergyman, the rector of a parish in Aberthwaite, north Yorkshire. It had taken a good deal of courage and heart searching for Greg – he had loved his father, Keith, so much – but eventually his curiosity had got the better of him and he had sought out the Reverend Simon Norwood.
It was a decision that he had never regretted. He and Simon had quickly formed a bond and their liking for one another had soon become affection. They were more like friends, though, or elder and younger brother, and Greg, by mutual agreement, always called his new-found father Simon.
Greg visited Aberthwaite every couple of months for a long weekend. He and Simon would walk on the fells surrounding the little town on the Saturday, maybe have a drink at a local pub in the evening, and then Greg attended the morning service as he usually did at his home in Manchester. He grew fond of Fiona, Simon’s attractive young wife, too.
‘Cor! She’s quite something!’ he had remarked to his few friends who knew his story, when he had first met her. ‘What a smasher, eh? I didn’t say that to Mum, although I think there might be a plan for them to meet quite soon. Fiona’s a lovely lady, so kind and thoughtful, and she makes me really welcome.’
He watched baby Stella grow, too, from an adorable baby to a cute little toddler with her mother’s golden hair and the silvery grey eyes of her father.
When he visited them in the June of 1968 Stella was eighteen months old, walking very ably and beginning to talk. He was pleased when the little girl recognized him, calling out ‘Greg!’ and smiling delightedly.
‘Good to see you again, Greg,’ said Simon, shaking his hand, then giving him a bear hug. Fiona kissed his cheek, telling him he was very welcome.
‘Me, me!’ cried Stella, opening her arms for Greg to lift her up.
‘My goodness! You’re a ton weight,’ he exclaimed. ‘What a big girl you are, Stella.’
‘Don’t wear nappies now,’ said Stella, and they all laughed.
‘Only at night,’ added Fiona, ‘but I don’t think Greg wants to know about that. Yes, she’s growing up fast.’
‘And you’re looking well, Fiona,’ said Greg, putting the little girl down. ‘Positively blooming.’
‘There’s a reason for that,’ said Fiona, smiling at him and then at her husband. ‘Stella’s going to have a little baby brother … or sister, of course.’
‘That’s great news,’ said Greg. ‘Congratulations! So … when will it be?’
‘December,’ said Fiona. ‘The same month as Stella’s birthday. It’s early days yet, so I’ve only told a few people. My friend, Joan, knows, and Simon’s family. And my friend, Ginny, from Tyneside. She was the very first to know, apart from Simon. They came to see us a little while ago, and she guessed … as close friends do. Time enough for the gossip-mongers in the parish to find out,’ she said, laughing. ‘But I’m sure they’ll be very pleased.’
‘I have some news as well,’ said Greg. ‘Nothing as exciting as yours, but come outside and look at my new means of transport.’
‘You’ve bought a car!’ said Simon. ‘Well, good for you. And learnt to drive as well, presumably?’
‘Come and see,’ said Greg with great pride. They had been standing in the hallway, and now they all trooped out into the front garden, There on the path was a little red mini car, all gleaming with newness, with a bright red petrol tank.
‘Wizard! That’s a smashing little job,’ exclaimed Simon, reverting to h
is old RAF slang. ‘When did you get that?’
‘About a month ago,’ said Greg.
‘Brand new, is it?’
‘Almost. Just one careful owner. And I passed my test, first time! I had several lessons before I bought the car. I’m getting quite proficient now.’
‘Yes, they’re great little cars,’ said Simon. ‘Not suitable for a family, of course, but ideal for a first car. I’ve often admired them.’ The mini had become amazingly popular since it had been brought out a few years earlier, very handy for nipping around the town, and was within the budget of most people. ‘You drive to work now, do you?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m there in no time compared with the bus. But I’ll have a bit further to travel before long. That’s another piece of news. I’m moving into a flat of my own …’
He had arrived early on Friday evening, travelling from Manchester when he had finished work for the weekend. After Stella had been bathed and put to bed and they had enjoyed their evening meal, Greg told Simon and Fiona all his news.
‘I’ve put a deposit down on a flat,’ he said. ‘Just a small one, but it’s self-contained. One bedroom, a living room, bathroom and kitchen. It’s a few miles from the city centre, on the way to Oldham. Possibly a bit further to travel, but I’ve got the car now.’ At the moment Greg lived with his mother and younger brother and sister in Didsbury, a rather affluent district of Manchester where his father, Keith, had practised as a doctor.
‘You’ve done very well for yourself,’ observed Simon. ‘I’m sure your mother must be very proud of you. It’ll be a wrench for her, though, won’t it, you leaving home, with your brother and sister both being away?’ Greg’s brother, Graham, was in his first year at Leeds University, and his sister, Grace, was due to finish her teacher training at Bingley College this summer.
Families and Friendships Page 4