The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  The church was filled this morning, partly because it was Easter and partly because the whole village wanted to hear the new rector.

  The processional hymn began and they all stood. Peter wore a beautiful surplice decorated with heavy antique lace. He made an impressive figure with his thick hair forming a bronze halo around his head. His broad shoulders seemed designed to carry any burden asked of them, and at six feet five he towered above the verger and the choirmen as well as the boys. He ought to be a bishop, Muriel thought. Suzy Meadows, mother of three and new to the village, thought he was sizzlingly attractive. Daisy, Pansy and Rosie sat beside her in front of Muriel wriggling and giggling. Muriel wished they hadn’t decided to sit near her, they were so distracting in their loveliness. So sweet and so alike, except for their size. Daisy was five and round, Pansy four and very thin and Rosie three and just right. All pretty and blonde like their mother. Patrick Meadows never came to church. He worked somewhere in one of those secret nuclear places and never joined in family life at all.

  After the hymn had been sung and the congregation was settling down, in came the rector’s wife, looking harassed and breathless. She was so feminine and pretty. Her dark curly hair was cut short in a no-nonsense style, but the curls still made themselves evident. She had a clear ivory skin and bright blue eyes. She rushed down the aisle, sat in the rectory pew and hastily knelt on the specially embroidered kneeler with symbols appropriate to a rector’s wife. It hadn’t had any use while dear Mr Furbank had been there, for he’d lacked a wife all the thirty years he’d been the incumbent. Muriel had been delighted that at last there was to be a rector’s wife, but her hopes had been dashed when she’d learned that Caroline Harris was a hospital doctor in Culworth. Full time, too. No babies or Mothers’ Union for her – she belonged to the new breed.

  An inspirational sermon followed by uplifting singing and a new modern anthem from the choir made a beautiful Easter morning service. Muriel realised that dear Mr Furbank’s sermons had become very dull. She had only enjoyed them because she loved his beautiful enunciation and the gentle aspect of his face.

  Peter shook hands enthusiastically with the entire congregation as they left, saying that next Sunday he hoped they would all stay for coffee afterwards in the church hall and he would do his best to get round to see every member during the next few weeks. Willie Biggs winked at Muriel and said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Not quite like the old rector, is he? Got a bit more go, like. You won’t be coming with your jars of lemon cheese for this one. He plays squash and runs, he does. Smarten us all up, he will. Bashing tambourines and kissing and hugging we shall be before long, mark my words.’

  Lady Bissett came pouring out of the church, hand outstretched.

  ‘My dear Peter, welcome to Turnham Malpas! We’re so glad to see you – you’re like a blast of fresh air. You’ve met my husband, of course, but I haven’t yet met your dear wife. Ah, here she is. My dear Mrs Harris …’

  ‘Dr Harris, actually.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Harris. I’m Lady Bissett and this is my husband Sir Ronald.’

  Caroline Harris turned to look at Sir Ronald, and Muriel saw a mischievous light come into her eyes.

  ‘I seem to recognise you from the television. Aren’t you a TUC person?’

  ‘Oh, he’s often on the telly, er – television, aren’t you, Ron … ald?’

  ‘Frequently. When you’ve held public office it’s hard to keep your face off it.’

  ‘Surely you must be the one who orchestrated that massive strike at the engineering works in Bradley?’

  ‘In all truth I actually tried to stop it, Mrs … Dr Harris.’

  ‘Oh, it didn’t come across like that on our television,’ Caroline said, then she turned to Muriel, still smiling and said: ‘You must be Miss Hipkin. Willie Biggs tells me that your family has been in this village since the Conquest.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say quite as far back as that, but my ancestors worked in the gardens and the park for generations at the Big House, then when Lady Templeton had to sell up after the war my family moved away and now I’ve come back to live here again.’

  ‘You must come and have tea with me one day and tell me all about the village. I’ll call in and let you know which day I shall be at home and we’ll get together.’

  Before Muriel could thank her for her kindness, Lady Bissett had edged her way between them and thanked the rector’s wife for the invitation. Short of being extremely rude, Dr Harris had to concede the point and include Lady Bissett in her invitation. It quite took the pleasure out of it for Muriel, but then she remembered her Christian duty and smiled her delight.

  Pericles was standing behind the door when she got back from morning service. He’d been terribly sick on the mat. She rushed him out into the back garden, where he was incredibly sick again. Considering what a small dog he was, it was amazing how much he’d had in his stomach. Cleaning the mat put her off her dinner so she put her thick cardigan on and sat in the back garden with him instead. He lay all afternoon looking extremely sorry for himself. About three o’clock, she made herself a cup of tea, put her Cadbury’s creme egg on a plate and carried the tray into the garden. She had a small table out there which she used for potting up but with a scrub it served as a tea table in the warmer weather. The creme egg did taste lovely – very rich and rather sickly and very indulgent. But she didn’t have many pleasures. From her chair, Muriel could just see over the wall into the churchyard. Sunday afternoon was the time when most people who cared took fresh flowers to the graves. The churchyard tap was alongside the gardener’s shed near the wall. It was far enough away not to block Muriel’s view but near enough for her to see what was going on.

  Michael Palmer the headmaster was putting fresh water in the vase from his wife’s grave. He came every Sunday, winter and summer. You’d never think he was only forty-five – he looked a good ten years older. Up the path came Sharon McDonald from The Royal Oak. A right little madam, thought Muriel. That skirt couldn’t be any shorter nor tighter, and that T-shirt was surely meant to sit equally on her shoulders, not be dragged over to one side so that her whole shoulder was exposed. A man would have to be blind not to notice the flagrant exhibition of her feminine charms. Sharon stood provocatively in front of Mr Palmer, her shrill voice carrying on the wind.

  ‘Hello, Mr Palmer. Remember me?’

  ‘Why, of course, Sharon.’ He straightened up, holding the vase full of water in one hand and the flowers in the other. ‘It’s some time since you were in school but I remember you quite clearly. I don’t see you around nowadays.’

  ‘No, I work in Culworth, in Tesco’s. Boring, but there’s not much else. How are you? Still teaching in this godforsaken little dump?’

  ‘Still teaching, Sharon, yes I am. I like it here.’ He set off to walk to the grave. Sharon followed, teetering along the rough path in her stilettos. As he crouched down to arrange the flowers, Sharon bent over and rested her hand on his back. Muriel couldn’t hear what she said but she saw Michael stand up quickly and move out of her reach. He was shaking his head and protesting. Their conversaion lasted a few more moments, with Michael Palmer still backing away and shaking his head. Sharon seemed to find their conversation a huge joke, and her laughter carried across the churchyard towards Muriel. It sounded cruel. Mr Palmer turned on his heel and marched away with the wrapping paper from the flowers still in his hand. Muriel knew he always put it screwed up into a ball in the bin provided by Willie Biggs. He must be upset. A man of meticulously regular habits, was Mr Palmer. She knew because she played the piano for the singing in the school on Monday and Thursday mornings.

  Sharon wandered aimlessly across the churchyard. She saw Muriel watching so she put her thumb to her nose and waggled her outstretched fingers in Muriel’s direction. Muriel turned away. How rude that girl was. Her parents ought to teach her better manners. Still, what could you expect? Running The Royal Oak left Mr and Mrs McDonald little time to spare
for Sharon and her brother Scott. He was a rude, arrogant young boy. Mr Palmer said he was very clever but Scott didn’t care enough to bother.

  Pericles took a turn for the better so Muriel walked him out and then went inside to make a substantial tea for herself. She didn’t usually go to church in the evening unless it was something special; instead, she watched the religious programmes on TV, and then perhaps a good play afterwards. TV was her live-saver. Mother wouldn’t have it, even though Muriel had offered to pay. Old people can be very tyrannical.

  Easter Monday dawned clear and bright but there was nothing of interest planned by Muriel for this day of leisure. Just after she got back from walking Pericles there was a knock at the door. Muriel tucked Pericles under her arm and opened it. Caroline Harris stood there smiling.

  ‘I know you probably have a very busy day booked, with it being a Bank Holiday, but could you possibly fit in afternoon tea with me?’

  ‘Why, good morning, Dr Harris. How nice of you, I’d love to do that! Thank you.’

  ‘Good – come about three. If it’s warm we’ll sit in the garden. Peter is away today so I shall be glad of your company. See you later, then. Your daffodils do look lovely. I shall be glad of your advice regarding our garden: I’m afraid it’s very overgrown.’

  For her outing, Muriel chose her pale cream blouse with a brown tweed skirt and a toning brown cardigan – well, rust really. She brushed her hair and tortured it into a French pleat – the style she’d adopted when it was the height of fashion and had never troubled to change since. In honour of the invitation she put on a tiny amount of orangey-brown lipstick. She stepped gently along Church Lane, past the lych gate and Willie Biggs’, where she noticed the curtain twitching as she went by, and rang the Rectory bell.

  The door was opened by Caroline Harris, her three Siamese cats standing by her feet, their long tails winding around her legs.

  ‘Come in do,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ve got some scones in the oven and they’re nearly ready. Let’s go in the kitchen while they finish cooking.’

  Dear Mr Furbank had not been good at housekeeping and Muriel was dreading the embarrassment of his unkempt kitchen; however, Caroline Harris had worked wonders in the few days since they had moved in. The walls had already been painted – a bright melon colour – copper pans gleamed in racks, the old cooker has been burnished to within an inch of its life and a large pine table had replaced the nasty gateleg thing that dear Mr Furbank had used for dining. A huge fridge freezer stood where there had once been a grubby mesh food cupboard. The floor had been sanded and stained, and Indian rugs covered it in a deliberately haphazard manner.

  ‘Why this is beautiful!’ Muriel said, looking around with pleasure. ‘You’ve worked miracles in here, and in such a short space of time, too. I love the curtains. Are they Indian?’

  ‘Yes, they are. I went there for six months, working with the down and outs in Calcutta, and brought loads of things back. It’s what Peter refers to as my Indian period. Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, thank you.’

  Caroline carried the tray into the garden. It was laid for two.

  ‘Lady Bissett isn’t coming, then?’ Muriel asked tentatively.

  She answered, ‘No,’ in a manner which rejected any further queries, and then added: ‘Will you call me Caroline? I much prefer it. Now, tell me all about your family and what you do in the village, Miss Hipkin.’

  Muriel launched herself on a potted family history and then on a brief history of the village. She’d only been back three years but she’d caught up on forty years of happenings in a very short time. Finally, she remembered herself and exclaimed, blushing: ‘Oh dear, I’ve gone rambling on and you’ve told me nothing about yourself.’

  ‘Miss Hipkin, there isn’t much to tell,’ Caroline laughed. ‘Peter and I have been married five years. I’ve thrown myself into my work to compensate for the fact that I can’t have children. We’re both very disappointed but there you are. It’s my fault and nothing can alter it.’

  A door slammed in the Rectory and Peter himself came into the garden, bearing a mug. He leant over Caroline and kissed her, cupping her chin with his spare hand. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said, addressing them both.

  ‘You’re back early,’ his wife remarked.

  ‘Yes, I am. How are you, Miss Hipkin?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. I should like it very much if you would both call me Muriel. It seems more friendly.’

  ‘Certainly we shall.’ Peter took a huge bite out of a scone as he said this, then, with his mouth full: ‘I thought Lady Bissett was coming today as well?’

  ‘No.’ Caroline offered no further enlightenment regarding Lady Bissett so Peter turned to Muriel.

  ‘I shall tread very carefully about making changes here,’ he told her, ‘but changes there will have to be. We need to do more to encourage the local children. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘I have often thought that there are a lot of little ones on the farms and in the more isolated houses who could well do with one of those nursery schools. That way they get used to mixing with other children before they actually start school. I play the piano for the singing on Mondays and Thursdays for Mr Palmer and I do notice that the new ones have great difficulty learning to join in.’

  ‘What a perfectly splendid idea. We could use the church hall, couldn’t we?’

  Muriel considered this and then said, ‘It would take some manoeuvring, because there is a yoga class and a ladies’ quilting group which meet regularly in the mornings – and Lady Bissett has a flower-arranging group there, too. But I’m sure the timetable could be adjusted.’

  ‘I shall see to that immediately. All we need is someone willing to organise it. I’ll talk to some of the mothers with small children, as they might do it as a group rather than having just one person in charge. What do you think, Caroline?’

  ‘The Council will have something to say about facilities. Perhaps it could start as a mother and toddler group until proper permission has been obtained.’

  Peter stood up and went to kiss his wife on the top of her head. ‘What would we do without your common sense?’

  Shortly after this, Muriel left. Pericles would be getting restless, she said, and thanked them for a lovely afternoon. Peter accompanied her to the door.

  What a charming young man he was. Just what the village needed.

  Chapter 2

  Peter Alexander Harris prayed in his church every morning from six-thirty until seven o’clock. Having dealt with the spiritual he then attended to the physical and ran a circuit of roughly three miles round the parish. Turning in at the Rectory door, he jogged straight up to the bathroom and took a shower, singing vigorously whilst he did so. As soon as the singing stopped Caroline began preparing his breakfast: two Weetabix, with full-cream milk and a banana chopped up on the top, followed by a boiled egg with wholemeal toast and plenty of butter and marmalade. Having concluded his daily ritual he then turned his attention to Caroline.

  ‘Come here, my darling girl, and spend some time with me before you disappear into the vampire department.’

  ‘Vampire department? Peter, that is dreadful! Don’t let any of your parishioners hear you say that, or they’ll get terrible ideas about what I do.’

  ‘Tell me why you didn’t let Lady Bissett come to tea on Monday.’

  ‘It’s not often I take an instant dislike to people, but I’m afraid Sheila Bissett and I will be clashing swords before long. If she conducted herself as the person she really is I could quite like her, but instead she gives herself such airs. She honestly believes she is the modern equivalent of the squire’s wife. I know for a fact she used to work behind the bar in The Case Is Altered in Culworth.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Willie Biggs. If you need to know anything about anybody, ask Willie. I’ve made a point of becoming a friend of his.’

  ‘How have you done that?’

  ‘By diagnosing his ail
ments for him.’

  ‘Caroline!’ Peter tipped her off his knee and pretended to slap her bottom for her. Caroline laughed, kissed him full on the mouth with a lingering relish which reminded Peter how much he loved her, and dashed off to the hospital. Peter cleared the table, washed up and went into his study.

  Hearing a noise not unlike the chattering of a brood of nestlings, he glanced out to see what it was, and passing the window was the girl he had noticed in church on Sunday. Her silvery-blonde hair was held back by an Alice band so that her charming rosy-cheeked face could be clearly seen. She had a long, perfectly straight nose, round curving cheeks and brilliant blue eyes. Her colouring was echoed by the three little girls who were walking hand in hand beside her. One was round, one very thin, and one just right. All three had long plaits swinging behind as they hopped and skipped on the pavement. Their mother looked up at the study window and raised her hand in greeting. For some unexplained reason, Peter’s heart almost stopped beating. He waved back and then bent his head to open the post. His heart righted itself and he tried hard to concentrate on his work, but couldn’t. He was being quite ridiculous. His post that morning was considerable – most of it addressed to the now deceased Revd Arthur Furbank.

  The phone rang. ‘The Rectory, Peter Harris speaking. How may I help you?’