A Blessing In Disguise (14 page)

‘And then . . .' continues Thora Bateman ‘. . . there's the Sunday School outing every summer. It was started by her late father, Lord Frazer, you know. And if it weren't for Miss Frazer's generous contribution it simply couldn't continue. What St Mary's would do without her I really can't imagine!'

Carla looks at me, her face expressionless except for the raising of her eyebrows, and then I am mercifully rescued by Henry Nugent who wishes to tell me that the matter of the boiler must be resolved. It is playing up again, he thinks we should have a special meeting about it because he fears it might mean quite a heavy expenditure to put it right. ‘But we can't have people shivering in their pews, can we?' he says. ‘They just won't come in that case!'

Thora Bateman, having reached a temporary pause in her narrative, looks at her watch and gives a little squeal.

‘Good heavens, just look at the time! Miss Frazer will wonder where I've got to!'

So that was Sunday. It could have been worse, or some of it could. The afternoon was pleasant enough. I spent quite a bit of it in the garden, even though it was chilly. The more you get the garden in order at this time of the year, the better it all is when the spring comes. If you haven't eradicated the weeds they keep hidden under the soil until spring arrives, when they burst out all over the place, as if invigorated by their long rest. I wished, as I gardened, that I knew what bulbs were buried there. It would be a bit late now to plant daffodils, which I love, but tulips would be OK and I thought that maybe I'd take an hour off on Monday, after I'd delivered Becky to school, to go to the garden centre and buy some.

My mother came out to join me, but not to garden. She doesn't do gardens. She is queen of her house, Dad is king of his garden.

‘I think you've been out here long enough,' she said. ‘Anyway, I've made a pot of tea and after that your Dad and me will have to be off. He'd like to get home before dark, though it never used to bother him driving at night.' She doesn't actually mean ‘a pot of tea', she will have made a whole spread. Sandwiches, scones, cake.

‘Oh Ma!' I said. ‘Do you think you could persuade him to stay a bit longer for once? I have to take Evensong and I'm not happy about leaving Becky on her own even if it is only for an hour. As for taking her with me . . .'

‘Of course we will!' she agreed. ‘If Dad doesn't want to drive, then I will.'

From next week, when the clocks go back, Evensong is in the afternoon right through to next spring.

So I rushed back from Evensong – six people only, and I hardly stopped to speak with any of them – after which my parents departed and Becky and I were left to spend the evening together. I thanked heaven for television. As yet, Becky doesn't have her own in her bedroom, so since she wanted to watch it she had to suffer my presence. When the programme we were watching finished I said, ‘It's nine o'clock, love, and you still have to have your hair washed and get everything ready for school in the morning.' Possibly at ten years old she should be capable of washing her own hair but it's something she's always been happy for me to do, so I did it and she suffered me to. Needless to say, there wasn't much conversation between us, though there's not a lot of time for talk when your head's being held over the wash basin and water poured over you.

Becky has lovely hair: thick, dark, glossy, and with a natural wave in it. It is exactly like her father's, as so much about her is. Wielding the hairdryer I ran my fingers through it, coaxing the waves into place. The feel of it was so like Philip's that for a moment I couldn't go on. I didn't realize that I'd paused, and was holding the dryer on one place, until she shrieked, ‘You're burning me! You're burning me!'

I quickly pulled the hairdryer away, turned the heat down to low and held it against her head again to cool it down. It was all over in no time at all, but she was furious. She pushed me out of the way, ran out of the bathroom and across the landing to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. I waited a minute or so, then I knocked on the door.

‘I'm sorry, Becky! I'm truly sorry! Please let me in. I want to see you tucked up in bed.'

‘I can put myself to bed!' she called out. ‘I don't need you!'

But I need you, my darling, I thought. Of course I could have opened the door and walked in on her but I decided not to.

‘Wouldn't you like some cocoa?' I asked. ‘I'll bring it up to you.'

I waited, but there was no answer. In the end I said: ‘Well, call out if you want anything. And don't forget to say your prayers. Good-night, darling!' Then I went downstairs.

An hour later I went back upstairs. I stood outside her door and said her name softly, but there was no reply, so I opened the door and tiptoed into her bedroom. She was under the duvet, fast asleep, her hair spread out over the pillow. In sleep she looked totally peaceful, as if nothing in the world could ever worry her. I would like that to be true.

And now it's Monday, and school looms. A momentous day for Becky, as I am only too well aware. As a special treat, and remembering yesterday's conversation about cooked breakfasts, I have made one: bacon, egg, tomatoes. Becky sits at the table, pale-faced and silent, but the silence is of a subtly different nature from the one she's been imposing on me so far. How can I tell it's different? I'm not sure, except that it isn't accompanied by hostile looks and from time to time she actually catches my eye and I see in her eyes a little girl who is apprehensive rather than angry. What's more, her cooked breakfast – the one she declared yesterday to be her favourite meal – is there in front of her and she's not eating it, simply moving it around the plate until in the end she pushes it away.

‘It's all right,' I say. ‘You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, at least not this once. I've packed sandwiches for your lunch until we find out what the school dinner arrangements are. You might be allowed to eat one at break time if you're hungry. You'll have to see about that. And now I think we'd better set off. You don't want to be late on your first day, do you?'

She is wearing her school uniform. She's chosen a combination of pleated skirt, blouse and sweater and I must say she looks rather nice. I help her on with her jacket and, lo and behold, she doesn't push me away, though in fact I'd rather put up with that than having my little girl look so sad.

‘Cheer up, darling!' I say. ‘I'm sure it's going to be all right! You'll soon settle in. You've met Mrs Sharp and Mr Beagle and you liked them both, didn't you? Most people are quite nice when you get to know them.'

For a fleeting second I wonder if this could possibly apply to Miss Frazer, just supposing I ever did get to know her. And then I push her out of my mind. This is Becky's time, no-one else's.

‘Would you like me to come and meet you from school this afternoon?' I ask.

‘No!' she says quickly. ‘That's only for the babies.'

‘OK,' I agree. ‘But come straight home. I'll be in. I'll be waiting to hear all about it.'

We leave. There's no more conversation during the short walk to the school. When we arrive the children are all out in the playground, running around, shouting and laughing, which I comfort myself is a good sign. There is a teacher on playground duty and I present myself and Becky to her.

‘I think you need to see Mrs Sharp,' she says – so we go into the school and find Evelyn Sharp in her room. She is very welcoming to both of us and presently she says, ‘Mr Beagle is in his classroom. Why don't I take Becky to him? If you'd like to wait here I'll be back in two minutes.'

I do feel sad as she leads Becky away, which is silly really. It isn't as if she's a tiny tot and it's her very first day at school – an occasion I suppose all parents remember. She's ten years old, bright and intelligent and relates well to people. Or used to.

Evelyn Sharp returns.

‘Don't worry, Venus,' she says. ‘She'll be OK. Jim Beagle is a very nice man as well as a good teacher. He'll look after her. Would you like a cup of coffee?' I tell her I would.

‘The thing is,' I say as we drink our coffee, ‘most of the other children have come up together through the school. They've known each other for a few years.'

She nods agreement. ‘I can't deny that that does make life easier, but give her a little time and she'll cope with it. Most children are adaptable. Honestly, Venus, we'll do everything we can to help her.'

‘I'm sure you will,' I say, ‘and I'm grateful.'

‘While you're here,' she says, ‘I'd like to talk to you about school assembly. Your predecessor used to take an assembly at the beginning of each term, and then one at the end of the school year. Apart from that the church and the school had very little contact with one another. I was never totally happy with that, I felt there should be much more involvement, but I was fairly new at the time – it's only three years since I came to Thurston – so I didn't push it. And the previous Vicar was elderly and probably had too much to do already.'

‘So what do you have in mind?' I ask.

‘Nothing very specific, I haven't thought out the details. In any case a lot of that would be up to you. I just know I'd like a closer contact between the school and the church. It is after all a church school. It was founded as such in the nineteenth century. It's all there in the records.'

Could it be, unfortunately it could, that it was Miss Frazer's grandfather who was involved in founding the school? If so, I am on a sticky wicket!

‘For instance,' Evelyn says, ‘I would have liked it if the Vicar had come into the school from time to time, got to know the children, have the children know him. But perhaps you think that's asking too much?'

‘No I don't,' I assure her. ‘But it would have to be structured to a certain extent. You couldn't do with me suddenly appearing in the middle of lessons, upsetting the curriculum.'

‘Of course not,' she agrees. ‘We'd have to discuss it – and with the other teachers, naturally.'

‘Well, I'll be happy to do that. Just let me know when.'

The telephone rings and she answers it. ‘In a few moments,' she says.

I stand up. ‘I'll be off. I expect you're busy. Thank you for everything, especially for understanding about Becky.'

What a nice woman Evelyn Sharp is, I decide as I walk down School Lane on my way back to the Vicarage. I think she'll be a good friend. And I'm interested in what she said about forming closer links between the church and the school. It makes a lot of sense. The only thing is, will it be good for Becky to have her mother in and out of the school? Children of the Vicarage don't always have a good time at school. Too much is expected of them. St Mary's, however, is the only one she could go to, so we'll just have to work through it, Becky and I, though I daresay it will be harder for her than for me. She'll be at the receiving end.

‘There are one or two very good private schools in the area,' Henry Nugent said earlier when I questioned him about education. ‘Highly recommended.'

‘I daresay,' I'd said. ‘But I'm afraid my stipend won't stretch to the fees.'

‘You might get a reduction of some sort,' Henry said. ‘Clergy families sometimes do.'

I'd shaken my head. ‘In any case, I'm a strong believer in State education,' I told him. ‘I always have been.' I don't think my political leanings, of which I'd made no secret, went down well, but Henry is a polite man.

‘Of course,' he said. ‘Of course! And if you decide to send Becky to St Mary's I'm sure you'll find she'll do very well there. We have a splendid Headmistress!'

Which has turned out to be true, hasn't it? At any rate the last bit.

Monday is the day I'm going to make my regular day off, a usual practice with clergy in parishes and I did tell the churchwardens I would follow this practice. ‘Not that my day off will be sacrosanct,' I assured them. ‘If there's something I need to do on that day, visits or meetings, or a funeral – whatever – then that will come first.' I wasn't being noble. It's the way it works. You're on call. If you're one of those rare Vicars who has a curate then some things can be shared, but not if you're on your own. Then you're on call twenty-four hours a day.

This brings me back to a problem which has been niggling at me and which, though I've been here for two weeks, I've so far done nothing to resolve, and I absolutely must. And the problem is this. What do I do if I'm called out in the evening when I'm at home with Becky? Or, worse still, if it's in the middle of the night? Either way, it's not likely to be the sort of situation where Becky could accompany me. It will be an emergency, or the person calling me will see it as an emergency, which amounts to the same thing. In Clipton, apart from the fact that I was only the curate and therefore not the first to be called upon, I had friends, neighbours, parents who would step in when they were needed, and in the short time I've been in Thurston I've been cushioned by the fact that my parents have been here so much, but I can't put off making proper plans any longer. What I want is someone who'll be agreeable to come and sit in with Becky when needed, and at short notice, and of course someone Becky would get on with, which in her present state of mind will
not
be easy. So I resolve to do something about it here and now, and what I do is I sit down and dial Henry Nugent's number. The Vicar's first cry for help is usually to the churchwardens. Richard Proctor will be at work in his office in Brampton, but in any case Henry is the senior warden, added to which he's more likely to be sympathetic.

His wife, Molly, answers the phone.

‘It's Venus. Do you think I could have a word with Henry?'