A Blessing In Disguise (46 page)

Ann interrupts. ‘Shall I make some mint sauce?' she offers. I think she's trying, no doubt for my own good, to make me change the subject.

‘Yes please,' I say. ‘And there's a jar of red-currant jelly in the fridge.'

We get through lunch, chatting about inconsequential subjects. At one point Becky offers Missie a titbit from her plate and I rush in with a stern reminder that she is NOT, not now, not ever, to feed Missie while we are at the table. I deal equally sternly with Missie, saying BED! fiercely while pointing her towards it. To my astonishment she obeys me instantly. Becky is amazed by my success but I realize that this dog already knows what she should and should not do. She was trying it on.

‘You must never let her get away with anything naughty,' I tell Becky, with all the wisdom of one whose only knowledge of dog training comes from the books I borrowed from the library.

When lunch is over and the table cleared Ann says, ‘Well, Becky, what about it? I reckon Missie has earned another walk, don't you? Shall we go on the Downs?'

Through the window I watch them climb the hill at the back of the house. It's a lovely, sunny day, more like spring than the end of November. Above the Downs there are fluffy white clouds in a blue sky. Missie, off the lead now, is running to and fro beside them, covering twice as much ground as Becky and Anna. So much energy for a small dog! Then Henry arrives.

I take him into my study, sit him down, and without more words hand him the letter. I watch him while he reads it. He reads slowly and deliberately, as if he's digesting every word, then when he's reached the end he puts it down on the small table in front of us, and looks at me. His face is serious, which is oddly pleasing to me. I feel less as though I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.

‘I can hardly believe it,' he says. ‘Not of those two! I've always thought of them as nice women, never a minute's trouble. Not given to sounding off about anything. Never saying much, in fact. Certainly nothing controversial. They've been coming to St Mary's for years.'

‘And I suppose they have lots of friends in the congregation?' I ask.

He nods. ‘Oh, I'd say without a doubt!'

I'm sure he doesn't intend it, but with every word he's rubbing it in that I am the cause of all this. And he's right, isn't he? I am.

‘As I said, they're two very nice women,' he adds.

If he tells me once more how nice they are I shall scream, or burst into tears. I'm not sure which.

‘So they're likely to have discussed this with several people in church?'

He looks at me as though that was a thought which had never entered his head. It's not like Henry to be obtuse.

‘Well yes, it's possible,' he admits reluctantly. ‘But what I wouldn't have thought possible, or even likely, is that they'd have done anything nasty, they're not the kind to spread gossip, for instance.'

‘It wouldn't be nasty from their point of view, or even gossip,' I point out. ‘If you'd been attending a church for a long time and then decided to go somewhere else, without moving house, you'd naturally tell your friends the reason why, wouldn't you?'

‘I suppose so,' Henry says. ‘So what are we going to do?'

If I'd ever thought he was going to come up with a solution I now know I was wrong. On the other hand, nor am I. There isn't one, at least not a satisfactory one.

‘There's not much to
be
done, is there?' I say. ‘Miss Carson and Mrs Blamires have a perfect right to go elsewhere, and to hold the opinions they do. Their opinions are hurtful to me, but nothing new. It will be the rare woman priest who hasn't heard them before – and who also doesn't think they're based on prejudice. So, Henry, I shall write a nice polite answer to their letter, in fact I shall wish them well at St Saviour's, and I shall do nothing at all about the others at St Mary's, not unless they wish to bring it up with me.'

‘I think you're very wise, Venus,' Henry says. ‘After all, we don't know, do we, who these others are or whether, even if they're friends of Miss Carson and Mrs Blamires, they hold the same opinions?' I'm sure he's relieved that I've taken it on the chin, and don't propose to go into battle.

We discuss, briefly, whether we'll tell the Bishop but decide we won't unless something worse happens. After all, we agree, people leave their churches and go elsewhere for all sorts of reasons. It's a free country. So it seems that that little problem's solved – except that I know it isn't, and I wonder if it ever will be, at least in my generation of women priests. And of course for me it isn't a ‘little' problem. Not at all. But it's one I always knew I would have to deal with, and I
will
deal with.

I see Henry to the door, he pats me on the arm, and leaves. I return to the kitchen and while I'm tidying up after the meal I do some thinking. It's interesting how doing routine domestic jobs – stacking or emptying the dishwasher, making beds, peeling potatoes, ironing, dusting, is conducive to thinking; the body doing one thing, the mind elsewhere. I know, I tell myself, that I can't win everyone to my side. It's inevitable that I'll lose some, and why not? Not even Jesus kept everyone, so who am I to think I can do better? Get real, Venus! No, this is something I will have to learn to live with; and I am already learning, but it's not as easy as it sounds. It's not simply a case of logical thinking. However, I am strong, so I will. I must go forward without stopping too often to look over my shoulder.

Eventually, Ann, Becky and Missie return from their walk, the human contingent flushed pink with fresh air, Missie taking great gulps from her water bowl before collapsing on to her bed and falling immediately into deep sleep.

‘Everything all right?' Ann asks me.

‘Thank you, yes,' I reply.

‘Good!' Ann says. ‘Then if you don't mind I'll go up and pack. I don't want to be too late getting home.'

‘I'll be making a cup of tea,' I say. There's no opportunity to say anything else because Becky is there, but when Ann eventually leaves, with promises to visit again before too long, she says, ‘Please ring me! And promise to think over what I said, and I don't mean about the church.' I promise I will.

It's a quarter-past nine now. Becky and I took Missie for another short walk before both of them went to their separate beds. I'm thinking of buying a second dog bed for the sitting room so that Missie can be with us in the evening if that's what she'd like – and certainly I would like it – but for now she's fast asleep again in the kitchen and I hope Becky is likewise in her bedroom. Perversely, although for the last few hours I've wanted to be alone, I now feel bereft and I sorely need someone to turn to.

Esmé Bickler, I think suddenly. Esmé will understand. She is probably in the same position, or if not at the moment then at least she's vulnerable to it, so I dial her number. No immediate reply but I let it go on ringing and eventually the answerphone kicks in. ‘Sorry,' Esmé's voice says, ‘there is no-one available to answer the phone at the moment, but in case of an emergency please dial . . .', and it gives a number which might or might not be that of Esmé's senior churchwarden. No point in me phoning him! ‘Otherwise,' the voice continues, ‘please leave a message after the tone.' So I do. ‘Venus here,' I say. ‘Thought I'd catch up with you. Another time, then. Bye!'

I'm really disappointed, though I've never been one for exchanging confidences, for needing someone to talk to about the things which really mattered. After all, I had Philip, didn't I? Who could wish for more? But the bottom line is that I don't have Philip, he's
not
in the next room, and at this moment I do have this need. But who else can I talk to about what's on my mind? Not my parents, I don't want to upset them. Not anyone at St Mary's, it's not something I want aired in the church, quite the reverse at the moment. Miss Carson and Mrs Blamires are, according to Henry, and I feel sure it's true, nice women and well liked; it's not like the Miss Frazer situation which actually gained me some sympathy. This would inevitably lead to people taking sides and I can think of few things worse than that for a church congregation. No, it has to be someone not involved, which is why the Blessed Henry isn't the total answer. But who do I know well enough to phone in the late evening, and who do I know who won't reckon I'm as mad as a hatter?

And then I think of Nigel Baines.

Can I? Can I do this? While I'm considering it I look up his number, which I suppose means I've decided that I can. There are two numbers, one of which I recognize as the surgery, so I will ring the other one. But what if I lose my nerve the minute he answers the phone? And the answer to that is obvious; I will ask him some question or other about doggy photographs. Make it up.

So I tap out his number, and he answers at once, as if he'd been standing by the phone.

‘Nigel Baines.'

‘It's Venus. I'm sorry to phone you at this time of the evening.'

‘Are you all right?' he asks quickly. ‘Are you ill – or is Becky?'

‘Neither of us,' I say. ‘It was just . . . oh dear, I shouldn't have rung you so late!'

‘It's a quarter to ten,' he says. ‘Hardly the middle of the night! What can I do for you?'

‘It's nothing, really! It was about the photographs . . .' And then I realize I'm being completely silly and I say, ‘No, it wasn't! It wasn't about the photographs at all! I just . . . Well, I just wanted to talk to someone and it's not something I can talk to anyone in the church about and not to my parents because it would upset them. And Esmé Bickler wasn't at home . . .' And then I run out of words.

‘Who,' he asks in a gentle voice, ‘is Esmé Bickler?'

‘She's a priest,' I tell him. ‘We were ordained at the same time. But she wasn't at home. So then I thought of you.'

‘And what were you going to say to Esmé that I now hope you're going to say to me?' Nigel asks.

So I tell him. I tell him everything, including all the Miss Frazer episodes, at which he's horrified, and he understands my feelings, because from his own standpoint he recognizes the enormity of her behaviour at the Mass, perhaps more than some of those at St Mary's would have recognized it. What they saw was her rudeness to me and, bless their hearts, that was why they gave me their support.

He also realizes why the case of Miss Carson and Mrs Blamires – though it arises from the same cause, their antipathy to women priests – is different, and in a way more hurtful to me. He also sees the trouble it could cause, the divisions.

‘Would you like me to come around to see you now?' he asks.

I hesitate. I would like it, it's a lovely, comforting thought, but in the end I say, ‘Thank you, but I don't think so. It's not that I don't want to see you, and it's very kind of you, but I'm not sure it's a good idea.' I'm thinking that once we started to talk it could be very late indeed before he left, and he picks up on my thinking.

‘OK,' he says. ‘So tell me what you think you'll do?'

I tell him exactly what I've told Henry.

‘I think that sounds the best thing,' he says, ‘but don't do anything tonight. Sleep on it, and in particular, don't write the letter tonight. Leave it until tomorrow at the earliest. And as you don't want me to come around this evening, will you have lunch with me tomorrow? I have a surgery in the morning but I'll be through before lunchtime. We could drive out somewhere, away from Thurston.'

‘That would be wonderful,' I tell him. ‘Thank you very much – but I can't!'

‘Why can't you?' he asks.

I remind him about Missie, and the fact that Becky will be at school. ‘As you well know, Missie only came here yesterday,' I say (though right now it seems like a month ago). ‘I can't leave her alone yet.'

‘Then how about taking her with us?' he suggests.

‘No. I don't yet know how she'd be, left in the car. And we wouldn't be able to take her into the restaurant.'

And then I have another idea, and I think, why not? And I hear myself saying, ‘You could come to lunch here, if you liked! It's my day off. I'd be very pleased to see you.'

‘That would be fine,' he says. ‘I'd enjoy that!'

‘Come about one,' I say. ‘Thank you for listening to me this evening, I'm sorry to have troubled you.'

‘Don't be silly, Venus!' he says, rather impatiently. ‘It was no trouble at all. And now pour yourself a brandy before you go to bed, and sleep well. Doctor's orders!' He hesitates, then says, ‘In fact, I'm not sorry Esmé Bickler wasn't at home!'

Becky is reluctant to go to school this morning, though thankfully not because of anything wrong there, simply because it means leaving Missie. ‘She'll be perfectly all right!' I say. ‘I'll look after her. I'm quite capable of doing that! How about me bringing her down to school this afternoon? I'll meet you at the school gate and we'll take her for a walk.' Naturally, Becky loves that idea. She'll be able to show Missie off to all her friends.

‘Can Anna come with us for the walk?' Becky asks.

‘As long as her mother knows, and agrees,' I say.

I feel better than I expected to today, though still troubled about the letter, to which later on, and not until after I've seen Nigel, I will reply. I slept reasonably well, which might have been the brandy but I'm sure was mostly because of the phone call to Nigel. I'm glad I plucked up the courage to call him, and now I'm looking forward to lunch, though I haven't yet decided what I shall give him. I had also hoped to pop round to see Mrs Leigh this morning but I'd forgotten that it would mean leaving Missie. Although I'll have to leave her for a spell tomorrow morning because there's the Tuesday Eucharist. It's a bit like having a baby in the house.