Cast the First Stone (31 page)

‘Darling, whatever's the matter?' asked Simon, his voice and his look full of concern.

She knew she could prevaricate no longer. She thrust the crumpled piece of paper at him across the table, then she sat looking down at her hands as he read it.

He was silent for a moment, then he spoke, just one word, ‘Fiona . . .' She looked across at him, fearful as to what his reaction would be. ‘Is this true?' he asked.

She nodded numbly. ‘Yes, I'm afraid so,' she replied. ‘Oh, Simon . . . I'm so sorry.'

He didn't speak at first, then he jumped up from his seat and came across to her. He knelt down, putting his arms around her. ‘Oh, my darling,' he muttered, holding her closely to him. ‘Why ever didn't you tell me? You should have said. Surely you didn't think I would . . . ?'

She didn't let him finish. ‘I didn't know what to think, Simon. I know I should have told you, straightaway, before we were married. But I couldn't, and then time went on and . . .' At this stage she burst into tears, unable to contain her anxiety any longer, and her relief that it was, at last, out in the open.

‘Come along, love,' he said. ‘Let's go and sit down, and you can tell me all about it . . . that is if you want to.'

‘Of course I do,' she replied. ‘I've been bottling it up for so long.'

They went into the sitting room and as they sat together on the settee she, at last, opened her heart to him. It all poured out of her, about her first boyfriend Dave Rathbone – ‘He was a nice boy, he really was, Simon . . .' – and how on their visit to the Festival of Britain they had let their feelings get out of control. ‘But I didn't think anything like that would happen, and I know Dave didn't mean it to.'

Above all, though, she told him about the reaction of her parents when they found out, and her banishment to Northumberland so that no one would know about it. ‘They were ashamed of me, Simon, so ashamed that they didn't want anybody at the church to find out, especially not their precious vicar.'

‘Yes . . .' said Simon. ‘I remember you telling me that you stayed with your aunt and uncle – I met them at our wedding, didn't I? – because you were ill.'

‘That was true,' she said. ‘I was ill, but I was also pregnant, and they had me put in this home until it was all over. My aunt and uncle were so kind, though. And the home was OK, all things considered. That's where I met Ginny; you met her at the wedding as well.'

‘Oh yes; Ginny and Arthur . . . I remember.'

‘Ginny was allowed to keep her baby at the last minute. It was a little boy, and then she and Arthur got married. And then in May – it was May eighteenth; I'll never forget the date – I had a baby girl. She was the loveliest little baby, but they took her away from me almost at once . . .' She felt her eyes misting over again at the thought of it, but Simon was holding her close.

‘My poor love . . .' he whispered. ‘How dreadful for you. But we're going to have a baby, Fiona, you and me, and it'll be wonderful, won't it?'

‘Of course it will, Simon,' she answered, smiling at him through her tears. ‘It will make up for everything. Thank you, darling, for being so understanding.'

‘What else could I be?' he said. ‘Of course I would understand. I remember saying to you once that I've not always been a clergyman. I've done things that I now regret – sowed a few wild oats, you might say – but it's all in the past. What I don't understand, though, is how your parents could have been so . . . so self righteous about it all. It seems to me that the church they attended was lacking in compassion and forgiveness. The sort of religion that dwells on what is sinful – in their eyes at least – instead of focusing upon the love of God, his love for all of us, saints and sinners alike. A doctrine of “Thou shalt not . . .” is a very negative outlook, in my view.'

‘Yes; the Reverend Amos Cruikshank – that was his name, can you believe it? – was always preaching about turning away from sin and following Jesus. Diane and me, we used to get so confused about it all.'

‘Diane . . . she was your bridesmaid, wasn't she? Your best friend? And you lost touch with her until the time when your parents died?'

‘Yes, that's right. Like I told you, Mum and Dad had moved to another part of Leeds, supposedly to look after my grandmother, but I knew it was really so that I wouldn't be near any of my old friends when I came back from Northumberland. Cutting off their nose to spite their face, really, because it meant that they had to go to another church, and they had to keep quiet there, too, about their daughter who had strayed from the straight and narrow.'

‘Your parents were influenced by this vicar then, were they, this . . . Reverend Cruikshank?'

‘Oh yes; they changed completely when he came on the scene. Things that they used to do before – like going to the pictures, or my mum using make-up – they stopped doing them, as though they were sinful things. Like I said before, Diane and I couldn't understand it.'

‘To be honest, neither can I,' said Simon. ‘It seems that this vicar had a great effect upon the congregation, but one that was far too judgemental. It is the duty of the vicar – or rector, minister, priest or whatever – to try to lead his flock, but not to put the fear of God into them. I remember when I was at college there were a few chaps there who seemed to think they had a special relationship with God, something that the rest of us were lacking. They used to talk about the exact moment when they came to know the Lord; a sort of road to Damascus experience. You know . . . like what happened to St Paul?'

‘Yes, I know,' said Fiona. ‘That was how my parents behaved. I was made to feel . . . not quite good enough. And then, when they found out I was pregnant . . . well, you can imagine, can't you?'

‘Yes, indeed,' said Simon. He took hold of both her hands in his. ‘I can see that it was a very traumatic time for you, and I'm so pleased that you've told me, at last. It seems to me that your parents were more concerned about how it would reflect on them, rather than showing you the love and understanding that you needed.'

‘I suppose they did eventually,' said Fiona, ‘as much as they were able to; my father rather than my mother. But they never really forgave me; it was never mentioned again after I came home.'

‘And that was why you stayed away from church for so long?'

‘Exactly. I felt I was too great a sinner for God to be bothered with me. I still believed in God, deep down, but it was only when I met you that I realized He would forgive me, and so I came back to church. I'm so glad I did.'

‘But you were not sure that
I
would be able to forgive you? Was that it?'

‘Maybe,' she replied. ‘It was very wrong of me not to tell you. And it's such a relief now that I have.' She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the comfort of his arms around her.

‘There's room for everyone in God's kingdom,' said Simon. ‘That's what I try to get across to the congregation. I could never go along with the way your vicar preached. He was well meaning, I'm sure, but not everyone comes to know the Lord in a sudden burst of light. It can take years of steady growth sometimes. I couldn't tell you the exact time that I became aware of God's love, but I do know now that He is always there for me. And who am I? – who is the Reverend Cruikshank? – to make judgements about others. Only God can do that, and I truly believe He has room for us all. Anyway, that's quite enough sermonizing, my love.' He kissed her cheek. ‘Tell me, though; I'm rather confused. Your friend, Diane; did she know about what happened to you, about . . . the baby?'

‘Not at first,' said Fiona. ‘No one had any idea what had become of me. I didn't see Diane again until after my parents died. She read about it in the paper and contacted me through my gran. We met up again, and it was so wonderful to see her. She told me that when I disappeared they came to the conclusion that I'd had some sort of breakdown. I rather think they imagined it was a mental breakdown, there was so much secrecy about it. Maybe that's what my parents let them believe. Anyway, Diane was relieved to see that I was still of a sound mind. Strangely enough, no one had guessed at the truth.'

‘And . . . what about Dave?' asked Simon, gently. ‘Did she tell you anything about him?'

‘Yes, she did. He was at university in London then, nearing the end of his training. He had been as baffled as everyone else at my disappearance, especially as I hadn't written to him. Well, I couldn't, could I? Diane told me, rather apologetically, that he had a girlfriend in London – he still kept in touch with Andy, you see – and also that he wouldn't be returning to Leeds when he had finished his course. His parents had emigrated to America, and he was going to join them there and, hopefully, get a position there as an industrial chemist; he was studying for a science degree. So . . . that was that. She had to tell Andy, of course, but we agreed that there was no point in Dave ever knowing anything about the baby . . . bless her! She was the most darling little thing, Simon. It's no use saying that I don't think about her, because I do. But it's been much, much easier since I met you, and especially now that we're going to have a baby of our own. I haven't told Diane yet. I know she'll be thrilled, just as she was when I told her about meeting you.'

‘It's rather early to be telling anyone just yet, darling,' said Simon, ‘although we must tell my parents, and your aunt and uncle. It'll be hot news on the parish grapevine, though, when the news gets out.' He paused. ‘Just one thing, though. Who wrote this letter? Have you any idea?'

Fiona nodded. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. It just came to me when I mentioned the home. I caught a glimpse of this woman, you see, the other day at the clinic. I thought she looked familiar, but then it went right out of my mind – I was so worked up about the examination and everything – until just now. I've remembered who she was. It was Hazel; Hazel Docherty, that was her name. We were room mates, along with Ginny and another girl called Bridget. She – Bridget – was a little Irish girl, and Hazel used to be really unkind to her, always taunting her and making fun of her. I tried to stick up for her, and Hazel turned on me. She said I was a stuck-up bitch, or words to that effect, because I'd been to what she called a posh school. She and I never got on; well, Hazel didn't really get on with anyone. Yes . . . it must have been Hazel.' She screwed up the offending letter she was still holding. ‘She must be living round here now. Oh dear! I hope I don't come across her again. She looked very pregnant, though, so she may well have had her baby before I go to the clinic again.'

‘Don't worry, darling. She's had her say now, and she can't do any more harm. She's done you a good turn in a way, although I know it wasn't her intention. You can hold your head up high, Fiona, and you know I'll be with you every step of the way.'

In spite of his encouraging words to his wife, Simon was concerned about her. This woman, Hazel, must have found out from somebody the information she wanted about Fiona; her married name, where she lived, and above all the fact that she was now married to the rector of St Peter's. She was obviously out for some sort of petty revenge against a girl that she hadn't liked very much. Simon could imagine how such feelings of resentment and bitterness might occur in a closed community such as the home where Fiona had been made to stay, usually without any real reason for rancour or enmity.

From whom had she got her information? he wondered. From a member of the congregation, or from someone who knew Fiona only by sight? He felt, human nature being as it was, that the matter wouldn't stop there. There would be repercussions, he was sure, possibly sooner rather than later. Why else would this Hazel have set the ball rolling by writing to Fiona? The last thing he wanted to do, though, was to give his wife anything more to worry about.

Poor Fiona! What a quandary she must have been in, and for so long. She must have known, surely, that he, Simon, would not have condemned her for something that had happened when she was a teenager? At the same time, he could understand her unwillingness to tell him. He felt angry at the way she had been treated by her parents. He had guessed by the way she had spoken about them – or, more tellingly, had not spoken about them – that the relationship had not been an ideally happy one. What a sanctimonious, unforgiving couple they must have been. His fear, now, was that there might be others in his own congregation who, likewise, would set themselves up as judge and jury, should the facts about Fiona's past come to light.

He would be there with her, though, as he had promised, all the way.

The woman to whom Hazel Docherty – now Cartwright – had spoken was called Dora Cookson. She did not attend St Peter's church except on special occasions, but she had always made sure that her children went to Sunday school. Her daughter, Susan, was actually in the class that Mrs Norwood was teaching.

Mrs Cookson's next-door neighbour, the one she had mentioned to her new acquaintance as being ‘a big noise in the Mothers' Union' – was Miss Mabel Thorpe. She, along with her sister, Mrs Gladys Parker, prided themselves as being amongst the ‘chosen few' who formed the committee of the MU, deciding on such matters as procedure and protocol. Dora Cookson knew that Mabel would be delighted to hear the titbit of gossip that she had gleaned whilst she was at the clinic. She called on her the next morning, on the pretext of returning a knitting pattern, although there was no need for such urgency.

Mabel, who was in her early seventies, lived alone in the house where she had been brought up with her sister, Gladys, and her two brothers. She was the only one who had not married, although she liked to hint that she had had her moments and had once been engaged. Dora guessed that she was one of the many thousands of women who had been bereaved as a result of the First World War.