Cast the First Stone (35 page)

Fiona smiled, a little sadly. ‘Yes maybe I would. But that first little baby girl . . . she was such a treasure, so beautiful. I could never feel that it was wrong, giving birth to her. I just hope she's having a happy life. I don't really mind about the baby, so long as it's all right. That's what all expectant parents say, don't they? I've a feeling Simon might like a boy; men always want a son, don't they? But I'm sure he'll feel as I do; a boy or a girl would be equally loved.'

‘You were very brave, saying all that tonight,' said Ruth. ‘And I hope these gossip-mongers are forced to skulk away with their tails between their legs. Their little plan didn't work, did it? I hope they're thoroughly ashamed of themselves . . .'

Simon was astounded when Fiona told him about what she had said to the Young Wives' group. ‘Jolly good for you!' he said. ‘That took some pluck, but I know you're not short of that, darling. So maybe the gossip will stop when they find they're not getting the support they wanted.'

‘Well, the Young Wives are all supporting me at least,' said Fiona. ‘No, not quite all of them; there were four missing. But if I know Joan I think she'll go and have a talk to them. It was wonderful, Simon, the way they all rallied round me. And there's another item of news . . . Ruth Makepeace is getting engaged, to the new headmaster. I know you'll be pleased to hear that.'

‘Indeed I am,' said Simon. ‘That's great news! She's been a widow a long time. Such a very nice person . . .'

‘Yes, I like her,' replied Fiona. ‘I feel I got to know her better tonight. She and Heather were very supportive.' She didn't feel it was necessary to say any more. And Simon quickly changed the subject.

‘With regard to our problem, I don't really know what this group of tittle-tattling women hoped to gain by spreading their malicious gossip.'

‘To discredit me in your eyes, I suppose,' said Fiona. ‘To point out – to anyone who would listen – that I'm not a suitable wife for a rector, which is what some of them have thought all along; I'm well aware of that.'

‘It hasn't worked then, has it? They may find now that nobody wants to listen . . . That's a pity in a way,' he mused. ‘I wanted them to realize that I knew what their game was; to preach a sermon, perhaps, about hypocrisy. I really abhor that “holier than thou” attitude that some folk adopt, as though they have never done anything wrong. We have all fallen short of God's standards at one time or another, and I do mean all . . . myself included. But perhaps it might be better, under the circumstances, to leave well alone. They may have learnt their lesson.'

There was a good congregation on the following Sunday morning. It was a bright and sunny April day and the sun glinted through the stained-glass windows casting rainbow coloured lights on the heads of the choir members. Simon noticed especially his wife's golden hair glowing in the diffused sunlight, and his heart warmed anew with his love for her. It had been a trying couple of weeks, but he felt that their love would be even stronger because of it.

The women whom he guessed to be at the root of the gossip were all there, but none of them, it seemed, wanted to meet his eye as he glanced round the congregation. Arthur Bayliss, one of his churchwardens, the husband of Ethel – whom he suspected of being the leader of the pack – had appeared a little ill at ease with him for the last couple of weeks, although nothing pertinent to the matter had been said so far.

From his high position in the pulpit – six feet above contradiction, as his former vicar used to call it – he looked round at the congregation. There were a few strangers there; a young couple halfway back, and two girls in anoraks on the row behind them. The first of the visitors were already appearing in Aberthwaite, which was a popular venue for walkers, and lovers of the countryside in general. On the back row there was a young man who looked, somehow, vaguely familiar, although Simon didn't think he had met him before. He always tried to speak to all newcomers at the end of the service and to invite them to come again, if they so wished.

After the final hymn had been sung Simon said the blessing, then made his way to the door at the rear of the church to shake hands with each member of the congregation. The young couple he had noticed told him that they were spending a week touring in the northern dales, and the two girls, as he had guessed, were keen hikers, walking some sixteen miles each day but having an easier day on the Sunday. The young man he had noticed was nowhere to be seen, and Simon supposed that he had made a quick exit, for whatever reason.

Mrs Bayliss, to his surprise, did not seem at all ill at ease now, but then she was not the sort of woman to climb down from her high horse. She actually looked him in the eye and said, ‘Very good sermon, rector; thank you so much.' It was a term of address that he disliked. He preferred to be called Simon, but old habits died hard with the older generation. Her minions were less effusive, shuffling past him a little self-consciously, he thought; but he made a point of speaking to them in his usual friendly manner.

When he returned to the vestry to disrobe, Arthur Bayliss approached him, with the other warden, Jonas Fowler, close behind him. ‘We'd like a word with you, Simon,' said Arthur. He used the rector's Christian name now, although it had taken him a while to do so. ‘Jonas and I,' he began, ‘well, first of all we'd like to say that we're very pleased to hear your good news. We're so pleased for you and Fiona, about the baby.'

‘Yes, indeed we are,' echoed Jonas.

‘And I'm sorry,' Arthur continued, ‘that my wife – with others – has been trying to make trouble. For once in my life I spoke to her quite sternly when I got wind of what was happening. A very self-righteous woman, my wife, but – well – she's had a good talking to. I'm so ashamed that they tried to make trouble for a lovely young lady like Fiona.'

‘My Blanche has been very upset by it all,' said Jonas Fowler. ‘She didn't want to have any part in it. And she's thrilled about the baby, just as if it were our own grandchild; we've got four, you know. She's started knitting already.'

‘That's very kind of her,' said Simon, touched by both their comments. He had guessed that Blanche Fowler, a much more gentle and sympathetic person, though dominated at times by Ethel Bayliss, would have tried to keep her own counsel. ‘Fiona made a mistake; haven't we all, in one way or another? It's only human nature to go astray, just as it's human nature to want to condemn. Thank you, both of you, for your support. Let's hope we can put it behind us now and look forward to the good times ahead.'

Simon told Fiona about the comments of the two men. ‘I feel sure you have nothing more to worry about now,' he said.

‘Yes, it seems that it's been a nine-days' wonder,' she agreed. ‘I think Joan has been doing her best to put things right; and people are more ready to listen to her than to some of the others. Things will settle down now, Simon; I feel sure of it. And . . . thank you for being so understanding, about everything.'

He smiled, a little ruefully. ‘I've made mistakes myself,' he said. ‘But what is important is that it's all in the past. We found each other, didn't we? And that's a miracle if ever there was one. Or . . . was it part of God's plan for us? I don't know all the answers, darling, but I know there's not a man in the whole world who is more blessed than I am.'

Sunday was a busy day for all clergymen, none more so than for Simon, who was in sole charge of his church and parish. It was not considered large enough to warrant the services of a curate; neither was there a qualified lay reader, as there was in some parishes. From time to time there were visiting preachers, but for most of the time Simon coped single-handedly with the morning and evening services, plus the service of Holy Communion either at eight a.m. or at the close of the evening worship.

That particular Sunday was a busy one, with the communion taking place at the end of the evening service. Simon was interested to see that the young man whom he had noticed in the morning was there again. He didn't stay, however, for the Holy Communion; there were always some who, for one reason or another, did not do so.

Simon was mildly curious, but not avidly so. He was puzzled by the feeling that he had seen him somewhere before, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where. He dismissed the matter from his mind; maybe the identity of the mysterious young man would come to him later.

He did not have long to wait. He was alone in the rectory on Monday morning. Fiona was still working part time at the library, and intended to do so for several months. It was mid-morning – Simon was thinking it was about time for his ‘elevenses' – when there was a ring at the doorbell. When he answered it, there was the young man who had been at the services the previous day.

‘Oh, hello there,' said Simon. ‘I saw you in church yesterday, didn't I? Good to see you again. So . . . what can I do for you?'

His visitor hesitated. ‘It's a little difficult really,' he said. ‘May I come in? I'd like to have a chat with you.'

‘By all means,' said Simon. ‘Come along in . . .' He ushered him into the sitting room. ‘I was just about to make myself a cup of coffee – my wife's at work this morning – so I'd be pleased if you would join me.'

‘Yes . . . thank you. That would be very nice.' The newcomer seemed a little ill at ease. ‘I'm Gregory by the way; Gregory Challinor; I'm usually known as Greg.'

Simon nodded, still very puzzled. ‘Pleased to meet you then, Greg.' The two of them shook hands. ‘And I'm the Reverend Simon Norwood, rector of St Peter's, as I'm sure you know. But I prefer to be known as Simon . . . Just make yourself at home, Greg. I won't be long.'

He returned with two china beakers of coffee, serviettes, and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. The young man helped himself, slowly, to sugar and a biscuit, then put his beaker on the small table at the side of him before starting to speak. His nervousness was more apparent now. He leaned forward, looking at Simon intently.

‘There is no easy way to say this . . .' he began.

‘Go on,' said Simon, trying to show encouragement. ‘I've heard all sorts, believe me.'

‘I'm sure you have.' Greg Challinor grinned fleetingly, before looking anxious again. ‘You won't have heard this, though. You see . . . I have reason to believe that you are . . . my father.'

Simon gasped as he stared, shocked beyond belief, at his visitor. There was no reason to disbelieve him, though. He knew now why the young man looked so familiar. It was almost like seeing a younger version of himself, as he had been when he was in the RAF. Gregory was dark-haired, though, and there was a look in his brown eyes that reminded Simon of someone else – the young woman he had known quite well, all those years ago.

‘Go on . . . Greg,' said Simon. His voice was husky with emotion. ‘Tell me . . .'

‘My mother is called Yvonne,' Greg began. ‘She was Yvonne Stevenson when you knew her. You did know her, didn't you?'

‘Yes . . . I knew her,' replied Simon quietly. ‘But . . . I had no idea. We lost touch. She just disappeared, suddenly, and I couldn't understand it. Was that why she left the camp, because she knew . . . ? Oh, how dreadful! Poor Yvonne! I'm so sorry . . .'

‘There's no need to be,' said Greg. ‘You mustn't feel guilty. Mum never wanted that. She guessed she might be pregnant, and so she decided it would be best for her to . . . just go away. And it all worked out very well in the end. I didn't know anything about it, though, not for ages. Mum and Dad were so happy together, and I had no idea that Keith was not my real father. Mum said she'd never wanted to tell me because Keith had cared for me as though I were his own son. I have a younger brother and sister, but it never made the slightest difference to Dad. He loved us all so much. He died, two years ago . . . and then Mum decided that I ought to know the truth.'

‘It must have been a great shock for you, finding out,' said Simon. ‘Your . . . father – was he in the Merchant Navy?' He remembered that Yvonne had told him about her boyfriend.

‘No; that fizzled out, apparently. Mum left the WAAF, of course, when she knew she was expecting me. I was born in July, 1944. It wasn't easy for Mum, being on her own; there was such a stigma about it then, wasn't there? But my grandparents were very good and they took care of her. Then just after the war ended Mum met Keith – he was a doctor – and they got married. As I said, I didn't know any of this until quite recently. But when I knew, I had to come and find you. I've been plucking up courage for several months. I hope you don't mind . . . I know I must have given you quite a shock.'

‘That's rather an understatement!' Simon shook his head in bewilderment. He was mesmerized by the revelations. For once in his life he felt at a loss for words. ‘No, of course I don't mind. Your mother . . . how is she?' he faltered. ‘I'm so sorry . . . about her husband. But I'm pleased to hear they were happy together.'

‘Mum's a survivor,' said Greg with a smile. ‘She'll be all right. Dad was several years older than Mum. Actually, she's friendly with someone she works with now, and we're very glad about it, myself and my brother and sister. She went back to work, in an insurance office, when we'd all left school.'

‘So . . . what did you do when you left school, Greg?' asked Simon. ‘Let me see; you must be – what? – twenty-two, now?'

Greg nodded. ‘Yes, that's right. Just a minute . . . I'd better drink my coffee; it'll be going cold.' He quickly ate his biscuit and took a good gulp of the coffee. He seemed much more at ease now that he had told the salient parts of his story, although Simon knew there was still a lot more to hear. He, Simon, now that he had recovered a little from the initial shock, was anxious to know more. Greg – his son, although it was hard to take it in – seemed a pleasant young man, quite mature for his age, and he clearly bore no animosity towards Simon, his natural father.