Families and Friendships (22 page)

‘I said I wasn't sure. Sometime in the afternoon …'

The railway clerk looked at the clock. ‘The Newcastle train's just gone. I thought you were cutting it fine. The next un'll be in half an hour.'

He was a right Job's comforter, she thought – one of her mother's expressions. But he probably didn't have silly indecisive girls like her to deal with very often. She parted with her pound note for the ticket and put the change away. She had been saving up and had a couple more pounds and some silver for emergencies.

‘Over the bridge to platform two,' said the man. ‘Hope you have a nice time with your friends. Cheer up, love, you'll be OK. You can always ask one of us chaps if you get lost.' It was almost as though he knew what she was doing.

It was a fine day, not very sunny, but pleasantly warm as she sat on the platform bench waiting for the first train. Newcastle, Darlington, Northallerton, she said to herself. The last town was unknown to her, but as the man said, she could always ask her way. It was only four days since she had taken the Newcastle train with her mother, so this part of the journey was familiar. She alighted at Newcastle and asked a porter to direct her to the platform for the next train to Darlington.

It was quite easy to find a seat. She felt a little self-conscious on her own, but nobody took any notice. She watched the other passengers humping huge suitcases and bags on to the racks, and was glad she was travelling light. The train was one that had little tables between the seats. Her earlier feeling of panic had subsided now, and in a few moments, though a mite self-consciously, she took out her packet of sandwiches and the bottle of orange juice. She was feeling rather hungry as she hadn't eaten much at breakfast time because of the turmoil inside her. Fortunately her mother hadn't noticed, or had made no comment. The lady opposite her smiled at her in a friendly way as she munched away at her chicken barmcake, but didn't say anything. Debbie was glad because she didn't want to get into conversation with anyone.

She looked out of the window at the scenery that was still familiar. This was the longest leg of the journey from Newcastle to Darlington. A largely built-up area, with factory chimneys and the winding gear of coal mines on the horizon, and hundreds of streets of terraced houses. The train stopped at Durham, where the sight of the majestic cathedral on the hill was a pleasant contrast to the industrial landscape. As they journeyed south the scenery was more rural in parts with isolated farmhouses, green hills and pasture land.

Debbie guessed they could not be all that far from Darlington when the train stopped, between stations, for no apparent reason. The minutes – five, ten, twelve – went by, and she looked anxiously at her watch. The ticket man had said there was not all that much time for the next connection, and it seemed now as though she was likely to miss it.

‘Perhaps there's a cow on the line,' said the elderly lady to her husband. They didn't seem overly concerned, and Debbie guessed that this was a joke. The lady smiled at her. ‘This often happens, dear,' she said. ‘Don't worry, it'll start moving again soon. British Rail! I don't know …' She shook her head in desperation.

There was a sudden jerk, and the train started up again, slowly, only to travel a mile or so before stopping again. ‘I reckon we've caught up with that there cow again,' joked the man, and his wife laughed.

But Debbie didn't feel like laughing. She gathered her few belongings together as the train drew near to Darlington. She made a hasty exit when it stopped, then stood on the platform staring helplessly around. It was even busier than Newcastle. She remembered learning at school that it was known as the birthplace of the railway, and George Stephenson's engine, ‘Locomotion', was on show somewhere in the station. But there was no time for sightseeing.

She jostled her way through the midday crowd, stopping to ask a porter the whereabouts of the train to Northallerton. ‘I think you've missed this one, pet,' he said. He looked at the station clock. ‘Yes, you have. Next one's in an hour, platform four, over the bridge.'

‘Thank you,' she said although things were not going well at all. Now she had an hour to wait. She went to the ladies' room then browsed at the WH Smith bookstall, buying a puzzler book and a copy of
Girl
magazine. Then she went into the snack bar and bought a cup of coffee. It was hot and she sipped it gratefully, glad of the warmth because the day was turning chilly.

She found that the hour soon passed. She located the platform and the train, then settled down in her seat, relieved that she was coming to the last part of her journey. It took less than an hour to get to Northallerton, but this neck of the woods was completely unfamiliar to her. She asked directions and made her way to the market square from where she would be able to catch a bus. She was aware, on the fringes of her mind, that it was a pleasant market town with old houses grouped around the church, and a market cross in the middle of the square.

At the side of the cobblestoned area there was a bus stop with a seat next to it; there was no one sitting on it. Debbie tried to decipher the times on the timetable that was attached to the bus stop. The printing was very small and complicated to follow. It showed times for all the buses to the nearby towns and villages from early in the morning, then every hour, or forty-five minutes or whatever, up to the evening. She searched for Aberthwaite. It seemed that there were not many buses at all to that place. She was going cross-eyed staring at the small print. From what she could make out there were only two buses a day, one at 11.30, and the other at 15.30. Most people were not wholly conversant yet with the twenty-four hour clock; she calculated that that was three thirty in the afternoon. She glanced at her watch; it was already a quarter to four! She had missed it, the last bus of the day, by fifteen minutes.

She studied the timetable again, trying to make the numbers say something else. Perhaps she was mistaken; but she knew that she wasn't. What on earth was she going to do now? She flopped down on to the seat feeling utterly miserable and dejected. To make matters worse the early promise of the day had not held out and it was starting to rain; a fine drizzle but the sort that could soak you through in no time. Luckily her coat had a hood and she pulled it up. She opened her bag and took out the Kit-Kat biscuit; she couldn't think of what else to do.

She didn't know the phone number of the rectory. There was a phone box nearby, and she thought you could find out numbers if you rang the operator. But what could she say if she got through? How could she explain it all on the phone? There seemed to be nothing for it but to go back home. She couldn't stay here all night, and she hadn't got enough money to go to a bed and breakfast place.

Her head drooped and she felt tears forming in her eyes. Debbie didn't often cry – her mother said she was a plucky little lady – but now it was all too much for her. The tears began to fall and she started to sob; just gentle sobs but enough to be noticed by someone passing by. She felt dreadfully embarrassed when a lady stopped by the seat, then sat down beside her.

‘Whatever's the matter, my dear?' she asked. ‘Please forgive me for asking … but I saw you studying the timetable when I went into the shop over there. I thought you looked worried, and now it's obvious that you are, very worried. Have you missed a bus?'

Debbie looked up at the kind face of a middle-aged lady – well, sort of young middle-age, perhaps a bit younger than her mother – with gingerish hair and a nice smile. It was the smile that did it, as though the lady really cared. Debbie tried to control her sobs as she told her that she had missed the last bus to Aberthwaite, ‘… and I don't know what to do because I don't know the phone number, and they're not really expecting me.'

‘Well then, there's no need to worry any more,' said the lady. ‘I'm going to Aberthwaite; I live there. I've been visiting an old aunt, and now I'm going home. So that's lucky, isn't it? You can come with me. I'm afraid buses to Aberthwaite are very few and far between.'

‘Oh … thank you! That's so kind of you.' Debbie stopped crying at once. It went through her mind that her mother had warned her not to talk to strangers, especially about not accepting lifts. But this was different; you couldn't think of this kind person as a stranger.

‘Come along then, dear,' she said. ‘My car's over there.' Debbie followed her a short distance to where a Morris Minor car was parked. She climbed into the front seat and the lady closed the door.

‘Off we go then,' she said. ‘It won't take long – less than an hour.'

The thought of what lay ahead had momentarily been set aside in Debbie's mind when she had found herself stranded in the middle of nowhere. Now the forthcoming meeting began to loom large again. She would be there soon. What should she say to … Fiona?

‘Are you going to see friends in Aberthwaite?' asked her companion.

‘Yes … well, a relation really,' replied Debbie. ‘She's my aunt … Aunty Fiona, but, like I said, she doesn't know I'm coming.' Now, what on earth had possessed her to say that?

The woman turned to look at her, quickly, before turning her attention back to the road. ‘It isn't Fiona Norwood, is it?' she asked. ‘The rector's wife?'

‘Yes, it is … actually,' said Debbie, in a subdued voice.

‘Well, fancy that! They say it's a small world, don't they? Fiona's a friend of mine.' She turned again to smile at Debbie, rather curiously. ‘I'm sure she'll be pleased to see you.'

‘I hope so …' replied Debbie.

It was pleasant countryside; leafy lanes with now and again a glimpse of a rippling stream, greystone cottages at the side of the road, a country pub or two, sheep grazing on the hillsides and a ruined castle in the distance. To Debbie's relief, her companion didn't say any more.

Then the sign said Aberthwaite. They drove through a street of shops, around a market square, then along a tree-lined road, heading towards a church. ‘That's St Peter's,' said the lady, ‘and here is the rectory. But I expect you know that, don't you?' She looked at Debbie quizzically.

‘Er … it's a while since I was here,' she answered. ‘Thank you very much; you've been really kind. I'll be alright now.' She gathered up her belongings and jumped out of the car.

The lady smiled at her. ‘Good luck, my dear,' she said, for some reason.

Debbie opened the gate and walked up the garden path between flower beds gay with late summer blooms, to the big old house. She rang the bell …

‘Well, what's your verdict then?' Simon asked his wife, as they walked home after the evening service one Sunday at the end of August.

‘I thought he was good, very good indeed, to say it was his first sermon,' said Fiona. ‘I was pleasantly surprised. And he was not too … what shall I say? … outlandish! I was trying to see how Ethel Bayliss was reacting, without making it obvious that I was watching her.'

Fiona had a good view of the congregation from her seat in the choir stalls. She didn't always attend the evening service as she needed to stay at home to look after Stella; but Simon's parents were staying for the weekend and they had volunteered to babysit the little girl. They were delighted to do that as they saw her only every couple of months.

Simon and Fiona had been discussing the Reverend Joshua Bellamy, Simon's new curate, who had been preaching his first sermon at St Peter's that evening. He had been in the parish for only a month, and had already proved to be a talking point and had raised a few eyebrows.

Simon had been surprised and very pleased that his request for a curate had, eventually, been granted. The young man, aged twenty-five, was in his probationary year as a curate, and would be officially ordained in September, if he was deemed suitable. He had served several months in a church in the centre of Halifax, and was now being transferred to a country parish. Simon was not told the reason for the move, but he had agreed to interview the young man, about six weeks ago, one morning in mid-July. Their meeting had taken place in the rectory study, and Fiona had kept out of the way until Simon came to find her and asked if she would make coffee.

‘What's he like?' she had asked, agog with curiosity.

‘Wait and see!' said Simon. ‘You'll soon find out.' He was laughing so Fiona had not known what to expect.

She laid a tray with the best china and a plate of chocolate biscuits and carried it into the lounge to where they had adjourned. The young man stood up as she entered, which showed, whatever else, that he knew his manners. He was tall, about six foot, and slim with dark brown hair that hung down to his shoulders. He had bright blue eyes with a friendly glint in them as he took his first glance at Fiona, and he wore an earring, a plain gold hoop, in one ear. He was casually dressed in denim trousers and a green anorak, but she was pleased to see he was wearing his clerical collar.

She put the tray down on the coffee table and held out her hand. ‘How do you do?' she said. ‘I'm Fiona, Simon's wife.'

He grasped her hand firmly, smiling into her eyes. ‘How do you do? Pleased to meet you Mrs Norwood,' he said. ‘I'm Josh.'

He had made a good start, in her opinion, by not being too familiar, despite his rather unconventional appearance. The ‘Mrs Norwood' had pleased her, although she preferred to be called Fiona. They sat down again and she handed round the coffee and biscuits. Simon started the conversation.

‘Josh has been telling me about himself and his ideas,' he said, ‘and I have already decided that he will fit in very well at St Peter's. I shall recommend to the church council that we take him on as our curate, and he will be ordained here in September, God willing.'

‘That's very good news,' said Fiona. ‘It's been hard going for Simon recently. The congregation has increased – not tremendously, but the numbers are encouraging, aren't they, darling?'