Families and Friendships Read online

  The verdict of the congregation, on the whole, seemed to be that the new curate was unusual to say the least, but go-ahead and modern in outlook, and if Simon approved of him who were they to disagree. He was well received at the Youth Club, and Graham Heap, the leader of the guitar group was glad of his assistance there. As had been anticipated, Josh was a very competent musician.

  There were mutterings, though, from elsewhere in the church as might only have been expected. The ringleader, as usual, was Mrs Ethel Bayliss, and she soon had a few of her minions in agreement with her, the chief being Miss Mabel Thorpe. Fiona had learnt to be wary of them as they were the ones who had caused trouble for her – or tried to – when the news of her former pregnancy had leaked out. They had been heard to say now – and their mutterings were soon scattered abroad – that they intended to write to the Rural Dean, or even to the Bishop of the Diocese, setting down their views about the curate with long hair and an earring who pranced about dressed like a pantomime character.

  Simon doubted that they would carry out their threat. They just liked to cause bother and to make sure that their opinions were made known, but he had other things to worry him. There had been a violent storm one night in June, following a week of sultry weather, and when Simon went into the vestry the next morning he found that there were pools of water in several places. He called for his churchwardens, and they quickly did a mopping-up operation and placed buckets at strategic places in case it happened again. The roofer who was called in said that he could do a temporary patch-up job, but the roof was leaking in several places and the damage had been worsening for some time. What was required was a complete overhauling and rebuilding of a large section of the roof. Simon had no reason to doubt his word. They had used him before for minor repairs on the Sunday school building and the rectory and found him to be reliable.

  Simon doubted that there would be much financial help from Diocese funds. He had already applied for a curate so they were unlikely to look favourably at another request. He decided that it was more essential to have some help with the parish work; and they would try to raise the money themselves for the roof repairs.

  There were those in the parish who could afford to donate a sum of money; some folk were more financially secure than others, of course. There were some, though, who found it difficult to make ends meet. At an emergency council meeting held soon after the rainstorm it was decided that they should have a ‘Gift Day’. Each person in the congregation the following Sunday, at both the morning and the evening services would be given an envelope into which they could place their contribution, anonymously, if they wished. Simon guessed that there would be some who would donate a decent sized cheque. He stressed, though, that any gifts, large or small, would be appreciated.

  Several more ideas were mooted at the meeting. They already, from time to time, held special events such as Spring or Summer Fayres, a Christmas Bazaar and Sale of Work, and concerts with members of the congregation and the choir taking part. One suggestion was that they should invite special guest artistes from elsewhere to give a concert; there was a thriving male voice choir in the area, and brass bands abounded in the Yorkshire towns and villages.

  ‘It’ll cost yer though,’ one of the men remarked. ‘They’ll not perform for nowt.’ The verdict of a true Yorkshireman, and there were several mutterings of agreement.

  ‘Nor would we expect them to give their services free,’ smiled Simon. ‘But the idea is that we could ask considerably more for tickets that we do for our own little efforts. Yes, I think that is something that we could look into. Not that I’m decrying the work that you good people do here,’ he added, just in case he was treading on anyone’s toes. ‘But it would make a change, wouldn’t it, and might draw in people from further afield.’

  It had been decided earlier that year that the usual summer fayre would be held in the church hall and grounds, but the plans had not been finalized. It was suggested now, by a comparative newcomer to the church council, that this could be done on a much larger scale. The lady who spoke up was Mrs Florence Catchpole. She and her husband, who was a retired mill owner from the Bradford area, had come to live in Aberthwaite earlier that year. They had started to attend the services at St Peter’s, and Mrs Catchpole had been invited to join the Mothers’ Union. She was soon seen to be a very sensible and helpful person, young looking and spritely despite being in her mid-sixties. She had now retired but she had worked in local government, holding a position of authority. There were a few of the women who could see her, hopefully, as a challenge to Ethel Bayliss. But Florence Catchpole kept her own counsel and, as a newcomer, didn’t say very much. However, when a vacancy occurred on the church council, Simon lost no time in asking her to become a member.

  The suggestion she made now, about the garden party, was greeted with general approval. ‘The house where Arnold and I live has quite a large garden,’ she told them. It was, in fact, very large, surrounding one of the grandest houses in Aberthwaite; but, as they had already discovered, she was by no means a boastful person despite her wealth and once prominent position.

  ‘I would be very willing – and I know Arnold will agree with me – to hold the garden party there, later in the summer. We could serve afternoon tea – strawberries and cream perhaps – and have stalls and games, whatever you like. That is, if you think it’s a good idea …’ Her voice petered out as they all looked at her, listening carefully. ‘It’s just a suggestion …’ she added, a little self-effacingly.

  ‘And an excellent one, if I may say so,’ said Arthur Bayliss. He looked round at the council members and was answered with nods of approval and murmurings of ‘Hear, hear!’ ‘It’s a very generous offer, Mrs Catchpole,’ he went on, and I would like to suggest that we go along with it. With your approval, of course, Simon?’

  Simon nodded. ‘I’m in full agreement, and we do thank you very much, Mrs Catchpole. We must get the opinion of the meeting, though, in the usual democratic way. Could we have a show of hands, please, that we take up Mrs Catchpole’s offer?’

  All the members, without exception, raised their hands, a few rather more slowly, but there was no one who would dare to disagree. The last hand to go up, Simon noticed to his wry amusement, was that of Mrs Bayliss. Most of the company were smiling and nodding at one another. Ethel looked … not exactly angry, more abashed and discomfited. She did not like anyone else to be the centre of attention, more particularly, Simon guessed, when it was a newcomer who was already proving popular with the members of the Mothers’ Union.

  ‘That’s unanimous,’ he said, ‘just as I expected. Thank you, everyone. Now we must decide on a date …’ It was agreed that the garden party should be held on the last Saturday in August. That would give them almost two months in which to prepare, and the last week in August often turned out to be fine and warm, a last glimpse of summer before autumn set in. There was no guarantee of fine weather, of course. But Mrs Catchpole seemed quite happy to compromise should the weather turn inclement.

  ‘There’s plenty of room indoors,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And the kitchen’s large enough to cope with the catering, whether it’s fine or not.’

  It was agreed that the catering would be one of the chief considerations; they would need a small committee of ladies to take charge. Church people loved their committees, mused Simon, as he watched the womenfolk raise their hands, volunteering to be part of the little – elite – group, He saw Mrs Bayliss smile contentedly – he forbore to think of it as smugly – in her element again when it was suggested that she should be the leader of the group.

  ‘And perhaps us chaps could see to the rest,’ said Jonas Fowler, Blanche’s husband. ‘You know – games and sideshows and that sort of thing. I suppose we’ve no objection to raffles and tombolas and the like, have we?’

  ‘No … I think we’re rather more liberal than our Methodist friends when it comes to raffles,’ said Simon. ‘Some folk see it as gambling, but we’re not playing poker or
throwing money away at the casino, are we? We’re just trying to raise money and have a bit of fun at the same time.’ He smiled. ‘I remember when I was a curate, there was a great to-do about it at one church, as to whether they were games of skill or games of chance. You were allowed to knock down skittles, or play hoop-la, because they involved skill. But you weren’t allowed to buy a raffle ticket … I never saw the difference myself.’

  ‘What about naming the doll?’ asked someone. ‘Is that skill … or is it luck?’

  ‘Or guessing the weight of a cake?’

  ‘That’s definitely skill …’

  ‘Or how many sweets in the jar?’

  ‘Or finding the right spot on the map?’

  Suggestions were coming thick and fast, and there was a general hubbub of conversation until Simon called the meeting to order. ‘As far as I can see those are all good ideas, and if anyone wants to organize … a doll, or a cake, or whatever, then please go ahead and do so. Thank you all for your enthusiasm.’

  There was one more suggestion that evening that was well worth considering. ‘This raising money for the church roof will be an ongoing thing, won’t it?’ asked Graham Heap, the treasurer, who was as much concerned as anyone.

  ‘Yes, and who knows how long it will take?’ answered Simon. ‘We may be able to secure a loan to tide us over, but it may take a long time.’

  ‘Then why don‘t we take this catering business further and start doing it for visitors?’ said Graham. Most of the company looked puzzled, so he went on to explain. ‘Some churches in pleasant surroundings – as we are in Aberthwaite – have started catering for church outings; coach trips from other towns, maybe not too far away. We’ve a lot to offer here in Aberthwaite. It’s a very attractive little town. There’s the river, and the castle, and nice gentle walks round about, and the market on Saturday. It would usually be a Saturday, of course, that people would choose for a day’s outing. And what could be nicer than a ham salad tea to round off the day? I’ve seen adverts in the church newspapers, and the Yorkshire magazines as well. So … why shouldn’t we do it?’

  Simon was thoughtful, and so were many others. ‘Yes, you might have an idea there, Graham,’ he replied carefully. ‘But it would involve a lot of hard work for … well, just a few people. I would really hesitate to burden our catering ladies with any more work. They have already agreed to do the garden party … I suppose you mean … to put on meals in the church hall?’

  Graham nodded. ‘That’s the idea; yes. To put an advert in the church newspaper, and to see what happens. It would be mainly a spring or summer thing. People don’t usually want to travel far afield in the winter time.’

  Mrs Florence Catchpole spoke up again. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea, and I, for one, would be willing to help. I’m retired now, but I’ve still bags of energy and I’m always looking for new projects.’

  Ethel Bayliss, not to be outdone, immediately said that she would be willing, and so did several others.

  ‘Phew …!’ breathed Simon. ‘This is getting out of hand. Well, no …’ he corrected himself, ‘not quite. But it all needs thinking about seriously. We have plenty of food for thought … Please excuse the pun! It wasn’t intentional. I suggest we bring the meeting to a close now. Graham and I will discuss that idea further, and maybe – just maybe – we could go ahead. One way and another we’re going to be very busy. Now, let’s have a word of prayer before we go home.’

  Fiona had not been at the meeting, so she was interested to hear about what had taken place.

  ‘I’ve met Mrs Catchpole a few times,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity she’s not of the age to join our Young Wives group. We could argue that she’s young at heart, and that’s what matters. But it might cause bother. The Mothers’ Union women seem to agree that they have their meetings and we have ours.’

  ‘And never the twain shall meet?’ joked Simon.

  ‘Not exactly, but we each have a different role to play. Perhaps the Young Wives will be able to help with the catering. We’ll do what we can, but it’s difficult with most of the women going out to work.’

  ‘Young Wives … and Friends.’ Simon reminded her. ‘Don’t forget the “friends”.’ It had been decided at the start not to limit the group to married women, mainly so that they could include Ruth Makepeace, a local schoolteacher who had been a widow. Since then, however, she had married the headmaster and was now Ruth Saunders.

  ‘I don’t think we have any friends now,’ said Fiona. She laughed. ‘No, that’s not right, is it? What I mean is that since Ruth got married we are all wives. But we’ll leave it as it is; everyone’s welcome. It sounds as though the garden party could turn out to be quite a grand affair. Perhaps we could invite your parents to come for that weekend, Simon. They’re due for a visit.’

  The fundraising campaign for the church roof fund went on apace. The Gift Day proved to be an excellent start with several substantial cheques being presented by members of the congregation, amounting to the first several hundred pounds. Everyone threw themselves wholeheartedly into preparations for the garden party. By that time, Joshua, the new curate, had arrived, keen to prove his worth in all sorts of ways.

  The morning of the big day started off cloudy, and everyone held their breath and said a few silent prayers. By midday the sun had appeared, and it was decided that the stalls and games could be held outside as planned.

  Afternoon tea was served in the spacious lounge and dining room – dainty sandwiches, scones and fancy cakes – with strawberries and cream as an extra temptation, which hardly anyone could resist. There were games of skill and of chance, as had been discussed at the meeting. Skittles and hoop-la; a tombola stall; a raffle with better than usual prizes; and various guessing competitions – the name of a doll, the weight of a cake, the number of Smarties in a jar, and pinpointing a place on a map of Aberthwaite and district. And numerous stalls selling fancy goods, bric-a-brac, books, and handmade gifts.

  The doll was not the usual baby doll but a large-sized clown doll, denoted by Mrs Catchpole. It was dressed in a harlequin costume of diamond-patterned satin, a lavish creation designed to sit on a bed and enhance the decor of the room. To counterbalance this there was also a teddy bear to be named, which was of more interest to the children. The new curate, who was by now becoming well known – and generally well liked – volunteered to be in charge of this stall. It was soon seen as an excuse for him to dress up again, this time as a clown with baggy trousers, a red nose and a comical hat. He drew a good crowd who joined in the fun, and a few adverse comments from the same little group who had objected to his former appearance as the devil.

  However, when the pre-arranged selection of names had all been chosen Josh changed into his normal clothes and went to help in the kitchen with the mountain of washing-up. Mrs Catchpole had a dishwashing machine – to the envy of several of the ladies – but there was still a colossal amount of clearing away to be done.

  ‘A job shared is a job halved, ladies,’ he said cheerily, grabbing a pot towel. He won the thanks and the approval of most of the helpers, but just a few remained tight-lipped, ignoring his presence.

  When the day’s takings were added up and the amount for expenses deducted, the treasurer told the now exhausted, but contented, helpers that more than five hundred pounds had been raised for the church roof fund.

  Simon made the announcement at the morning service the next day; he went on to thank everyone who had helped or taken part in any way. There was a round of applause and a few cheers, something that at one time would have been frowned upon in church, but was now becoming acceptable in places where worship was seen to be not just piety and prayers, but a cause for celebration as well. The atmosphere that day at both services was one of unity and friendship.

  ‘You’ve got a good church going there, lad,’ Simon’s father remarked when they sat together in the evening, Fiona, Simon and his parents, with Stella fast asleep upstairs. ‘I had my doubts at first when you
told us you wanted to be a parson.’ He turned to his wife, ‘Well, we both did, didn’t we, love? But we changed our minds long ago. You’re doing a grand job, you and Fiona. You should be proud of yourselves.’

  ‘Pride doesn’t come into it, Dad,’ replied Simon. ‘At least it shouldn’t do. We have a splendid congregation there who all support us – well, almost all – in what we try to achieve. And now … I believe we have a good curate as well. You didn’t hear him tonight, Dad, nor you, Mum, but we thought he was great, didn’t we, darling?’

  ‘Yes, I think most people were pleasantly surprised,’ smiled Fiona.

  ‘It’s been a lovely weekend all told,’ said Simon’s mother. ‘The garden party – that was so enjoyable – and hearing Simon preach this morning. And seeing you all again, of course. Stella’s growing up fast, isn’t she? And now you have the next one to look forward to; that’s wonderful news. Don’t do too much and tire yourself out though, will you, dear?’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ said Fiona, ‘but it’s not easy. There’s always something to be done.’

  Simon’s parents departed quite early the next morning in a flurry of hugs and kisses and goodbye waves.

  ‘Now, remember what you’ve been told, and try to take it easy today,’ Simon told his wife.

  ‘Yes, I probably will,’ said Fiona. ‘I must admit I do feel rather tired after that hectic weekend.

  She had a mainly quiet day, finding time to read and do some knitting whilst Stella was having her afternoon nap. The little girl had an early tea at five o’clock, whereas Simon and Fiona dined later after she had gone to bed. Stella had finished her tea and was playing quietly with her dolls, when the door bell rang.

  ‘Now, I wonder who that can be?’ said Fiona. It was her usual – though fatuous – response to an unknown caller.

  ‘Shall I go?’ called Simon.

  ‘No, it’s OK, you stay there,’ she replied. Her husband was enjoying a few minutes’ relaxation with the evening paper.