Cast the First Stone Read online

He started a midweek Bible class, and a Youth club. This was not intended to be a chance for the teenage boys and girls of the parish to get friendly and start ‘pairing off’ – although this did, inevitably happen – but to take part in such wholesome pursuits as tennis, rounders and five-a-side cricket in the summer, or table tennis and badminton in the winter, along with quizzes and discussions of a meaningful nature.

  Fiona went along to the Youth Club, and she also joined the vicar’s Confirmation class, partly to please her parents – she had always been an obedient girl – and partly because her best friend, Diane, had agreed to go with her. They were both confirmed at the age of fourteen, wearing modest white dresses and with veils covering their hair. Fiona looked upon it all as seriously and reverently as she was able, but she could not in all honesty have said that she felt any different after the event.

  Meanwhile, her parents were becoming more and more involved. The Tuesday evening Bible class soon became important to them, and Wilfred was proud and pleased when the Reverend Cruikshank asked him if he would become a sidesman. His duties included welcoming people to the services and going round with the collection plate. Within a year he had progressed from his position as sidesman to that of church warden.

  For an ordinary man such as Wilfred, with no pretensions to wealth or eminence, it was a great honour. He insisted at first that he was not suitable or worthy – he was only a warehouse man in a local mill – but the vicar reminded him that Jesus himself had chosen his helpers from among the common people: the fishermen, the carpenters and the tax collectors.

  Mary, also, had become a very active member of the congregation. She joined the Mothers’ Union, which met once a month on a Wednesday afternoon for a devotional meeting, led by the vicar’s wife, Hannah. The vicar’s wife was a devout woman but she lacked the dynamism of her husband. She appeared to be very much in his shadow and followed his lead in everything. It was noticed that they were similar in appearance. Hannah had the same gingerish hair that she wore in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the same myopic blue eyes that peered out from behind rimless glasses. They were, in fact, second cousins who had known one another from childhood and it had always been taken for granted that they would marry. They had one son, Timothy, aged fifteen when they came to the parish, who was the apple of their eye.

  Mary and Hannah found themselves drawn to one another. They were both of a quiet disposition and had not sought friendship or recreational pursuits outside the home or, in Hannah’s case, the church. Mary’s chief aim in life had been to make a comfortable home for her husband and, later, for their daughter. The only interest she had pursued was connected with Fiona’s schools, firstly the Primary school and then the grammar school for girls. (Fiona had passed her eleven plus exam with flying colours as they had always thought she would.) Mary was now serving on the committee of the Girls’ Grammar School PTFA: a willing, self-effacing member who would take on any task allotted to her, usually making the tea and washing up, or looking after the home-made cake stall at the Summer or Christmas Fayres.

  Now, at Hannah’s persuasion, she had become a member of the Church Council, not a very vociferous one, to be sure, but she was becoming much more active in the life of the church.

  Fiona was not too sure how she felt about the change in her mother – in fact, in both her parents. Her dad was quite cock-a-hoop about his position as church warden, and she was forced to suppress a smile when she watched him on a Sunday morning as he processed with the vicar and the choir down the centre aisle, proudly carrying his staff of office. And he was never seen at Sunday worship or at the midweek Bible meeting without his large black Bible. As far as Fiona knew it was a family heirloom that had been tucked away in a cupboard until the advent of the new vicar. Wilfred had become more forceful in manner, and his conversation was now peppered with references to God, and with the opinions of the Reverend Cruikshank.

  Mary, on the other hand, was still her quiet unassuming self. She had used, though, to be a jolly, cheerful person, enjoying a laugh and a joke, in a gentle sort of way. Now she had become, to Fiona’s way of thinking, a trifle boring, lacking the spurt of humour that had been the leaven of her shy disposition. Mary was a pretty woman with natural blonde hair that had darkened a shade or two as she grew older. She had not been averse, at one time, to brightening it up with a coloured rinse. But that was now a thing of the past. Moreover, she was now wearing her hair scraped back from her face in what Fiona thought was an unbecoming style, the one favoured by her friend, Hannah Cruikshank, whom Mary seemed to be emulating in all sorts of ways. She no longer used lipstick or face powder. Fiona longed to tell her that she looked dowdy, but she had always been a respectful girl, not given to bouts of disobedience and wilfulness like some of her contemporaries.

  When she was fifteen, in the fifth form and preparing for her School Certificate Examination, Fiona started to use a little make-up – Coty Face powder and lipstick in a pretty coral colour that she had saved up for out of her weekly spending money. Most of the girls in her form were doing so, comparing the various brands – Coty, Max Factor, Yardley, and the far more expensive Helena Rubinstein (which none of them could afford) – and deciding which shade of lipstick went with their hair colour or the outfit they were wearing for best.

  They were not allowed to wear make-up at school, of course, but they made up for it at weekends when they went out on a Saturday night to the pictures or to a local dance. These were usually at the church halls of the more broad-minded C of E churches, and at the Methodist Church in Fiona’s neighbourhood. She was allowed to go on the understanding that she was home by ten o’ clock, a stricture that was upheld by most of her friends’ parents. The boys, however, were allowed a little more leeway.

  Fiona had a shirtwaister dress in pink and white gingham with a large white collar and a full skirt which she wore at the dances in the summer, and a peasant style blouse worn with a full skirt of a bright floral design, which was made to stand out as far as possible by wearing two or more ‘cancan’ petticoats underneath it. These petticoats were made of nylon with numerous frills, and were made stiffer by dipping them in a sugar solution and then drip-drying them.

  Fiona’s mother did not seem to object to such frivolities – the fancy clothes or the make-up – although she did not comment, as she might have done at one time, telling her daughter that she looked nice and showing an interest in what she was wearing. Nor did Mary pass any comments about the dances or the films that she watched with her friends – light-hearted films such as Annie Get Your Gun, the ‘Doctor’ films starring Dirk Bogarde, or the Norman Wisdom comedies that were considered hilarious – although Fiona noticed that her parents no longer went to the cinema themselves. Mary and Wilfred had used to go to the local cinema at least once a fortnight. It had been their one indulgence and something that they had both enjoyed.

  Fiona knew, of course, that she must dress circumspectly for church attendance on a Sunday morning. She was not forced to go along, but on the rare occasions when she had said she was staying at home – giving the excuse that she had homework to finish which, more often than not, was the truth – her mother’s reproving glance made her feel that she was committing a heinous crime. It was easier, therefore, to comply rather than stage what was a minor rebellion.

  There was one Sunday morning, however, when she felt she had to stick up for herself. Her mother had glanced at her suitable coat, and Fiona was also wearing a hat – a beret which she hated, but which her mother had declared suitable headgear, especially as there was a service of Holy Communion at the close of morning worship.

  She was wearing make-up too, but only what she considered to be a modest amount; powder and lipstick and just the tiniest touch of green powder that highlighted the colour of her hazel eyes, making them appear more green than brown.

  Her mother looked closely at her and shook her head reprovingly. ‘Fiona . . .’ she began, in the over patient voice that her daughter was ge
tting to know only too well. It was not Mary’s way to shout and be angry, but Fiona thought sometimes that it might be better if her mother did so, rather than assuming the long-suffering manner that was becoming so familiar. ‘Fiona . . . I don’t really think it’s suitable to wear so much make-up to go to church. And I notice that you’ve started using eye make-up. I do wish you wouldn’t. It makes you look . . . well . . . cheap and rather common. Not at all how a good Christian girl should appear when she’s going to church.’

  Fiona opened her mouth ready to protest vehemently, but she held her tongue for a moment. She had never been the sort of girl to give cheek to her parents, as she knew some of her friends were apt to do. She did, however, close her lips together in a stubborn line before opening them again to say, ‘Well, I think it looks nice! And it certainly doesn’t look common. How can you say that, Mum? You know how I always try to make the most of myself. You used to encourage me to dress nicely and to take a pride in my appearance.’

  If Fiona had one small vice it was that she was the teeniest bit vain about her looks. She knew that she was a pretty girl and that she had been blessed with attractive hair and pleasant features. And she had discovered lately that her looks could be enhanced by discreet make-up. It wasn’t as if she was laying it on with a trowel, so to speak, as some of the girls in her form were doing, using what was known as pancake make-up of an odd-looking tan colour.

  ‘You don’t need make-up to help you to look attractive,’ her mother replied, still with the same tone of forbearance. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter what we look like on the outside. It’s what we’re like inside that really counts . . . And that’s what God will notice when you’re in His house.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with you, Mum?’ Fiona couldn’t help herself now. She had wanted to tackle her mother for ages about her own appearance and the way in which she had changed. ‘You used to use lipstick yourself,’ she went on.

  ‘And you used to do your hair nicely, not all scraped back like you have it now. It looked lovely when you curled it and put a golden rinse on it. It seems as though you don’t care any more about what you look like.’

  Mary smiled, still not showing any sign of anger or impatience. ‘That’s the point, Fiona love,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to realize that these things don’t matter – how we look and how we dress – although I still try to look clean and respectable, of course. You see, dear, since I’ve come to know more about Jesus I’ve tried to think about what He would want me to do and how He would want me to behave. And worldly things, such as make-up and clothes, they’re not so important any more. And perhaps, in time, you will come to see it that way.’

  Fiona didn’t answer at first. She was annoyed, and hurt as well. She had always been an obedient daughter and had never had any arguments of any importance with either of her parents. She also felt it was embarrassing to talk about Jesus in such a familiar way. ‘I do believe in God, and in Jesus,’ she retorted. ‘I always went to Sunday School, didn’t I? And then I was confirmed because you wanted me to be. And I go to church with you, most of the time. And I don’t really believe that . . . that Jesus is bothered about me using make-up and trying to look nice. I just don’t understand you, Mum.’

  ‘Then we’ll say no more about it just now,’ replied Mary. ‘But I would like you to go and rub off that eyeshadow and some of the lipstick in case the vicar notices. I don’t think he would like it, especially for Communion. Go along now, Fiona, there’s a good girl, and do as I say. We don’t want to fall out about it, do we?’

  Fiona was fuming inside. The thoughts that were forming in her mind were certainly not ones to be put into words. To hell with the Reverend bloody Cruikshank! Why should I care what he thinks? And why does Mum let him influence her so much? Him and that mealy-mouthed wife of his!

  But Fiona never used swear words out loud, and neither of her parents had ever done so. She obeyed her mother then, like the respectful daughter she had always been. She knew, though, as she received the communion bread and wine, that her thoughts were not as reverent as they should have been.

  She had always been able to confide in her maternal grandmother, Annie Jowett, and she did so when she visited her the following Saturday afternoon. She took a tram to City Square and then a bus to where her gran lived in the district of Roundhay, on the outskirts of the city. She took a fruit cake that Mary had baked for her mother and a jar of marmalade from the batch she had made recently.

  ‘Aye, she’s always been a good daughter, has our Mary,’ said the elderly woman appreciatively. ‘And I know she’s brought you up the same way, to be respectful and obedient. You’re a good lass, Fiona.’

  ‘Yes, I always try to be,’ said Fiona, ‘but I must admit, Gran, that they’re trying my patience quite a lot recently, Mum and Dad – both of them.’

  Annie nodded her head. ‘Aye, I think I know what you mean, luv. I’ve noticed it meself. They’ve got real involved in that church you go to, haven’t they, since that there new vicar came? What with your dad being church warden, and your mam getting herself on the church council. Mind you, there’s far worse things. If your dad was to start drinking for instance, or gambling; or if your mam was gadding about all over the place. Like the woman next door to me. She’s got herself a new feller – we all know about it – and her husband’s the nicest chap you could ever wish to meet.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Gran,’ said Fiona. ‘Mum and Dad are good people. But they’re so pious, so strait-laced, and they never used to be like that.’ She told her gran about the altercation she had had with her mother about make-up. ‘Mum seems to think it’s wrong now, to try to look nice – almost as though it’s sinful. That’s a word that’s always cropping up. The vicar’s always going on about sin and temptation.’

  Annie nodded again. ‘Aye, you’re right. I must admit I had a few words with Mary myself when she started preaching at me, telling me about Jesus and how she’d become a Christian. I said to her, “Look here, lass, I’ve been going to church all me life, at least I did until this blessed arthritis took hold of me. I know all about God, and about Jesus an’ all, and I reckon I’m as good a Christian as most folk. I know I might not read the Bible every day but I say me prayers and I’m a good living woman. So you don’t need to start your preaching here, thank you very much!” All the same, they’re not doing owt wrong; they’re happen just a bit overzealous. But you’ll have to respect their beliefs, even if you can’t go along with them fully. You must remember the fifth commandment. You’ll never go far wrong, lass, if you try to obey God’s commandments.’

  ‘Honour thy father and thy mother,’ replied Fiona. ‘That’s the one you mean, isn’t it, Gran? And I do try to, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know you do, luv.’ Annie sighed. ‘Well, ne’er mind. I expect it’s done you good to talk about it. Now, go and put the kettle on, there’s a good lass, and we’ll have a cup of tea and some of your mam’s fruit cake . . .’

  Six

  The Festival of Britain opened on the south bank of the Thames in London, in May, 1951 when Fiona was seventeen years old. It came as a great surprise to many when the leaders of the Church Youth Club that Fiona attended decided to organize a trip during the school holidays to see this great exhibition for themselves. More surprisingly, the vicar gave his consent, agreeing that it would be a worthwhile experience for the young people to take part in such an event. Provided, of course, that the teenagers were supervised at all times and were kept well apart with regard to sleeping arrangements at the hotel.

  Fiona and her best friend, Diane, were amongst the ones who wished to join the excursion. Her parents had raised no objection, and neither had Diane’s, no doubt because the Reverend Cruikshank had given it his seal of approval. The arrangements were made for a group of eighteen teenagers – ten girls and eight boys – with three adults, to travel to London and back by coach, staying for three nights at a modest hotel – one that provided bed and breakfast and an
evening meal – near to the South Bank festival site.

  ‘I don’t think my parents would have agreed so readily if they knew that Dave was going,’ Fiona told Diane as they travelled home from school on the bus, one afternoon near the end of the summer term.

  David Rathbone was Fiona’s first boyfriend. He was a member of the Youth Club and had been in the same confirmation class. He was in the lower sixth form at the boy’s grammar school, whilst Fiona and Diane were also in the lower sixth at the grammar school for girls. He walked home with her after the Youth Club meetings and she met him sometimes after school.

  He kissed her goodnight quite chastely at first but she had realized that he was becoming a little more amorous just lately, and she knew she must be careful not to encourage him.

  She was pleased, though, at the idea of having a boyfriend, like many of her sixth-form colleagues. She knew, however, from listening to their conversations that these friendships were not as innocent as hers and Dave’s. That was if they were to be believed, however, which she guessed was doubtful! Dave was a secret, though, that she had kept from her parents.

  ‘Actually, Mum and Dad don’t even know about him yet,’ she told Diane.

  ‘Why not?’ asked her friend. ‘Why don’t you tell them? You’ll have to sooner or later, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, you know what they’re like,’ said Fiona. ‘I’d be put through the third degree about him and given a lecture on how to behave myself – you know, about sex and all that. At least I imagine I would . . . although it’s something that Mum never talks about. I fully intend to, though – behave myself, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll get the chance to do anything other than behave ourselves,’ replied Diane. ‘You can be sure that Mr and Mrs Wilkes will keep an eagle eye on us or else they’ll have old Cruikshank to answer to. I’m jolly glad he’s not going, aren’t you?’