Read The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) Online
Authors: Rebecca Shaw
The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (3 page)
‘Come here, my darling girl, and spend some time with me before you disappear into the vampire department.’
‘Vampire department? Peter, that is dreadful! Don’t let any of your parishioners hear you say that, or they’ll get terrible ideas about what I do.’
‘Tell me why you didn’t let Lady Bissett come to tea on Monday.’
‘It’s not often I take an instant dislike to people, but I’m afraid Sheila Bissett and I will be clashing swords before
long. If she conducted herself as the person she really is I could quite like her, but instead she gives herself such airs. She honestly believes she is the modern equivalent of the squire’s wife. I know for a fact she used to work behind the bar in The Case Is Altered in Culworth.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Willie Biggs. If you need to know anything about anybody, ask Willie. I’ve made a point of becoming a friend of his.’
‘How have you done that?’
‘By diagnosing his ailments for him.’
‘Caroline!’ Peter tipped her off his knee and pretended to slap her bottom for her. Caroline laughed, kissed him full on the mouth with a lingering relish which reminded Peter how much he loved her, and dashed off to the hospital. Peter cleared the table, washed up and went into his study.
Hearing a noise not unlike the chattering of a brood of nestlings, he glanced out to see what it was, and passing the window was the girl he had noticed in church on Sunday. Her silvery-blonde hair was held back by an Alice band so that her charming rosy-cheeked face could be clearly seen. She had a long, perfectly straight nose, round curving cheeks and brilliant blue eyes. Her colouring was echoed by the three little girls who were walking hand in hand beside her. One was round, one very thin, and one just right. All three had long plaits swinging behind as they hopped and skipped on the pavement. Their mother looked up at the study window and raised her hand in greeting. For some unexplained reason, Peter’s heart almost stopped beating. He waved back and then bent his head to open the post. His heart righted itself and he tried hard to concentrate on his work, but couldn’t. He was being quite ridiculous. His post that morning was considerable – most of it addressed to the
now deceased Revd Arthur Furbank.
The phone rang. ‘The Rectory, Peter Harris speaking. How may I help you?’
‘It’s Michael Palmer here, Headmaster at the village school. Could I possibly come round some time in the next day or two, and have a chat with you? We are a church school so you’ll be very much involved.’
‘Certainly, I shall be delighted. This is the first time I’ve been directly concerned with education and I’m looking forward to it. Now, there’s no time like the present, is there? I would be free to see you about eleven this morning. How would that suit you?’
‘Fine, I’ll see you then.’
Peter put down the receiver, leant back in his chair and contemplated the study. Hanging above the fireplace, in which a two-bar electric fire tried defiantly to warm the room, was a crude peasant-like painting of the Virgin Mary. The only thing that was good about it was the face. Who did it remind him of? – Caroline? No, not his darling girl. Then he knew who it was. The over-bright blue eyes and the rounded cheeks reminded him of the girl who’d been in church on Sunday and who had caused his heart to jolt only moments ago. Peter’s self-discipline enabled him to push his feelings into the background. He leapt up, took down the painting, and placed in face downwards on top of the filing cabinet. Above the fireplace there was now a light buff-coloured square where the picture had hung. Peter moved another picture from the wall and realised that the wallpaper was very dirty indeed. So were the bookshelves which were waiting for him to unpack the tea chests full of books stacked against the far wall. The carpet was threadbare and dirty, the desk where he worked grimy and slightly sticky to the touch. He should never have agreed to
take the Rectory as it stood. He ought to have insisted on furnishing it himself. Caroline had worked wonders with the kitchen; this, being his domain, he would have to work upon by himself.
Within ten minutes of rolling up his sleeves, Peter had removed all the pictures from the walls, and unplugged the ancient electric fire. Once it had cooled down, he put it, flex and all, into the bin. The desk, filing cabinets and the sofa – ancient and falling apart – had all been pulled or pushed into the hall. The easy chairs had been stacked against the hall wall, too, and all that remained was the removal of the carpet. As he began to roll it up, thick dust fell from it and made him cough. He opened the study window and waved his arms about trying to dispel the clouds of dust and found himself once more face to face with Suzy Meadows returning home with Pansy and Rosie. His heart jolted again as he looked into those sweet, Madonna-like features.
‘Good morning, Mr Harris. I’m Suzy Meadows, this is Pansy and this is Rosie. Say good morning, you two.’ The tiny girls smiled and hid their faces in her skirts.
Peter’s voice boomed out onto the pavement. ‘Good morning, Mrs Meadows. I’m just—’
‘Call me Suzy – everyone else does.’
‘Suzy, then. I’m just clearing out the study. Sorry for the dust blowing about.’
‘The binmen come on Tuesdays. If you’re quick they’ll take anything you don’t want – and if it’s the rector they’ll most likely do it for nothing. They’ll be along here in about half an hour.’
‘Right, thank you. Most of it needs to go.’
‘There’s a furniture place in Culworth if you’re needing some replacements. I bought a lovely pair of hall chairs there for an absolute song. They’ve always got plenty of
easy chairs and things.’
‘Thank you for your advice. Hello, Pansy and Rosie. What have you done with your sister?’ Neither of the two girls offered a reply so Suzy answered on their behalf.
‘Oh, she’s gone to play with Hugh Neal in Glebe House. They’re both learning the recorder at school and Liz Neal has promised to help Daisy with it. Be seeing you soon, Mr Harris. Bye!’
‘Bye.’ Peter watched her disappear down the road and recognised his feelings for what they were. Shatteringly, for a man so devoted to his wife and his Church, he felt disastrously attracted by her. Why, he had no idea. It was just one of those things which happened and over which one appeared to have no control. Peter left the clearing of the study and went across to the church. Here, surely, he would find help before it was too late. How could such a thing have happened to him? Every cleric, young in years, had his quota of young women who made sheep’s eyes and for a while became devoted to the Church until they realised they were making no progress, but this was it in reverse. He knelt before the altar and prayed. ‘
Dear God, help me a miserable sinner
…’
Willie Biggs, needing a rest from labouring in the graveyard, crept quietly into the church by a side door and sat munching his morning break in the gloom by one of the pillars. His Mars bar was nearly finished when he spotted the rector, head bent in prayer. Funny that, he thought – only halfway through the morning and needing to recharge his batteries. Already been here for half an hour first thing. The man must be troubled. Willie kept silent and still, hoping Peter wouldn’t see him when he went out and Peter didn’t, because he went across to the organ and, switching it on, began playing a jaunty hymn tune. Willie, whenever he
heard the organ being played, always thanked the good Lord that it no longer required him to work the bellows at the back. Years he’d done that, till some benefactor or other, needing to put in a good word with God before departing this life, had paid for it ‘to be electrocuted’ as Willie described it. My word, he thought, now that Rector can’t half play. Mrs Peel’ll have to look to her laurels and no mistake. The music throbbed through the church with a kind of lively triumph which Willie found quite moving. Brass band music was more to his personal taste, but he mightily appreciated the beauty of the rector’s playing.
Peter concluded his performance with a flourish, switched off the organ and quietly made his way home. He heated a pot of coffee and carried the tray with two cups on it into the sitting room. As he put down the tray the doorbell rang.
Standing on the step was Michael Palmer, schoolmaster extraordinaire of Turnham Malpas for the last twenty years. What had been meant as a stepping stone had become a millstone, and here he was still teaching a new generation of children, holding onto life by the merest thread. His square, weatherbeaten face topped by thinning hair smiled benignly at Peter, who stood looking down upon him from his great height, Michael reaching only five feet six in his socks. The two men shook hands and Michael winced at the strength of Peter’s grip.
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Harris. Or shall I call you Peter?’
‘Yes, please. Coffee?’
‘Thank you, black, please. It seems odd using your Christian name. We always knew the previous incumbent as Mr Furbank – it would have felt impudent to have called him anything else. It was time we had some new blood;
he’d been here far too long. Sorry for being outspoken, but it’s the truth. Mr Furbank took a great deal of interest in the children but I’m afraid he didn’t have the right touch and I had difficulty preventing the children from giggling at his absent-minded ways. He came into school every Friday morning to take prayers and then gave the children a little talk of some kind. I don’t expect you to follow exactly in his footsteps, so I wondered what kind of presence you would like to have?’
Peter took a sip of his coffee whilst deciding how to answer. ‘I should very much like to take prayers one morning a week, but how about if it was held in the church?’
‘What a good idea.’
‘I’m very keen to encourage the children of the village to come into church and centre their lives around activities here. I intend to start Beavers and Brownies as soon as I can find suitable helpers, and also Muriel Hipkin has suggested that a playgroup would be a good idea. She feels that a lot of the children come into school at five not having any real experience of joining in with other children and knowing how to share. How would you feel about that?’
‘I should be delighted – it’s a perfectly splendid idea! There are quite a few children from the farms hereabouts who come to school quite afraid of what they have to face. A playgroup would be excellent. Where would you hold it?’
‘I had thought of the church hall.’
‘If we can get permission from the County we could hold it in the school itself. I have a spare classroom and the facilities like toilets and equipment would all be available with very little extra expense. I’ll have a word with my assistant – she takes the infants so she would be more
involved than me. I’m sure she’ll be delighted.’
‘Does your wife help in the school?’
For the moment Michael didn’t answer. He carefully placed his cup on the little table, took out his handkerchief and dabbed his moustache dry. Peter noticed his hand was shaking as he put the handkerchief away.
‘My wife died three years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, I didn’t know. What an intrusion.’
‘Not at all – how were you to know? She did teach, but over in Culworth. No, my assistant is Toria Clark, one of the new breed with plenty of energy and fresh ideas. The children love her.’
Peter put down his cup and offered Michael more coffee. The two of them talked for another hour about the village and the possibilities of change. Peter sensed that Michael was a fine schoolmaster, and Michael thought what a blessing it was for Turnham Malpas that Peter had accepted the living.
To keep himself occupied and push his current problem to the back of his mind, Peter had raided Caroline’s plentiful supply of paint in the garden shed and, having washed the walls and paintwork, was finishing putting a muted shade of antique gold on the study walls when he remembered he needed to go to the village store to buy meat for the evening meal.
Jimbo Charter-Plackett stood by the door discussing politics with Sir Ronald. Jimbo was wearing his butcher’s apron and straw boater, a get-up he’d adopted to give style to his store. He raised his boater as soon as he recognised the Rector.
‘Good afternoon, sir, welcome to Turnham Malpas Village Store. It’s an honour to serve you. See you later,
Ron … Sir Ronald.’ He waved a dismissal to the self-appointed squire and made room for Peter to enter. ‘Perfectly ridiculous man. Now, Rector, what can I get for you?’
‘Caroline has asked me to buy lamb chops for dinner tonight.’
‘Come this way.’ Jimbo led him to the meat department. The Charter-Placketts had bought the next door cottage and by pulling down walls and reorganising the space available, they had made an excellent store out of what had originally been a small village shop in the front room of a large cottage.
‘I have never seen such an incredible shop in such a small village before,’ Peter exclaimed. ‘Is there anything you
don’t
sell?’
‘Not much. You name it we sell it – and if we don’t, we soon will.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but how on earth do you make it pay?’