A Blessing In Disguise (44 page)

‘What made you bring this up now?' I ask Ann. ‘It wasn't . . .'

‘It wasn't the sight of two men both vying for your attention,' she says, smiling. ‘Diverting though that was, and it didn't surprise me. No, it was something I've been thinking a lot about and I'd decided that this weekend I'd say it to you. You see, what I also want you to know, in case you've ever thought otherwise, is that I would never be any kind of an obstacle to you. I love you as if you were my daughter, and I'd be happy and glad for you – I mean if you were to find new happiness. Don't forget, Venus, you're not only a priest, you're a woman, and an attractive one too! I don't think you realize how attractive you are.'

There's a silence between us. I think neither of us knows what to say next, where to take this conversation. In the end, I speak first.

‘Thank you. I'm glad you said that, I'm glad you feel that way. However, I have nothing and no-one in mind. And when, and if, I do have, you'll be one of the first to know.'

‘Thank you,' she says. ‘And now I really will go to bed. Good-night, love!' She gives me a hug and a kiss.

As she reaches the door I call after her.

‘By the way, Ann, I'll expect you to be equally up-front with me if you decide to do something of the kind! No sudden elopements!' Then I'm laughing, and so is she.

At half-past six Becky is standing by the side of my bed, already washed and dressed, hair combed, shaking me awake.

‘Come on, Mum,' she says. ‘It's Saturday!'

‘Becky, go away,' I say, pulling the duvet over my head. ‘No way am I getting up before seven-thirty! I'll be down then, and not a minute earlier. And you are not to waken Ann. I hope you haven't already.'

‘Oh, Mum!' she begs. ‘Come on! Nigel's coming soon!'

‘Not for three hours,' I tell her. ‘Now just
GO
!'

Reluctantly, she does, but I'm wide awake now, so I get up and shower, and go downstairs to make breakfast and Ann appears soon afterwards.

‘I don't want any breakfast,' Becky says. ‘I'm not the least bit hungry!'

I face her fair and square.

‘Becky Stanton,' I warn her, ‘if you don't eat at the very least a bowl of cereal then I shall go and collect Missie on my own! You are not leaving this house on an empty stomach!'

There's no answer to that, is there? So she eats a bowl of Coco Pops. Sometimes I'm ashamed of the power we wield over our young, except, I usually tell myself, we do it for their own good. It's still only eight o'clock and Nigel isn't collecting us until nine-thirty. Lucky Nigel! He'll be having a lie-in.

Ann clears the table while I go back to my room and say my Office, adding a special prayer for Becky and Missie, and what we're undertaking today. I haven't much doubt that having a dog will change our lives; restrict them in some ways and hopefully enhance them in others. Meanwhile, Becky assembles the things we have to take with us to the Rescue Centre – or I should say re-assembles them because she did it all last night. Now all she does is check them out and place them right by the front door. Dog lead, water bowl and a screw-top bottle of water in case Missie should be thirsty, and a squeaky toy in case she should get bored. Dog treats, a cushion for her to sit on in the car, though I suspect she will spend most of the time on Becky's lap.

Nigel arrives fifteen minutes early and spends the time showing Becky how his camera works.

‘It looks dead easy!' she says. ‘Can I take a picture of Missie myself?'

‘Sure!' he says. ‘It is easy.'

We pile into Nigel's car and arrive at Mark's house on the dot of ten. ‘Don't forget,' Becky says as I ring the bell, ‘we absolutely must be on time for Missie.'

Mark takes us straight through to his studio and there, on the easel, is the finished portrait. Me, in all my glory!

There's a gasp all round. It really is – how shall I describe it? – arresting, I think would be a good word. Not because of the subject, after all it's just a woman in a black cassock, but because of the sheer skill and proficiency of the painting.

‘Wow!' Nigel says.

‘It's wonderful!' Ann cries. ‘Quite wonderful!'

Nigel looks at Becky. ‘Well?' he says. ‘And what do you think of your mother's portrait?'

‘Wicked!' Becky says.

I have learnt that ‘wicked' is the highest form of approval, and actually she sounds genuinely enthusiastic.

‘It's
so
like you,' Ann says. ‘You look as though you could step down from the canvas!'

I would like to think it was like me. The woman in the painting has clear, unblemished skin, her hair is thick and bouncy, not too tidy, her brown eyes are clear and shining. If her figure isn't perfect, if she needs to lose a few pounds, it doesn't show under her cassock. Yes, it would be great to think it was like me, but I think it flatters me. Not that I'm complaining.

‘You're right!' Nigel says to Ann. ‘It's remarkably lifelike.'

Mark has said nothing so far, but he does look gratified. ‘Thank you,' he says.

‘I didn't know there was so much colour in a black garment,' Nigel says.

‘That's what most people think,' Mark replies, ‘but it's not true. The more you look at something black, the more variations of shade you see.' And then he turns to me. ‘So what do you think of it, Venus? You haven't said a word so far.'

‘I think it's wonderful!' I say. ‘I do really! But I have to say, I think it's flattering.'

He's not totally pleased by that.

‘I don't paint portraits to flatter,' he says, rather sternly for him. ‘If I did I could easily get more commissions, probably from Lord Mayors or elderly chairmen of public companies. I paint what I see, though not only what I see outwardly. I like to think I paint the whole person rather than just the outside and the trappings.'

‘Well, I do think it's lovely!' I say. It sounds inadequate.

‘Thank you,' Mark says. ‘It's important that
you
like it. You were a perfect subject, as I knew you would be. I reckon it will be the focus of the exhibition. I shall certainly give it pride of place!'

‘You're having an exhibition?' Nigel asks. ‘Where and when?'

‘In December, in London,' Mark answers.

‘Great!' Nigel says. ‘We'll all come on the first day!'

I feel a bit sorry for Mark. Once again it's not what he'd planned. But he's a step ahead.

‘Fine!' he says. ‘Tell me how many and I'll see you get invitations. Of course I shall be taking Venus to the preview. You will come, won't you?' he asks me. ‘You promised. There'll be a bit of a party. People will enjoy meeting the model.'

What can I say? He hadn't said a word about a preview party. ‘Of course I'll come,' is what I do say. ‘But I hope you'll explain that I'm not entirely a model, dressed up – I'm a real live priest!'

He insists on going into the house to make us coffee. ‘Come in when you're ready,' he says. While he's gone we look around at the rest of his paintings, which I've already seen.

‘He's very talented,' Ann says.

‘Yes,' Nigel agrees. ‘I'd no idea. Actually I haven't known him all that long and I've never seen his work before. It's good!'

This is generous of him because when it comes to the London visit Mark has pipped him to the post.

Becky pulls at my sleeve. ‘Mum, if we've
got
to drink coffee we'd better go and do it or we'll be late for Missie!'

‘No we won't,' I assure her. ‘We have plenty of time.' Nevertheless we move back into the house and stand around in the kitchen with our coffee until it's time to leave.

At the Rescue Centre Nigel and Ann are asked to wait in Reception while Becky and I are taken behind the scenes by Imogen. Becky, I feel sure, has thought that all we will have to do is put the lead on Missie, and depart. Of course it's not so. We do go to Missie's kennel, which she shares with a fox terrier, and Missie does recognize us and barks a welcome while Imogen puts her on the lead, but there is more to come before we are free to go. We return to Imogen's office where we're invited to sit down. ‘There are one or two things I want to say to you,' Imogen says. I'm not sure that Becky, at this point, wants to hear any of them, but we are not in charge; not yet.

Imogen checks through the list of things we need to have to welcome Missie home, and of course we can't be faulted on that. Missie will be a well-provided-for little dog. We're given diet sheets, and a sheet of handy questions and answers about her health, the date when her next booster will be due, a form or two for me to sign, and so on.

‘Give her a small meal when you get her home,' Imogen says. ‘She's not had one today so she'll be ready for it and it will help her to settle. Also, I would like to pay you a visit in about a month's time to see how everything's going. I'm sure it will be all right, but I want to make certain.'

‘Of course,' I agree. ‘We'll be pleased to see you.'

All the time we've been talking people have been in and out of the room to say good-bye to Missie. ‘She's a great favourite,' Imogen says. ‘We shall miss her very much. That's the trouble with this job. You get fond of the animals and then you have to part with them!'

‘Do you ever adopt them yourselves?' I ask.

‘Oh yes!' Imogen says. ‘Most of the staff have one or more dogs they've taken from the Centre. Sometimes because no-one else has chosen them.'

Then she rises to her feet, bends down and gives Missie an affectionate cuddle, and says, ‘There you are, then! She's all yours! Look after her, Becky!' Becky is flushed with emotion and can't answer but I promise that we will.

‘I'll see you to the door,' Imogen says.

When we see Nigel and Ann waiting for us in Reception Becky immediately remembers about the photographs.

‘Can we take one just outside the door?' she asks. Then she turns to Imogen. ‘Please will you be in it?'

‘I'll be delighted,' Imogen says. ‘And could we have one of Missie on her own? I'd like to put it up in the Centre. In fact, it might even find a place in our magazine! Who knows?'

We go outside. Nigel takes Becky with Missie, Becky with Missie and Imogen, with me, with Ann, then Imogen takes one of all four of us with Missie in the middle. At last we go out and get into the car, Ann and Becky in the back seat with Missie on a cushion between them, me in the front with Nigel. Everyone waves and Nigel sets off down the drive. No sooner have we turned into the main road than Missie is lying on Becky's lap. I lean across to look at them through the driving mirror and there's a lump in my throat. It's one of those moments I wish so hard that Philip was here to experience.

When we get back to the Vicarage Nigel nips out, opens the rear door and carefully lifts Missie out. Becky follows swiftly, and takes the lead from him. I am marching to the front door, key in hand.

‘Straight through and into the garden!' I order. ‘She'll want to pee!'

Let off the lead in the back garden, she immediately runs round a couple of times in large circles, then dashes off into the far corner and does a pee, which seems to take for ever. That done, Becky, standing on the lawn, calls out, ‘Missie! Missie!'

Ann, Nigel and I stand amazed while Missie runs straight back to Becky, jumps up once, then sits immediately, at attention, in front of Becky. Becky is too moved to say a word, then she recovers and kneels down on the grass to give Missie a hug.

‘I'm going to feed her now!' Becky says. So we all go back into the house and, remembering that we haven't had lunch, I heat some soup and make sandwiches for all of us. ‘I'm not going to have mine until Missie's had her dinner,' Becky says, though I know she must be hungry. I needn't have worried. Missie polishes off the food in her dish in no time at all.

‘Can I phone Anna?' Becky asks. ‘Can I ask her to come round?'

‘Well, all right, you can,' I say, but doubtfully. ‘But she mustn't stay long and you mustn't invite anyone else. I don't think that would be fair to Missie. She's in a new home with new people and I think she needs time to settle down quietly.'

‘I'd say you're right,' Nigel says. ‘I'll be off too. I'll print the photographs on the computer – make a few extra copies – and will it be OK if I bring them round tomorrow, when I get back from church? Say around noon?'

‘Fine!' I tell him.

When he's left Ann says, ‘What a nice man he is! Do I take it he doesn't go to St Mary's?'

‘That's right. He goes to St Patrick's. He's RC,' I say. ‘Actually, Ann, what I should do now is go to see Bertha Jowett – I told you, didn't I, she's the lady with the cottage Mum and Dad hope to buy? I think she'll be pleased to have the news about their offer. And if I went now, you'd be here with Becky and Missie. I think it's a wee bit too soon to leave them. I could give her a ring, of course, but she doesn't hear well. I won't be long.'

‘Take your time,' Ann says. ‘I shall read the newspaper. Too chilly to go in the garden.'

Before I leave I give my mother a quick call to check that all's going according to plan, and it is. ‘Dad's accepted their offer,' she says. ‘They've already had a word with their solicitor. It doesn't look like there'll be any delay.'

Bertha Jowett is having her lunch; it's there on a tray, half-eaten. Baked beans on toast. She sees me glance at it.

‘I'm rather fond of beans on toast,' she says.

‘So is my daughter,' I tell her.

‘It's quite nutritious, you know,' she says, defensively.

‘Oh, I know!' But I'm wondering how often she has a bit of something on toast instead of cooking herself a meal, and how much variety she gets. The only sign of fruit, for instance, is a seriously wizened apple in a dish on the sideboard. But at least when she goes into the Beeches she'll get three square meals a day.