Cast the First Stone (22 page)

‘Yes, Dad,' Simon smiled. ‘We'll try not to forget anybody. It's quite a problem knowing who to invite, especially from the congregation. We have to be so careful not to offend anyone.'

Simon asked Fiona, soon after the meeting with his parents, about her family and whom she would want to invite to the wedding.

‘I don't have many relations,' she said, ‘with me being an only child. There's my Aunt Beattie and Uncle Donald up in Northumberland; Beattie is my father's sister. But they're quite elderly now, and it might be too far for them to travel. They were so pleased to hear about our engagement though, so we must invite them. They used to have a farm near Alnwick, but they're retired now . . . I spent some time with them there once.' She looked pensive for a moment, her eyes misty as she stared unseeingly across the room. ‘They were very good to me; in fact, I don't know what I'd have done without them at that time.' There was a moment's silence, then she seemed to become aware of Simon's curious glance. ‘I'd been ill, you see,' she explained, ‘and . . . and they looked after me for quite a while whilst I recuperated.'

‘So when was that?' asked Simon. ‘A long time ago?'

‘Yes . . . It was – let me see – 1951. I was seventeen, and I'd had glandular fever. I was quite poorly actually, but it did me a world of good, staying on the farm. I hope they'll be able to come, because I don't have any more relations, only cousins that I've not kept in touch with. My mother's brother, my Uncle Eddie, and his wife, both died a few years ago.'

‘And what about friends?' asked Simon. ‘Girls that you knew in Leeds perhaps?'

‘I lost touch with most of the girls that I knew at school,' replied Fiona, ‘except for my best friend, Diane . . . and I didn't see her for quite a few years either.'

‘Why was that?' asked Simon. He was aware that Fiona was looking a little ill at ease. ‘Did you fall out with her, or something like that? You don't need to tell me, though if you don't want to.'

‘No . . . we never fell out,' said Fiona. ‘It was when I was ill, you see. Well . . . whilst I was up there my parents decided to leave the council house we had in Headingley, and they got a transfer to one in Harehills.'

‘Oh, I see,' said Simon. ‘Why did they decide to move just then?'

‘Well . . . my gran's arthritis was getting worse, so Mum decided she wanted to live nearer to her, to help her with shopping and . . . and everything. She was a tough old lady though, really, was Gran. She lived till she was ninety.'

‘Yes; you were very fond of her, weren't you?' said Simon. Fiona had spoken far more about her grandmother that she had about her parents. He sensed that there might have been a rift between them, but maybe she would tell him about it in her own good time.

‘Yes, I loved my gran very much,' she said with a sad smile. ‘I suppose I was lucky though, to have her until she was ninety. Anyway, as I was saying . . . when I went back home to Leeds it was to this new council house . . . and so I didn't see any of my old friends again.'

Simon nodded. ‘I see.' It crossed his mind that it seemed to be an odd thing for Fiona's parents to do, to move house whilst their daughter was away. Not very considerate of them, especially as she had been so ill. It must have been strange for her, going back to a different home, nowhere near to the homes of her former friends. But there were trams and buses in Leeds; why couldn't she have got in touch with them again? There was something here that he didn't understand, but again he kept quiet. He knew that Fiona would tell him just as much as she wanted to, and there was no reason for him to make a mystery of it when maybe there wasn't one.

‘I got a job quite soon at a branch library, not too far from our new home in Leeds,' she went on to explain, ‘on the strength of my good School Certificate results. I was in the sixth form, you see, the lower sixth, when . . . when I became ill, and so I missed a lot of schooling. I'd been studying for A-levels; I was supposed to be going to college to train to be a teacher, but I decided to get a job as a librarian instead. And I never regretted it.'

‘You could have gone to college later, though, couldn't you?' asked Simon.

Fiona shook her head. ‘I'm not sure that I ever really wanted to. It was more my mother's idea than mine, for me to be a teacher. Anyway, it was what Diane did . . . I was telling you about my best friend, Diane; we were inseparable when we were in the fifth form and the lower sixth. She went to the training college in Bingley and trained to be an Infant teacher. She didn't teach for long, though – only about five years – because she married Andy, the lad she'd been going out with when we were at school, and they soon started a family. She's thinking of going back to teaching though, when her children are at school.'

‘So you did get in touch with her again then, eventually?'

‘Yes . . . it was when my parents were killed,' said Fiona. ‘She read about it in the paper. They were on a church outing in the Dales, and the coach collided with a lorry somewhere near Leyburn. A few passengers were killed, including my parents who were sitting near the front, and a lot were injured. It made headlines, of course, at the time. And Diane recognized the names and got in touch with me. She went round to my gran's house because she didn't know our new address. And so . . . well, that's how we met up again, and we decided to keep in touch.'

‘You would have a lot of catching up to do, no doubt,' said Simon.

‘Yes, quite a lot,' agreed Fiona. ‘It had been about four years since I'd last seen her. And in the meantime she'd done her two years at college and got a teaching post in Leeds. I was surprised to hear that she was still going out with Andy.'

‘Yes, I should imagine you would be,' said Simon. ‘These boy and girl romances don't always come to anything, do they?'

‘Er . . . no,' said Fiona. ‘No, they don't.'

Again he noticed that she looked a little bit uncomfortable. He wondered if Fiona, also, had had a boyfriend whilst she was at school, a friendship, perhaps, that had come to a disappointing end.

She seemed to recover quite quickly though, going on to say, ‘Actually, I'm thinking of asking Diane to be my bridesmaid. Well, she'll be matron of honour, won't she, seeing that she's married? I still think of her as my best friend even though I don't see her all that often. Then there's Ginny, another friend who lives up in South Shields. I'd like to invite her and her husband.'

‘Is she an old school friend as well?' asked Simon.

‘Oh no; she's a girl that I met when I was . . . when I was staying up in Northumberland. I told you, didn't I, that I stayed with my aunt and uncle when I was ill? Well, Ginny was . . . she was somebody that they knew, and we got quite friendly because we were about the same age. Ginny's married as well. In fact she's been married to Arthur for ages, since she was eighteen. Their little boy, Ryan – well, he's not little any more, he'll be thirteen – and they've got two daughters as well.' Simon noticed that Fiona seemed to be talking quickly, her words falling over one another, as she told him about her friends from the past, details that she had not mentioned before.

‘So there will be quite a few people that you want to invite, won't there? You must invite as many friends as you like, as you don't have many relations. There are quite a few relatives on my side who will have to be invited. Then there are the church folk. That's going to be quite a problem, knowing who to ask and who to leave out. I've told my parents that there'll probably be about fifty guests, all told.'

‘It's very good of your parents to offer to pay for the reception and everything,' said Fiona. ‘It's usually the bride's parents who foot the bill, isn't it? That's not possible, of course, in my case, but I thought that we might pay for it ourselves. I know some couples do, these days.'

‘Let's not talk about money,' said Simon, laughing. ‘It's vulgar. Actually, my parents are delighted to do it. They're really charmed with you, my darling, as I knew they would be, and they can see how happy we are together. So . . . we'll fix the date and get on with the arrangements. I shall ask my friend Timothy, who I met at college, to officiate. Seeing that I can't conduct my own service!' He laughed. ‘So you can go ahead and choose your wedding dress. You'll want a traditional white wedding, won't you? A flowing veil and all the trimmings, and perhaps more than one bridesmaid?'

‘Oh no, I don't think so,' Fiona replied quickly. ‘I was thinking of something more simple, perhaps, and not white. Maybe cream, or pale blue or pink, but not white.'

‘Why ever not?' asked Simon. ‘You do surprise me. I know you're a very modern sort of girl, but I thought that you'd want a traditional white wedding dress.'

‘Oh . . . well, I'm not twenty-one, am I?' said Fiona, with a shrug and a little laugh. ‘I'm thirty-one; I'll be thirty-two by the time we get married. I think I ought to go for something a little simpler perhaps. I'm not bothered about a lot of fuss and palaver. I'm just so happy that you want to marry me, Simon. Sometimes I can scarcely believe it.'

‘Well, it's true,' he replied, putting his arms around her and kissing her tenderly, ‘and you'd better believe it. But it's your choice, of course. You must wear just what you like. Whatever you choose I know you'll look radiant and beautiful, and I shall be so proud of you.'

Fiona smiled at him. ‘Thank you,' she said simply. ‘And I shall try my best to be a perfect wife for you. Well, maybe not perfect because none of us are, but I promise that I will try to make you happy and . . . and be worthy of you.'

Simon shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I sometimes wonder if I am worthy of you, my darling.'

Simon was, indeed, proud of his new wife on their wedding day. It was as perfect a day as they could have wished for. A cliché of a day, with the sun shining from a cloudless blue sky on to a beautiful radiant bride.

The church was almost full. Nearly every member of the congregation was there whether they had received an invitation or not, to wish their rector and his new wife every happiness and God's richest blessings.

Everyone agreed that Fiona looked lovely in her simply styled dress of deep cream-coloured moiré silk. It was mid-calf length, with a boat-shaped neckline, elbow-length sleeves and a fitted waist with a pleated cummerbund. She wore a tiny matching pillbox hat with a short veil that reached to her shoulders. Her small bouquet was of roses in shades of apricot and gold. Her one bridesmaid, Diane, wore a dress of a similar style in apricot silk, and carried a posy of cream-coloured roses. Fiona's golden hair and fair complexion were a contrast to Diane's dark brown hair and her slightly olive-tinted skin. Everyone agreed that they were a most attractive pair of young women.

Around fifty people gathered at a country inn on the outskirts of Aberthwaite for the wedding ‘breakfast' at two o'clock. Simon was pleased that Fiona's elderly aunt and uncle had managed to make the journey. He noticed that they treated her as a dearly-loved daughter, and he decided that they must keep in touch with the couple.

Then there were Diane and Andy and their two children; Ginny and Arthur, the couple from Tyneside, but without their family of three; and the three other members of staff, Fiona's colleagues from the library at Aberthwaite, with their husbands. So Fiona's ‘side' was quite well represented despite her lack of close relatives. Simon's friend, Timothy Marsden, made an admirable best man, full of fun and wisecracks despite being ‘a man of the cloth'. There was unrestrained banter and high spirits, and showers of confetti as the newly-weds set off for their honeymoon in Simon's Morris Minor car.

‘Happy, my darling?' he asked as they drove away from the market town, following the road eastwards across the North York moors to Scarborough.

‘Happier than I've ever been in my life,' Fiona told him.

‘Same here,' he replied, reaching across and holding her hand for a moment. He felt a deep contentment, knowing that he was truly blessed in this marriage.

Simon was not surprised to discover that his new wife was not totally innocent with regard to sexual matters. He knew it was unlikely that an attractive young woman such as Fiona could have reached the age of thirty-two without having had some experience. He wondered if that was the reason she had decided not to wear a conventional white dress – supposedly a sign of virginity – but something, as she had said, ‘more fitting'. He was aware, though, that not everyone bothered now about a virginal white dress being a sign of purity. He had conducted several marriages where it was quite obviously not the case.

Their love-making was tender and beautiful, and he knew that they would find fulfilment in that side of their marriage, just as they had each found a soulmate in one another.

He did not yet know everything about Fiona. He guessed that there was something deeply hidden in her past life that she did not feel ready to talk about. But who was he, Simon Norwood – now the Reverend Simon Norwood – to question what might have happened to her? His own past had been far from exemplary. There were incidents that he had not talked about for years, things that he had had cause to regret . . .

Simon was a clever boy, but he had left school at sixteen, contrary to the advice of his parents, because he liked the idea of an office job and money in his pocket rather than a lengthy course at college or university. He was eighteen when World War Two started, and he joined the RAF almost immediately. He had not been sure of his path in life, but now he could see his way ahead, at least for the immediate future, maybe longer; who could tell?

His first billet as an RAF recruit – an AC2 – was in Blackpool, a resort of which he had fond memories of seaside holidays with his family. It was at the Tower Ballroom where he met the girl, a member of the WAAF, who gave him his first real sexual experience. But she was soon forgotten. He had been immature and gullible, but he knew it was just a fleeting physical attraction.