Cast the First Stone (34 page)

‘Yes, so it has,' agreed Fiona. ‘And it's such a relief that you know all about it now. I must admit, though, that I'm scared, Simon. I don't feel like going to church tonight – singing in the choir and feeling that everyone's looking at me – but I suppose I'll have to go, won't I?'

This conversation was taking place at the tea table. They always had an early tea at half past four on a Sunday to give Simon time to prepare himself for the Evensong and for Fiona, also, to get ready to sing in the choir.

‘Yes, you must go, my love,' said Simon. ‘You have nothing at all to be ashamed of. I really mean that, and let them see you're not ashamed. Why should you be? You made a mistake, one that thousands of girls have made over the years and will continue to do. You can't deny it because it's true, and I know that you would not want to deny it. “Speak the truth and shame the devil.” I don't think that's a biblical quotation, but it's what my mother always used to say, and it's a valuable maxim. Do you agree, darling?' Fiona smiled faintly at him. ‘Come along then,' he said. ‘Let's get these pots washed, then we'll face the music together.'

The evening service passed without any noticeable difference in the attitude of the congregation. Fiona suspected that one or two members of the choir seemed a little embarrassed at seeing her, but she decided it might well be her imagination playing tricks. There was a visiting preacher that evening; a clergyman who had been a missionary in Africa. Mrs Bayliss and some of her minions from the MU were not there. They did not always attend both services of the day, and Fiona guessed that the way of life in far-flung Africa might not be of interest to Ethel Bayliss. She and her coterie were very parochially minded.

The preacher was interesting and inspiring, speaking movingly of his work overseas. Fiona noticed that there were more than a few pound notes in the plate for the retiring collection in aid of missionary work; this was in addition to the usual offertory for week-by-week church expenses. Fiona reflected that it was good sometimes to think of God's wider world and of the millions of folk who were not so fortunate of those at home in our own comfortable little existence. She was forced, not to forget, but to lay aside her own problems for a short while as they prayed, at Simon's lead, for people of other nations.

She was determined to be brave and to do as Simon had urged that she should, to hold her head up high and refuse to be intimidated by her critics. She was starting to feel a little unwell, which she knew was only to be expected. She could scarcely remember how she had felt fourteen years ago; her feeling of sickness then had been brought about more by anxiety and sheer terror rather than by her condition. Now she felt a little queasy in the mornings, but it was, fortunately, of short duration and by the afternoon and evening she felt quite well again.

It was the Tuesday that week for the fortnightly meeting of the Young Wives and Friends' group. Fiona put on a smiling face as she greeted them, although she felt a little apprehensive. How would they react on seeing her face to face? Had the story reached the younger women of the congregation yet? She glanced round at the women gathered in the rectory sitting room as she prepared to make her little speech of welcome. Joan Tweedale was there of course, her great friend and ally. So was Gillian Heap who had proved to be a most efficient secretary. Ruth Makepeace and Heather Milner were there too, and the two younger women, Sandra and Karen. Their number had risen and remained at a steady sixteen; a quick count of heads showed that there were only twelve members there that night. The ones who were missing appeared to be those who had joined most recently, although they had all seemed keen to continue. Fiona decided to enquire if anyone knew of their whereabouts. Maybe it was just coincidence that they were all missing together, but she had a feeling that the four of then were near neighbours. They had all joined at the same time and seemed, somehow, to keep themselves apart from the rest of the group.

Fiona welcomed everyone without drawing attention to the smaller number, then she helped Sylvia to set up her projector and screen to show the slides of her holiday. It had been a coach tour of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. They all marvelled at the stunning views of Lake Lucerne, the Austrian Tyrol and the pretty villages of the Black Forest; Sylvia's husband was a talented photographer. Fiona wondered if she and Simon, one day, might embark on such a journey. Foreign travel was becoming more popular now, for those who could afford it. Sylvia was one of the older members, whose two children were both grown up and married. This type of holiday was out of the question for most of the young women, but Sylvia was by no means boastful, and the rest of them showed no envy, only interest and appreciation to Sylvia for her interesting talk.

It turned out to be a happy evening, but Fiona was still aware of a few curious, although not unpleasant, glances in her direction . . . Or was it, once again, her imagination?

Joan had baked the cakes for that evening – the members took it in turns – and whilst they prepared the supper in the kitchen Fiona surprised her friend by saying that she intended to tell the women the truth about the story that was circulating in the parish.

Joan looked at her in some astonishment. ‘Are you sure about this?' she asked. ‘And is it necessary? Perhaps some of the ladies here tonight have heard about it, but we all know you well enough to sympathize rather than condemn. The fact that they're here tonight proves it, doesn't it?'

‘Not everyone's here,' answered Fiona. ‘There are four missing, and they've never missed before.'

‘Oh well . . . yes, I know, but they are . . . Maybe I shouldn't say this, but they've never really seemed part of it, have they, not like the rest of us?'

‘But I want everyone to feel that they belong. I don't know why they've stayed away, but it seems too much of a coincidence to me. And I have a feeling that the one called Anna lives near Ethel Bayliss. Anyway, I don't want anyone looking at me curiously all evening, as though they're trying to assess how I'm feeling. No, Joan, I'm going to take the bull by the horns.'

‘Very well then; you know whatever you do that I'll be right behind you. You're a brave lass.' Joan grinned at her. ‘Coma along then; I'll carry the tray, and you bring the rest of the stuff in.'

They handed round the cups of tea, small plates and serviettes, and the plate of Joan's home-made fairy cakes and iced buns. When they were all supplied Fiona broke into the chatter.

‘Listen, ladies, please, if you will . . . I've got something to say.' There was a sudden hush as they all looked at her expectantly. ‘I'm sure you must all have heard . . .' she began. ‘What I mean is . . . well . . . there's a story going round the parish about . . . about something that happened to me quite a while ago – fourteen years ago, actually – and . . . I want to put the record straight.'

Some of them looked down at their plates, a little discomfited, but several of the ladies looked her in the eye, nodding and half smiling, all, it seemed, in sympathy with her.

‘I had a baby,' she said, ‘a baby girl. I was seventeen years old when I discovered I was pregnant.'

‘Well, join the club then!' said Sandra Jarvis. The women all looked at her, and the ice was broken as they all burst out laughing.

‘Yes, it happened to me an' all,' Sandra went on. ‘My mam and dad played hell with me . . . Whoops, sorry!' She put a hand to her mouth. ‘They were very annoyed, I mean, but Gary and me, well, we got married. Then little Gareth came along, then Kim, then Kelly, and Mum and Dad think the world of 'em all now. Sorry, Fiona. I've interrupted your story, haven't I? But I just wanted to say – well – it happens, doesn't it? And I dare say there might be a few more here who were . . . well . . . not exactly whiter than white when they got married.'

There was a slight ripple of amusement, more subdued this time, and one or two of the women looked down at the floor, a little embarrassed.

‘Well, thank you for that, Sandra,' said Fiona. ‘Don't worry about what she's just said, ladies,' she added with a sly grin. ‘I'm not going to ask you to put your hands up.'

‘Oh, what a pity!' said Karen, Sandra's friend.

‘That's enough now,' said Fiona, laughing. ‘To get back to what I was saying . . . I'm aware that people are talking, so I'd like to tell you the truth about it.' She told them, as briefly as she could, about Dave and the church holiday, the lack of understanding and support from her parents, and her banishment to the home for unmarried mothers.

‘Actually, it wasn't all that bad,' she said. ‘You hear such grim tales about such places, but all the staff there were very kind, provided that we toed the line. But it seems that I made an enemy there – as well as a very good friend – and I think she was out to cause trouble for me when she recognized me again, recently. Hence the story, which seems to have circulated like wildfire.'

‘Yes, I must admit I'd heard about it,' said Gillian.

‘So had I,' said Sylvia, and a few more nodded in agreement.

‘I'm not going to say who told me, though,' said Gillian.

‘Nor do I want you to,' said Fiona. ‘I'm not quite sure what the would-be troublemakers want to happen. Joan thinks – and I'm inclined to agree with her – that they want Simon to be suspicious about me, and to find out, eventually, that his wife has a guilty secret. But, of course, Simon already knows, and I've had nothing but love and support from my husband.' There was no need to tell them that he had only recently found out the truth.

‘That's no more than we would expect of Simon,' said Sylvia, ‘and may I say on behalf of everyone here, that our rector has got himself an excellent wife.'

‘Hear, hear . . .' It seemed to Fiona that all the women were in agreement.

‘And we are all highly delighted about the forthcoming baby,' added Gillian. ‘That story is far more important to us all.'

‘Thank you, all of you,' said Fiona, moved almost to tears by the support she was receiving. She blinked and brushed away the incipient moisture in her eyes. ‘Now, I think we've said enough on that subject, haven't we? Just stay and chat, ladies, for as long as you like.'

The gathering broke into three or four little groups chatting together. A few moments later Fiona was surprised to see Ruth Makepeace and her friend, Heather, join herself and Joan on the settee. Ruth, a little self-consciously, bent down and kissed Fiona on the cheek. ‘I admire you so much for saying all that,' she told her. ‘And . . . for everything. There's something I want to tell you myself.'

‘Thank you, Ruth,' said Fiona, moving along to make room for her. ‘Everyone is being very kind, but it took a lot of courage, I can tell you.'

‘Well, so will this,' said Ruth quietly. ‘You see, I resented you at first, Fiona, quite a lot. Then when I got to know you better I realized what a good wife you are for Simon. Far better than I would have been . . .'

‘Oh dear!' said Fiona. ‘You really don't need to tell me all this, Ruth.'

‘But I do,' Ruth answered. ‘You see . . . I was a little bit in love with Simon, and I thought – mistakenly – that he might feel the same way about me. I don't know if you realized . . .'

Fiona laughed, a little embarrassedly. ‘I'm not so green as I'm cabbage looking; That's something my old gran used to say. Yes, I gather there were a few hopeful ladies in the parish when Simon's first wife died. And who could blame them? My husband was quite a catch! I couldn't believe it myself when he asked me to marry him. I'm sorry, Ruth. It must have been awful for you. A newcomer like me, and I know you'd done such a lot to help Simon.'

‘But that was all, wasn't it? We worked together on committees and things, and I imagined something that wasn't there. I know Simon's a clergyman, but he's a bit of a live wire as well, isn't he? And you're so vivacious and outgoing; you're just right for him. I'm rather quiet, and . . . well, I know now that it wouldn't have been right.'

‘Go on, tell them the rest of it,' said her friend, Heather, who, along with Joan, had been listening to the conversation. ‘I know you're dying to tell them.'

‘Well, I've met somebody,' said Ruth, smiling shyly. ‘We get on well together, and I think . . . well, I know that I love him.'

‘And he loves you too,' said Heather.

‘Yes, he does,' said Ruth. ‘In fact we're getting engaged next week, when it's my birthday. You're the first to know, apart from Heather, of course.'

‘And the rest of the staff,' added Heather, ‘who must be blind if they haven't put two and two together by now. He's our new headmaster,' she smiled. ‘It was love at first sight for those two . . . well, almost.'

‘Oh yes; he came last September didn't he?' said Fiona. ‘I remember Simon telling me; he was on the board of governors who appointed him. Ian Saunders; that's his name, isn't it? Well, fancy that! I'm really delighted for you, Ruth, and I know that Simon will be, too.'

‘Ian's a widower,' Ruth explained. ‘His wife died about five years ago, and he has two children – a boy and a girl – in their early teens. He's the same age as me; well, just a year older. And I get on very well with the children.'

‘I'm so happy for you,' said Fiona. ‘And I'm so pleased that we are going to be friends from now on . . . as I'm sure we are.'

‘Yes, I'm pleased too,' said Ruth. ‘I've felt for a while that I wanted to get to know you better. I lost my husband, Ralph, as you probably know, during the war, and I didn't think there would ever be anyone else.'

‘Until you fell for Simon,' said Fiona with a twinkle in her eye. ‘And who could blame you, eh?'

Ruth grinned. ‘Let's put it all behind us and look forward to the future. I'm so thrilled for you both, about the baby. Perhaps you would like a little girl, would you, after . . . you know, what you were telling us?'