The New Rector (Tales from Turnham Malpas) (2 page)

The church was filled this morning, partly because it was Easter and partly because the whole village wanted to hear the new rector.

After the hymn had been sung and the congregation was settling down, in came the rector’s wife, looking harassed and breathless. She was so feminine and pretty. Her dark curly hair was cut short in a no-nonsense style, but the curls still made themselves evident. She had a clear ivory skin and bright blue eyes. She rushed down the aisle, sat in the rectory pew and hastily knelt on the specially embroidered kneeler with symbols appropriate to a rector’s wife. It hadn’t had any use while dear Mr Furbank had been there, for he’d lacked a wife all the thirty years he’d been the incumbent. Muriel had been delighted that at last there was to be a rector’s wife, but her hopes had been dashed when she’d learned that Caroline Harris was a hospital doctor in Culworth. Full time, too. No babies or Mothers’ Union for her – she belonged to the new breed.

An inspirational sermon followed by uplifting singing and a new modern anthem from the choir made a beautiful Easter morning service. Muriel realised that dear Mr Furbank’s sermons had become very dull. She had only enjoyed them because she loved his beautiful enunciation and the gentle aspect of his face.

Peter shook hands enthusiastically with the entire congregation as they left, saying that next Sunday he hoped they would all stay for coffee afterwards in the church hall and he would do his best to get round to see every member during the next few weeks. Willie Biggs winked at Muriel and said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Not quite like the old rector, is he? Got a bit more go, like. You won’t be coming with your jars of lemon cheese for this one. He plays squash and runs, he does. Smarten us all up, he will. Bashing tambourines and kissing and hugging we shall be before long, mark my words.’

‘My dear Peter, welcome to Turnham Malpas! We’re so glad to see you – you’re like a blast of fresh air. You’ve met my husband, of course, but I haven’t yet met your dear wife. Ah, here she is. My dear Mrs Harris …’

‘
Dr
Harris, actually.’

‘I’m sorry, Dr Harris. I’m Lady Bissett and this is my husband Sir Ronald.’

Caroline Harris turned to look at Sir Ronald, and Muriel saw a mischievous light come into her eyes.

‘I seem to recognise you from the television. Aren’t you a TUC person?’

‘Oh, he’s often on the telly, er – television, aren’t you, Ron … ald?’

‘Frequently. When you’ve held public office it’s hard to keep your face off it.’

‘Surely you must be the one who orchestrated that massive strike at the engineering works in Bradley?’

‘In all truth I actually tried to stop it, Mrs … Dr Harris.’

‘Oh, it didn’t come across like that on our television,’ Caroline said, then she turned to Muriel, still smiling and said: ‘You must be Miss Hipkin. Willie Biggs tells me that your family has been in this village since the Conquest.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say quite as far back as that, but my ancestors worked in the gardens and the park for generations at the Big House, then when Lady Templeton had to sell up after the war my family moved away and now I’ve come back to live here again.’

‘You must come and have tea with me one day and tell me all about the village. I’ll call in and let you know which day I shall be at home and we’ll get together.’

Pericles was standing behind the door when she got back from morning service. He’d been terribly sick on the mat. She rushed him out into the back garden, where he was incredibly sick again. Considering what a small dog he was, it was amazing how much he’d had in his stomach. Cleaning the mat put her off her dinner so she put her thick cardigan on and sat in the back garden with him instead. He lay all afternoon looking extremely sorry for himself. About three o’clock, she made herself a cup of tea, put her Cadbury’s creme egg on a plate and carried the tray into the garden. She had a small table out there which she used for potting up but with a scrub it served as a tea table in the warmer weather. The creme egg did taste lovely – very rich and rather sickly and very indulgent. But she didn’t have many pleasures. From her chair, Muriel could just see over the wall into the churchyard. Sunday afternoon was the time when most people who cared took fresh flowers to the graves. The churchyard tap was alongside the gardener’s shed near the wall. It was far enough away not to block Muriel’s view but near enough for her to see what was going on.

‘Hello, Mr Palmer. Remember me?’

‘Why, of course, Sharon.’ He straightened up, holding the vase full of water in one hand and the flowers in the other. ‘It’s some time since you were in school but I remember you quite clearly. I don’t see you around nowadays.’

‘No, I work in Culworth, in Tesco’s. Boring, but there’s not much else. How are you? Still teaching in this godforsaken little dump?’

‘Still teaching, Sharon, yes I am. I like it here.’ He set off to walk to the grave. Sharon followed, teetering along the rough path in her stilettos. As he crouched down to arrange the flowers, Sharon bent over and rested her hand on his back. Muriel couldn’t hear what she said but she saw Michael stand up quickly and move out of her reach. He was shaking his head and protesting. Their conversaion lasted a few more moments, with Michael Palmer still backing away and shaking his head. Sharon seemed to find their conversation a huge joke, and her laughter carried across the churchyard towards Muriel. It sounded cruel. Mr Palmer turned on his heel and marched away with the wrapping paper from the flowers still in his hand. Muriel knew he always put it screwed up into a ball in the bin provided by Willie Biggs. He must be upset. A man of meticulously regular habits, was Mr Palmer. She knew because she played the piano for the singing in the school on Monday and Thursday mornings.

Pericles took a turn for the better so Muriel walked him out and then went inside to make a substantial tea for herself. She didn’t usually go to church in the evening unless it was something special; instead, she watched the religious programmes on TV, and then perhaps a good play afterwards. TV was her live-saver. Mother wouldn’t have it, even though Muriel had offered to pay. Old people can be very tyrannical.

Easter Monday dawned clear and bright but there was nothing of interest planned by Muriel for this day of leisure. Just after she got back from walking Pericles there was a knock at the door. Muriel tucked Pericles under her arm and opened it. Caroline Harris stood there smiling.

‘I know you probably have a very busy day booked, with it being a Bank Holiday, but could you possibly fit in afternoon tea with me?’

‘Why, good morning, Dr Harris. How nice of you, I’d love to do that! Thank you.’

‘Good – come about three. If it’s warm we’ll sit in the garden. Peter is away today so I shall be glad of your company. See you later, then. Your daffodils do look lovely. I shall be glad of your advice regarding our garden: I’m afraid it’s very overgrown.’

The door was opened by Caroline Harris, her three Siamese cats standing by her feet, their long tails winding around her legs.

‘Come in do,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ve got some scones in the oven and they’re nearly ready. Let’s go in the kitchen while they finish cooking.’

Dear Mr Furbank had not been good at housekeeping and Muriel was dreading the embarrassment of his unkempt kitchen; however, Caroline Harris had worked wonders in the few days since they had moved in. The walls had already been painted – a bright melon colour – copper pans gleamed in racks, the old cooker has been burnished to within an inch of its life and a large pine table had replaced the nasty gateleg thing that dear Mr Furbank had used for dining. A huge fridge freezer stood where there had once been a grubby mesh food cupboard. The floor had been sanded and stained, and Indian rugs covered it in a deliberately haphazard manner.

‘Why this is beautiful!’ Muriel said, looking around with pleasure. ‘You’ve worked miracles in here, and in such a short space of time, too. I love the curtains. Are they Indian?’

‘Yes, they are. I went there for six months, working with the down and outs in Calcutta, and brought loads of things back. It’s what Peter refers to as my Indian period. Milk and sugar?’

Caroline carried the tray into the garden. It was laid for two.

‘Lady Bissett isn’t coming, then?’ Muriel asked tentatively.

She answered, ‘No,’ in a manner which rejected any further queries, and then added: ‘Will you call me Caroline? I much prefer it. Now, tell me all about your family and what you do in the village, Miss Hipkin.’

Muriel launched herself on a potted family history and then on a brief history of the village. She’d only been back three years but she’d caught up on forty years of happenings in a very short time. Finally, she remembered herself and exclaimed, blushing: ‘Oh dear, I’ve gone rambling on and you’ve told me nothing about yourself.’

‘Miss Hipkin, there isn’t much to tell,’ Caroline laughed. ‘Peter and I have been married five years. I’ve thrown myself into my work to compensate for the fact that I can’t have children. We’re both very disappointed but there you are. It’s my fault and nothing can alter it.’

A door slammed in the Rectory and Peter himself came into the garden, bearing a mug. He leant over Caroline and kissed her, cupping her chin with his spare hand. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said, addressing them both.

‘You’re back early,’ his wife remarked.

‘Yes, I am. How are you, Miss Hipkin?’

‘Very well, thank you. I should like it very much if you would both call me Muriel. It seems more friendly.’

‘Certainly we shall.’ Peter took a huge bite out of a scone as he said this, then, with his mouth full: ‘I thought Lady Bissett was coming today as well?’

‘No.’ Caroline offered no further enlightenment regarding Lady Bissett so Peter turned to Muriel.

‘I have often thought that there are a lot of little ones on the farms and in the more isolated houses who could well do with one of those nursery schools. That way they get used to mixing with other children before they actually start school. I play the piano for the singing on Mondays and Thursdays for Mr Palmer and I do notice that the new ones have great difficulty learning to join in.’

‘What a perfectly splendid idea. We could use the church hall, couldn’t we?’

Muriel considered this and then said, ‘It would take some manoeuvring, because there is a yoga class and a ladies’ quilting group which meet regularly in the mornings – and Lady Bissett has a flower-arranging group there, too. But I’m sure the timetable could be adjusted.’

‘I shall see to that immediately. All we need is someone willing to organise it. I’ll talk to some of the mothers with small children, as they might do it as a group rather than having just one person in charge. What do you think, Caroline?’

‘The Council will have something to say about facilities. Perhaps it could start as a mother and toddler group until proper permission has been obtained.’

Peter stood up and went to kiss his wife on the top of her head. ‘What would we do without your common sense?’

Shortly after this, Muriel left. Pericles would be getting restless, she said, and thanked them for a lovely afternoon. Peter accompanied her to the door.

What a charming young man he was. Just what the village needed.