‘Why are you sleeping on the sofa? You stink of cigarettes.’
‘I suppose I must have lain down here for a bit and then nodded off.’
She continues to regard me suspiciously. Then she sighs and shakes her head. ‘Fine. Want some coffee?’
‘Yeah, thanks … Actually, what time is it?’
‘Almost nine o’clock.’
Nine o’clock. Nine a.m. Monday morning. Meeting time. Damn.
‘Good morning, everyone. Apologies for being a bit late.’
I smile at the small group in front of me, trying for my own version of Durkin’s benevolent beam. I’m not quite sure it’s cutting it. The fact that I’m panting, red-faced and still fumbling to do up my clerical collar probably isn’t helping.
Reverend Rushton stands. ‘Shall I do the introductions?’
‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully. Damn collar.
We’re crammed into a tiny office off the main chapel which seemed cramped when devoid of people and now, with the whole parish team gathered in it, seems Hobbit-like.
Paperwork is piled everywhere. A cork board overflows with safety notices, parish newsletters and orders of service. Even the walls are cluttered, with historical photos of the chapel and its previous clergy: a much younger Rushton; a severe-looking man with a shock of dark hair (‘Reverend Marsh’, a label underneath reads) and Reverend Fletcher – a good-looking man in his fifties with grey hair and a neat beard. Next to Fletcher, there’s a lighter square patch where a picture seems to have been removed. I wonder why.
There is barely enough room for a desk and two chairs. Probably just as well that our ‘team’ consists of just five people, of whom only four are here this morning.
‘This is Malcolm, our lay reader,’ Rushton says.
An angular bespectacled man nods and smiles.
‘Aaron, you know.’
We nod at each other briskly.
‘Our administrator, June Watkins, sadly, has become too ill to keep up with the work. Fortunately, we have someone to fill in temporarily –’
Right on cue, the door opens and a tall, striking woman in a flowing dress, with a mane of white hair piled messily into a bun, walks in, holding a flask and a stack of plastic cups.
‘Hello, everyone. I left the coffee in the car.’
I stare at her as she puts the flask and cups down on the desk.
‘Most of you know Clara,’ Rushton says. ‘She’ll be helping on a voluntary basis, an angel sent from the heavens.’
Clara looks around and smiles. ‘He has to say that – I’m his wife!’
Her eyes fall on me. She holds out a hand. ‘Jack? Nice to meet you. What’s that short for?’
‘Err … Jacqueline.’
Her grey eyes gleam. ‘A lovely name. Both of them.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, a small team, as you see,’ Rushton finishes.
A very small team. But then, these days, there is simply not enough demand for every rural church to have its own vicar, let alone a dedicated warden or staff. In addition to Chapel Croft and Warblers Green, Rushton and I will oversee two other small churches in the parish – Burford and Netherton – dividing our time between them as best we can.
‘It’s good to meet you all,’ I say, trying to compose myself. ‘As I’m sure you know by now, my name is Jack Brooks and I’ll be working as the interim priest here until a new long-term incumbent is found.’
‘Do you know when that might be?’ Malcolm asks, perhaps a little hastily.
‘Afraid not,’ I say. ‘So, best to presume you’ll be stuck with me for a while.’
‘No “stuck” about it,’ Rushton interjects. ‘We’re delighted to have you. And anything we can do to help you settle in, just ask.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Clara nods. ‘I think we’re ready for a fresh start, after … well, you know.’
I was wondering who would be first to bring it up.
‘I was very sorry to hear about Reverend Fletcher.’
‘We just wish we had known what he was going through,’ Malcolm adds. ‘I mean, we knew he was under stress, but to take his own life …’
‘Those intent upon taking their own lives are good at hiding it from their closest friends and family,’ I say. ‘Suicide is a tragedy for everyone.’
‘And a sin.’
I stare at Aaron. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Life is a gift from God. Only he has the power to take it away.’ His eyes meet mine, defiant.
I keep my voice calm. ‘That has not been the view of the Church of England for a long time, Aaron.’
‘So, we choose to ignore the word of the Bible?’
‘There is no explicit condemnation of suicide in the Bible and, while I’m the vicar here, I’d prefer not to hear such talk in this chapel.’
I hold Aaron’s gaze and I’m pleased when he drops his eyes.
‘So … anyway’ – Rushton clears his throat – ‘life, as they say, must go on. Shall we proceed with the business of the coming week?’
We do. I’m relieved to find myself falling back into the normal routine, not too dissimilar from my previous parish. Coffee mornings, a village fete, a youth group, three upcoming weddings and four funerals. Although I’m not officially on duty for another two weeks, it’s agreed that I should start to make myself known at a few church events.
‘Oh, and of course there’s still the matter of the repairs to the chapel floor.’
‘I saw some of the flagstones were broken. What happened?’
‘Oh, just wear and tear. We’ll be getting someone to take a look soon. In the meantime, Jack, please make sure no one goes near the area. The last thing we need is someone suing us for a broken ankle.’
‘Right.’
‘Good. Well, I think we’re done. Anything else you want to add?’
Rushton turns his ruddy face towards me. I consider. Obviously, asking who might be leaving me strange, creepy messages is up there. But until I know more, I don’t think it would be wise to say anything. Yet.
‘Erm, no. I think we’ve covered everything.’
‘Excellent. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have you on board to share the load.’
‘I’m glad to help.’
Everyone starts to move, gathering their things. Malcolm clasps my hand in his bony one as he leaves. ‘Lovely to have you here, my dear.’
Aaron pointedly ignores me, busying himself shuffling his notes.
I really want to get away myself, but I sense Clara watching me as she shrugs her arms into a long, multicoloured cardigan. ‘I hear you have a daughter, Jack?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘A difficult age.’
‘Well, I’ve been lucky so far. Do you have children?’
‘We were never blessed,’ Rushton says. ‘But we seem to have acquired many godchildren over the years. And Clara used to teach, so we’ve always had young people in our lives.’
I nod, politely, thinking, A teacher. Of course.
‘How long have you been married?’
‘We recently celebrated our twenty-eighth anniversary.’