‘We haven’t seen you at church before,’ the woman – possibly Iris – said. ‘We haven’t seen you at all. Don’t you go to church?’
‘I haven’t been for a long time,’ Cathy replied, dimly recalling that the last time she’d been to a church service (at a different church outside Linnetford) was probably for a family wedding when she’d have been about twelve. Her mum hadn’t wanted any religion at her funeral at all, so the service had been conducted in a forest clearing, her ashes scattered in that same forest. Some of their relatives had been horrified at the lack of tradition, which had annoyed Cathy a little because if any of them had bothered to pay the slightest bit of attention to her mum they’d have known that she was never going to take the traditional route to her final resting place. And why would she have embraced religion in death when she’d never done so in life? It would have felt like slapping her in the face, a smug dismissal of all she’d believed in, as if her daughter knew better. Cathy would never have insulted her in that way.
‘Perhaps you’d like to come now you know where we are?’ Iris said cheerfully, seemingly working on the twin assumptions that anyone who lived in these parts could somehow have missed the huge spire that rocketed into the sky, and that everyone of sound mind would want to give up all their other Sunday activities to sit inside it and hear someone drone on about kingdoms of heaven and how blessed meek people were. Cathy considered herself meek, but she hardly felt she was blessed. She didn’t feel cursed either, just somewhere in the middle – pretty much like everyone else was.
Still, Iris seemed friendly enough and that was one thing Cathy could appreciate – almost all the regular churchgoers she’d ever met had been very friendly. She certainly didn’t want to offend her, having just arrived and not even got started on the cake yet.
‘If I’m not too busy I might do,’ she said, hoping that would be enough.
Iris looked faintly stunned at the notion that anyone might be too busy to attend, but she nodded uneasily and turned to Colin.
‘You’ll be able to play organ for us this week, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘Only Mr Pettigrew still isn’t right since his bypass. Between you and me, I don’t know if he’ll ever be right again, and all that flailing around at the organ won’t do his recovery much good.’
‘I didn’t think you’d want me again after last time,’ Colin said sombrely.
‘I don’t think anyone’s going to worry about the odd wrong note,’ Iris replied.
‘It was more than the odd wrong note, Iris,’ another lady chipped in. Newly arrived, she settled into a nearby chair. ‘It was like that time Morecambe and Wise had André Previn on their show.’
‘Dora!’ Iris scolded. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because it’s true.’
Colin gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry, Iris,’ he said. ‘I know I’m terrible, but I also know you don’t have anyone else and I won’t let Dora’s frightening honesty put me off. I’ll play for you on Sunday if you need me to.’
‘You just might have to hand out ear defenders as the congregation files in,’ Dora said as she helped herself to the teapot.
‘I’d better go and buy about four pairs then,’ Iris said wearily. ‘It’s hardly a congregation these days, is it?’
‘You want to get Songs of Praise in,’ Dora said. ‘You’d have a full house then, let me tell you.’
‘Yes, but you’d also have me playing the organ,’ Colin said. ‘Songs of Praise certainly wouldn’t come back after that and neither would all the new parishioners.’
Dora let out a laugh while Iris gave a haughty sniff.
This was all very well, and Cathy was quite enjoying listening to this conversation, but she couldn’t help wondering if everyone who was going to be coming to this coffee morning was a member of the church community. Obviously, the venue was the church hall, but she’d been expecting some people a bit more like her to come – in fact, she’d been banking on it. She’d feel very out of place if it turned out she was the only person who didn’t already know everyone else.
Quite a few had arrived already, and they all seemed to know each other and were engaged in their own little conversations. Most of the people she’d seen arrive were retirement age too – or at least close – and she was starting to wonder whether she didn’t feel a little incongruous for being so young in comparison. But if anyone there thought it was odd that someone of her age had turned up, they certainly didn’t show it; in fact, quite the opposite – they seemed pleased to see her there. Cathy, on the other hand, was starting to wonder if she ought to make her excuses and leave. Perhaps this wasn’t the place for her to be today after all.
But then she looked up to see the door open and another lady arriving with carrier bags. Cathy would have put her at perhaps her late thirties, early forties. Her mid-brown hair was cut into a neat bob, with a clean grey streak framing one side of her face, and she was dressed in a fitted grey sweater, bootcut jeans and black-heeled boots that flattered what was a neat figure.
‘Hello!’ she said, giving a warm but slightly apprehensive smile to everyone in the room. It looked as if she was in the same situation as Cathy – not knowing anyone – and Cathy relaxed a little. At least she wasn’t the only person starting from scratch – or the only person under the age of sixty.
‘Welcome!’ Iris got up, apparently deciding to be the spokesperson for the whole room. ‘I see you have goodies there.’
‘Oh, just shop-bought, I’m afraid,’ the woman said. ‘I’m hopeless at baking but I know a good brand of Jaffa cake when I see one.’
‘Anything is welcome,’ Iris said. ‘We were just about to start actually.’ She placed a hand on her breastbone. ‘I’m Iris; I’m the church secretary, and treasurer and keyholder and… well, just about everything really.’ Then she proceeded to point out others. ‘This is Dora, Colin, Myrtle, Julia, Janet, Karen, Lulu and… I’m sorry, dear.’ She stopped at Cathy. ‘I’ve quite forgotten already. How rude of me.’
‘That’s OK,’ Cathy said. ‘You can’t be expected to remember everything.’
‘That’s the problem,’ Dora said. ‘She remembers nothing.’
A low snigger rolled around the room. Iris didn’t seem to notice the comment or, if she did, she didn’t seem too offended by it.
‘I’m Cathy,’ Cathy said.
The newcomer smiled. ‘I’m Erica.’ She gave the room an approving once-over. ‘I’ve never been in here before – it’s nice, isn’t it? Much cosier than I imagined.’
‘We do our best to make it welcoming,’ Iris said with obvious pride. ‘Shall I take those bags from you?’
‘Oh, lovely,’ Erica said, handing them over. ‘I hope it’s OK that I only got shop-bought cakes. I can’t bake to save my life!’
‘Anything is gratefully received,’ Iris said. ‘Whether they’re home-baked or not, we’re still doing our bit for charity, after all.’