Cast the First Stone (33 page)

‘What?' asked Joan abruptly. ‘What are you wondering?'

‘Well, we're wondering if the rector knows about it. I mean, he's such a good living man, isn't he, the Reverend Simon?'

‘And you mean to make sure he finds out, is that it? It is really none of our business is it – Miss Thorpe – and you would be well advised to keep your mouth shut, if you can manage that, just for once.'

‘Well really! There is no need to take that tone with me.' Mabel's face was turning a bright shade of puce which matched the woollen hat she was wearing. ‘I don't go around saying things that are not true. My next-door neighbour told me. She saw her – Fiona – at the clinic, and the woman sitting next to her told her all about it, how she had been in the same home as her and . . .'

‘I don't want to hear any more, thank you,' said Joan. ‘Now, if you don't want to buy anything I think you had better go. Good morning, Miss Thorpe.' She strode across the shop floor and opened the door; and Mabel departed without another word.

Joan was taken aback to say the least. She felt, in spite of wanting to disbelieve it, that what the busybodies had got hold of was most probably true, as these tales often were. Should she tell Fiona about the story that was already hot gossip? She said nothing to her husband, trying to disguise her preoccupation. Henry, preparing for his choir practice, did not seem to notice.

She did not have long to deliberate about the problem, as on Saturday morning Fiona came into the shop. She looked happy, blissfully so in fact, and Joan knew at once that the young woman must be pregnant, but certainly not aware of the gossip that was circulating.

‘Hello, Fiona,' Joan greeted her cheerfully. ‘You're looking very bright and bushy-tailed this morning. Have you come to shop, or is this just a social call?'

‘A bit of both, actually,' replied Fiona. She smiled, radiantly, rather than coyly. ‘As a matter of fact, I've come to buy some wool – pale blue or lemon, I think – and . . . I want to have a look at your patterns for baby wear!'

‘You're pregnant!' cried Joan. She came round the counter and kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘Well, that's wonderful news! I expect Simon is pleased, isn't he?'

‘Tickled pink!' replied Fiona. ‘We haven't known for very long; it's not due till December. And you are almost the first to know.'

‘I'm really delighted for you,' said Joan. She knew, though, that however reluctant she was to burst Fiona's bubble of elation, she really must warn her friend that the gossip-mongers were already at work. ‘There's something I must tell you, though, Fiona.' She walked across to the door and turned the notice round to ‘Closed'. ‘Come through to the back and we'll have a little chat.'

‘What about the customers?' asked Fiona.

‘Oh, they'll come back later,' replied Joan. ‘This is rather important.'

Fiona sat down on a chair in the stockroom, surrounded by the merchandise that was piled high on the shelves; balls of knitting wool in what appeared to be hundreds of shades; tapestry sets; embroidery silks; ribbons and lace; buttons and bows. Joan pulled up a chair near to her.

‘I'll come straight to the point,' she said. ‘I'd already heard about the baby . . . because the story is on the parish grapevine. And . . . I'm afraid that's not all.'

‘What do you mean?' Joan saw the look of elation die away from her friend's face to be replaced by one of fear. Then Fiona gave a deep sigh. ‘I can guess what it is,' she said. ‘Are they talking about . . . ? Are they saying that I had a baby when I was seventeen? Because . . . it's true. I'm sorry, Joan.' She lowered her head, shaking it from side to side. ‘I'm . . . so very sorry.'

‘Why are you apologizing?' asked Joan. ‘You don't need to apologize to me, or to anyone, for what happened ages ago. Good gracious! I know you well enough, Fiona, to understand that it must have been a dreadful time for you, whatever happened.'

‘I thought it would be all right,' said Fiona in a small voice. ‘Once I'd told Simon I felt safe. He said he'd take care of it all for me, and that she couldn't do any more harm. But she has, hasn't she? She's told somebody, and now it's all round the parish.'

‘Fiona . . .' said Joan, very calmly. She leaned forward and took hold of her hand. ‘Who are you talking about?'

‘Hazel Docherty,' replied Fiona; but the name didn't mean anything to Joan. ‘I guessed it must have been her who sent the anonymous letter. But Simon said she's had her say now and that would be the end of it. But she must have told somebody else and . . .'

‘But who is Hazel?' asked Joan. ‘I haven't heard anything about an anonymous letter. It was Mabel Thorpe who told me; her next-door neighbour saw you at the clinic.'

‘Oh yes; Miss Thorpe's an old busybody, isn't she? So all the Mothers' Union clique know, do they?'

‘I gave her short shrift, I can assure you,' said Joan. ‘In fact I was quite rude to her. But I knew I had to come and tell you what is happening . . . Do you want to tell me about it, love?'

Fiona told her how she had caught sight of a familiar face at the clinic, and so when the anonymous letter had arrived she had realized who must be the culprit; Hazel Docherty, the girl with whom she had crossed swords in the home for unmarried mothers. ‘What a fool I am!' she cried. ‘I might've known she would cause trouble. She was noted for it when we were in the home.'

She embarked, then, on the story of how she, Fiona, had come to be in the home; all about Dave, and the church holiday; her unsympathetic parents; her banishment to Northumberland; and the subsequent adoption of her dear little baby girl. Joan listened with growing sympathy and a desire to help her young friend.

‘You poor love!' she said. ‘What an awful time you must have had. So . . . I gather you didn't tell Simon until you received the letter?'

‘That's right.' Fiona nodded. ‘I know I should have done, but I was scared I might lose him. But he was wonderful about it, Joan, so understanding . . . I do love him so much.' Her eyes were brimming over with tears.

‘As he loves you,' said Joan. ‘I think I'm getting the picture now. These busybodies – I gather Ethel Bayliss is one of the number, as usual – they think that Simon might still be in the dark about it all, and they want to make it their business that he finds out. Just how . . . I'm not sure about that. As I said, I shut Mabel up as quickly as I could.'

‘So what shall I do?' asked Fiona, looking quite lost and helpless.

‘Nothing,' said Joan. ‘Just carry on as usual. After all, it's wonderful news that you and Simon are expecting a baby, and I'm sure that most people will be delighted to hear about it, when you feel ready to tell them.'

‘They probably know already,' said Fiona gloomily, ‘and the rest of it.'

‘Then leave it to Simon,' said Joan with conviction. ‘He'll know how to deal with the problem, as he always does. Now, you came in to choose some patterns and wool, didn't you? Let's see what we can find. Think positively, Fiona. You are expecting Simon's baby, and that's terrific news. Put everything else to the back of your mind. It'll all sort out; I feel sure it will.'

The first sign that something was amiss was on the following Sunday when two of the girls in Fiona's class were not there.

‘Where's Susan,' she asked, ‘and Tracey? It's not like them to be missing.' Well, not like Susan Cookson at least, she thought to herself. Tracey, whom Susan called her ‘best friend' had not been attending Sunday school very long, but she had seemed quite keen, and Susan had never been known to miss it.

‘Please, Mrs Norwood, Susan says she's not coming any more,' answered Shirley, who was usually the one with the most to say. ‘And Tracey won't come if Susan doesn't.'

‘Oh dear! That's a shame,' said Fiona. ‘Have you any idea why they're not here?'

‘Susan says her mum's told her she hasn't to come no more,' said Shirley.

‘Oh, I see.' Fiona was surprised but didn't think any more about it just then. ‘Well, never mind,' she said. ‘We'll have a look at our story for today. It's about what happened when Jesus went to a wedding.'

‘Please, Mrs Norwood, I'm going to a wedding soon,' said Wendy. ‘My aunty's getting married – here, at this church – and I'm going to be a bridesmaid.'

‘Well, that's very exciting, isn't it, Wendy?' The girls were always ready to chat to her with titbits of family news. ‘You can tell me all about it later, all about the dress you'll be wearing. Let's listen to the story now . . .'

The girls listened attentively as they always did. Fiona enjoyed her time with them on a Sunday.

She mentioned to Simon, though, whilst they were having their tea, that two of her class had been missing that afternoon. ‘It's very strange,' she said. ‘Susan is such a friendly little girl. She loves to chat; well, they all do.'

‘Like all women!' laughed Simon.

‘Yes, maybe so,' smiled Fiona. ‘Susan told me her mum's having a baby; quite soon, I think. I know she was very excited about it. Oh, I wonder . . .' A thought had suddenly occurred to her. The maternity clinic, Hazel Docherty . . .

‘Simon,' she went on, a little fearfully, ‘I've just thought of something. Susan's mum would go to the clinic, wouldn't she? I wonder if she met that woman that I told you about. You know . . . Hazel, the one that knew . . .'

‘The woman that knew you in the home,' said Simon. ‘Well, I suppose it's possible. But try not to worry about it, darling. You didn't notice Susan's mother there, at the clinic, did you?'

‘No, but I don't really know her,' said Fiona. ‘I might have seen her once or twice, but I didn't notice anybody that day; I was so het up about the examination and everything. It was only Hazel that I caught a glimpse of, and then I put two and two together.'

Simon would have loved to say to her, ‘Yes, and made five!' But he was afraid that what she had said about the little girls being missing might be the start of something. He knew though that he mustn't worry her unduly, especially at the beginning of her pregnancy. She was keeping very fit; no signs of any sickness so far, and she looked positively radiant.

He knew she was delighted at finding out she was pregnant, as he was. It should be a joyful time in their lives, one of expectancy and hope with nothing to mar their happiness as they looked forward to the birth of their child. Instead of which he knew there was a dark cloud looming on the horizon. A small one as yet, but he knew how the smallest rumours could grow and grow even within a church community. Possibly as much in a church congregation as anywhere, he reflected a trifle cynically. There were always those who regarded themselves as the upholders of morality, ready to condemn any who, in their eyes, had fallen by the wayside, however small the misdemeanour. Self righteousness was something he had always abhorred. It was, unfortunately, a trait sometimes found in the most hard-working members in the church, those who believed themselves to be the very backbone of the place and thought that their services were indispensable.

A proverb came into his mind, an overused cliché about the pot calling the kettle black. Then, more aptly, a verse from scripture; ‘Why do you see the mote that is in your brother's eye but do not notice the beam that is in your own?' Matthew's gospel, he thought; he must look it up. It would be a good text for next Sunday's sermon. He had just told Fiona not to worry, but he knew that she would be sure to do so. He had to be there to support and protect her, and he felt that he must quell these rumours before they got out of hand. Fiona had told him that already some of the Mothers' Union members had got hold of the story, and that Joan Tweedale was refusing to have any part in it. Joan was a good person and a loyal friend; one of the best.

Simon understood perfectly why his wife had kept the truth from him for so long. It was up to him now to persuade her to hold her head up high and show the gossip-mongers that she was not afraid of them.

‘You've gone very quiet, Simon,' Fiona said now. ‘You do think there's a reason for Susan and Tracey staying away this afternoon, don't you?'

‘Well . . . there might be,' he admitted, ‘if I'm honest. And I'm going to be honest with you, darling . . . This story seems to have got around the parish already, and nothing spreads more quickly than gossip. I think you are right in assuming that it stems from this woman you call Hazel. And she told the woman who lives next door to Mabel Thorpe. Is that right?'

‘Yes, that's right. And I'm thinking now that she may well be Susan's mother. It all fits, doesn't it?'

‘Whoever she is, she couldn't have chosen anybody worse than Mabel Thorpe,' said Simon. ‘She's a real nosy old . . . so and so! And she would tell her sister – Gladys Parker's a much nicer person than Mabel Thorpe, though, in my opinion – and no doubt Ethel Bayliss would be the next to know . . .' He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I know I've told you not to worry, and you really must try not to let it get to you too much, my love. But I'm wondering what their game is?'

‘Joan says they – this Mothers' Union crowd, I mean – think that you don't know anything about it, and that they believe it's their duty to make sure that you find out about your . . . sinful wife!' Simon was pleased to see that Fiona managed a weak smile despite her worries. ‘But they're going about it in an underhand way, that's what Joan thinks. Perhaps they believe that if they snub me, and people start avoiding me – and it's started already hasn't it, with those two little girls? – then you'll want to know why. And then the truth will come out.'

‘But what they don't realize is that I already know about it,' said Simon. ‘I believe there's an answer to all this, Fiona, my love. God always provides an answer, one way or another. When you think about it, this woman, Hazel, has been an answer to your problem in a funny sort of way, hasn't she? You've had to unburden yourself to me at last. And believe me, darling, I know what a burden it must have been to you all this time.'