The Mills of God (2 page)

Reluctantly Nick ended his reverie and proceeded to help the men with the boxes.

Three hours later it was all done. The vicar's simple furniture – other than for those precious antiques that his mother had left him – had been unloaded and placed in the right rooms. The bed had been made, a piece of maternal advice which Nick had always obeyed, the boxes – though still packed – stood in the right rooms. It was time, Nick thought, to have that pint.

He left the vicarage, locking the door behind him, and felt a strange sense of pride that the place was his. Directly across the road stood the church and even though he had seen it before on his several visits to Lakehurst, he now longed to have a brief look round. Shelving the idea of the pint for another thirty minutes, he climbed the steps and made his way up the path to the great oak door.

Inside it was shadowy. The time was now seven p.m. and the month late September. A rather unpleasant statue of St Catherine looking extremely pious stood on a shelf staring sightlessly at the crowds arriving in church. Hopefully! Nick pushed the door to behind him and stood gazing at the east window in awe. A magnificent portrayal of Christ seated in heaven surrounded by various angels and mortals dominated the scene. Slowly Nick made his way up the aisle towards it. And then he stopped. Somebody not far away was whispering prayers rather loudly. Slightly embarrassed, the vicar stood still, waiting for them to stop. Which they did, quite suddenly and shockingly.

The person praying, realizing they were not alone, suddenly scrambled to their feet and made off down one of the side aisles, threw open the oak door and crashed out into the night. Somewhat startled Nick knelt before the great altar wondering who on earth it could have been. Eventually, having looked round, his visit somewhat spoiled by the strange behaviour he had just witnessed, he went out the same way, this time carefully locking the church door behind him, and crossed the road.

The Great House entirely lived up to its name, being as heavily beamed within as it was out. A huge oak bar stood in the heart of it and Nick, aware of several pairs of eyes following his every move, made his way towards it.

‘What can I get you?' asked a dark young man, without smiling.

Nick, very aware that he was still wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and had still not put on his dog collar, said, ‘A pint of Harvey's please.'

‘That will be . . .'

But a voice with a strong Sussex burr said, ‘No, I'll get that if you've no objection.'

Nick looked round into a craggy face with a pair of sky blue eyes crowned by an aureole of brilliant red hair.

‘Well thank you very much,' he said.

‘It will be my pleasure, Vicar.'

Wondering how on earth the man knew, dressed as he was in jeans and casual shirt, Nick raised his glass.

‘Well, thank you very much, Mr . . .?'

‘Fielding. Giles Fielding. Nice to meet you, Vicar.'

‘How did you know? That I'm a vicar, I mean.'

Giles laughed, an amusing sound. ‘Truth to tell, Mr Lawrence . . .'

‘Call me Nick.'

‘Right you are. Well, you see, in this village of Lakehurst everyone knows what you're doing before you've even done it.'

‘A hotbed of gossip, is it?'

‘I'd say. Old Mrs Weaver in the post office is queen bee. People used to write messages for her on postcards because they knew she'd read 'em.'

Nick laughed. ‘I get the picture. I see I shall have to watch my step.'

‘You'll be meat and drink to them. Unmarried, young. They'll have you courting every spinster in the parish – including the old ones.'

The vicar lowered his voice. ‘Tell me about the people in here. Are they regulars?'

‘Most of 'em.'

‘Who's that chap sitting in the corner with his back to us, avidly studying the
Daily Telegraph
?'

‘That be Jack Boggis. He's parish clerk. Bit of an old misery but his heart's in the right place – at least I think it is.'

‘Does he go to church?'

‘Never sets foot in the place.'

Nick sighed. ‘Oh dear.'

Giles looked sad. ‘No more do I. I'm sorry, Father Nick. I've too much to do looking after the animals.'

‘I take it you farm.'

‘Yes, I do. Up at Speckled Wood. Sheep mostly. You must come up and have a look.'

‘Thank you. Yes, I'd like to. And who's that younger man holding forth rather noisily.'

‘That's Phil Webster. He's the local solicitor. Bit of a card but they say he be mighty powerful in court.'

‘And the chap with the hook nose and the thin face?'

‘Oh that's old Gerrard Riddell. I think he's bent.'

‘Do you mean he's a crook?'

‘No, bent, a pouffe. He's very artistic, so he keeps telling us all. Lives alone in one of the little cottages down West Street. Has friends for the weekend.'

Giles said this last with such an amazing amount of expression that Nick found himself grinning broadly.

‘Now, he will go to church,' the farmer continued. ‘Every Sunday, regular as clockwork. Stands near the front and sings the hymns very loudly. He's under the impression that he's got a good voice and nobody has the heart to tell him that it's buggered to bits.'

Nick chortled aloud. He liked Giles Fielding, thought him down to earth and straight-talking. ‘Let me get you a pint,' he said.

‘Don't mind if I do,' the farmer answered cheerfully.

It was a pleasant evening. The pub was outstanding because of its historic past and the vicar had enjoyed sitting at the bar and chatting with somebody friendly. During the time he was there he had been spoken to by Jack Boggis who had said, ‘Good evening. I'm the parish clerk,' in a broad Yorkshire accent.

‘Good evening to you. As you probably know I am the new vicar.'

Jack had supped his ale even while he was paying for it.

‘Yes, I had heard. Well, I hope you'll be happy here.'

‘Thank you very much. I hope so too.'

Jack had nodded, somewhat tersely, and gone back to his solitary chair where he had picked up the
Daily Telegraph
and buried his nose in it.

Nick had looked at Giles. ‘Well, my friend, I think I must be getting back. It's been a great pleasure to meet you.'

‘Likewise, Father Nick. Come up and inspect the farm some time.'

‘I certainly will when I've settled down.'

He strolled back to the vicarage and felt a moment's thrill when he let himself in with the front door key. Inside the house was still and dark, but friendly and welcoming. Nick climbed the stairs and as he reached the half landing thought for a second that he saw the outline of a man standing at the top.

‘Who's there?' he called.

But there was only silence and Nick was glad to go into his room and get into bed, leaving his window open so that the smells of the flowers filled the air.

TWO

T
he next morning Nick rose punctually at seven and spent two hours unpacking boxes, then feeling like some fresh air, he put on a pair of respectable trousers, a shirt and jacket and his dog collar, and stepped out of the front door.

He decided to visit the church last of all, his grand finale, but making up his mind to walk on the sunny side he crossed the road. He was aware of a woman in the window of the post office, a large pair of pink-rimmed glasses beaming like searchlights in his direction, and then the door flew open and what could only be old Mrs Weaver bore down on him.

‘Oh, Vicar, it's nice to meet you. I'm Mabel Weaver. I work here.'

All this was said in a breathless whisper and Nick hazarded a guess that she had been hanging round the window for the last two hours, longing to get a glimpse of him. He held out his hand.

‘How do you do, Mrs Weaver.'

She took it and he felt a large, moist palm.

‘Such a thrill to get someone young in the parish. The last vicar – dear old man, we were all so sorry to see him go – was quite withdrawn, you know. Not from his duties, you understand, but socially. He had his own circle of friends and that was it. He came to see everything, of course, but never joined in.'

Wise man, thought Nick, but did not say anything.

‘I hear that there is no Mrs Lawrence,' Mabel continued. ‘But Lakehurst has a reputation for courting couples, you know.' She laughed loudly and archly and wagged a finger at him.

Nick inwardly shuddered but kept smiling bravely.

‘Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you,' he said.

‘Likewise, Vicar, likewise. I shall see you on Sunday no doubt.'

‘No doubt.' He gave her a small, courtly bow and continued on his way.

The village, though of the most peculiar shape, was for all that attractive. The High Street ended in two roads, one sweeping away towards the nearest town, the other going steeply downhill. Here lay the truly ancient cottages. On either side of the road they clustered, their small front gardens rich with roses and creepers. One of them clearly had a hidden cellar and Nick wondered at once about the history of smuggling in this area. Admittedly the village lay inland but that did not necessarily preclude it from having been involved. Another was shaped like a ship, heavily weatherboarded on the outside and leaning very slightly. Despite himself Nick paused to have a better look. The front door flew open.

‘Cooee,' called a voice. ‘I say, Vicar, cooee.'

A woman was advancing down the path, a woman who could have stepped straight out of the fifties. She wore a dirndl skirt and sandals and had on a strange white blouse covered with a hand-crocheted shawl.

She stopped. ‘You are the new vicar, aren't you? I haven't made an utter idiot of myself?'

‘No, no. You're quite right. I'm Nicholas Lawrence. I arrived yesterday.'

She clasped her hands together ecstatically. ‘I'm so pleased. I'm always mistaking people for other people, you know. Silly habit of mine. Passing of the years I daresay. Do come in and have a cup of tea – or coffee if you prefer. Or I have some elderflower wine. I went gathering in at harvest time.'

Nick stood irresolutely, changing his weight from foot to foot. ‘Well, I . . . er. I'm not officially on parish visits yet.'

‘Oh dear. And there was me hoping for a little company.'

Eyes like great saucers looked melancholy behind their heavy horn rims and the vicar's better nature won.

‘I can spare a quarter of an hour,' he said.

‘Oh goody.' Both sandalled feet left the ground as she jumped in the air and clapped her hands. ‘How nice. Now enter, do.'

The house inside could have been lovely but instead was an altar to tweeness. Little framed poems hung on the walls, together with pressed flowers and cut-outs of rather malicious-looking children in jolly seaside romping gear. His hostess, watching the direction of the vicar's eyes, said, ‘Ah, you like poetry I see. Now, what will it be to drink?'

‘I think just a small black coffee, please.'

‘Of course, of course. Now forgive me for a moment or two.'

She bustled off through a door with a porcelain plaque on it saying ‘Kitchen' where she could be heard banging about. Nick peered at the poems and saw that other than the usual things like ‘Don't Give Up' and ‘If' there were several with titles such as ‘Picking Blackberries in Late Summer with Adrian' and ‘Missing Train at Mdina Once More.'

His hostess popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘Sugar, Vicar?'

‘No, thank you. Do you write poetry yourself?'

She pulled a face. ‘Ah, my secret is out. Yes, I am a poet.'

‘Really? Have you had a lot published?'

‘Oh yes. Several collections.

‘Who are your publishers?'

She looked a little vague. ‘A very nice firm in Eastbourne.'

She disappeared again and came back with a tray which depicted a cat playing with several kittens and a ball of wool. Balanced on this were two mugs of coffee and the same pallid biscuits that Mavis Cox had brought to the vicarage. Wondering if they were a sweetmeat beloved of the citizens of Lakehurst, Nick balanced on the edge of a chair, declined the biscuit and took the mug proffered him. He jumped as his hostess leapt in the air once more.

‘Oh please, whatever will you think of me, Vicar? I haven't introduced myself. I am Ceinwen Carruthers.'

Nick, who had a mug of coffee half way to his mouth, put it down again.

‘How do you do. As I've already said, I am Nick Lawrence.'

Ceinwen sat down again in a whirl of dirndl skirt which revealed hairy legs shaped like inverted milk bottles.

‘And how are you liking the vicarage?'

‘It's a lovely house, really old and comfortable. At least I think it will be when I can get all my boxes unpacked.'

Ceinwen neighed a laugh. ‘Oh, those dreadful things. Everyone's nightmare. If I can help you . . .'

‘No,' Nick answered hastily, ‘really, I can manage. I've set myself a target of so many a day.' He sipped his coffee.

‘I went to the vicarage once. Mrs Simpkins asked me to tea. She was interested in my poetry.'

‘As am I,' the vicar answered gallantly.

Ceinwen simpered a little. ‘I've had three collections published and many, many poems published in poetry magazines. I am what you might call moderately successful.'

‘How interesting. Did you write these?'

He indicated the framed odes on the wall. Ceinwen looked modest.