feet. Kier was from the start very different. He was, she had seen at once, one of those vicars who saw his training role primarily as a chance to obtain the services of an assistant, while at the same time laying down the law as to the way he felt his curate should behave and what he or she should believe. The churchy bit, to which she had so looked forward, the services, the prayers, were saved for Sundays – Kier said there was no appetite for more at the moment and in church her role was definitely subordinate. She was allocated some of the prayers and allowed to help with Communion. Apart from that there was little she was allowed to do.
Sitting apart from the congregation, in a special chair next to the choir stalls, she was able to watch him. His easy charm made him wildly popular, particularly as she had suspected amongst the female sections of his congregation and St John’s was packed for each of the two Sunday services. What the men – about a third of the congregation – thought of him, she wasn’t sure. It was the women who adored him. There were few children; no teenagers. Hardly any young people. It was as though he was afraid of anyone or anything getting out of hand.
It was different at St Hugh’s. It was a pretty church and she loved it, but at once she had sensed his dislike of it. It puzzled her that he seemed so uneasy there. To her the atmosphere seemed warm and accepting. The congregation was however tiny and to her disappointment after several weeks she had still not managed to make it grow very much although she was beginning to make some inroads. Kier came and listened to her sermons once or twice, sitting at the back near the door, and he took notes. His comments made her furious. He criticised her for her humour and her warmth. This was not what the people of the parish wanted, he said firmly. They needed guidance. Rules. Threats. Her pleas that this was not the Christianity she recognised were met by a look of pained surprise and she had to let the matter go, curbing her frustration. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they didn’t like her. If there was going to be a time and a place for her views they would have to wait until she was given her own parish. She was here to learn. To watch. She knew she was probably being arrogant, that perhaps he was right in his approach, but still she was finding it all very tough. And puzzling. Why was the flamboyant, confident rector of St Hugh’s afraid of this little church?
Abi’s flat had its own front door and was self-contained, but to reach it at the top of the main staircase she had to let herself in to the front door of the Rectory and walk through the ground floor hall of the house, onto which opened Kieran’s study, kitchen and sitting room, then up to the first landing onto which opened his own bedroom, two spare rooms and his bathroom. Only when she reached the next flight of stairs did she begin to feel that she was certain of any privacy. Almost never, when he was working at home, which he often was, did she manage to reach this bit of her domain without him hearing her and popping out for a word.
At first it was reassuring and almost without her noticing it a tentative friendship had begun to develop between them. As long as they kept away from contentious issues they got on well and she was, she realised, not entirely reluctantly, falling more and more under his spell.
Kieran, not content with greeting her and asking after her day, from time to time invited her into the kitchen for a coffee or a glass of wine or sometimes a quick bite of supper when she returned home in the evening. It allowed them to review the parish work and compare notes about some of Abi’s outstanding problems of which there were many. It allowed them to become friends and even, a little, to flirt.
Kier kept the weddings, baptisms and funerals, for himself. Abi’s share consisted of counselling, confirmation classes, hospital visits and all the secretarial work, to which after half an hour’s handover period Sandra had abandoned her. It was as much as she could cope with. Life had become very tiring and stressful.
One aspect of her job, the most important bit that Kier was prepared, in fact almost eager, to hand over, had been the home visits. Over this he was a brilliant delegator and although anxious to prove she could do her share and rise to every challenge he threw at her, she found herself eventually buckling under the load of work.
One wet evening she had returned to the Rectory feeling unusually low when Kieran put his head round the kitchen door as he heard her key in the lock. He invited her in and she found herself to her surprise pouring out her heart to him. ‘Could you take over some more of the home visits for a week or two?’ she pleaded as she flopped onto a stool at his kitchen counter. Outside the rain was pouring down and it was growing prematurely dark. Her hair was wet through and she thought she was coming down with a cold. ‘I just don’t think I can get round to everyone on my list this week,’ she added wearily. ‘It would give me a chance to catch up on some paperwork and some sleep.’ She couldn’t remember when she had last had a night in on her own and as for a private life, no chance.
Kieran turned from the sink where he was rinsing a couple of wine glasses under the tap. ‘I didn’t realise you were so tired.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose I keep forgetting you are new at the job.’ He smiled. ‘You are so good with people, Abi, I’ve been taking advantage of your good nature without realising it.’
She shrugged, fighting the reflex reaction of denying that she couldn’t cope. ‘I suppose it does take a while to get used to the hours. And the misery and the deprivation and the hostility. No peace for the wicked!’ She forced herself to smile at her own feeble attempt at a joke. Her throat was sore and she felt shivery as he put a glass down before her and poured out the wine.
He stood in front of her for a moment, anxiously studying her face then he reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Abi. I’ve been selfish. I’ll take over the home visits for a bit. Of course I will. I wanted you to experience the realities of this job first hand as soon as possible. I wanted to make sure you understood what the church is all about. I thought if you saw the worst at once, in a sense it could only get better. That was stupid of me. I should have seen it was all too much for you.’ He paused. Then he leaned across and dropped a small dry kiss on her forehead. It was avuncular, she told herself firmly, suppressing a quick shiver of pleasure. His action had conveyed nothing more than affectionate sympathy.
Which didn’t in the event last long. Within a few days he had gently suggested she resume her duties and she was working as hard as before.
Wednesday, Abi had discovered, was the day the curate visited the sick and lonely. As she found herself wearily climbing the stairs of a six-storey concrete low-rise off a shabby noisy street half coned off for repairs, she realised this would be her third visit of the day, her fourth in a month to this particular address. She wrinkled her nose at the unedifying odours coming from the suspiciously damp corners on the landings and turned at last to the final flight.
Ethel Barryman’s door was blistered and scarred. She could see from the marks that the lock had been replaced at least twice. There was no bell. She raised her hand and knocked sharply, wincing as her knuckles met the roughened wood. The door opened so quickly she wondered if the old lady had been standing on the other side, waiting for her.
‘Come in, dear.’ Ethel was small, wizened and frail, her face a transparent white, her hair thin, the remains of an ancient perm snaking through the faded hennaed strands.
In the sparsely furnished living room the table was laid with a white lace cloth on which stood a teapot, a plate of biscuits and two porcelain cups without saucers – those had been smashed by the last pair of thugs who had broken in, seemingly just for the sheer joy of doing it as there had been so little to steal. ‘For after.’ The old lady smiled.
Abi nodded. ‘Is your granddaughter still doing your shopping?’ She unslung her bag from her shoulder, in it the tools of her trade: small brass candlestick, candle, little cross on a base. Little box containing the necessities for Communion.
‘She’s good to me,’ Ethel nodded. ‘Comes twice a week. Sometimes more. And there’s Angela, downstairs. She gives me a hand when the pain is bad.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away sharply. ‘Silly bugger me! Think I’d be used to it, by now.’
Abi smiled gently. ‘No word yet about a place at the hospice?’ She didn’t need the shaken head to know the answer. ‘Shall we pray together?’ She could feel her hands heating up. The urge to lay them on the woman was overwhelming. The need to draw away the pain, to replace it with gentle cool healing.
She laid out the little cruet, containers of bread and wine and lit the candle. Then she moved over to rest her hands on the old lady’s head.
When the short service was over it was Abi who made the tea. She glanced at Ethel with a smile. The old lady had relaxed. The pain had gone from her eyes. ‘You’re a good girl, Abi,’ Ethel said after a while. ‘I still can’t bring myself to call you vicar!’ She looked up at Abi, her face full of lively humour. ‘Come and see me again soon.’
‘You know I will.’ Abi dropped a kiss on her head as she left. From the doorway she turned and raised a hand in blessing.
The next day Kier told her that Ethel Barryman was dead. Her granddaughter had found her in the chair where Abi had left her.
