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the microwave. They would bring fruit cakes, pots of home-made marmalade, mango chutney. They would offer to iron his shirts, they would draw up a roster for sitting in. Probably fight to get on it.
    But hold on girl, I chide myself, they might do a roster for you. Give it time. Not that they would ever bring me shepherd’s pie and marmalade. Real women knock up that sort of thing themselves between making the beds and putting a wash on and before cleaning the windows.
    â€˜I see,’ Richard says. ‘Yes, I do see. Perhaps you could get someone to stay in the house with your daughter?’
    I shake my head. ‘Not too often, and not yet,’ I tell him. ‘Not until both of us get to know more people.’
    â€˜Very well,’ Richard says. ‘In the meantime I’ll let the other members of the Finance Committee know. Wednesday at the Vicarage. Is eight o’clock convenient?’ He sounds quite amiable.
    â€˜Fine!’
    I don’t like committees, though naturally I’m used to them. The difference now is that I’ll be expected to chair most of them, whether I know anything about the subject or not. And indisputably the one I like least is the Finance Committee. Over the last few years I have worked hard to hide the fact that I hardly know which way up to read a balance sheet, let alone make any sense of it. However, I can guess what the finance meeting at St Mary’s will be about. We will discuss how deep in debt we are or, rather, how far we fall short of the money we need for the upkeep of the church, not to mention the quota we have to pay to the diocese. There will be the usual crop of grumbles about the quota because everyone hates paying it. We shall hear the large amount it will cost to repair the bits of the chancel roof where the rain is coming in again and the fact that the lighting must be overhauled or one of these days someone will get a nasty, possibly fatal, shock. We shall discuss ways of raising the money, shying away from asking for more generous direct giving as if it was an indelicate suggestion, and then go into the realms of the Christmas bazaar. Is November too soon? Is December too late? Who will do which stalls (this will turn out to be the same as whoever did them last year)? Shall we run a Grand Raffle (as opposed to just a raffle)? Who shall we ask for prizes (which will also be the same as last year)? Then a few more Bring-and-Buy Sales will be mooted and agreed, at which I am quite certain that, even though I have yet to experience one at St Mary’s, many of the same articles will be given, sold, and brought back to the next one for resale. At Holy Trinity there was a vase in a particularly hideous design of a yellow spotted fish which I noticed in every sale during my time there and eventually bought at a knock-down price so that I could throw it away. Yes, I know exactly what the Finance Committee meeting will be like.
    I had naively thought that after I was ordained my job would be to take the word of God to the people. I would be visiting the sick, comforting the dying, assisting at the Eucharist, explaining the scriptures, possibly even saving a soul or two. I had put from me the thought that once I had my own living I would also be elevated to Chief Fund-raiser, a role for which I am about as fitted as a lame man, blindfolded, is to walking a tight-rope.
    I leave the hall and make for the Vicarage – how long before I will call it ‘home’? The day has turned chilly, there is an autumnal nip in the air and the leaves on the sycamores in the churchyard are turning yellow and brown. The first strong wind will scatter them on the ground. The Vicarage is no more than five minutes’ walk away, built in Victorian times in the road next to the church. It is large, with lots of rooms and high, artistically moulded ceilings. On the whole this pleases me – I never did like living in a modern semi – but Becky and I,