myself to see that the church looks nice,' Ivy said confidently. 'He was a good man, Reverend Collins, always did his duty by this village.'
'Ah,' said Doreen, 'well, that brings me to the other thing. You keep your ear to the ground, Ivy, what sort of man do you think is wanted to take Cyril's place?'
Ivy was not too keen on the 'ear to the ground' bit, but she got up and refilled Doreen's glass from the tall green bottle.
She walked over to the window, from habit rather than wanting to see out, and was silent for a minute or two. Doreen sipped the delicious cool wine and felt her head beginning to buzz. Watch it, she said to herself, Ivy's wines are known for their strength.
'What we don't want,' said Ivy, turning round and looking at Doreen with a stern expression, 'is a smart young know-all who wants to change everything and bring in all kinds of unnecessaries.'
'Well,' said Doreen expansively, 'you're in full agreement with Tom there, Ivy, but what do you think about a family man?'
'Could be a good idea,' said Ivy, 'but it depends on the wife. If she's one that fits in and likes to work in the parish, it could work well. But again, you could get someone with no interest in the village. Pity we can't choose on our own, I say.'
'Mr Richard’s doin' his best,' said Doreen. 'Wants to get it right.'
No head for a real good drink, thought Ivy, filling up Doreen's glass with the sparkling elderflower. What's coming next, I wonder.
'Mr Richard did say he had a cousin who might be interested,' said Doreen with dutch courage, 'but he wasn't sure the parish would approve.'
'Why shouldn't we?' said Ivy, suspicion growing. 'Because, well...because the cousin is a woman,' said
Doreen, and took a deep, defensive gulp of wine.
'A WOMAN!' said Ivy, putting the cork firmly in the bottle. 'I trust you are not serious, Mrs Price, that wine is quite strong, you know.'
Doreen stood up, and felt the room swim. She hung on to the back of the chair, and, trying hard to collect her balance and her dignity, she made for the door. 'I'm perfectly serious, Ivy,' she said, 'it will have to be considered.'
On a bright, sunny day, with the wind fresh and lively, and the Ringle high and in a hurry, the Reverend Cyril Collins was laid to rest in the little cemetery across the road from the churchyard.
Gabriella played a cheerful piece by Handel, one of Cyril's favourites, as the congregation gathered, and Tom Price and Richard Standing stood by the door, welcoming a small, self consciously sombre group of distant relations. The many villagers who came to make their farewells smiled and chatted, as they knew their old vicar would have wanted.
From her seat at the organ, Gabriella saw the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass, making coloured patterns on the pale stone floor in the chancel. She thought how many times Cyril Collins must have seen this, and thanked his God for all the natural beauties of the world. None of us knew him very well, she reflected, but he always seemed happy and content. His private time was spent amongst books and papers, and once or twice he had mentioned writing articles for learned journals. But nobody she knew had ever read them, and they were put away modestly in his desk drawer, with old photographs and yellowing letters from Oxford and Cambridge colleagues.
With endless patience and understanding, he had gone about his parish, listening and ministering, always making time for families in trouble, never discriminating between those who came to his church and those who didn't.
The undertakers carried his simple coffin down the little path, slippery and dangerous in winter, but now dry and safe for the people following slowly, crossing the narrow lane and grouping around the freshly dug grave.
The wind blew strongly, billowing the surplice of Cyril's rector friend as he pronounced the final blessing. Ivy Beasley clutched her hat, and Doreen Price grabbed at her service sheet as it blew out of
'Ah,' said Doreen, 'well, that brings me to the other thing. You keep your ear to the ground, Ivy, what sort of man do you think is wanted to take Cyril's place?'
Ivy was not too keen on the 'ear to the ground' bit, but she got up and refilled Doreen's glass from the tall green bottle.
She walked over to the window, from habit rather than wanting to see out, and was silent for a minute or two. Doreen sipped the delicious cool wine and felt her head beginning to buzz. Watch it, she said to herself, Ivy's wines are known for their strength.
'What we don't want,' said Ivy, turning round and looking at Doreen with a stern expression, 'is a smart young know-all who wants to change everything and bring in all kinds of unnecessaries.'
'Well,' said Doreen expansively, 'you're in full agreement with Tom there, Ivy, but what do you think about a family man?'
'Could be a good idea,' said Ivy, 'but it depends on the wife. If she's one that fits in and likes to work in the parish, it could work well. But again, you could get someone with no interest in the village. Pity we can't choose on our own, I say.'
'Mr Richard’s doin' his best,' said Doreen. 'Wants to get it right.'
No head for a real good drink, thought Ivy, filling up Doreen's glass with the sparkling elderflower. What's coming next, I wonder.
'Mr Richard did say he had a cousin who might be interested,' said Doreen with dutch courage, 'but he wasn't sure the parish would approve.'
'Why shouldn't we?' said Ivy, suspicion growing. 'Because, well...because the cousin is a woman,' said
Doreen, and took a deep, defensive gulp of wine.
'A WOMAN!' said Ivy, putting the cork firmly in the bottle. 'I trust you are not serious, Mrs Price, that wine is quite strong, you know.'
Doreen stood up, and felt the room swim. She hung on to the back of the chair, and, trying hard to collect her balance and her dignity, she made for the door. 'I'm perfectly serious, Ivy,' she said, 'it will have to be considered.'
On a bright, sunny day, with the wind fresh and lively, and the Ringle high and in a hurry, the Reverend Cyril Collins was laid to rest in the little cemetery across the road from the churchyard.
Gabriella played a cheerful piece by Handel, one of Cyril's favourites, as the congregation gathered, and Tom Price and Richard Standing stood by the door, welcoming a small, self consciously sombre group of distant relations. The many villagers who came to make their farewells smiled and chatted, as they knew their old vicar would have wanted.
From her seat at the organ, Gabriella saw the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass, making coloured patterns on the pale stone floor in the chancel. She thought how many times Cyril Collins must have seen this, and thanked his God for all the natural beauties of the world. None of us knew him very well, she reflected, but he always seemed happy and content. His private time was spent amongst books and papers, and once or twice he had mentioned writing articles for learned journals. But nobody she knew had ever read them, and they were put away modestly in his desk drawer, with old photographs and yellowing letters from Oxford and Cambridge colleagues.
With endless patience and understanding, he had gone about his parish, listening and ministering, always making time for families in trouble, never discriminating between those who came to his church and those who didn't.
The undertakers carried his simple coffin down the little path, slippery and dangerous in winter, but now dry and safe for the people following slowly, crossing the narrow lane and grouping around the freshly dug grave.
The wind blew strongly, billowing the surplice of Cyril's rector friend as he pronounced the final blessing. Ivy Beasley clutched her hat, and Doreen Price grabbed at her service sheet as it blew out of
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