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village, and filled the positions of President of the WI, Chair (as she hated to be called) of the Parochial Church Council, Parish Council, and school Board of Governors, with what she saw as firmness and tolerance. That was not how her reign was seen by other members of these organizations, but on the whole they went along with it, having little ambition to replace her.
She was not a fool, however, and was well aware that she was probably the last representative of a dying breed. Incomers with new ideas were beginning to challenge the old guard, one or two turned up at Parish Council meetings, unheard of in the old days, and were anxious to have their say. And now this new vicar, though Mrs. T-J had approved his appointment and could not fault him at his first outing at her party, he had an air of reserve, of holding something back.
She walked across to the grand piano, and adjusted a wedding photograph. It was of her own wedding, and she looked at the smiling, fresh young faces with a sigh.
“Annabelle looks so like me,” she said smugly. And was reminded of something unpleasant. A word had been dropped in her ear that her granddaughter had been seen inTresham, lovingly entwined with Jamie Meade, son of that cleaning woman in the village.
The door opened, and the old gardener in his socks advanced a couple of paces. “The vicar, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, is here to see you, to thank you for a lovely party, he says. An’ I’ve just brought some veg in—they’re in the scullery.”
The vicar could surely just have telephoned, thought Mrs. T-J, that would have been quite adequate. Still, he was new. She must give him a chance. “Right, wheel him in,” she said, and put on her welcoming face.
“It was such a lovely occasion, and so kind of you,” said Brian, overstepping all the boundaries by planting a firm kiss on both of Mrs. T-J’s cool cheeks. “Now,” he added, “I would really appreciate your advice on an idea I have for getting some of the young mums and babies to come along to church. A pram service, I thought. Once a month to begin with, and on an early weekday afternoon, so they can go on and meet other children from school with no trouble. Keep it light, bit of fun. What do you think?”
Mrs. T-J was saved from having to say what she thought by the precipitate entrance of her granddaughter, Annabelle. “Hi, vicar!” she said happily. “Gran, can Jamie have a go on our piano? He’s really good. Have you heard him?” she said, turning to Brian with a smile.
“Um, no, but I think he has joined Sandy’s choir, and sings very nicely,” he answered, uncomfortably aware of a distinct chill coming from Mrs. T-J’s direction.
“I think not, Annabelle,” she said. “It has just been tuned, darling,” she added. “Now, Reverend Rollinson and I have business to discuss, so perhaps you could be an angel and bring us some tea. And darling, I’m not awfully keen on being called Gran. Grandmother is so much more … well …”
“Acceptable?” said Annabelle acidly, and left the room without another word.
N INE
B RIAN R OLLINSON GOT UP NEXT MORNING FEELING pleased with himself. His first venture—well, second, if you counted setting up Sandy as choirmaster—had received guarded approval from Mrs. T-J, and enthusiastic encouragement from Lois Meade, whom he had met in the shop on the way home. Shop, pub, school, all these were places where he intended to be seen frequently, getting on with the people of the village, gradually erasing that centuries-long barrier between vicarage and community. Doctors, schoolmasters and vicars had all been put on pedestals in the past, but no longer. He was going to be best mates with the coalman, the paper boys—um, well, yes—and the district nurse. Coming late to the job, he considered, was an advantage, in that he had been one of them, an accountant in a busy practice, and knew the ways of the world.
“Sandy?” he called, as he looked at the
David Roberts, Alex Honnold