The Reaper

Three

Everyone in Foxford knew about the bishop's death before Otis Joy announced it in Morning Service, but something had to be said. As usual, the young rector found the right words. "It appears he took his own life," he said on a note of shocked disbelief that spoke for everyone in the congregation. "If so, that's specially difficult to understand, but I don't think we should try without knowing all the facts. God moves in mysterious ways. Marcus Glastonbury was an able, honest and caring bishop, strong in his leadership of the diocese. Some of you knew him personally, as I did. A great loss. I'm sure there will be a memorial service in due course and some of us will be there. For the present, let us remember all he did to encourage this, our church, as we pray for him."

This, their church, was Saxon in origin and there was a legend about its building that showed how the conflict between good and evil was strong in the minds of the early Christians. The first site proposed had been half a mile away, at a place where the "old religion" had been practised. The foundations were put down and the building began, but by night the Devil was supposed to have come and removed some of the stones to their present site. The builders persevered, and so did the powers of darkness until a decision was taken to give way and build at this end of the village. If the legend had any truth in it, and the Devil chose the site, you would think people would be wary of some devilment lurking in the walls. Not, it seemed, in the modern age.

All that remained of the Saxon church were some stones built into the tower at the west end. The present St. Bartholomew's was a nineteenth century reconstruction with a short, recessed spire. Inside were traces of medieval carving: an early thirteenth century arch in the north porch and a window with motifs of around 1320. The Victorian restorer had done a good job. The interior was simple, light and welcoming. The timbers of the hammerbeam roof gave a feeling of solidity.

This century's contribution was mainly in the fabrics sewn and woven by the women of Foxford: the embroidered altar-cloth with a floral design; the dossal, or hanging back-panel for the altar, representing the Annunciation; the lectern fall with crucifix in padded gold kid; the individual kneelers, memorials to past worshippers; and the priest's vestments, including a magnificent cope handworked in combinations of metallic threads, kid-leather, beads and stitches. Usually it came out for weddings, baptisms and the great festivals of Christmas, Whitsun and Easter. Otis Joy was modest in his choice of vestments the rest of the year.

William Cowper's hymn "Sometimes a light surprises" was an inspired choice to follow the prayer for the bishop, a perfect link to happier matters. The fete had raised the record sum of?520. Standing in the aisle with one hand resting on a pew-end, the rector said, "You know, we in the church are sometimes uncomfortable about money-raising. Money is the root of all evil. Does anyone know who said that?"

"St. Timothy," spoke up one of the Bible Class.

"Sorry, George, but no. I think it was the Andrews Sisters. Anyone remember the song? You're not going to own up, are you? 'Money is the root of all evil, take it away, take it away, take it away.' What Timothy said was 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' Not quite the same thing, is it? Now you won't catch me challenging the teaching of the Bible. But I don't think our church fete had anything to do with the love of money. Let's face it, this was the giving of money, your money, as well as your talent, your time, your cakes and your runner beans, all for the upkeep of the Lord's house. So let's rejoice in our five hundred and twenty pounds. Speaking for the church, I thank you warmly." He paused and smiled and looked as grateful as if the profit from the fete were his birthday present, turning to let his gaze take in everyone in the crowded church. "The sellers of tickets, the buyers of tickets, the stall-holders, the generous folk who cooked and knitted and gave things to stock those stalls, the brass band, the fortune-teller and the humble donkey. Teamwork. Brilliant. There's another text I like, and and I won't ask where it's from, because I can't remember myself, but I know how it goes: 'A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry: but money answereth all things.' Which brings us tidily to Hymn three-seven-seven, 'Let us, with a gladsome mind, Praise the Lord, for he is kind.' ";

Rachel, in her place to the left of the aisle, six rows back, praised the Lord whilst noticing how the rector, lustily leading the singing, had caught the sun at the fete. It had picked out and reddened the angles of his face-the broad forehead, the interesting cheekbones, the ridge of his nose and the point of his chin, making him look more ruggedly attractive in his robes than any member of the clergy ought to appear. She-it must be said-was singing the words of the hymn without taking in the meaning. And during the sermon, with Otis Joy's dark head and the top of his surplice showing above the pulpit, she tried mentally dressing him in a variety of uniforms, as you would in those children's books with sections you put together in different combinations. Cowboy, soldier, policeman, pilot, boxer, bridegroom.

All too soon they were singing the last hymn and he said the Grace and made his way up the aisle to the door, passing so close to Rachel as she knelt in prayer that she felt the movement of air from his cassock.

The pews creaked with the weight of people resuming their seats to dip their heads in a last, silent prayer. These days the church was filled for Morning Service. Two extra rows had to be provided with stacking chairs from the church hall. No other rector in living memory had achieved such support except for the Christmas Midnight Service.

The organ started up again to the tune of "For all the saints" and the movement towards the door began. Rachel filed out behind two old ladies in black straw hats who always sat behind her and sang half a bar after everyone else. When their turn came to shake the rector's hand, they congratulated him on his sermon, but he didn't appear to hear. He was already in eye contact with Rachel.

"I didn't thank you."

"Thank me?"

"For your help."

"You just thanked us all, beautifully."

"At the rectory last evening."

"It was nothing, really," she said, enjoying the touch of his hand. "We all joined in."

"But you did more than your share."

She shook her head modestly and was starting to move on when he added, "Look, there's something else, if you don't mind waiting a few minutes. Would you?"

She managed to say, "Of course." Her voice piped up in a way she didn't intend, but he had surprised her. Puzzled and a little light-headed, she stepped forward into the sunshine and stood on the turf to one side of the path to let the others pass. Her friend Cynthia Haydenhall emerged in a pink two-piece and a matching hat that she held with a gloved hand in case the wind blew.

"I've seen the figures. We came out top-and that's official," she told Rachel. "The cake stall took more than anyone else."

"Great," said Rachel, trying to sound as if it mattered.

"It isn't just the effort on the day. It's chivvying people to do the baking. I do no end of work on the phone in the week before. And knocking on doors."

"I know."

"Shocking about the bishop, isn't it?"

"Dreadful."

"There's more to it than they said in the Sunday Times this morning, you can be sure of that."

"Is there?"

"The gutter press will be full of it."

"I haven't heard anything."

"Bishops don't jump into quarries without a reason."

"I suppose not."

The triumph of the cake-stall team over all opposition had strengthened the bond between them, Cynthia was certain. "Are you waiting for someone, poppet, or shall we walk together?"

Rachel said the rector had asked her to wait.

Cynthia gave the hat such a tug that it slipped askew and had to be put back with two hands. "Oh."

"Can't think what it's about," Rachel said disarmingly. "Is Christian Aid week coming up soon?"

"He doesn't organise the collectors. I do."

Rachel cursed herself for forgetting that Cynthia was the one woman who couldn't be fooled by that piece of sophistry.

"Maybe I left something behind yesterday. I'm hopeless like that. Always have been."

"I didn't see anything of yours when we left."

"Neither did I. It's a mystery."

"In that case I'll leave you to find out," said Cynthia, all her chumminess used up.

"Right, then," Rachel said inadequately.

People were still emerging from the church in numbers, so she moved aside to encourage Cynthia to move on quickly. If she had not been so keen to get rid of her crotchety friend, she might have taken more care. She took a bold step back, forgetting this was a churchyard. Her heel nudged awkwardly against the raised edge of an ancient gravestone. She lost her balance and tipped backwards.

Her bottom took the main impact, a hard landing on a stone slab that would leave bruises for a week, but the real pain was mental, acute embarrassment at exposing legs, tights and knickers- oh, yes, the full show-to the faithful of Foxford as they emerged from church enriched with pious thoughts. Struggling to restore decency, she hauled herself to a sitting position and tugged at her skirt. Already she was surrounded by Good Samaritans.

Cynthia had swung around and said, "My God-what happened to you?"

"I'm fine, fine," she insisted before she knew if she was, or not. "I tripped, that's all. So silly."

And now the advice came from all sides.

"Take a few deep breaths."

"Try putting your head between your knees."

"Don't get up yet. You'll feel faint." She couldn't. She was fully hemmed in. Seated on a grimy old gravestone, wishing she was anywhere but here.

"Would a drink of water help?"

"Do you want smelling-salts, dear?" (from one of the two old ladies who sat behind her). "I always have them with me in church. It gets so close sometimes."

"Was it a faint?"

"No, I'm perfectly all right. Really."

Then: "May I? Excuse me. What's happened here?"

The voice of the rector himself, trying to find a way through the crush.

Someone made room for him and he crouched beside her with a hand on her shoulder. "Rachel! What's up …? Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so. I'd like to get up."

Cynthia said, "She'll be all right, Otis. She says she's fine."

He asked them to make room. She was shivering as if it was winter.

She tried to get up. Rested her right hand on the slab and cried out with pain the moment she put pressure on it.

"You are hurt," said the rector. "Here, let me help."

She managed to get to her feet with his support. In any other situation, Otis Joy's arm firmly around her back would have been bliss, but she was in no state to appreciate it. All those anxious faces did not help.

"You OK, Rachel?" he asked, still with; his hands on her shoulders as if she might lose her balance.

She hadn't noticed until that moment of pain. She just felt numb at several points of her anatomy, including the arm. She said she was sure she'd be all right. Without thinking, she tried to brush the back of her skirt, now covered in the yellow stuff that grew on the stone. A stab of pain travelled up her arm.

"It could be broken," said the rector. "Let me see."

He held the arm lightly and asked her to move her fingers. There must have been people qualified in first aid or nursing among the bystanders, but this was church territory and he was taking charge and no one had better interfere, not even Cynthia.

Rachel didn't want a fuss, yet couldn't hide the discomfort. The rector said she ought to get the arm X-rayed and meanwhile they had better immobilize it. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he pulled his surplice over his head and improvised a sling for her.

The one good thing to come out of this mishap was that Otis Joy insisted he and no one else would take her to hospital. In no time at all she was seated beside him in his rattling old Cortina being driven to Bath.

"I should have offered you some aspirin," he said. "Idiot. I've got some in the vestry for emergencies."

She said the pain had virtually gone now that the arm was supported.

"Are you right-handed?"

She said she was.

"Isn't it always the way?"

"It's my garden that bothers me. It'll be a wilderness in no time."

"Won't your husband take a turn out there?"

She smiled. "You don't know him. He's flying to America, anyway."

In Accident and Emergency she was seen almost at once and then sent to another section for the X-ray. Otis Joy got up to go with her.

"There's no need for you to wait," she said. "I'll be all right now."

He refused to leave her.

"I could be here for hours," she said when they were seated in the radiography department.

"All the more reason for me to stay. After all, it was my fault."

"Why?"

"If I hadn't asked you to wait, this wouldn't have happened."

"No, it was my own stupidity," she repeated. "I stepped off the path without looking."

"It's in a dangerous place, that grave, so close to the church door. You're not the first to trip over it. I've a good mind to have the slab levelled flush with the turf."

"You couldn't do that. What would the relatives say?"

"They've long since gone. It belonged to one of the previous rectors, the Reverend Waldo Wallace."

"Now that you mention it, I've seen the name before."

"The incumbent for over fifty years, until about eighteen-eighty," he said. "And much loved by the parish. He brewed his own beer and supplied the pub. Believe it or not, tithes were still being paid in those days. Each year at harvest time, good old Waldo gave a tithe dinner at the rectory, a jolly for the whole village."

"With beer?"

"His home brew. It was a real bender. And a midnight firework display. Said he waited all year to hear the ladies crying 'Ooh!' and 'Ah!' as the rockets went up."

She giggled. "You made that up."

"No, Waldo said it. Pre-Freud and quite innocent, I'm sure. He never married."

She didn't know what to say.

"Anyway," Otis Joy added smoothly, "he wouldn't have wished this on you."

She said Waldo Wallace sounded a sweetie.

"Oh, sure. But on the other hand," he said, "we all get our kicks some way. If Waldo liked to hear the ladies going 'Ooh!' and 'Ah!' maybe he had something to do with you tripping over his grave."

"All he heard from me was 'Ouch!' I hope I said nothing worse."

"He must have heard some ripe Anglo-Saxon in his time. We clergymen do, you know."

"Not from a woman, surely? Waldo was never married, you said."

"He would have had a housekeeper, and I bet she dropped a plate occasionally and said something stronger than 'Oh, my word.'"

Rachel was called for the X-ray. There would be a further wait while they processed it and showed it to a doctor. She was feeling guilty about taking so much of the rector's time on a Sunday.

"Don't you have Evening Service soon?" she asked when she returned to the waiting area.

He looked at his watch. "Oceans of time."

"It must be hard, trying to find space for your own life."

"This is my own life," he said. "I don't think of it as a job. True, there are fixed points in the week, services, PCC meetings, choir practice, and so on, but I make time for other things when I feel the need. Wouldn't be much use to anyone if I never relaxed."

"So what do you do?"

"In my spare time? Fresh air and exercise. I like to get out. Music."

"What sort? Classical?"

"Catatonia."

"You're kidding?"

"There's some very good bands about these days."

"I'm surprised."

"I grew up with pop. Didn't you?"

"I thought you were going to say Mozart."

"Can't fault him, but I hear a lot of solemn music in church. Give me something with a heavy beat and grunge guitars."

"My husband thinks it's cool to listen to jazz, Benny Goodman and stuff. To me it's more dated than Beethoven." She felt a small stab of conscience for knocking Gary (not to say Beethoven), but it didn't trouble her much because she also felt the hurt of the proposed New Orleans trip. "His jazz crowd like warm beer and late nights."

He grinned. "Thick, floppy sweaters."

"Old jeans and sandals. And cigarettes. Not many women go for jazz, unless they sing with a band."

"How does a jazz musician wind up with a million pounds?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't know."

"By starting off with two million."

She was called to see an orthopaedic specialist. The X-ray showed she had a fracture above the wrist, a common injury known as a Colles' fracture, the doctor explained. The lower end of the radius had broken off and displaced backwards. There was damage to a ligament, but this was normal. It would require some manipulation.

Forty minutes later, she came back with her forearm encased in gleaming white plaster. "What do you think?"

"I think you should get straight on the phone to your lawyers," he said. "Sue the Church of England. Take them to the cleaners. They're not short of a few bob."

"You'll get the sack, talking like that," she told him, speaking with a freedom she wouldn't have dared to employ an hour ago.

"I'm a disgrace."

On the drive back to Foxford, she said, "You've been so kind. I don't deserve such treatment."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'm surprised you talk to me at all after that time I knocked at your door and you were only half-dressed."

"Less than half," he said, and she thought, Oh my God, why did I bring this up?

But he was amazingly untroubled. "It reminds me of the vicar who called on one of his parishioners and got no answer, so he took out his visiting card and wrote on the back, Revelation, 3, 20. When the lady checked the verse she found: 'Behold I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come into him, and will sup with him, and he with me.' On the following Sunday the lady in question dropped a card of her own into the collection plate. It read: Genesis, 3, 10. And when the vicar checked, he found: 'I heard thy voice in the garden and I was afraid because I was naked; and I hid myself.' "

Relaxed again, Rachel said, "Well, after that, I'd better make it clear I can't offer you supper, but I hope you'll come in for coffee when we reach my house."

He wouldn't this time, he said, and she understood why, considering it was his busiest day.

"One day in the week?" she said, and boldly added, "After all, we do have some unfinished business."

"What's that?"

"Whatever it was you asked me to wait and see you about after church."

"Oh," he said. "Slipped my mind. Just an idea. In view of the accident, it may have to wait."

Next morning she received a spray of pink, yellow and white carnations. The message inside read, "Sorry about the break. Get well soon. Love Waldo."

"Who the hell is Waldo?" demanded Gary.

She was tempted to say he was someone she'd fallen for, but Gary wouldn't see the humour in it. Already he was suffering hardships because she couldn't use the arm properly to make breakfast. Any sympathy had been short-lived. So she explained whose grave she had fallen over and said the flowers were obviously a joke.

"Bloody expensive joke," said Gary. "Some people have more money than sense."