Barbara Erskine - Time’s Legacy

There was a sound behind him in the corner and he spun round, his heart thudding with fear. There was nothing there. It was probably a timber flexing. Wood expanded and contracted. That was one of the problems with old buildings. They made noises all the time. He closed his eyes and breathed a quick prayer. There was no place for superstitious nonsense in his rigid discipline. The structure of his Church did not allow ghosts, spiritualism, mumbo jumbo. His beliefs, carefully honed and pared to a minimum, had been constructed to protect him from those whirling shadows. They kept him safe. And sane.

Unfortunately Abi was completely unaware that her new boss had spotted some kind of peacefulness about her, and that he had not asked her to join the team for her opinions, so almost from the start they argued. A lot. The truth of the matter was that very quickly she began to find his churchmanship sterile and rigid and totally unappealing; it was austere, verging on the puritan. ‘Can’t you see, Kier, how much the people long for love!’ She shoved her unruly hair back and clamped it into its clips. ‘The love of Jesus and also a vicar who shows that he or she cares. They want informality these days. Joy.’

Kier shook his head patiently. ‘What these people need is discipline. Without that they are lost. You are too emotional, Abi. You must keep all this passion under wraps.’

Was he being the tiniest bit patronising? She thought so. ‘What about bringing out the mysticism of the Eucharist? That would appeal to so many people here.’

Once more he shook his head – a habit which was soon driving her wild with fury. ‘This is a puritan county, Abi. We don’t do mysticism.’ He glanced at her and for a moment she thought he was going to say something else. She waited for yet another criticism, but it didn’t come. At least not then.

The stresses and strains of the job were a shock, it was so very different from her first curacy. There, the Rev Martin Smith, the training incumbent, had been at pains to help and train her in parish work, to encourage her, and a year into her deaconate, when she was at last made a priest, to stand slowly back, encouraging her to find her 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.