If You Follow Me Read online

  By the same author

  With Hymns and Hearts and Voices

  Fisher of Men

  Casting the Net

  Text copyright © 2014 by Pam Rhodes

  This edition copyright © 2014 Lion Hudson

  The right of Pam Rhodes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Lion Fiction

  an imprint of

  Lion Hudson plc

  Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road

  Oxford OX2 8DR, England

  www.lionhudson.com/fiction

  ISBN 978 1 78264 079 0

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 080 6

  First edition 2014

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover image: Lion Hudson

  To Richard,

  My first proof-reader,

  my sternest critic,

  and my lovely husband.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Who’s Who in Dunbridge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  WHO’S WHO IN DUNBRIDGE

  Reverend Neil Fisher – curate at St Stephen’s.

  Reverend Margaret Prowse – former rector of St Stephen’s.

  Iris Fisher – Neil’s widowed mother, Harry’s neighbour.

  Harry Holloway – elderly widower, Claire’s great-uncle.

  Claire – Neil’s fiancée; Harry’s great-niece; gardener employed by St Stephen’s.

  Sam – Claire’s young son.

  Ben – Sam’s Australian father.

  Felicity – Claire’s mother, who lives with her second husband David in Scarborough.

  Peter Fellowes – churchwarden; recently married to palliative care nurse, Val.

  Cynthia Clarkson (Cyn) – churchwarden; husband Jim and sons Carl, Barry and Colin, the eldest, married to Jeannie; Ellen – Colin and Jeannie’s baby daughter.

  Wendy Lambert – Neil’s keenest admirer; leader of St Stephen’s worship group.

  Sylvia Lambert – Wendy’s mother; St Stephen’s choir leader.

  Brian Lambert – Wendy’s father; organist at St Stephen’s.

  Barbara – runs St Stephen’s playgroup.

  Brenda – Sunday school teacher.

  Boy George Sanderson – octogenarian leader of St Stephen’s bell-ringers.

  Clifford Davies – former professional pianist in variety; organist at the local crematorium.

  Graham Paterson – Neil’s friend at the Wheatsheaf; fellow member of the darts team; Deputy Head of Maths at Dunbridge Upper School.

  Debs – Graham’s wife; best friend of Wendy Lambert. Bob Trueman – local farmer; chairman of the Committee of Friends of St Stephen’s.

  Shirley McCann – matron of the Mayflower residential care home.

  Sylvie – care worker at the Mayflower.

  Artie Simpson – resident at The Mayflower, son Ian Dr Saunders – a partner in the local GP practice.

  Victor – previous rector of St Stephen’s for more than twenty years.

  Bishop Paul – head of the team to which Neil belongs.

  Hugh – retired local minister.

  Rosemary – non-stipendiary industrial chaplain.

  Michael Kerridge – retired minister.

  Lady Romily – chairwoman of St Stephen’s Ladies’ Guild.

  Major James Molyneux – organist; wife Sue; son Daniel.

  Audrey Baker – head of the church flower team.

  Pauline Walters – member of the church flower team.

  Ernie and Blanche Perkins – elderly parishioners.

  Sonia Roberts – battered wife of Reg; mother of Rosie, Jake, and Charlie.

  Beryl – catering organizer at St. Stephens; husband Jack; son Paul.

  Maria – from Romania.

  Matt – Captain of Dunbridge rugby team; fireman; Paul’s friend.

  Madge – bell-ringer.

  CHAPTER 1

  “The trouble with you, Neil, is you’re just like your father.” Iris eyed her son across the table with obvious disdain. “I can live with that,” Neil replied, tucking into his roast dinner.

  “You procrastinate. He did too. It drove me to distraction. There were things to be done, plans to be made, but he had no sense of priority when it came to putting arrangements in hand.”

  “But Neil spends every day organizing things,” commented Harry, helping himself to another spoonful of Claire’s home-grown runner beans. “A curate with no rector? He’s a one-man band. I bet he’d love to procrastinate, if only he had the time!”

  “I am well aware of the demands of his working life.” Iris’s voice moved up a couple of decibels. “It’s his private life that’s a disaster. I mean, how long is it since Neil asked you to marry him, Claire?”

  Neil felt Claire’s leg brush against his under the table.

  “Six weeks.”

  “That’s my point,” continued Iris. “Six weeks on and nothing’s been decided. When are you going to get married? In fact, are you even properly engaged? There’s been no announcement – and no ring! Whoever heard of an engagement with no ring?”

  “Ah, well,” said Neil, “that I can explain. We have looked, haven’t we?”

  Claire nodded. “We’ve just not found the right thing yet.”

  “Why not?” demanded Iris. “There are plenty of jewellers’ shops with hundreds of rings. Why haven’t you got this sorted, Neil?”

  “That’s my fault,” said Claire. “I’m choosy.”

  “Of course you are, my dear. As the bride, you have every right to be, but it seems to me the groom needs a bit of a shove to get his act together. Just like his father. If it weren’t for me constantly pushing him in the right direction, we’d never have got anywhere.”

  “We saw some lovely rings, too many to choose from, but really I’ve felt from the start that I’d quite like to have an old ring, something with a bit of history to it.”

  “History?” Iris sounded appalled. “But what if it’s not a happy history? Why lumber yourself with other people’s misfortunes at this stage in your marriage?”

  “Because I think I’ll only be drawn to the right one for me. One that’s belonged to someone who loved and was loved. I’d like to think of someone’s loving commitment, and everything she felt and went through, bringing richness to my own feelings and experience.”

  “Sounds a bit fanciful to me.”

  “I know just what she means,” said Harry softly. “Those last awful days when Rose was so ill in the hospice, I held her hand for hours, though I’ve no idea really whether she knew I was there. She was so thin and frail by then – her wedding ring looked enormous on her hand, but I took a lot of comfort from seeing it there. I could picture her face when I placed it on her finger all those decades ago. When I thought about what that ring meant to us, I was so thankful to see it there still – a bit battered and tarnished, but as full of love and promise as it was on our wedding day.”
>
  Claire laid her hand over Harry’s, sharing a moment of silent understanding with her great-uncle. Suddenly, Harry pushed back his chair, excused himself and quietly left the room.

  “That was nothing to do with me!” stated Iris, once he’d disappeared out of sight. “I didn’t upset him. You need to be more careful, Claire. He’s not as strong as he’d like to think he is.”

  “When it comes to his physical health,” interjected Neil, “you may be right – but there was no weakness in what we saw just then.”

  “He was remembering a sad time,” added Claire, “but I think what he said about his marriage to Aunt Rose was really touching.”

  Iris sniffed.

  “Well, I think you should be more careful when you’re dabbling in emotions. You’re supposed to be good at counselling, Neil. Your skills were sadly lacking there. Thank goodness you’re still a curate. Let’s hope they’ve got time to give you a bit more training in people skills.”

  At that moment, they all fell silent as Harry came back in and sat down next to Claire.

  “Here. This is for you.”

  He handed her a small box covered in deep red velvet, faded and frayed with age. Glancing up at Harry with curiosity, Claire gently lifted the lid to reveal three sparkling diamonds on a gold ring that was bent and thinned from years of work and wear.

  “It’s Rose’s engagement ring. She wore it every day from the time I asked her to marry me until the day she died. Please don’t feel you have to wear it if it’s not right for you, but I know she would have wanted you to have it.”

  Deeply moved, Claire gazed down at the ring for some moments before she smiled up at Harry.

  “Thank you, Uncle Harry. This is definitely the right ring for me. I’ll wear it with pride, and hope that Neil and I can look forward to the same joy in marriage that you and Rose shared.”

  “Well!” said Iris, abruptly cutting through the intimate atmosphere. “I don’t think that ring will last two minutes when you’re gardening, Claire. You need something sturdier.” She turned to Neil, suddenly hesitant. “How would you like to have your father’s wedding ring too? It’s quite wide and thick. Do you remember? Not the modern style nowadays, I realize that, but there’d be enough gold in it to add some to the band of Claire’s engagement ring, and perhaps put the rest of the gold into your two wedding rings.”

  There was an air of vulnerability about Iris as she spoke, as if she was uncertain of his reaction.

  “I think,” said Neil quietly, “I would like that very much.”

  “So would I, Iris,” added Claire. “What a lovely idea. Thank you.”

  “That’s settled then.”

  Iris pushed back her chair and started to pile up the dinner plates.

  “These plates won’t get done on their own, Neil. I’ll wipe, you wash. You need the practice if you’re planning to be half decent as a married man. How many times have I told you to rinse the crockery so it doesn’t dry streaky? And for heaven’s sake, remember that rash you get. My Marigolds are on the hook above the sink. Use them!”

  * * *

  Attendance at church was traditionally low in August with so many families away on holiday. However, as Neil stood at the back of the church after morning worship on the following Sunday, most of the people lining up to greet him were familiar faces.

  Beryl was first to the door. As leading light of the catering group she was rushing to rally her team of ladies who served refreshments in the hall. Neil was especially pleased to see Maria, a young Romanian girl, going out with her to help. The previous summer he’d caught her stealing from the church Bring and Buy sale, and discovered that she was homeless. Abandoned by the cousin who had promised to find her work, she knew no one in England. Neil had found her a place in a nearby hostel, and Jim, the manager, thought she’d benefit from being part of a caring community like the congregation at St Stephen’s. They had benefited, too, because Maria was sincere and hardworking. Since then, she’d come across to the church almost every day, helping out at the children’s playgroup, baking cakes with the Ladies’ Guild and anxiously standing by to serve coffee or tea to anyone who might need it at any time of day.

  “Good morning, young man. Not too bad today, I have to say.”

  Neil’s thoughts were interrupted by a tall, distinguished-looking man standing before him. Major James Molyneux and his family had recently moved to Dunbridge after his retirement from a long career in the army. From the first day James and his wife Sue had arrived for Sunday worship at St Stephen’s, he had made his presence felt. His devotion to his Christian faith was in no doubt. His in-depth scrutiny of every detail of each service was a little taxing, though, because it soon became clear that he expected his church services to be run in precise military fashion, just like the rest of his life. As a newcomer, he was unaware of the depth of sadness felt by the whole congregation when, earlier in the year, their rector Margaret Prowse had suddenly retired after the shocking death of her husband Frank, leaving Neil to cope alone. James seemed unprepared to make allowances for the shortcomings of the young, inexperienced priest who had suddenly been catapulted from curate training into full responsibility for this busy parish. He expected the priest-in-charge to know his job and be in charge. He didn’t understand Neil’s natural shyness, or his panic whenever he was faced with a new challenge. He didn’t know that Neil trembled whenever James approached him with that slightly disapproving expression which always meant criticism would duly follow.

  “Thank you, sir,” mumbled Neil, cursing himself for his nervousness.

  “Wrong hymn choice, of course,” continued James. “There are so many more suitable texts that come to mind before that old chestnut Psalm 23. The trouble is that clergy often resort to it because they can’t be bothered to find something more appropriate to the reading of the day. But then you compounded the crime by shunning the only melody to which those words should ever be sung, ‘Crimond’. That new modern version is a poor substitute.”

  “Actually, Stuart Townend’s ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ is one of the most popular hymns in the country at the moment…”

  “Exactly! That just goes to show how far standards are dropping.”

  “I wouldn’t say that…”

  “Don’t let your standards drop just to make yourself trendy and popular. Stand up for what you know is right.”

  “Actually, I…”

  “Constructive criticism, young man, that’s what I’m giving you. You’d do well to listen to the considered opinion of someone who’s been organizing church services since you were in short trousers.”

  “Ignore him, Neil,” said James’s wife Sue, joining them. “He’s a grumpy old man who’s not in the army now, and he doesn’t have the right to tell everyone what they should be doing and expect them to hop to his command.”

  They were an incongruous couple. Sue was a foot shorter than her husband, short, round and blonde, while James was tall and wiry, his thinning grey hair smartly slicked into shape.

  “If you want some of Beryl’s ginger cake, James, you’d better get to the hall pronto!” she commented, linking her arm through her husband’s. “See you there, Neil!”

  Next in the line were Brenda, a Sunday school teacher, and Barbara, the grandmother who took charge of the St Stephen’s playgroup in the church hall on weekday mornings.

  “Thanks for including that lovely version of ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’, Neil,” said Barbara, not slowing her pace as she headed for the church hall. “That made my morning!”

  Congregation members filed past: first the team of bell-ringers, enthusiastically led by “Boy George” Sanderson, a sprightly octogenarian who felt it was his duty to make sure his hardworking team were rewarded with first pick of the cakes on offer in the hall. Then there was Bob Trueman, chairman of The Friends of St Stephen’s and stalwart fund-raiser, followed by Shirley McCann, the manager of the Mayflower care home, who could only come to church when the staff rota allowe
d her time off. Other faces were less well known to Neil, but he greeted them all as chattily as possible, while keeping in mind that he had to lead a service at their sister church of St Gabriel’s in three quarters of an hour, and that he’d love a cup of coffee before he had to set off.

  “Good morning, Neil.” Geoff Whalley, the local funeral director, was an occasional visitor to St Stephen’s for Sunday morning worship. Neil suspected that it was not so much his faith as his shrewd business sense that made him visit several of the largest churches in the area in strict rotation. Not that Neil minded. He respected Geoff: he was caring and sensitive, supporting the mourners as they made funeral plans. Some people felt he got too involved. Well, it was unusual to come across a funeral director who cried at every funeral he attended, but Neil had come to recognize that Geoff just loved his job. He loved the sentiment. He loved the ceremony. And he felt the sadness so much, he simply joined in. Who could possibly mind that?

  “See you next week at the crem? Are you doing Williams and Fogharty? Tuesday morning and Wednesday afternoon, if my memory serves me well.”

  “I am, Geoff. I’ll ring you about them both in the morning.”

  “Can you ring me too, Neil, when you have a moment?” Churchwarden Peter Fellowes and his new wife Val were next in line. Their marriage in April that year had been cause for great celebration for the whole St Stephen’s community. Mild-mannered Peter had been married for years to Glenda, a blowsy, ambitious woman who had finally walked out on him. Their path to divorce was fraught with problems caused by Glenda changing her mind once she’d realized what she was losing, but eventually Peter was able to propose to Val, and now their long years of friendship were crowned by a happy marriage.

  Neil smiled at them both. “Yes, I’d appreciate a chat. The timetable’s all over the place at the moment, with only me available to do everything.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Hugh’s given me a few dates when he can help out, and Rosemary says she may be able to fit in one or two services too. I’ve said all offers will be gratefully accepted.”

  “Definitely!” agreed Neil. He simply couldn’t have got through the weeks since Margaret’s sudden departure without the help of Hugh, recently retired to a nearby village after years of ministry in the Midlands, and Rosemary, who was an industrial chaplain for one of the large companies in Luton.