With Hearts and Hymns and Voices Read online

  By the same author

  Fisher of Men

  Casting the Net

  If You Follow Me

  Saints and Sailors

  Text copyright © 1996 Pam Rhodes

  This edition copyright © 2015 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.

  This edition 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 172 8

  e-ISBN 978 1 78264 180 3

  First edition published by Lion in 1996

  Acknowledgments

  Extract on pp. 78–80 taken from the song “Be Still” by David J Evans. Copyright © 1986 Thankyou Music. Adm. By Capitol CMG Publishing worldwide excl. UK & Europe, admin by Integrity Music, part of the David C Cook family, [email protected]

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

  Cover image © Chris Andrew

  For Derek Tangye

  who inspired me to write

  as he inspires others to read

  WHO’S WHO

  In the village

  Reverend Clive Linton Vicar of St Michael’s, Sandford

  Helen Linton The vicar’s wife

  Mrs Hadlow Elderly local busybody. Married to George; their daughter, Rosemary, works occasionally in The Bull Hotel in the village

  Ivy Mrs Hadlow’s friend and constant companion. She is not very talkative and finds it difficult to walk

  Charles Waite Chairman of the Parish Council, churchwarden, local amateur historian

  Betty Waite married to Charles, has been the choirmistress and organist at St Michael’s for years

  Jack Diggens Lonely accounts clerk, who has recently retired

  Don Birch Runs the Village Store with his wife, Joan

  Anna Birch Their daughter, a very talented singer, still in her teens and at school.

  Matthew Gregory sixteen-year-old schoolboy, who is keen on Anna and the technical side of broadcasting

  Major James and Marjorie Gregory Matthew’s parents. The Major is on the Parish Council, and influential locally. Marjorie is not a regular churchgoer but is desperate to get a ticket for the recording

  Margaret Abbot A harpist and music teacher from the neighbouring village of Steepleton, who becomes friendly with Jack Diggens

  Reverend Stephen Yearling Baptist minister at Steepleton – he has a wife, Wendy, and children Luke and Stephanie – interviewed on Village Praise

  Reverend Norman Oates A larger-than-life local Methodist minister, married to Marion

  Reverend Walter Millar Retired local vicar. Beryl is his wife.

  Bill and Maureen Proprietors of The Bull Hotel

  Stanley and Eric Regulars in the Public Bar at The Bull

  Brian and Ellen Owners of Grove House, Bed and Breakfast hotel for the BBC Production Team

  David Hughes Farmer at Dinton, with his wife, Karen, and their five-year-old son, Michael. He owns two donkeys, Doreen and Denis, who are auditioned for the Palm Sunday procession

  Bunty Maddocks Active and tireless church worker. Head of the Ladies’ Prayer Group and the Ladies’ Flower Arranging Group

  Iris Baker Hairdresser and owner of the Hair Salon in Sandford High Street

  Grace and Madge Members of the Ladies’ Flower Arranging Circle

  Dorothy Jolly, cuddly customer at Iris’ Hair Salon

  Debbie Receptionist at the Hair Salon

  Colin Brown Talented organist from nearby Stowmarket who runs his own estate agency

  Pete Durrell Editor of The Herald, the local newspaper

  Bob Evans Reporter on The Herald

  Dee and Chris Stevens Born-again Christians with two children, Daniel and Naomi, considered as possible interviewees for the programme.

  Mrs Hulme Daunting choirmistress of St Mark’s Church Choir from Stowmarket

  Bill Hewitt Organizer of the Saxmundham Songsters

  Sidney West Bad-tempered, bossy elderly man who regularly goes off-shore in a small boat with his friends Frank and Bo, to sing hymns and read the Bible

  Mike Hallam Organizer of ‘Out and About’, which arranges countryside outings for people hampered by disability or circumstances

  Mary Denby Disabled young mother. Enthusiastic supporter of the ‘Out and About’ project. Interviewed for Village Praise

  Mrs Rose Smith Patronizing organizer of the Women’s Institute Choir

  Mrs Gearing Headmistress of Sandford Junior Mixed Infants School

  Gregory and Jessica Children at Sandford School

  Brenda Member of St Mark’s Choir

  In the Television Crew

  Jan Harding Producer of Village Praise

  Sue Production assistant, who arranges schedules, accommodation, timings for the whole production, and is a regular churchgoer at her home in Salford

  Simon Martin Engineering manager, with overall responsibility for technical requirements, including the lighting of the church

  Frank Harris Sound supervisor

  Kate Marsden Researcher

  Ian Spence Musical director

  Sarah Ian’s girlfriend, a professional flautist

  Richard Newham Musical Adviser

  Roger Harwood Director of location and church recording

  Ros Denham Attractive and efficient floor manager

  Joe Security man whose caravan always has tea on the brew and the biscuit barrel open

  Michael Sheehan Irish Rigger/Driver

  Des and Charlie Riggers

  Jim and Terry Electricians (sparks)

  Keith Location cameraman

  Bob Location sound man

  Pam Rhodes Village Praise presenter. Her husband is Paul, and her two children are Max, aged eleven, and Bethan, five

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  FRIDAY: 5 FEBRUARY

  WEDNESDAY: 10 FEBRUARY

  SUNDAY: 14 FEBRUARY

  TUESDAY: 16 FEBRUARY

  WEDNESDAY: 17 FEBRUARY

  FRIDAY: 19 FEBRUARY

  FRIDAY: 19 FEBRUARY

  SUNDAY: 21 FEBRUARY

  MONDAY: 22 FEBRUARY

  TUESDAY: 23 FEBRUARY

  SATURDAY: 27 FEBRUARY

  MONDAY: 1 MARCH

  THURSDAY: 11 MARCH

  MONDAY: 15 MARCH

  TUESDAY: 16 MARCH

  WEDNESDAY: 17 MARCH

  THURSDAY: 18 MARCH

  FRIDAY: 19 MARCH

  SUNDAY: 21 MARCH

  MONDAY: 22 MARCH

  TUESDAY: 23 MARCH

  WEDNESDAY: 24 MARCH

  THURSDAY: 25 MARCH

  FRIDAY: 26 MARCH

  SATURDAY: 27 MARCH

  SUNDAY: 28 MARCH

  MONDAY: 29 MARCH

  TUESDAY: 30 MARCH

  WEDNESDAY: 31 MARCH

  THURSDAY: 1 APRIL

  FRIDAY: 2 APRIL

  SATURDAY: 3 APRIL

  SUNDAY: 4 APRIL

  FRIDAY

  5 FEBRUARY

  When the phone rang, she almost missed it. She was down in the cellar, digging out crepe paper supplies for the Sunday school youngsters, and although she heard it
ring, Helen ignored it. Clive was in – let him get it.

  By the time she realized he was ignoring it too, and she’d climbed over the cat basket and a line of wellington boots to clamber up the stairs, Helen was breathless as she grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello, St Michael’s Vicarage, I’m sorry!’

  ‘I’m not,’ said a woman’s voice, with a slightly musical lilt to it. Was it Scottish? ‘St Michael’s Vicarage is what I’m after. Is the vicar there?’

  ‘Well, he should be,’ said Helen, craning her neck to peer into Clive’s study, ‘but apparently not. What time is it? He’s got a funeral at ten-thirty this morning – he’s probably gone over to the church. Can I help? I’m his wife.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. I’d like to fix a time to come and chat to him. I’m going to be down your way on Wednesday afternoon – I just wondered if he’s got any time free then?’

  Definitely Scottish, Helen thought.

  ‘Well, I don’t know of anything booked for that afternoon, but that doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll get him to ring you back, if you like. Can I tell him who called?’

  Helen tucked the receiver under her chin as she reached for the pen, attached with sellotape and string to the phone, and searched for a corner of paper that wasn’t already written on.

  ‘My name is Jan Harding. I’m a producer at the BBC. I want to look into the possibility of doing a Songs of Praise from Sandford.’

  Helen’s pen came to a halt in mid-air.

  ‘Can I leave my number, and perhaps your husband – it’s the Reverend Clive Linton, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you think he could ring me later today? I’d like to get things moving.’

  Helen seized the pen again, and scribbled down the number. ‘I’ll pass the message on. He’ll probably get back to you in an hour or so. Bye.’

  Helen replaced the receiver, and stared at the phone. What an extraordinary call! Songs of Praise, here? Sleepy little Sandford, population eight hundred, and shrinking? Sandford, on a road that probably went somewhere once, but no one could quite remember why. This was a backwater, a place seldom found except by accident – and for most of the locals, except perhaps the ones who wouldn’t mind a bit more B & B business, that was just fine.

  Helen chuckled. Wait till Bunty heard! Think how she’d set up four committees just to organize the summer fête! Something like this would keep her happily harassed and indispensable for weeks!

  That reminded her – the Parish Magazine. Bunty had already rung twice, first to remind, and then to demand, that Clive get his intro over to her by yesterday at the latest. This morning, he’d promised he would closet himself in the study first thing, and get it done.

  What was the time? Helen glanced at her watch. Five to ten. Wherever was he?

  Dear Clive – so well-meaning, so willing to offer, so often to disappoint. For a man whose life was structured by services and meetings, time seemed to have surprisingly little relevance. He just forgot. As his thoughts took him on to heady spiritual heights, the worldly business of getting on with the day simply faded from his mind. He never meant to let anyone down, or cause confusion. He hadn’t a hurtful bone in his body. He simply forgot. And what he forgot, Helen – good old reliable Helen – always remembered, and organized around him.

  Helen reached for her coat, and glanced at her reflection in the hallstand mirror. Her cheeks were flushed. Simmering frustration always left her that way, and nowadays, it seemed to her that frustration was all she ever felt where Clive was concerned. What an old grouch she was becoming! She gave herself a stern look in the mirror, grabbed the funeral service sheets Clive had probably meant to take with him, and dropped the key, as usual, into the black flowerpot before pulling the front door shut.

  Had he been forgetful when she’d first met him, she wondered, as she walked towards the church? He probably was, but it hadn’t mattered then. At twenty-four, in his last year of a theology degree, Clive’s search for truth, and his certainty of answers in the Christian faith, made him a compelling, mesmerizing companion. She admired his clarity of thought, his passion, his vision. She found herself watching him, asking about him, wishing she knew him better. And even before he ever really noticed her among the gaggle of students who often hung around together, she was probably already a little in love with him.

  It had been the Christian Fellowship that finally brought them together. He suggested they invite along a well-known evangelical minister to one of their meetings. She volunteered to write the letter, and do the publicity. He had chaired that meeting, and introduced the speaker. She had arranged the tickets, the chairs, and given the vote of thanks from the floor. A week later, he received a card thanking him for organizing such a stimulating and thoroughly enjoyable evening. She was rewarded by the warm glow of friendship in Clive’s eyes, a warmth that over the months, steadily grew into love.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Linton!’

  Helen’s thoughts were jolted back, as she saw the comfortable, coated frame of Mrs Hadlow waiting at the church door.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Linton. I am glad to see you, dear. I didn’t bring my key, you see, because the vicar said he’d be here. Just thought I ought to spruce things up a bit, well, for poor John, of course. So sad. Never really knew him well, but he seemed nice. Lonely, I think, all by himself, since Maisie died. His heart must have been broken. I told George, I thought it must have been broken, he missed her so much. Poor John. It’s a real shock. We’ll miss him.’

  Helen smiled to herself, as she turned the key in the lock. ‘It’s kind of you to bother, Mrs Hadlow. I’ll just come and switch the lights on, and light that fire in the vestry. I’m sure Clive will be over in a while.’

  ‘I’ve brought my own tin of polish with me,’ said Mrs Hadlow, as she eased herself through the door. ‘I never really think you get a proper shine from a spray. It doesn’t smell right. I popped up to take a look in John’s garden this morning, to see if his daffs were out. His always seemed to be the first, and I thought he might like his own flowers in church this morning. Too early, though – but he did love his garden! Whatever’s going to happen to that garden now? Did he and Maisie have any family, do you know? My Rosemary, she did breakfast at The Bull this morning – well, it’s Thursday, so she always does – she said there’s a couple staying there, come for the funeral today. Do you think they’re relatives? Poor man, kept himself to himself. I never really knew him well.’

  Helen headed back towards the door.

  ‘Oh, leave the door on the jar, would you, dear? Mrs Murray said she’d pop over. Did you hear her leg’s bad again? Those pills really aren’t working. I keep telling her she ought to go back and ask, but you know how she hates making a fuss. Anyway, she’ll want to come and pay her respects. We all do, poor man.’ And as Mrs Hadlow began a cheerful, tuneless hum, Helen slipped away.

  So, Clive wasn’t at the church. She headed for the next most logical place.

  ***

  The Reverend Clive Linton was rarely happier than when he was in his greenhouse. Standing big and lopsided at the end of the long garden, the greenhouse took him out of the vicarage, and into another world, a world of endeavour and miracles, of death and resurrection, of peace and perfection. He sometimes thought he felt closer to God here, than he ever did in the pulpit. As his hands busied themselves with planting, pruning and spraying, his mind wandered free. His best sermons were born here. His keenest insights were glimpsed here. Those nagging irritations of jobs to be done faded into comfortable obscurity, as he marvelled again and again at new life, creation at close hand.

  ‘Darling, look!’

  He turned a beaming face towards Helen, as she opened the door. ‘The amaryllis, you know, the one from last year? It’s about to flower again. Do you remember what a splendid colour it was? Would you like it in the house now, the hall perhaps?’

  The years have hardly touched him, Helen thought. Oh, he’s greyer, more thickset – but his gentle
features and warm eyes have hardly changed at all.

  ‘It’s lovely. I’ll take it through. You’ll want to get your robes on, I expect. They’ll be starting to arrive for John’s funeral pretty soon. The service sheets are on the back pew, by the way.’

  Reluctantly, Clive brushed the dirt off his hands.

  ‘Oh, and Clive, when you’ve a moment, there’s a number for you to ring on the pad. A lady from the BBC – she wants to come down and talk to you about perhaps doing a Songs of Praise here.’

  Clive’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Well, I never. On the pad, is it? I’ll ring right now.’

  ‘You know, there are some people staying at The Bull. They’ve come specially for John’s funeral. I wonder if they might like a word with you before the service. They might do.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I’ll get ready straight away. His niece, probably, I think. She rang earlier in the week, to talk about hymns. Mrs – what was her name? Oh, never mind. I’ll know her when I see her.’ And picking up the amaryllis, Clive headed for the house.

  ***

  As funerals go, this one was quiet and dignified. There were only a few seats filled, mostly by locals – the Hadlows, next to their friend, Ivy Murray, whose beige raincoat matched her beige hair, and her pale face. Ivy gave the occasional martyred sigh as she tried to find a comfy position for her leg.

  Behind her, Jack Diggens sat, slight and wiry, neat and reserved in his best suit. He hadn’t needed to wear a suit since he had retired from his job in accounts, but old habits die hard. He was never seen without sharp creases in his trousers, matched by a sharp, precise knot in his tie. At first glance, he looked younger than sixty-six, although slivers of silver gleamed in his thick hair. He spoke to no one. He wasn’t one for conversation. He wasn’t one for church, either. He was only here because he felt he should be. John hadn’t been a ‘friend’ exactly, more of a companion. Since the death of John’s wife, Maisie, Jack, the retired bachelor, and John, the widower, had often teamed up for cards, and the odd pint, just to pass away an evening or two. They didn’t really talk, well, not about anything much. John hadn’t been a man with a lot to say. They could sit in The Bull comfortably for an hour, and not feel the need for conversation at all. John had seldom mentioned Maisie, or adjusting to life without her. As Jack listened to the familiar words of the funeral service, he wondered whether John was happy now, to be with Maisie again. Somehow, he thought not.