Read Online A Blessing In Disguise by Elvi Rhodes - Free Book Online

whammy. Her father’s death must have hurt her deeply.’
    â€˜Oh, it did!’ I agree. ‘She adored him. They adored each other.’
    â€˜Children sometimes feel partly responsible when a parent dies,’ Sonia said. ‘They wonder if it was something they did, especially if they’ve been naughty. But why am I telling you this? I don’t have a child. You do. Presumptuous of me. You know more about parenting than I do. Mine’s all theory.’
    â€˜Not at all,’ I tell her. ‘Having one child doesn’t make me an expert. I knew the theory too. I read all the books, I thought I was going to be a model mother. Well let me tell you, the theory doesn’t always work. It’s mostly trial and error. You just have to meet everything as it comes. And I don’t mean I haven’t been happy with Becky. Of course I have! I love her very much.’
    â€˜Go on giving her that, and time. It’ll do more for her than doctor’s medicine. But I don’t have to tell you that either.’
    She gives me her lovely, lopsided smile again, which cheers me up, then she says, ‘I reckon Nigel will have finished with Mrs Thwaites’s legs by now. I’ll give him a call.’
    She picks up the phone, says ‘Are you clear? Good! Then come in and meet the new Vicar.’
    He is tall and thin. For a second or two, he stands in the doorway before coming into the room. His hair, strangely, is also red, but golden-red, two or three shades lighter than Sonia’s, and would be curly if it weren’t so close-cropped. He has the bright blue eyes which often go with red hair. He is a Viking, I decide. Or his forebears were. Or perhaps he’s Irish.
    â€˜Venus Stanton,’ Sonia says. ‘Nigel Baines.’
    He holds out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says. Baines isn’t an Irish name, at least as far as I know it isn’t, but his accent is as Irish as the shamrock. His voice is deeper than I expect it to be, and musical, I think he might be good at singing. His accent must come from his mother’s side and I guess it means he won’t be one of my particular congregation, a fact which he immediately confirms.
    â€˜I go to St Patrick’s,’ he says. ‘Though we get on quite well with your lot. I think there’s a group at St Pat’s which does things together with St Mary’s. Not that I’m part of it.’
    St Patrick’s is the Roman Catholic church at the far end of Thurston. It’s new as churches go, not more than fifty years old, and comparatively small, though I’ve been told it has a good congregation because it draws from two nearby villages – well, not so much villages as large private housing estates which have sprung up in recent years, neither with a Catholic church of its own let alone a priest to run it. They are worse off than we are.
    He takes the only other empty chair, a low one, and leans back in it, his legs stretched out in front of him.
    â€˜So! Are you going to settle down all right in Thurston?’ he enquires amiably.
    â€˜Oh, I think so!’ I tell him. ‘It’s early days yet, but I don’t see why not. I reckon there’s quite a bit to be done, and I look forward to that, but I won’t push it. People have to get used to me.’
    He nods agreement. ‘Well, let’s face it, you are quite a bit different from your predecessor – including being the wrong sex.’
    â€˜The
wrong
sex?’
    He throws up his hands. ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant . . . anyway, we’re always hearing there’ll be women priests in my church within the next five years, though they’ve been saying that for the last ten years.’
    â€˜I hear it too,’ I tell him. I don’t want to rub it in that we’re well ahead; we’ve taken the plunge, even if the water does sometimes turn out to be