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

will be different! I don’t know anyone. I don’t want to know anyone! Why do you have to be a Vicar? Who wants to have a Vicar for a mother?’

4
    Monday morning, and since my most important job today is to go with Becky to the school, both of us to meet the Headmistress, I am not wearing my clerical collar. First things first, and this morning I am not so much the Vicar of St Mary’s as Becky’s Mum so I am dressed accordingly; blue jeans, trainers, and a thick red sweater my mother knitted for me. She is a dab hand at knitting, always has some on the go though usually these days to sell to send money to some good cause. She would feel more fulfilled if she had a clutch of grandchildren to make woolly garments for. Becky is most definitely not into home knits. They are not cool. Her attire today is almost the same as mine except that instead of the sweater she wears a trendy jacket declaring her loyalty to Manchester United. If the rest of the school are Liverpool supporters – and I have no idea about this but I fear the worst – she will be even deeper into what she sees as enemy country. It is not in her nature to change her ideas to suit someone else – not unlike me I suppose, which is why when our goals happen to be different there is no halfway meeting place – so she will be out on a limb again.
    St Mary’s Church of England Primary School is a ten-minute walk from the Vicarage. It was built in the early part of the twentieth century on land given by the one-time Lord of the Manor, though the present buildings are not more than twenty-five years old, since the first ones more or less fell down. We are due to meet the Headmistress, Mrs Evelyn Sharp, at ten o’clock and I have practically had to take a gun to Becky to get her out of the Vicarage. Heaven knows what it will be like come next Monday, the day she starts in earnest. ‘She’ll be all right by then!’ my mother says, with what I think is misplaced confidence.
    The security at the school is tight. We have to ring the bell and state our business, through a grille, to a disembodied voice. After a longish pause, the door is answered, by which time it would not surprise me if we were submitted to a body search. Sad to think that these precautions are necessary, but I know they are, which is why I refuse to leave Becky alone in the house in order to attend an evening meeting. I expect I shall be the same even when she’s older. There is a stream of callers at any Vicarage, many of them difficult, some decidedly strange, and they can be threatening, especially when you won’t give them what they want, which is usually not a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea but hard cash. She’s a sensible child, not at all fearful, but I wouldn’t like her to have to deal with them.
    Once inside the school it is not at all like a fortress, it is all light and colour, with children’s paintings and vividly illustrated poems pinned up everywhere; mobiles hanging from the ceiling. The secretary takes us down two corridors to Mrs Sharp’s room and the Headmistress comes out from behind her desk to greet us. She is tall, has dark, wavy hair, a bright smile and a gap between her two front teeth, which makes me think – the gappy teeth, that is – how well she will match with some of the children.
    â€˜How nice to meet you both,’ she says, holding out her hand first to me and then to Becky, who suffers herself to be touched without actually flinching, but looks down at her feet and says nothing.
    â€˜Shall we sit down?’ Mrs Sharp invites, and we move to three low chairs set informally around a small table away from the desk. I approve of that. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in church yesterday, Mrs Stanton,’ she continues. ‘I was away for the weekend, though in fact I don’t attend St Mary’s regularly because I live over the far side of Brampton. But I would have