Fanshawe

“God helps those who help themselves,” said Mrs Catterick, helping herself to another fondant fancy from the table in front of her.

The new Vicar, Rev’d Dr Julian Fanshawe, nodded sagely and smiled, then balanced a rather sad looking sausage roll on the side of his flimsy paper plate.

He wanted to keep Mrs Catterick on side; her Planned Giving donations that year would make the difference between replastering the wall of the South Transept and dodging bits of falling masonry on his way to the Vestry.  So he restrained himself from informing her that the quote wouldn’t be found anywhere in the Bible.

“I hear you studied at Oxford, Vicar?” Mrs Catterick asked, but Rev’d Fanshawe was already busy scanning the room, singling out possible allies from the crowd of church folk, assembled for a Fellowship Tea.

“What?  Oh, yes,” he answered, distractedly, “and Cambridge too – for my Doctorate.”

Mrs Catterick opened her mouth to respond, inadvertently revealing molars gluey with pink and yellow icing.  It didn’t matter.  The Vicar had already darted over to a table of old dears; they munched scones, while he dazzled them with his well practised charm and exciting new plans for a reenergised St Peter’s.

……………………………………

Later, in the Vicarage sitting room, Julian felt guilty.  He was attempting to relax with his wife, Sandra, but failing miserably. 

“So, it’s a choice between Sheila and Dawn then,” Sandra said, scouring the notes on her lap for the umpteenth time.  “What do you think, Jules?”

Julian looked up from his iPhone diary and contemplated the question briefly.  “Neither.”

“What?! Oh, Jules, we’ve tried every childminder in the parish.  These really are the pick of the crop.”

“Oh, come on.  I saw Sheila wearing a onesie and Ugg boots in Sainsbury’s last weekend.  She’s hardly the crème de la crème of Canford parish childcare.”

“What about Dawn then?  She was lovely with James and Hannah.”

Julian’s attention had returned to his packed schedule; tomorrow he would have meetings from eight in the morning and his day would be rounded off by dinner with the Rural Dean.  He couldn’t contemplate another round of visits to childminders.

“Did you see the size of their television?” Sandra continued.  “I thought Dawn’s husband was supposed to be on disability benefits?  It amazes me how these people moan about being poor, but aren’t willing to make any sacrifices.”

“Okay.  We’ll go with Dawn.”  Julian didn’t have time to be indecisive or feel inclined to discuss the home lives of his parishoners.

Sandra sighed with relief.  “Really?”

“If we must, but don’t blame me if the children are saying “innit” and requesting tattoos before the month’s out.”

“I’ll ring her tomorrow and see if she still has spaces.”

……………………………

Paula, the Office Assistant, sniffed loudly and looked up at Rev’d Fanshawe with red rimmed eyes.  He shifted uncomfortably, transferring his weight from one foot to the other.  He hadn’t expected her to blub.

“But I’ve only been off benefits for a year and it’s so hard to find work if you’re a single mum.  It took me eighteenth months to find this job…”

“I’m sorry Paula, it’s not that your work here hasn’t been valued, it’s just that some pruning had to be made: systems streamlined.”

“Are you saying I’m dead wood?”  She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

“No, not at all.  I really do think that someone with your qualifications will have no trouble finding employment, especially with the economy making a recent upturn…”

“Qualifications don’t count for much when you’re on your own and have a child to take care of.  I can’t go back to what I did before, because they expect you to work long hours, and I have little Sophie to think about.”

“I’m sorry, but my decision is final and the PCC have given it their full backing.”  He was getting impatient with her now.  Why did she have to cause such a scene?

“I’m afraid we won’t be renewing your contract.”

…………………..

Paula walked hand in hand with Sophie, enjoying her childish chatter as they trudged up the hill towards their house.  They passed the beautiful Canford parish church, with it ornate stonework and stained glass windows.

“That’s where you work, Mummy,” Sophie said, gazing over the stone wall, towards the chapel.  “Why’s the light on?”

“It’s choir practice tonight, darling.”

The chapel was lit from within, making the windows gleam like a coloured lantern; the jewel-like panes revealing a picture of Christ as the good shepherd.

“Why’s Jesus holding a lamb, Mummy? Won’t the sheep get his dress all dirty?” 

“He wouldn’t mind, darling.”

“And why isn’t he wearing any shoes?”

“Because Jesus was poor, sweetheart.”

“What, poorer than us?!”

“Yes, much poorer – he didn’t even have anywhere to live.”

At the thought of homelessness, a spark of fear ignited briefly in Paula’s soul, and she squeezed Sophie’s hand tightly.

“Oh.  That’s a shame Mummy.  Poor Jesus.”

Paula smiled at her daughter’s kind-heartedness and led her on, past the Vicarage, where a light glowed in a downstairs window.

………………………..

In his study, Rev’d Dr Julian Fanshawe pulled a leather bound Bible down from a well-stocked bookshelf and settled at his desk to work on a sermon.  He grunted with impatience as the phone rang for the second time in the past ten minutes.

“What time’s the quiz?” It was an elderly woman’s voice.  Not even hello, Julian thought, taken aback.  “Excuse me, but who is this?” he asked.

“Sylvia.  What time’s the quiz?  I’ve got seven thirty in my diary.”

Julian wished he’d let the call go to answerphone, then Paula could have dealt with it in the morning.  “I’m sorry Sylvia, but I’m not sure.  Could you give the office a call tomorrow?”

The phone went dead.  Sylvia clearly didn’t bother with pleasantries. 

It was better than the previous phone call, at least.  The organist informed him that the choir were threatening to resign over the incident last Sunday.  Oh well, let them, Julian thought.  He had every right to tell them to sing up during a service, instead of sitting there like a group of sulky children.  Just because they didn’t have the sheet music!  Ridiculous: everyone knows the tune to All Things Bright and Beautiful.

“A new broom sweeps clean.”  That’s what Mrs Catterick had said to him at  the Fellowship tea, when he'd told her that he had plans for a streamlined, modern St Peter’s.  However, he’d sensed an edge to her voice, as she’d said it.

He opened his Bible at John fifteen.  He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit…

Encouraged, he felt renewed vigour, and smiled proudly to himself as he set to work, writing his next sermon.