The Newcomer. Fern BrittonЧитать онлайн книгу.
all turn out to be a huge disaster.’ Angela clenched her hands anxiously.
‘My darling girl, I may not have faith in your God, but whoever she is, she has faith in you. This is simply a test of that faith.’
Angela angrily brushed away a stray tear. ‘It’s hard. Believing in something that others think is a fantasy. People judge me. Think I am naïve. Mad.’
‘Who thinks that?’
‘You. Robert. Faith. Old friends. I’ve been asked so often, If there is a God, why does he allow war and violence? I can only say that we were given the Ten Commandments to live by but God gave us the free will to follow them or not. Not much of an answer, is it?’
Mamie sat silently, mulling this over, then said, ‘If I believe in anything it is the innate goodness that lies inside humans. You will lead this parish by example.’
Angela took a deep breath then sighed. ‘I will try.’
‘You’re only human.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what about some joss sticks?’
‘No.’ Angela smiled weakly.
‘Why not?’ Mamie shrugged.
‘Because I am an ordained priest in the Christian Church. Not an old hippy like you.’
‘So pompous and pious,’ Mamie teased. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a joss stick. Great for meditation. Why wouldn’t they be great for prayer? Tell me where in the Bible God says, Let there be no joss sticks?’
‘Fire hazard.’ Angela sniffed. ‘And please don’t stub that cigarette out on the floor again.’
‘Sorry.’ Mamie stood and walked up the aisle. ‘Nice vibe in this building. I can see you bringing fun and spirit to this place. It may not be an inner-city area but it will have its own problems. Humans like to make a mess of their lives and all human mess will be here exactly as it is in any other parish.’ She walked back to where Angela was still sitting. ‘All joking apart, darling, I know you will make a difference. Whatever that difference may be. Too late for me, of course. God gave up on me years ago. But he likes you.’
‘He likes all of us, even you,’ Angela said fondly.
‘Don’t try and convert me. It’s much too late. Now let’s get out of here, I want to see the beach.’
They went back to the vicarage and picked up an excited Mr Worthington and Faith. The latter was in a tiny jumper and hot pants.
‘Put some clothes on. You’ll catch your death out there,’ Mamie ordered.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Faith, wrapping an extra-long scarf round her neck.
‘It’s raining,’ her mother told her. ‘Put your coat on.’
Faith did as she was told, grumbling, ‘You’re so boring.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Mamie said, propelling her to the door.
The weather had turned from the early sunshine and bright blue sky to a grey accumulation of grim-looking clouds. Shellsand Bay was at its bleakest. As the three women, with Mr Worthington bounding ahead of them, neared the beach, the wind pummelled their faces and the roar of the waves filled their ears.
The weak sunshine layered strips of colour across the wrinkled sea. Steel grey, bright silver, and oily green met and mingled, changing with the dance of the wind.
The white-capped waves hissed as they bumped on the shore, their rhythm soothing and hypnotic. Dozens of smooth pebbles chasing and flipping as the tide sucked the water out again.
Mamie took off her wedge-heeled gold trainers, revealing tanned feet with scarlet-painted toenails. ‘Paddling, Faith?’ she called above the strong breeze, not blind to the fact that Faith was shaking with the cold, her bare legs, sticking out from under her far from sensible coat, covered in goosebumps and turning blue.
‘No.’
‘Well, Mr Worthington and I are going in. Come on. What about you Angela?’
‘No, thank you.’ Angela’s chin was down inside her jacket.
‘What’s wrong with the pair of you? When you’ve lived with the Inuits your blood thickens. Hold my shoes.’ She handed them to Angela. ‘Come on, Mr Worthington.’
Excitedly, Mr Worthington dashed ahead, stopping to circle back for her every few seconds. He spotted a piece of driftwood and wrapped his jaws around it, sand and all, plonking it at Mamie’s feet.
She obliged and threw it high towards the water line.
Angela and Faith watched her from the drier sand.
‘Inuits?’ asked Faith. ‘What, like, living in an igloo?’
‘Hmm.’ Angela frowned slightly. ‘I can’t always tell which of her stories are real, embroidered or simply fiction.’
‘Who was supposed to have given her that fur coat again?’
‘A man she met in Marrakesh. He told her it had been left behind in a restaurant by Rita Hayworth, who had never returned to claim it.’
‘Who’s Rita Hayworth?’
‘The most alluring film star of her day.’
Faith wrinkled her nose. ‘Weird.’
‘Nice coat, though.’
‘Yeah, like wearing dead animals on your back is like a good thing. As if the poor things were, like,’ Faith raised the pitch of her voice to mimic a small mammal, ‘oh yeah, please murder me and wear me as a coat. I’d be honoured.’
‘Well, let’s not get into that right now. That was then and this is now and Aunt Mamie is Aunt Mamie and … oh my goodness, she’s fallen over.’
Mamie had been bowled over by an overenthusiastic Mr Worthington and was now on her knees clutching at the shifting sand as a huge wave crashed over her, soaking her hair, leaving her gasping for breath, and tugging her further out.
As Faith and Angela ran to her, shouting, ‘We’re coming. Hold on,’ they heard strong footsteps racing behind them. Angela turned and saw Piran.
‘My aunt! She’s fallen in,’ she shouted.
Piran made no answer. He simply ran to the water’s edge and strode into the icy waves. Mamie had found her feet and was staggering in the swell but the next wave knocked her over again and pulled her further out. Piran shouted to her but his voice was just a rag on the wind. Now up to his waist, he plunged in, swimming with admirable strength, as Angela and Faith were later to attest, towards a helpless Mamie.
‘He’s got her,’ shrieked Faith to her mother, panting. ‘Hang onto him, Auntie Mamie,’ she shouted.
At last, Mamie was towed in, arriving breathless and tumbled.
‘Oh goodness.’ She rested on Piran’s shoulder, trembling and trying to pull her hair from her eyes. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘What the bleddy ’ell do you think you were doing, woman?’ Piran said tersely, gripping her shoulders and pushing her off him.
Mamie let go of him and pulled herself up straight. ‘Thank you so much for saving my life. Very kind of you. Though you are hardly Prince Charming.’
Piran saw the coal-like glitter in her eyes. He glared back. ‘And you’re no Cinderella.’
Angela looked from one to the other. ‘Please. Stop. It’s all been a shock.’ She put her hand on Piran’s arm. ‘Thank you for saving my aunt, Piran. Perhaps you’d like to come back to the vicarage where I can give you some dry clothes and a hot drink?’
‘Thank you, no.’ He shook out his sodden jumper and looked up