Cast the First Stone (37 page)

‘I'm so pleased that you decided to come and find me, Greg,' said Simon. ‘It took a lot of courage, I know, and . . . well, it's been great. We will see you again, won't we?'

‘Sure thing!' said Greg. ‘Thank you, both of you, for making me so welcome.' The two men shook hands, then Simon put his arms around his son, giving him a brief manly hug.

‘You're a grand young man,' he said. ‘Tell your mother I said so. And do please give her my best wishes.' Simon didn't add that he would like to meet her again, but he felt it might be possible, sometime in the not too distant future.

Greg shook hands with Fiona, then kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘Simon's a lucky chap!' he said, with a sly wink as he boarded the train.

‘I think Greg has taken rather a shine to you,' said Simon as they walked back to the rectory. ‘I shall have to watch out, won't I?'

‘No fear of that,' smiled Fiona. ‘He's a very personable young man, though. I'm sure he'll turn out to be almost as good as his father.'

Simon shook his head confusedly. ‘It's still hard to take it all in. But I can't say I have any regrets. It's just added another dimension to life, one that I was totally unaware of.'

‘Yvonne must have been a very nice person,' said Fiona quietly. ‘I'm sure she still is.'

‘Yes, she was,' agreed Simon. ‘I'm pleased she was happy in her marriage, and has the chance to be happy again. And you and I, my darling, have so much to look forward to.'

‘Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone.'

The members of the congregation who had been looking forward to a few minutes' peace and quiet alone with their thoughts, whilst the rector preached his sermon – although he was, admittedly, worth listening to if one felt inclined – were brought back to reality, arrested by his opening words. Did the Reverend Simon intend to take them to task about the stories that had been circulating concerning his wife? If so, then it was no more than some of them deserved, thought the ones who had always liked Fiona and had sympathized with her over the revelations. Others, like Ethel Bayliss and Mabel Thorpe and their cronies, stirred a little uneasily in their pews, looking down at the floor.

‘The text is from chapter eight of John's gospel,' Simon continued. ‘It is a story that I am sure you are all familiar with, where Jesus comes upon a crowd of people who are about to stone to death a woman whom they believe to be guilty of adultery. I know that such an extreme punishment is not acceptable in our country although, regrettably, it still takes place occasionally elsewhere. But we live in a Christian country, don't we? We understand that folk can stray away from the straight and narrow pathway – fall into sin, some might say – and do things that are considered wrong. None of us is perfect. There is a text that says that all of us have sinned – and I do mean each and every one of us – and have fallen short of the standards that God wants from us. There is another quotation, not a biblical one, that says that the person who never made a mistake never made anything.'

He paused for a moment, looking round at the members of the congregation – a goodly number as was usual on a Sunday morning – many of whom were looking at him with great interest, but others whose heads were bowed. ‘There has been a good deal of talk recently,' he said. ‘My wife and I are well aware of that, but I have the feeling now that common sense has prevailed. The gossip has been nipped in the bud and, I trust, has died down. We all like to point the finger at times, don't we? To feel that we are in the right and that others are wrong, for whatever reason. My wife, Fiona, made what is sometimes called the oldest mistake in the world; a very human one, I might add. And I trust that by now you have forgiven her, although it is not really our concern, is it? Forgiveness, in a matter like this, comes from God.

‘However, I don't want to talk about my wife this morning. I'm sorry if I've embarrassed her . . .' He smiled in the direction of the choir stalls where Fiona was sitting, and she smiled back encouragingly at him. ‘She did have some idea, though, of what I was going to say.' He paused. ‘I want to tell you another story this morning . . .

‘Some of you may have noticed that there was a strange young man in the congregation last Sunday; he was there at both services. By strange I don't mean that there was anything odd about him. What I mean is that we hadn't seen him before. As you know, we do try, here at St Peter's, to make strangers – newcomers is a better word – to make them feel welcome. But this young man had gone before I had a chance to speak to him. If you saw him you might have noticed that he bore quite a resemblance to me.' Simon smiled. ‘I thought he looked somewhat familiar, but that was all.' He paused again, aware that every eye was upon him now.

‘Anyway, the next morning this young man – his name is Gregory, known as Greg – called at the rectory with some surprising news for me. Yes, some of you may have already guessed what I am about to tell you. Gregory is my son, and until that moment I had no idea of his existence.'

There were a few quiet gasps and surprised looks on faces, more on those of the women than the men. ‘You are no doubt wondering who, when and how? Well, not so much how; it happened in the usual way, of course.' He smiled to introduce a touch of levity, and many of them smiled back at him. ‘I was in the RAF during the war, as many of you know. I was part of an aircrew, the navigator, and I took part in many bombing raids over Germany. I met a young woman who was a WAAF, as so many young airmen did. Life was lived at fever pitch, as those of you who also served in the forces will remember. You can guess the rest. The inevitable happened, although it was not what we intended when we became friendly. I'm not trying to make excuses, but this happens sometimes . . . doesn't it? Then as some of you know, I was injured during a bombing raid, not seriously, but I was granted a period of leave.

‘And when I returned to the camp to take up my new position as an instructor, I found that my lady friend had gone; suddenly, quite unexpectedly, to another posting I was told. I never saw her again. I never heard of her again until on Monday I met her son . . . hers and mine.'

The silence in the church was profound. Simon felt, however, that the faces looking up at him seemed to be sympathetic rather than condemning or disapproving.

‘I expect you're flabbergasted,' he laughed. ‘So was I! It doesn't matter how Greg managed to trace me. Suffice it to say that he did, and I am very pleased that he did so. He's a fine young man. He has had a good upbringing with his mother and stepfather, in a happy family and, may I say, none of us have any regrets. For Fiona and myself the future is full of promise, and now we are delighted to have a new family member, one of whom we were unaware until a week ago.

‘You may be surprised, shocked even, inclined to think that this is not fitting behaviour for your rector. I have no idea how you will react to this, but, as I told Fiona when I married her, I hadn't always been a clergyman. I think she knew what I meant.'

For once, but for by no means the first time, Simon felt that he had the congregation in the palm of his hand. The rest of the sermon – not a long one – was about looking honestly at yourself and recognizing your own shortcomings instead of being ready to condemn others. In the Bible story about the woman accused of adultery there was not one person who had not done wrong – sinned against God or against another human being – at some time or another; no one who could, in all honesty, ‘cast the first stone'. So it was in our own time and circumstances. And it was only God who could see into the hearts and minds of men and women and know the truth about them.

‘Your rector, you see, is only human,' said Simon in conclusion. ‘My wife and I trust that we will continue to have your support in all that we try to do . . . and your understanding of our human frailty.'

The final hymn was ‘Now thank we all, our God', which was sung enthusiastically. Fiona stood with him at the door to say farewell to the people, as he had asked her to do.

Those members of the congregation who came, maybe, once a month rather than every week made no comment about Simon's surprising sermon. They just shook hands with him and Fiona, all, however, with a smile and an understanding glance. There appeared to be no feeling of reproach.

Others, including Mrs Bayliss and Miss Thorpe, shook hands and said good morning quite civilly, but without any real warmth. Simon knew he could expect no other than that. Women like Ethel Bayliss would not climb down immediately from their high horse, but he had the feeling that they had got the message and that there would be no more unpleasantness for Fiona. After their failed attempt at stirring up trouble, he doubted that they would attempt to treat him in the same way.

Many of the folk smiled readily at their rector and his wife, saying how pleased they were about the forthcoming ‘happy event', and hoping that all would go well for Fiona during her pregnancy.

‘You look positively radiant, my dear,' said one of the ladies who attended each Sunday but who usually had little to say. ‘God bless you, and your lovely husband,' she added, kissing Fiona rather shyly on the cheek. ‘We think the world of him,' she whispered, ‘and of you, too.'

‘Thank you so much,' said Fiona, humbly. She felt that this middle-aged woman, whose name she had to admit she didn't know, was typical of most of the congregation. She began to believe that she and Simon would have the support and understanding of most, if not quite all, of the church folk. Simon's brave admission might prove to have done far more good than harm, although she had wondered at first if he was making the right decision.

There were a few who were more outspoken, those who knew Simon and Fiona rather better than most people did.

‘My goodness, Simon – what a story!' laughed Joan Tweedale. ‘You're a dark horse, aren't you?'

‘Yes . . . Be sure your sins will find you out! It's tit for tat, as my wife says,' he smiled. ‘It was a shock,' he added, ‘but it turned out to be a very pleasant one. He's a grand young man. I hope that sometime – though maybe not just yet – I might be able to introduce him to all our friends at St Peter's.'

‘Do you know,' Simon said to his wife later that day, ‘so many people have asked me whether we want a boy or a girl; and I always say we don't mind . . .'

‘So long as he or she is all right,' added Fiona. ‘And it's true, isn't it? We don't mind.'

‘I suppose, if I'm absolutely honest, I would have hoped for a boy,' said Simon. ‘But I would never have said so, especially not to you, my love. But now . . . well . . . it's turned out that I've got a good deal more than I bargained for. A grown-up son of twenty-one! I always thought that God had a sense of humour!'

Fiona gave birth to a baby girl on the Sunday evening of December eleventh, which was the third Sunday in the season of Advent. Simon took her to the hospital in the early hours of the morning. She knew that he must, of course, preach at both services as there was no visiting preacher that day.

He dashed to the hospital after the morning service, hoping to see his wife and, possibly, the new arrival. He was told, however, that she was in the labour ward, and that it would be better for him to go back home.

He was inundated with good wishes for Fiona at the evening service. He said a prayer for her safe delivery, knowing that every member of the congregation was praying with him.

He lost no time in driving, for the third time that day, to the hospital.

‘Mr Norwood, you have a baby daughter,' said the smiling nurse who led him into the single room, where Fiona was sitting up in bed with the newborn child in her arms. She smiled radiantly at him. ‘It's a girl, Simon!' He could tell by the elation in her voice that it was what she had, secretly, been hoping for.

He kissed her lovingly before gently moving the soft woollen shawl aside to look at his little daughter. She was sleeping, but as he gazed at her in wonder she opened her eyes – a bluey-grey indeterminate colour – seeming to look straight at him. Her hair was a feathery golden down, the same shade as Fiona's, on her perfectly shaped little head. Her mouth was a tiny rosebud and her cheeks tinged with the palest pink. Simon was sure there could never have been a more beautiful baby.

‘She's so lovely, darling,' he whispered.

There was a window opposite Fiona's bed, and the curtains were not fully closed. In the dark-blue velvety sky a single star was shining, brighter than all the others.

‘The evening star . . .' mused Fiona. ‘It might not be, of course, but it seems like it to me.' She turned to her husband. ‘I'd think I'd like to call her Stella,' she said. ‘That is . . . if you agree.'

‘I think that's perfect,' said Simon. ‘Our very own little star. Thank you, my love . . . for everything.'

He was aware, though, of just a glimmer of sadness in his wife's demeanour, together with the joy. He sensed, rather than saw it in her face. He knew she must be remembering the first little girl to whom she had given birth.

He had found his son, although Gregory had been unknown to him. Simon made up his mind, in that instant, that one day, if it was his wife's desire, they would try to find her daughter.