Cast the First Stone (6 page)

Their parish church was quite near to where they lived in Headingley, on the outskirts of Leeds. Mary and Wilfred attended spasmodically, but they had always insisted – as did most parents at the time – on Fiona going to Sunday school. She had attended regularly from being four years old.

It was around the time of Fiona's thirteenth birthday that a new vicar arrived in the parish. It was 1947 and the war had been over for two years. He was soon seen to be a ‘new broom' if ever there was one. The state of affairs at the church – the services and the church life in general – had lapsed considerably during the last years of the previous vicar's incumbency. The numbers in the congregation at both morning and evening services were at times no more than twenty or so, and a general feeling of apathy had prevailed.

The Reverend Amos Cruikshank, therefore, was seen at first as a breath of fresh air. He was thirty-seven years old, by no means handsome – rather short of stature and portly, in fact, with wispy gingerish hair, a beaked nose and horn-rimmed spectacles – but his voice and manner were commanding. Mary and Wilfred had decided to go to hear him preach his first sermon and had to admit they were very impressed. The numbers in the congregation rose steadily; and it was the same in the Sunday school, which had previously been struck by a similar feeling of indifference.

The church, however, in the past had enjoyed quite an active social life – with whist drives, dances, concerts and the like – until members at these events had, likewise, dwindled. A monthly whist drive still took place, though, in the church hall, for anyone who enjoyed the game, and not just members of the congregation. There were also dances and social evenings from time to time for such occasions as Harvest, Hallowe'en, and Christmas.

That was until the Reverend Cruikshank came on the scene. Whist drives and dances, in fact almost all social occasions, were immediately stopped. Whist drives, he decreed, were a form of gambling, not to be countenanced in the house of God or anywhere near it. It was the same with dances, which he believed encouraged young people of the parish to get too close to one another. They were seen as the work of the devil, and once such goings–on were allowed on church premises one never knew where it might end. Especially so for the merrymaking at Hallowe'en; turnip lanterns and masks and dressing up as witches and ghosts, no matter that the children thought it was great fun, it was all taboo.

Fiona, who, along with her friend, Diane, liked to go along to the social evenings, asked her mother about this. ‘Why has the vicar stopped the Hallowe'en party? It used to be good fun. I've made a turnip lantern every year since I was five. And you used to help me, didn't you, Mum?'

‘That's true,' replied her mother. ‘But the Reverend Cruikshank says that it's something that Christian people should not associate themselves with. It's a pagan festival, and that's why he's put an end to it.'

‘Oh, that's just silly,' argued Fiona. ‘It isn't as if we take it seriously. We don't go in for devil worship or casting spells on people. It was just jolly good fun. This vicar doesn't want anybody to have fun any more, does he, Mum?'

‘I can see his point of view,' replied her mother. ‘We should go to church to worship God and to learn about Jesus. All these other things, well . . . they are not what is important. That's all I want to say about it, Fiona.'

Fiona had noticed that both her parents were attending church regularly now. They never missed the morning service, which Fiona usually attended with them, and sometimes they went along in the evening as well.

Despite all the restrictions and reservations the congregation was growing week by week. There was no doubt about it, the Reverend Cruikshank was a force to be reckoned with: a dynamic preacher, and many were encouraged to follow his lead. He spoke of God's love and forgiveness, but above all of repentance – turning away from sin – and of a personal relationship with Jesus, something that had not been preached about so plainly in the days of the old vicar.

He started a midweek Bible class, and a Youth club. This was not intended to be a chance for the teenage boys and girls of the parish to get friendly and start ‘pairing off' – although this did, inevitably happen – but to take part in such wholesome pursuits as tennis, rounders and five-a-side cricket in the summer, or table tennis and badminton in the winter, along with quizzes and discussions of a meaningful nature.

Fiona went along to the Youth Club, and she also joined the vicar's Confirmation class, partly to please her parents – she had always been an obedient girl – and partly because her best friend, Diane, had agreed to go with her. They were both confirmed at the age of fourteen, wearing modest white dresses and with veils covering their hair. Fiona looked upon it all as seriously and reverently as she was able, but she could not in all honesty have said that she felt any different after the event.

Meanwhile, her parents were becoming more and more involved. The Tuesday evening Bible class soon became important to them, and Wilfred was proud and pleased when the Reverend Cruikshank asked him if he would become a sidesman. His duties included welcoming people to the services and going round with the collection plate. Within a year he had progressed from his position as sidesman to that of church warden.

For an ordinary man such as Wilfred, with no pretensions to wealth or eminence, it was a great honour. He insisted at first that he was not suitable or worthy – he was only a warehouse man in a local mill – but the vicar reminded him that Jesus himself had chosen his helpers from among the common people: the fishermen, the carpenters and the tax collectors.

Mary, also, had become a very active member of the congregation. She joined the Mothers' Union, which met once a month on a Wednesday afternoon for a devotional meeting, led by the vicar's wife, Hannah. The vicar's wife was a devout woman but she lacked the dynamism of her husband. She appeared to be very much in his shadow and followed his lead in everything. It was noticed that they were similar in appearance. Hannah had the same gingerish hair that she wore in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the same myopic blue eyes that peered out from behind rimless glasses. They were, in fact, second cousins who had known one another from childhood and it had always been taken for granted that they would marry. They had one son, Timothy, aged fifteen when they came to the parish, who was the apple of their eye.

Mary and Hannah found themselves drawn to one another. They were both of a quiet disposition and had not sought friendship or recreational pursuits outside the home or, in Hannah's case, the church. Mary's chief aim in life had been to make a comfortable home for her husband and, later, for their daughter. The only interest she had pursued was connected with Fiona's schools, firstly the Primary school and then the grammar school for girls. (Fiona had passed her eleven plus exam with flying colours as they had always thought she would.) Mary was now serving on the committee of the Girls' Grammar School PTFA: a willing, self-effacing member who would take on any task allotted to her, usually making the tea and washing up, or looking after the home-made cake stall at the Summer or Christmas Fayres.

Now, at Hannah's persuasion, she had become a member of the Church Council, not a very vociferous one, to be sure, but she was becoming much more active in the life of the church.

Fiona was not too sure how she felt about the change in her mother – in fact, in both her parents. Her dad was quite cock-a-hoop about his position as church warden, and she was forced to suppress a smile when she watched him on a Sunday morning as he processed with the vicar and the choir down the centre aisle, proudly carrying his staff of office. And he was never seen at Sunday worship or at the midweek Bible meeting without his large black Bible. As far as Fiona knew it was a family heirloom that had been tucked away in a cupboard until the advent of the new vicar. Wilfred had become more forceful in manner, and his conversation was now peppered with references to God, and with the opinions of the Reverend Cruikshank.

Mary, on the other hand, was still her quiet unassuming self. She had used, though, to be a jolly, cheerful person, enjoying a laugh and a joke, in a gentle sort of way. Now she had become, to Fiona's way of thinking, a trifle boring, lacking the spurt of humour that had been the leaven of her shy disposition. Mary was a pretty woman with natural blonde hair that had darkened a shade or two as she grew older. She had not been averse, at one time, to brightening it up with a coloured rinse. But that was now a thing of the past. Moreover, she was now wearing her hair scraped back from her face in what Fiona thought was an unbecoming style, the one favoured by her friend, Hannah Cruikshank, whom Mary seemed to be emulating in all sorts of ways. She no longer used lipstick or face powder. Fiona longed to tell her that she looked dowdy, but she had always been a respectful girl, not given to bouts of disobedience and wilfulness like some of her contemporaries.

When she was fifteen, in the fifth form and preparing for her School Certificate Examination, Fiona started to use a little make-up – Coty Face powder and lipstick in a pretty coral colour that she had saved up for out of her weekly spending money. Most of the girls in her form were doing so, comparing the various brands – Coty, Max Factor, Yardley, and the far more expensive Helena Rubinstein (which none of them could afford) – and deciding which shade of lipstick went with their hair colour or the outfit they were wearing for best.

They were not allowed to wear make-up at school, of course, but they made up for it at weekends when they went out on a Saturday night to the pictures or to a local dance. These were usually at the church halls of the more broad-minded C of E churches, and at the Methodist Church in Fiona's neighbourhood. She was allowed to go on the understanding that she was home by ten o' clock, a stricture that was upheld by most of her friends' parents. The boys, however, were allowed a little more leeway.

Fiona had a shirtwaister dress in pink and white gingham with a large white collar and a full skirt which she wore at the dances in the summer, and a peasant style blouse worn with a full skirt of a bright floral design, which was made to stand out as far as possible by wearing two or more ‘cancan' petticoats underneath it. These petticoats were made of nylon with numerous frills, and were made stiffer by dipping them in a sugar solution and then drip-drying them.

Fiona's mother did not seem to object to such frivolities – the fancy clothes or the make-up – although she did not comment, as she might have done at one time, telling her daughter that she looked nice and showing an interest in what she was wearing. Nor did Mary pass any comments about the dances or the films that she watched with her friends – light-hearted films such as
Annie Get Your Gun
, the ‘Doctor' films starring Dirk Bogarde, or the Norman Wisdom comedies that were considered hilarious – although Fiona noticed that her parents no longer went to the cinema themselves. Mary and Wilfred had used to go to the local cinema at least once a fortnight. It had been their one indulgence and something that they had both enjoyed.

Fiona knew, of course, that she must dress circumspectly for church attendance on a Sunday morning. She was not forced to go along, but on the rare occasions when she had said she was staying at home – giving the excuse that she had homework to finish which, more often than not, was the truth – her mother's reproving glance made her feel that she was committing a heinous crime. It was easier, therefore, to comply rather than stage what was a minor rebellion.

There was one Sunday morning, however, when she felt she had to stick up for herself. Her mother had glanced at her suitable coat, and Fiona was also wearing a hat – a beret which she hated, but which her mother had declared suitable headgear, especially as there was a service of Holy Communion at the close of morning worship.

She was wearing make-up too, but only what she considered to be a modest amount; powder and lipstick and just the tiniest touch of green powder that highlighted the colour of her hazel eyes, making them appear more green than brown.

Her mother looked closely at her and shook her head reprovingly. ‘Fiona . . .' she began, in the over patient voice that her daughter was getting to know only too well. It was not Mary's way to shout and be angry, but Fiona thought sometimes that it might be better if her mother did so, rather than assuming the long-suffering manner that was becoming so familiar. ‘Fiona . . . I don't really think it's suitable to wear so much make-up to go to church. And I notice that you've started using eye make-up. I do wish you wouldn't. It makes you look . . . well . . . cheap and rather common. Not at all how a good Christian girl should appear when she's going to church.'

Fiona opened her mouth ready to protest vehemently, but she held her tongue for a moment. She had never been the sort of girl to give cheek to her parents, as she knew some of her friends were apt to do. She did, however, close her lips together in a stubborn line before opening them again to say, ‘Well, I think it looks nice! And it certainly doesn't look common. How can you say that, Mum? You know how I always try to make the most of myself. You used to encourage me to dress nicely and to take a pride in my appearance.'

If Fiona had one small vice it was that she was the teeniest bit vain about her looks. She knew that she was a pretty girl and that she had been blessed with attractive hair and pleasant features. And she had discovered lately that her looks could be enhanced by discreet make-up. It wasn't as if she was laying it on with a trowel, so to speak, as some of the girls in her form were doing, using what was known as pancake make-up of an odd-looking tan colour.

‘You don't need make-up to help you to look attractive,' her mother replied, still with the same tone of forbearance. ‘Anyway, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside. It's what we're like inside that really counts . . . And that's what God will notice when you're in His house.'