The Carousel

by Oliver Stanley

Mrs Finnish and Mrs Mitchell, as everyone would tell you, were dedicated servants of the parish. Today, however, they were not happy. They were, in fact, fixed-faced, tight-lipped and chalky.

The room, full as it was, had more of the atmosphere of a wake than a welcome. Only the Reverend Spode’s rather scratchy, high-pitched voice could be heard; the conversation of the other twenty was a reverential murmur.

The Bishop had removed himself to the garden for a cigarette, accompanied by the weary-faced Chairman of the Church Council. Probably hiding, thought Mrs F.

****

It had been a long interregnum. Father Derek had been universally accepted as a wonder, so good that he’d only been in post three years before being directed to higher things. Woodley knew it was not a big parish and Woodley folk understood there were greater needs. What chafed was the lethargic process of replacement. Eventually, the Bishop had rallied round and proposed the Reverend Spode, a man of no particular pedigree.

That morning, he’d been interviewed. This afternoon’s party was the opportunity for Woodley to welcome – and, more to the point, get a good look at – the ‘new man’. It was a church party organised, as ever, by Mrs F and Mrs M and what the Chairman called, with a grin, ‘The Carousel’, on account of the way the Reverend would circulate among the parishioners.

All the arrangements had gone swimmingly. Donations of scones, sponges and salads had been excellent; the sandwich plates were stacked to impressive heights. No one was going hungry here today.

‘All going very well, isn’t it?’ whispered Mrs M with emphasis.

‘Very,’ concurred Mrs F, while wearing her wide-eyed alarm-face.

‘And wonderful to see such a good turn-out.’

‘Lovely. The Bishop must be so impressed.’

Their eyes met and they understood each other. The two of them were circulating around the groups with sandwich platters and punch.

‘With or Without?’ Mrs M invited Mrs Thornaby and Mrs Flask, offering the fruit punch – with alcohol or without. They had thought of everything.

‘Without, thank you darling,’ said Mrs Flask. ‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the Bishop, would I?’

‘Isn’t Reverend Spode a wonder!’ observed Mrs Thornaby, accepting a top-up of the With.

‘Mmmm…’ toned Mrs M, noncommittally.

****

The interview had been chaired by the Bishop, assisted by the Church Council Chairman and with Mrs F and Mrs M as leading lights and parish representatives. Over coffee the previous week, Mrs F and Mrs M had sought views.

‘What this parish needs is someone who can relate to young people,’ was a popular opinion.

‘We need a man (or a woman, I’m really not fussed) who can preach! Father Derek was such a good preacher and it’s been a wilderness here these last twelve months, a wilderness!’

‘We want someone who’s going to lead us into the Waverley Estate. It’s atrocious how bookish we all are. The Church should appeal to all!’

At interview, the Reverend Spode had seemed rather vague on his experiences with children – though, mercifully, no misdemeanours crept out of the standard checks. He gave textbook responses about the Church’s Mission and about reaching out to all, while feedback from his former parish – ‘we wish the Reverend Spode every success’ – was encouraging but not very revealing.

Mrs F and Mrs M were decidedly lukewarm but, under the eye of his sponsor, the Bishop, and in the claustrophobic formality of the interview, they felt groundless to reject him and he got the thumbs up.

****

And so it came to the Carousel and it was only here, on the Rectory doorstep, that their intangible doubts became flesh. As they welcomed him to the party, as they shook his soft, wet hand and looked into his vacant, grey eyes, the same ice-cold feeling ran up their arms and froze the best-welcome smiles on both their faces.

When the pair returned to their hostess duties, Mrs F expressed it all for them both: ‘Oh dear!’

Mrs M made her unhappy face. ‘This is a to-do.’

‘A real pickle. Any thoughts?’

Fortunately, Mrs M was good in a crisis – calm, steely, resolute; like her mother; like Churchill. She had the answer before the smoked salmon sandwiches had gone.

‘I think we need to be generous in our welcome, Mrs F.’

****

Mrs F and Mrs M returned to the rectory kitchen, carrying the earthenware punch jugs aloft, like priestesses at a Pharaoh’s funeral. They found the unopened bottle of vodka in the pantry cupboard where Father Derek – a teetotaller – had abandoned it after his success at the Christmas tombola two years ago. Mrs F brought out another jug and Mrs M made up more punch, adding a very generous helping of vodka to create ‘Super-With’.

Back in the lounge, they sought out the problem.

‘Drink up, Reverend, and let me top you up. Yours was Without, wasn’t it?’ schmoozed Mrs M.

This was a task that was going to need considerable dedication and persistence if the good Reverend was to give the Bishop cause for reconsideration. Fortunately, as everyone would tell you, Mrs Finnish and Mrs Mitchell were both dedicated servants of the parish.