in preparation for Lady Godiva, but Bolton, apart from occasional dollops of cash, was turning out to be a very reluctant payer.
Even a starring role as Lord Godiva only offered £500, which wouldn’t repay his debt to Etta. Woody shuddered. He couldn’t shag Cindy. More shaming, he had forgotten about Etta’s bet because he had caught sight of Niall the vicar coming out of church. He was looking so low, Woody had pulled up for a chat.
Niall was in despair because, with Mrs Wilkinson out of action and the syndicate suspended, no one came to church to hear him pray for her and report on her progress. The congregation had dwindled humiliatingly and the interminable Sundays after Trinity were grinding on.
Woody had longed to hug Niall, but seeing him near to tears, only muttered that he was sure things would pick up. The Lord had struck him down for being so feeble, by making him forget dear Etta.
Matters went from worse to even worse for Niall.
The following Sunday, the Travis-Locks and the Weatheralls, his stalwarts, were in Scotland in preparation for 12 August. Miss Painswick was away, Mrs Malmesbury staying with her sister. Niall, having spent half the week trying to find something inspiring to say about the 6th Sunday after Trinity, rolled up at St James’s for the family service, to find Craig Green the organist dispiritedly idling through ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, Pocock, as single bell-ringer doubling up as sidesman, looking gloomy and Major Cunliffe, the church warden, boot-faced. His wife Debbie, who had gastric flu, had, with the flower show coming up, wasted a lot of precious flowers to make a splash of colour, but there was absolutely no congregation.
‘I’m so sorry,’ stammered Niall, retreating into the vestry and feeling tempted to drink all the communion wine.
The Major looked broodily at the bronze and red alstroemerias by the hymn list, Bishop of Llandaff on the windowsill and coral begonias on the table as you came in, not to mention the time Miss Painswick had spent on her housemaid’s knee, polishing brass.
‘No one’s coming, we better go home,’ he said brusquely. Then, marching Niall into the side chapel to be blinded by red and orange dahlias, the Major suggested that he really ought to think about packing it in.
‘There’s a feeling in Willowwood you lack vocation and conviction. You’ve tried but the people in Willowwood need spiritual guidance. Perhaps the church fête at the end of the month would be a good time to announce your retirement. We can discuss it more fully – come and have a jar later in the week – but you should think carefully, Niall. I’m sorry, old chap. Would you like me to put out the candles and lock up?’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Niall’s heart was thumping so hard he expected it to crash out of his ribs. ‘I think I’ll stay and pray a bit.’
‘Do that. Sorry to be blunt, have to be cruel to be kind.’
As the door clanged behind him, Niall looked down at his white surplice, slightly pink from a red handkerchief in the washing machine. What would his parents say? They hadn’t really got over the fact that he was gay, how would they cope with a failed priest?
He tore off his dog collar and slumped to his knees in the third pew, catching sight of the little whippet, ever watchful, supporting the bruised, chipped feet of the first Sir Francis Framlingham. Such a beautiful church, such a lovely village, and Niall was beginning to feel such a part of it. He had hoped to do so much good.
He tried to pray, but loss and sadness overcame him, great sobs racking his body. The stained glass saints looking down could offer him no comfort. ‘Oh help me, God.’
Suddenly he felt a warm hand on the back of his neck, steadying him when he started violently, then a voice with a soft, infinitely tender Larkshire accent saying:
‘Don’t be sad, there’s no need to be sad, I’m here.’
Staggering to his feet, clutching the back of the pew in front, Niall discovered Woody, looking gentler in a grey T-shirt and jeans than in his regulation tree-surgeon green shirt and trousers and ropes. Concern was written all over his beautiful open face, intense kindness in his big turned-down grey eyes.
‘There there, my lamb. Come back home to breakfast and we can talk. Things will seem better.’ He put out a thumb, smoothing away Niall’s tears. Then, looking down and smiling: