When I first met Reverend Chapman, he terrified me because I expected Bible studies questions or a virginity test.
‘He knows you’re not a virgin,’ said Henry, laughing.
‘You told him I was religious.’
‘I said you went to a Catholic school.’
‘Now you’re splitting hairs.’
On that first meeting, we were spending the weekend at the Old Vicarage, sleeping in separate bedrooms, of course, and Reverend Bill asked me to say grace. I told him that I’d prefer not to. Later, he tried to engage me in a theological discussion, arguing that God had to be real because so many people believe in his existence. I told him we could say the same about Allah, Shiva, Vishnu and Krishna. Finally, he gave me a pitying look and said it was sad to see someone so young going through life always demanding proof that something exists.
‘How do you know love is real?’ he asked. ‘You can’t see it, or hold it.’
‘I can hold Henry and I love him.’
This triggered a smug smile. ‘That sounds like faith, not proof.’
‘Not at all. In the police we call love without evidence something else.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Stalking.’
Henry laughed so hard he snorted wine out of his nose.
Reverend Bill and Janet hear us arriving. They are standing side by side outside the vicarage, as though recreating American Gothic without the pitchfork or the gloomy looks. The vicar is a string bean of a man wearing a black short-sleeved clergy shirt with a white tab collar. Janet is in her normal floral dress with her hair pulled back so severely that her eyebrows lift in perpetual surprise. There are hugs and kisses, and questions about the drive, which only took us an hour, but they seem to think London is in a different time zone. The weather is also covered, as well as the traffic. Boxes ticked. This could be a long three days.
We carry our bags inside and are shown to our rooms – yes, plural. Since we’re not married, we can’t share a bedroom, let alone a bed. On my first visit, Henry managed to sneak up to my attic room and surprise me in the middle of the night. He might have got away with it if not for a particularly noisy brass bed head. At breakfast Janet looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, or at least half a grapefruit, and was beating eggs as though trying to punish them. Why do I keep surrounding myself with religious parents?
Now Janet is making tea with ritual precision, warming the pot first, spooning in the loose-leaf tea – one for each person and one for the pot. The knitted tea cosy looks like an owl. China cups and saucers are set out – her best ones – which she probably reserves for the bishop when he visits.
Standing at the French doors, I look into a neighbouring yard where two teenagers are erecting a makeshift badminton net, which keeps sagging in the middle. Janet slices an orange teacake. The black seeds on the top look like insect droppings. She’s talking about the wedding.
‘Although neither of you live in the parish, or regularly attend worship, we can still go ahead, because Henry was baptised here. We thought it might be nice if Rector Nicholas did the honours. He’s known you since you were little.’
Henry nods in agreement and puts his arm around my waist.
‘We should arrange a get-to-know-you session,’ says Janet.
‘But I already know him,’ says Henry.
They’re all looking at me. Clearly, I don’t appear keen.
‘It’s only a chat,’ explains Reverend Bill. ‘He’ll ask how you and Henry came to be together and why you’ve decided to get married in the church.’
Because of you, I want to say, but hold my tongue.
‘He’ll want to talk to you frankly about your past, your hopes for the future and your understanding of marriage. Do you want to raise your children in the Christian faith – that sort of thing.’
‘They’re more for Henry because he’s divorced,’ says Janet, who sounds disappointed. ‘He’ll have to provide the decree absolute, and explain what went wrong first time around.’
‘That was a false start,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.
‘And we don’t want him to make another mistake,’ says Janet.
Ouch!
Reverend Bill suggests we talk about the order of service.
‘We have a local printer who does a lovely booklet,’ says Janet, who produces a folder full of examples. ‘You can have a photograph on the front, or a quote.’
‘You’ll have to choose a Bible reading and what hymns you’d like people to sing,’ says Reverend Bill.
‘Do we have to have hymns?’ I ask.
‘There’s a wide choice and I’m sure you’ll find something you like.’ He adds, ‘You can choose different music for your entrance and exit.’
‘As long as it’s not too wacky,’ says Janet.
I glance at Henry. ‘We thought we might have a gospel choir.’ Janet is nodding, but her smile is frozen.
‘They’ll sing “All You Need Is Love” as I come into the church and “Oh, Happy Day” as we’re leaving.’
‘Everybody can sing along,’ adds Henry.
Janet seems to be ticking like a timebomb.
Reverend Bill cuts in. ‘Have you decided who will be walking you down the aisle? It’s entirely optional, of course. You’re not anyone’s property to be given away. Not in this day and age.’
‘My father,’ I say quickly.
There is no sharp intake of breath, or cry of alarm. Instead, there is silence. Even the ticking has stopped. Janet lets out a laugh like a hiccup, thinking I’m being droll. At that moment, an overweight tan-coloured Labrador wanders into the room and sniffs at my shoes. He raises his nose towards my crotch and I push his head away.
‘He’s looking for crumbs,’ says Reverend Bill. ‘On your lap.’
‘Oh.’
He steeples his fingers. ‘I thought you were estranged from your father.’
‘I want him to be at my wedding – along with my uncles.’ There is another long silence. Come on, Henry, say something. Support me.
Janet begins packing up the tea things, wanting to busy herself, spilling a lump of sugar, which the Labrador hoovers up and swallows without chewing.
‘You can’t,’ Janet says suddenly, as though that is the end of that.
‘Pardon?’
‘We don’t want Edward McCarthy in our church.’
‘My father is a businessman.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘What?’
She glances at the reverend, expecting him to agree with her, but the vicar has lowered his eyes, as though searching his conscience, or praying for guidance. After a long pause, he clears his throat. ‘Everybody is welcome in our church.’
Janet is about to protest, but is interrupted. ‘We all have weaknesses and we have all sinned, which is why we must keep our hearts open,’ says Reverend Bill.
‘Mr McCarthy is very nice,’ adds Henry, finally showing some gumption, which is a real Janet word.
My phone chirrups. It’s a message from Tempe. She’s catching the train from London and we’re going to visit Milford Barn to discuss the catering and seating plan.
‘I have to go,’ I say, pleased to escape. ‘Can I borrow your car?’