The village vicar, p.1
The Village Vicar, page 1
Also by Julie Houston
Goodness Grace and Me
The One Saving Grace
An Off-Piste Christmas
Looking for Lucy
Coming Home to Holly Close Farm
A Village Affair
Sing Me a Secret
A Village Vacancy
A Family Affair
A Village Secret
THE VILLAGE VICAR
Julie Houston
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
This edition first published in the UK in 2023 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury publishing Plc
Copyright © Julie Houston, 2023
The moral right of Julie Houston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB): 9781803280028
ISBN (E): 9781803280035
Cover design:
Robyn Neild (illustration); HoZ / Jessie Price (design)
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
Acknowledgments
An Invitation from the Publisher
For all my wonderful women friends.
You know who you are!
THE CHURCH TIMES
June 5th 2021
We are so sad that Ben Carey, our vicar for the past five years, is leaving the village
But we are just as excited at finding someone to step into his shoes at
All Hallows Church
Westenbury
Our church, here in the beautiful village of Westenbury, is a rural parish situated between the industrial towns of West Yorkshire with a rapidly growing population.
AND WE NEED YOU!
Can you
bring vision, passion and a hunger to see God’s kingdom flourish?
Have you
sensitivity, empathy and compassion for those who might be experiencing difficult times?
Will you
be a figurehead and ground yourself in our rural parish and community?
It will also help if you
have a good sense of humour
like custard creams
keep sermons short but interesting
wouldn’t mind mowing the vicarage lawns every now and again
For an informal conversation about the post, please contact the (new) Bishop of Pontefract (our very own Ben Carey)
Interviews will be held at the church on 3rd August 2021
PART ONE
1
May 1984
Westenbury Vicarage
‘Well, look who it is.’ Glenys Parkes glanced up from the sausage meat she was expertly encasing in flaky pastry, wiped her hands on the front of her faded pinny and moved to kiss her younger daughter. ‘You never said you were coming home?’ Glenys took in Alice’s lack of suitcase, her grubby-looking bare feet in their leather sandals and her skimpy flowing dress, quite unsuitable for this overcast, chilly May morning in Yorkshire. ‘You look frozen. Here.’ Glenys threw her mauve M&S cardigan in Alice’s direction but, although Alice caught it, she placed it on the battered armchair in front of her and went, instead, over to the sink to fill the kettle.
‘I need coffee,’ Alice said. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve any decent stuff?’
‘Sorry, love, this is Westenbury, not Paris. The coffee’s the Co-op’s instant. I’ll have a mug if you’re making one. So, have you just landed at Manchester? Was that a taxi that dropped you off?’ Glenys peered out of the kitchen window at the car slowly making its way back down the vicarage driveway.
Alice laughed. ‘Actually, bagged a lift from some bloke on the flight. Lives five miles or so away. Got talking to him and guess who it was? It was that Bill bloke…’
‘Bill bloke?’ Glenys frowned as she moved Alice to one side and finished the job of making the coffee herself.
‘You know, the earl or the count or the lord or whatever he reckons to be.’
‘Oh, Bill Astley?’
‘He’s a lord or something?’
‘Bit more than a lord.’ Glenys glanced in Alice’s direction. ‘He’s the Marquess of Heatherly, lives at Heatherly Hall on the way over to Midhope. Place is a wreck from what I gather. He never got over his first wife dying years ago; she was trapped in a fire at some big house party in Scotland and he went in, tried to save her. But he couldn’t. His son, Henry, has gone off the rails a bit too, I heard. Lives in Wales in a commune. Anyway, Bill’s a total eccentric. Has wives and mistresses galore. Very arty. He’s a sculptor or something.’
‘Artist of some sort,’ Alice nodded. ‘Oils I think.’ She paused. ‘He invited me to a party.’
‘I assumed you were here because of our party.’ Glenys looked up sharply and, when Alice didn’t answer but yawned and rubbed at her mascaraed eyes, went on, ‘You do know it’s your father’s birthday today?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Alice lied. ‘That’s why I’m here. You know, a surprise and all that? Where is the Very Reverend Cecil? Not still in bed, is he?’
‘Have you ever known your father stay in bed in the morning? He thinks 7 a.m. is a lie-in. No,’ Glenys went on, attacking the uncooked sausage rolls with a brush and beaten egg, ‘he’s got a wedding this morning, but he’ll be back for the party.’
‘Right.’ Alice yawned and rubbed at her eyes once more. ‘Look, do you mind if I crash out for a couple of hours? I was at the airport just after midnight last night hoping for a last-minute flight. And then I got talking to the Bill bloke and… you know…’ Alice yawned again.
‘You look like you could do with a shower.’ Glenys looked pointedly at Alice’s chipped nail varnish on the end of what were decidedly dirty feet.
‘More than likely,’ Alice agreed. ‘But I need a bit of a kip first. What time does this extravaganza kick off?’
‘People are coming about six.’
‘Early do then? So how many have you got coming? I don’t think I’ve ever known Dad to have a party before.’
‘Well, he is sixty.’ Glenys sighed volubly. ‘I had to persuade him to do this. You know what he’s like. Not the most sociable of men.’
‘Mum, he hates everyone.’
‘Oh, don’t exaggerate.’ Glenys flapped a hand in Alice’s direction. ‘He likes Margaret Gillespie.’
‘Only because the simpering fool does anything he asks. And it wouldn’t surprise me if it was anything.’
Glenys tutted. ‘Oy, stop that right now. She’s in charge of the choir and flower rota.’
‘And the scouts and WI. You know, Dad would have been a lot better off married to her. You’d have had time to get on with your painting then.’ Alice glanced across at her mother. ‘Have you done any recently?’
‘Some. I’ll show you later.’ Glenys didn’t look up but, instead, pointed to the door leading to the long, tiled corridor and flight of stairs leading to the large chilly bedrooms on the first floor. ‘Go on, get some sleep. I’ll wake you for a shower and a bacon sandwich in an hour or so. You look as if you could do with a good meal. As well as a good wash,’ she added taking in the paint-encrusted fingernails. ‘You’ve lost weight too. Are you eating properly?’
Ignoring this, Alice asked, ‘So, who’ve you got coming?’
‘You know – the usual.’
‘The usual?’ Alice reached for a banana from the glass fruit bowl that had sat on the kitchen table as long as she remembered, unceremoniously peeling and demolishing the fruit in three greedy bites. It was obvious there was some sort of do going on – the regular Coxes, and flyblown pears from the vicarage orchard had been joined by tangerines, mangoes and even kumquats.
‘The Hastings, the Browns, the
‘How is the sprog?’
‘The sprog? For heaven’s sake, Alice. Six years living in Paris hasn’t changed you.’
‘OK, OK. Ma nièce. La petite enfant.’
Glenys’s face softened. ‘Oh, she’s really lovely. Very bright. You know, for a four-year-old. Way ahead of any of her little friends at nursery. Your father adores her. Quite taken with her, he is. She sits at the front of church with Susan, and knows the words to the Lord’s Prayer and “O God, Our Help in Ages Past” already.’
‘Bloody hell. God help us,’ Alice grinned and, catching her mother’s eye, they both started to giggle.
‘I thought Susan would have popped out another couple by now. She’s so much into all that mothering thing.’ Alice shuddered slightly. ‘I tell you now, any kids I have in the future – and don’t get your hopes up, Mum, I do not want kids – would have to be born by caesarean. I can’t be doing with all that huffing and puffing and ending up like a road accident down below.’
‘Alice!’ Glenys glared in her daughter’s direction. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t talk like that when your father gets back. You know he can’t be doing with anything gynaecological. Anyway,’ she went on when Alice just grinned, ‘it just doesn’t seem to have happened again for the pair of them. I don’t ask; it’s Susan and Richard’s business.’
‘Maybe they don’t have sex. Mind you, Richard’s rather fanciable; it’s that lovely Scouse accent. Quite a turn-on…’
‘Get to bed, you baggage,’ Glenys said almost nervously, glancing at the outer door. ‘Dad’ll be home any minute and I can’t have any friction. Not on his birthday.’
‘Friction? Moi? I’ll be the dutiful daughter – have you got a spare card and a box of Thorntons hanging about anywhere – and I’ll toast him with a sausage roll and then leave you all to it once again.’
‘Stay a few days, love.’ Glenys went to hug her daughter. ‘You’re always welcome home, you know you are.’ Glenys relinquished her hold and bent to put the sausage rolls in the oven. ‘Bloody oven’s not hot,’ she swore. ‘Damned thing.’
‘Mum, you’ve complained about that oven ever since I was a kid. Get Dad to cough up for a new one. Or persuade the church coffers to buy you one.’ Alice gave the rusting stove a kick and a temperature light came on.
‘Thanks, love. You always knew how to control the bugger. Go on, go and have a few hours’ sleep and then you can tell us everything you’ve been up to. I don’t suppose you’re back for good?’
‘’Fraid not. Just a familial visit to remind you I’m still alive. A couple of days and I’ll be off again.’ Alice took another banana and, this time, chewing the overripe flesh thoughtfully and almost lasciviously, headed in the direction of the stairs to the old childhood bedroom she’d shared with her older sister, Susan. Despite there being four large bedrooms in the vicarage, once her father had claimed two for himself – one to sleep in, claiming Glenys was restless and wanted the light on to read, as well as the small box room for the safe keeping of his vestments, robes and chasubles – Alice and Susan had been left to share the prettiest room overlooking the grounds of the Victorian house.
The girls hadn’t minded; convinced ghosts of Vicars Past roamed the draughty corridors, they were more than happy to bunk down together. They’d always got on, although, once they’d hit their teens, Susan – very much her mother’s daughter – had gone along with her father’s wishes, heading off to teacher training college in Liverpool before returning to take up a post at the village primary school both she and Alice had themselves attended as little girls.
Alice had had none of it. Once she’d hit sixteen and discovered the joys of sex, drink and illicit substances, as well as the fun of baiting her father, she knew there was a whole wide world of culture, art and enjoyment out there, totally alien to the Rev Cecil Parkes. And one in which she intended to immerse herself fully.
*
Alice didn’t think her mum – but especially her dad – would want to know the real reason she’d run off into the night and made the decision to come home. Being caught in flagrante or, in Yorkshire parlance, at it, with Yves, by his mad wife, Martine, as she brandished a carving knife in both their directions had been a bit exciting, if not downright frightening. Were the French still not arrested and tried for crime passionel? If not, Martine could have cut off Yves’ todger as well as slit her own throat and been acquitted by a jury.
Yes, it had definitely been time to get out of there until things cooled down. How the hell Martine had known Alice was having a bit of a fling with fellow artist Yves – and that’s all it was, a bit of a thing, nothing heavy, just very enjoyable sex – and, furthermore, had obviously followed them and eventually managed to take her chance with the communal buzzer on the door (just like something out of a damned spy film) before creeping up the stairs to Alice’s loft bedsitter, knife to hand, was beyond her. Alice grinned as she snuggled down into the tiny single bed she’d slept in as a child, remembering Yves’ quite magnificent erection shrivelling to nothing more than the size of those snails they’d scooped out of their garlicky shells just a few hours earlier as Martine’s knife glinted evilly at her husband’s penis. She could still taste and smell both the garlic and Yves on her breath, and she gave an involuntary little shiver as she remembered her limbs wrapped round his, his mouth on every conceivable – and inconceivable – part of her body.
What was it about French men? God, they were good lovers. They could come and come again – a bit like Glenys’s cut and come again fruit cakes, which always tasted better when given time to mature. Alice grinned to herself. Shame Yves was now pas plus, having been carted off by Martine, like the little boy he was, back to where he belonged.
Alice had thought on her feet, weighing up a couple of options: turn up at Luc’s, with whom she shared the small studio in a backstreet behind the Jardin Sauvage Saint Vincent, or get away completely and find refuge – just for a couple of days – back home at the vicarage in Westenbury, Yorkshire, where she’d grown up. She’d gone for the second option, taking the chance while Martine was hysterically crying and begging Yves’ forgiveness (his forgiveness for heaven’s sake?) to grab her bag and passport and the clothes she’d been divested of just half an hour earlier. As well as the bundle of francs she’d earned from actually selling a couple of oil paintings, and which was intended for the rent she owed the landlord, before taking Le Taxi she couldn’t really afford to the airport at Orly.
But, Alice admitted to herself now, as the soothing chatter of sparrows in the vicarage garden below her open window began to lull her to sleep, she was tired. Tired of painting stuff no one seemed to want. She was existing hand to mouth, selling a painting here and there, getting her kit off and life-modelling for other artists in the eclectic neighbourhood of Belleville when the rent was due and there was nothing in her bank account or her pocket. She’d already had several run-ins with the landlord who, fed up with arty types who didn’t cough up their francs on time, was constantly threatening her with eviction.
She knew she was good – bloody good, in fact – but the trouble was, despite being the shining star of her intake on the fine arts degree course at UCL, the one who was predicted to go far, no one, it seemed – now that she was living and working in Paris – appeared to agree with that sentiment. She’d been so excited when she’d been given a place at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts school of fine arts across from the Louvre in the sixth arrondissement (financed by her art-loving grandfather who had disliked his objectionable – and objecting – son-in-law as much as the Rev Cecil’s village flock appeared to) and she had adored her two years there. It seemed her father’s objections to Alice continuing her studies in Paris (an expensive and unnecessary waste of time and money when she was only going to end up teaching the subject or, more than likely, an out-of-work arty layabout sponging off the state on her return) were being realised. Not that she was about to return. The very idea of abandoning her beloved Paris with its vibrancy and energy emanating from the culmination of hundreds of years of cultural and artistic encouragement, its special light, its architecture, that first sight of Monet’s Water Lilies at the Musée de l’Orangerie…
