In retrospect it seemed that the summer had skimmed by with hardly a pause in its endless rush to meet with autumn, now just a breath away.
It had felt a little awkward the first time she had attended the Sunday Service, but she had been welcomed as an equal from (almost) all. After a few weeks had passed she came to look on it as a couple of hours of meditation. A time when she could relax and be herself in the knowledge that these people were not about to turn on her.
Special services came and went and each showed up another facet of the Church as Community. Which seemed right; after all, the mere fact of ‘communing’ with God, gives community a true meaning. She got to know the members and was pleased to accept many of the invitations to pop round for tea - or coffee, or dinner, or just to cut the grass. Best of all she got to hear about peoples Lives and how they had lived them. For her own life she always felt ashamed and did not reciprocate in the exchange.
After a while she switched to the evening service. She found it even more friendly because of the – coffee-round-someone’s-home-for-the-evening; an informal, entertaining round-off to the weekend. Weekends being something of a novelty, she was used to just ‘days’.
It was just a gathering of people at a loose end on a Sunday after church. Most weeks it seemed to fall on Mike Preston and his wife, mainly because they had a big house and, as yet, no children. Other times they went out on a drive. Cecil had a van that could house about six if they sat really tight, and sometimes Paul, who had a good business hiring-out his 12-seater would be available to ferry people out into the country for an evening stroll. Maybe down to the Thames for a bankside walk in the setting sun. Maybe just to the local park to wander through the trees and amble past the old Lodge and admire the history.
Nine of the attendants at the evenings gathering had driven up to the West of town and climbed up the steep incline to the top of the hill. Breathless they had paused beside the church to watch the slowly sinking sun. Some had wandered through the ancient graveyard reading the dates and wondering. Some had flopped onto the grass and let the air wash over them.
It had been a lovely time. The conversation had waxed and waned as they walked, time had flown and all to soon it was time to go home. Goodnights had been said and she had found herself back in her little sanctuary.
It was one of those days when the night seemed to hang forever in the wings but never quite get on-stage, when all was quiet. She layed out on the roof of the caravan and contemplated the weeks work ahead, when she heard a sound and turned her head.
Her mood evaporated as she looked down on Trevor, he waved back and said he was just passing and would she care for a drink; he had a bottle. He held it aloft so she could see.
She had not sought his company at all but he had seemed to be there at every turn. Always beaming in that disarming way he had. Able to foresee a need and be there to forestall it.
He it was who had caught the branch that was about to swing back into her face. He was there when they had climbed over the stile to shorten the route back and had offered a hand, opened doors for her. Had been first out to say goodbye when they had stopped outside the plot to drop her off.
He was a little unsteady. She slid down the roof and joined him, invited him in. She shared the whiskey he had brought. She listened to his 23 year history and found it dull. That he was unused to drink is not in doubt. He moved about a lot, fidgeting and looking around a lot, and staring at her. His voice was louder and he tried to hold a stern countenance but his vocal chords could not do it and he showed himself up. She tried to placate him and leant across the table at which they sat, to touch his arm reassuringly. Secretly hoping that he might be embarrassed enough to go. There was something a bit creepy.. .
It began to get late and she made clearing-up movements. Tidying magazines and washing up, looking at her watch. The whiskey took a hold and his face flushed.
As spoke she bit her lip, realising the double-meaning: ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She said.
He needed no second bidding. He leapt out of his chair and lunged toward her. He fell short, she backed away and that was a mistake.
The snarl that appeared on his face was startling and she backed away. He came at her and without pause grabbed her waist and twisted her onto the couch/bed. As she fell her head caught the wooden end of the cupboard a crashing blow. Such was the force of his throw she fell into unconsciousness instantly.
Continued….
It had felt a little awkward the first time she had attended the Sunday Service, but she had been welcomed as an equal from (almost) all. After a few weeks had passed she came to look on it as a couple of hours of meditation. A time when she could relax and be herself in the knowledge that these people were not about to turn on her.
Special services came and went and each showed up another facet of the Church as Community. Which seemed right; after all, the mere fact of ‘communing’ with God, gives community a true meaning. She got to know the members and was pleased to accept many of the invitations to pop round for tea - or coffee, or dinner, or just to cut the grass. Best of all she got to hear about peoples Lives and how they had lived them. For her own life she always felt ashamed and did not reciprocate in the exchange.
After a while she switched to the evening service. She found it even more friendly because of the – coffee-round-someone’s-home-for-the-evening; an informal, entertaining round-off to the weekend. Weekends being something of a novelty, she was used to just ‘days’.
It was just a gathering of people at a loose end on a Sunday after church. Most weeks it seemed to fall on Mike Preston and his wife, mainly because they had a big house and, as yet, no children. Other times they went out on a drive. Cecil had a van that could house about six if they sat really tight, and sometimes Paul, who had a good business hiring-out his 12-seater would be available to ferry people out into the country for an evening stroll. Maybe down to the Thames for a bankside walk in the setting sun. Maybe just to the local park to wander through the trees and amble past the old Lodge and admire the history.
Nine of the attendants at the evenings gathering had driven up to the West of town and climbed up the steep incline to the top of the hill. Breathless they had paused beside the church to watch the slowly sinking sun. Some had wandered through the ancient graveyard reading the dates and wondering. Some had flopped onto the grass and let the air wash over them.
It had been a lovely time. The conversation had waxed and waned as they walked, time had flown and all to soon it was time to go home. Goodnights had been said and she had found herself back in her little sanctuary.
It was one of those days when the night seemed to hang forever in the wings but never quite get on-stage, when all was quiet. She layed out on the roof of the caravan and contemplated the weeks work ahead, when she heard a sound and turned her head.
Her mood evaporated as she looked down on Trevor, he waved back and said he was just passing and would she care for a drink; he had a bottle. He held it aloft so she could see.
She had not sought his company at all but he had seemed to be there at every turn. Always beaming in that disarming way he had. Able to foresee a need and be there to forestall it.
He it was who had caught the branch that was about to swing back into her face. He was there when they had climbed over the stile to shorten the route back and had offered a hand, opened doors for her. Had been first out to say goodbye when they had stopped outside the plot to drop her off.
He was a little unsteady. She slid down the roof and joined him, invited him in. She shared the whiskey he had brought. She listened to his 23 year history and found it dull. That he was unused to drink is not in doubt. He moved about a lot, fidgeting and looking around a lot, and staring at her. His voice was louder and he tried to hold a stern countenance but his vocal chords could not do it and he showed himself up. She tried to placate him and leant across the table at which they sat, to touch his arm reassuringly. Secretly hoping that he might be embarrassed enough to go. There was something a bit creepy.. .
It began to get late and she made clearing-up movements. Tidying magazines and washing up, looking at her watch. The whiskey took a hold and his face flushed.
As spoke she bit her lip, realising the double-meaning: ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She said.
He needed no second bidding. He leapt out of his chair and lunged toward her. He fell short, she backed away and that was a mistake.
The snarl that appeared on his face was startling and she backed away. He came at her and without pause grabbed her waist and twisted her onto the couch/bed. As she fell her head caught the wooden end of the cupboard a crashing blow. Such was the force of his throw she fell into unconsciousness instantly.
Continued….
2 comments:
(Wake up! Wake up! Run!)
Really good, Frac.
Good read Cat
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