VIOLET THOUGHT IT MUST HAVE been the strangest Sunday in her life! Having no duties at the vicarage, she was free to help Joe look around the flock before the morning service. The lambs were stocky and playful and the grass was growing well, satisfying the ewes, so beyond a quick glance there was not a lot to do. But instead of heading home for a coffee, Joe and Violet made their way to Biggenden and helped set up the big barn for the service. The stone-walled and clay-tiled barn had no windows, so the huge wooden doors through which laden carts normally entered had to be flung wide to provide enough light for the proceedings. The warm beams of the May sun streamed in on the dancing dust and chaff particles. Empty bushel boxes were placed in rows on the straw-covered floor for pews. A wooden platform (formally a hen house roof) was set at the front for the reader. A small table covered with a white cloth would be the reading desk. Violet smiled as she surveyed the scene. It was not a genteel place of worship, but it seemed more authentic, maybe more biblical, than an ornate cathedral.
At the appointed time, Violet returned in her Sunday best and met Joe at the door. People had arrived early, and the barn was almost full. Violet guessed many had come in good time to check out who was and who was not there. Is it foolish of us all to don our best frocks and bonnets, suits and waistcoats, to sit in a dusty barn? Violet wondered as she took her place on a box. Joe bowed his head to pray, and immediately Violet knew the answer. No, their clothing befitted the occasion—they had come to meet with the Lord of Lords and King of Kings, and the building was of no significance.
None of the gallery band were at the barn service. The readiness of most of them to play folk music at village dances made the more serious members of the congregation wonder at the depth of their religious convictions, so their absence was discussed with much head shaking and murmurs of “Just as I had thought.” Mr. Brookes started the singing with a loud nasal blast, which his wife turned into a tune. Violet enjoyed the a capella singing as the sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses weaved their notes together, unimpeded by the scratching of violins and cellos. Mr. Collins had remained “Church,” so it fell to Mr. Grey to conduct the service and read the sermon. He was a fluent and expressive reader and had carefully chosen a good and suitable subject—standing firm for the truth. It was one of Spurgeon’s Penny Pulpit sermons. Violet enjoyed it so much that she decided it would be well worth her and Joe subscribing to Spurgeon’s weekly sermons and build up a stock to take to Canada. Maybe they would be worshiping in similar conditions over there. Sundays on the boat would also be a strange experience.
After the service, the congregation milled about for a long time. There was such a sense of unity and so much to discuss that everyone seemed reluctant to go home. The burning question was “Who attended church?” The answer only came by deduction but, looking at the barn gathering, it was obvious that the church would be very empty. Wilson’s workers would feel obliged to go; everyone understood that. To go against such a powerful employer and landlord could see one jobless and evicted. The butcher was also in a quandary. The Wilson household’s meat consumption was well over half of his weekly income. If he removed from church to barn, would they remove their custom? In the butcher’s absence, his dilemma was thoroughly chewed over and deliberated. Violet was pleased to see Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe mingling with the crowd. Being the owner of the barn, Mr. Thorpe is almost church warden, or to be more precise, barn warden.
Mrs. Harrington had been so incensed at the Thorpe’s involvement in the “little squabble” that she had retreated to Hampshire and her local parish church where “the vicar knows his place, never oversteps the mark, and does not suffer from religious mania.”
On Monday morning, Violet was at a loss to know what to do at the vicarage. There were so many rumours and counter-rumours. Were the Hayworths planning to stay until they were forcefully evicted, or should she start packing? Was a new vicar arriving next week, or would the house stand empty? There was very little washing in the clothes basket, no meals to prepare, and no tidying up required. Once the hens had been fed, the handful of washing dealt with, and a feather duster flicked about, she wandered around aimlessly.
Amid all the uncertainty, there was one thing she was sure about—if a new vicar did come, she would definitely not volunteer to be his maid. She would not stoop to working for Lord Wilson’s yes-man and, besides, there were more exciting ways to earn money these days. She and Joe needed to save hard to pay for their passage to Canada, so she needed a position that offered more money. She would apply to be a shop girl in Tunbridge or Tunbridge Wells. She would probably have to lodge in town, but she would have more time off and could still see Joe on Sundays. The quicker they saved, the sooner they could marry.
The Hayworths returned to Capford on Tuesday. Violet thought they looked tense, drawn, and aged. All her unspoken questions were soon answered: they were going, and they must pack. After sobbing on each other’s shoulders, Rebecca and Violet got down to some serious planning. Everything in the house needed to be sorted out into three categories—things going to London, things to sell or give away, and things to leave behind. Anything in the give or sell section could be got rid of as soon as possible unless needed in preparation for the Sunday school treat.
The two activities seemed so incompatible, but even worse was the inordinate number of visitors demanding the Hayworths’ attention and time. Violet wished she could shield her employers from the steady flow of weeping women and angry men. Did they really think their displays of emotion would help the ejected (and dejected) couple? How she would love to bolt and bar the door and disconnect the bell! Failing that, she would like to establish some simple rules: only visit if you are in control of your emotions and are willing to pack boxes, dismantle book shelves, or find essential equipment packed by mistake.
Violet was rather alarmed by the somewhat reckless attitude the Hayworths displayed toward their property. Maybe it was due to haste, lack of space, or general glumness, but the result was a huge pile of perfectly good but unwanted household items gradually filling the dining room. Violet hated to see such waste and expressed her concern. With a dismissive wave, her employers told her she could deal with it if she wanted to. Joe’s eyes glistened when he heard the challenge, and as soon as he could the next evening, he came around to inspect the motley array.
“Reverend Hayworth, this lot is worth a lot.”
“I’m not so sure. Most of it is old junk.”
“I could sell most of it in Tunbridge Market and make you a bit of cash. I’m not bad at selling things.”
Rebecca laughed. “With your sparkling eyes and wit, you could sell shoes to a cobbler!”
“Okay, Joe,” agreed her husband. “We’ll make a deal. You sell or get rid of this lot, and you can have half the takings.”
“You’re on!” Joe grinned and shook Jack’s hand.
Violet did not mind working late into the evenings helping the Hayworths, for now Joe was there too, loading up his stock and generally making himself useful. Soon the house was a maze of boxes, dismantled furniture, and packed trunks.
“It will be easier to say good-bye to this place now that everything is in such un-cosy disarray,” said Rebecca.
“I thought you didn’t like the vicarage anyway,” said Violet as she tucked a tea towel around a boxed teapot.
“I didn’t, but soon it became full of us, our life and memories. Now all the memories seem packed in boxes too.”
“I hope you get another and a better vicarage soon, ma’am.”
“Oh, so do I, Violet! Preferably one in the countryside, with roses in the garden.”
“And a few children as well.”
Violet wished she hadn’t said that. Maybe knowing their time together was short, she was becoming too outspoken.
“Yes, that is my hope and dream, but the Lord knows best.”
“Maybe it is just about timing.”
“Maybe. Anyway, He knew what was best for you with Joe,” said Rebecca, changing the subject.
Violet blushed. “He certainly did. Joe is just the man I need.”
Rebecca gazed out of the dusty window. “Even if we stayed here, life would move on, you would leave and go to Canada, and I would never have found anyone to replace you.”
“Plenty of girls would be pleased to take my place.”
“That’s not what I mean. I have enjoyed your company, not just your work output. I like you for who you are, not just for what you do.”
“And you have been the best mistress ever. You’re more like a friend than a boss.”
“And you’re more like a friend than a maid. Violet, I really mean it. Thank you for your support, your hard work, and all you have done for me.” Rebecca fought back tears.
Violet put down her tea cloth and hugged her employer. “Thank you for all your help and wisdom. The chats with you were better than sermons to me.”
“I hope all goes really well for you in Canada.”
“I think it will. God is in Canada too.”
“And you are trusting Him?”
“Yes, completely, for body and soul, in life and death.”
“That is wonderful.”
Violet volunteered to work all day Saturday as Joe would be at Tunbridge Market. She had toyed with the idea of accompanying him, but as they filled the farm cart, it soon became apparent there would be no space for her. The previous day Jack had organised the transportation of most of their wanted possessions by train. The vicarage was now looking bare, desolate, and uninviting. Violet was instructed to clean the emptiness, although she thought it was a bit of a waste of time. It was surprising how many cobwebs gathered behind furniture, but surely the next, unwanted occupant could deal with them—and any other grime that had gathered in the meantime. Still, she knew her cleaning job would be easier than the Hayworths’ task of supervising the Sunday school treat with all those over-excited children and the ever-present cloud of their own imminent departure.
In all the bustle of getting ready, packing picnic baskets, and spreading bread, Rebecca and Violet were interrupted.
“Rebecca!” Jack shouted from the study. “Where is my skittle set?”
Violet froze.
“I’ve no idea. Maybe you’ve packed it.”
“I haven’t touched it.”
“Sorry, but I am up to my ears in egg sandwiches. It’s hardly a priority.”
“I think it is.” And he rummaged on.
Guilt flooded through Violet. After what seemed a long time, Jack entered the kitchen.
“I’ve found them, but they are in a bit of a state. I hadn’t realised they were so chipped. They need repainting, but it’s too late.”
“I’m sure the children won’t notice,” Rebecca said dismissively, hardly looking up from her task.
“I know, it’s just annoying,” replied Jack, slamming the door.
Violet felt awful. The Hayworths were coping well with their present difficulty, but the slight irritability toward each other was a symptom of the strain they were under. It was unusual and unpleasant—and her stupidity had not helped.