Sunday morning Eucharist hadn’t been so well attended since they filmed Songs of Praise. Full to the gunnels. The verger had to lay on extra service sheets.
The parish was throwing a christening party on the rector’s lawn. They were lucky with the weather. The church spire shone gold-leafed against a flawless August sky. White thistledown seeds floated in their millions, gliding and swirling on the warm currents.
When their moment came, the parents and godparents gathered by the font. All five were at ease in each other’s presence, as though they were very old friends. The choice of godparents drew raised eyebrows from the more conventional parishioners. Three men, all in their late thirties. Fairy godmothers, they called themselves, but it was hard to imagine a trio of less ethereal beings.
The Important Person who was to be christened had just learned to walk, and she was rather pleased with herself. She ignored the fuss at the font and trickled unsteadily up the aisle and back, in a minuscule red dress, collecting adoration all the way. She had two besotted grandmothers in the pews, vying for her attention. Often she lost her balance and sat down on a well-padded bottom, but someone would rush to pick her up again. Sometimes, tired of falling over, she crawled. A gold chain, christening present from one of the fairy godmothers, glowed on her cinnamon-brown skin.
When the rector swung her up high, kissed her and began to pour water over her forehead, she laughed. She knew him. He was her friend.
The choir surpassed themselves. The head chorister, Kevin—awkward in his robes—sang a glorious Welsh lullaby, hardly distracted by two girls in the row behind, who giggled and passed him lurid notes.
At eleven o’clock sharp the congregation burst out through the doors into a brilliant morning, while the organist luxuriated in the drama of his final chords. The rector stood in the porch, shaking hands. The catering committee hurried over to the rectory to fill giant teapots.
Children rampaged across the graveyard. A gang of her cousins—of various sizes and colours—played with the newly christened girl, jumping out from behind the stones and making her squeal. Adults stood around in the sunshine, chatting. Many began to make their way towards the rectory, hoping for tea or coffee or a glass of wine.
The curate and his wife each took one of their daughter’s plump hands, swinging her high as they wandered along the path. ‘One, two, three and up she goes!’
Anyone listening would hear the child’s gurgles of delight, even after the three had disappeared through the rectory gate. Such a person would even be able to hear it from a graffiti-covered bench at the tangled end of the churchyard, half-hidden among the holly trees.
Within fifteen minutes, the place was almost deserted.
The rector was last to leave, locking the heavy main doors behind him. As he strolled towards the rectory he stopped in his tracks, as though an idea had occurred to him. He stood thinking for a long time, and then swung smartly on his heel and headed for the holly trees. He lowered himself onto the ramshackle bench with a sigh of relief, massaging his knees.
‘Arthritis,’ he said. ‘Comes to us all.’
The powerfully built young man beside him seemed politely concerned. Although wearing a suit and tie, he had the look of someone who should be riding wild breakers on a surfboard. Very blond hair curled over his collar, his eyebrows almost joined, and his nose had seen some action.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Angus looked him over. ‘You weren’t in church, were you?’
The young man shrugged. ‘I prefer to be outside,’ he said.
‘New to the parish?’
‘Just passing through.’
‘Just passing, eh?’ Angus considered him. ‘Where d’you call home?’
The stranger thought for a moment. ‘Suffolk,’ he said. ‘But I’m going away next week. Visiting a friend in New Zealand. He’s got a vineyard.’
‘There’s lunch on offer in my garden,’ said Angus gently. ‘Bubbly, and a band. You’re very welcome.’
The young man murmured thanks, ruffling his wayward hair with both hands. Tendrils of light filtered through the leaves.
‘We had a christening this morning,’ said Angus. ‘But I think you already knew that. It was in our online newsletter.’
The young man shifted. He seemed on the point of standing up. From over the rectory hedge came the sound of instruments being tuned and then a burst of song.
‘What did they call her?’ he asked, suddenly.
‘Grace Serenity Fola,’ replied Angus.
‘Grace Serenity,’ echoed the young man. ‘Fola?’
‘It means honour. And it couldn’t be more appropriate, I assure you. The child is honoured. She is cherished.’
The stranger was silent.
‘It’s her first birthday today,’ said Angus. ‘I think you knew that too.’
The young man sat speechless, gazing at him with vivid blue-green eyes.
‘You know . . .’ Angus leaned back, luxuriously stretching his arms along the bench. He turned his creased face up to the old spire. ‘I believe she’s supremely lucky. Her parents want only the best for her.’ He glanced sidelong at his companion. ‘All her parents.’
‘Then she is lucky.’
The rector chuckled warmly, slapping his knees. ‘Knows her own mind, I can tell you! Nobody crosses young Grace without good reason. We call her Your Grace.’
The young man smiled for the first time. It was as though a stray drift of sunlight had been caught and directed full onto his face. ‘Her mother was like that.’
From the rectory garden came a cacophony of shouting followed by the clink of glasses. They were toasting the baby. The band struck up again: swaying notes, leisurely and syncopated; and suddenly a woman’s voice hung languidly above them, pure and vibrant even through the distortions of the loudspeaker system. The crowd instantly hushed, as though she’d waved a magic wand.
‘Ah,’ said the rector. ‘ “Summertime.” This’ll be worth listening to. Long, hot days in Catfish Row.’
The stranger seemed transfixed. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’
‘She certainly is.’
‘I’ve seen her on YouTube.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Angus inclined his head. ‘Of course.’
Neither spoke again for some time. They listened quietly as the unseen singer conjured a mood of longing, of hope and love. The beautiful lullaby was nearing its end when the young man got to his feet, brushing thistledown from his knees.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I can go now.’
Angus stood too and held out a hand. ‘Come and see us if you’re ever passing through.’
‘Thanks.’ The young man took the proffered hand and held it for a moment. ‘But I don’t think I’ll pass this way again.’
The song ended. Cheers and clapping swelled to greet its final notes, and over the loudspeaker echoed a woman’s joyful laughter.
The young man stood listening, with a distant smile. Then he turned, and strode down the path towards the main road. He didn’t look back.