didn’t.
They made their way slowly back to the vicarage, Simon feeling slightly better as they progressed. Mrs. Hughes held onto his arm firmly. Not, Simon mused, that there was much hope of the tiny framed Mrs. Hughes being much help should he decide to keel over again, but the support felt good.
“Watch out for dogs,” Mrs. Hughes advised redundantly, their arrival celebrated by a cacophony of yipping and barking. They fought their way through the motley gang of animals and Mrs. Hughes settled Simon in a chair at the kitchen table. “Now, Simon, brandy or whisky?”
“Ergh, you’re kidding? It’s only 11.30 a.m. isn’t it?”
“I thought you were supposed to give people a tot when they’d fainted. Anyway, as I shall be driving you home – don’t look at me like that, Simon, you can’t drive when you’ve had a banged head – as I shall be driving you home, you may as well have a drink. Brandy, or whisky?”
“Brandy would be lovely. A small one.”
Simon was grateful to be treated like a small boy, albeit one that was allowed hard liquor. In fact, there could be no better person in the world to take care of him right now. Mrs. Hughes (who did actually have a first name – Muriel - but was always referred to as Mrs. Hughes by her husband Duncan and therefore by everybody else) had a gentle, yet firm, personality. Old fashioned and posh, but with the ‘common touch’, Mrs. Hughes was loved by everyone. Her formidable energy was bundled into one tiny, well dressed and well spoken package. She poured it into charity work, her animals, cleaning the church, running the parish opera society and a million other duties, which she took on without complaint and exceedingly good grace. In short, she was a pocket rocket.
Mrs. Hughes poured his drink and winked as she tipped a thimbleful-sized amount into a glass for herself. “It would be rude not to.” She beamed and taking out a chopping board began to peel a pile of potatoes with astonishing speed. “So, Simon. How are you feeling? And I’m not just talking about your bruised head and hurt pride. We heard about Sarah. Duncan, as you know, sits on the school Board of Governors. No names were mentioned, but it came up that a child was being withdrawn. Obviously, we put two and two together. How are you holding up?”
Simon took a sip of the brandy. He noted the lady’s lack of platitudes. She had not said ‘I’m sorry’ . It was refreshing. Most people effused. All apologized. It was exhausting, forgiving people for something that they had most certainly not done. “Well, in fact, Mrs. Hughes, I don’t think I am holding up. Melissa doesn’t think I am. I thought I was, but apparently I’m ‘not dealing with things’. Perhaps I’m not. I don’t think I can. My mind starts to work on it, but then as soon as I start thinking about the future,” Simon paused, taking a deep breath, “about certain aspects of the future, it pops back out. Like a gear shift that won’t stay in place.”
“You can’t force it. We all have our own way of handling these things. You might talk to Duncan. He’s rather good at these conversations you know. It’s his job. He will be able to help you.”
“Unless he can find a cure for cancer, Mrs. Hughes, I’m not sure that he can help.” Simon spoke softly, staring into his brandy.
Mrs. Hughes regarded Simon steadily, taking her time. She was not a woman who was afraid of silences. In her long reign as Vicar’s Wife at St Matthew’s, she had consoled innumerable grieving parishioners. “No, Simon. He can’t find a cure for cancer. No one is going to. Not in time for Sarah, I’m afraid. But he can help you with your grief. Help you find a way through. Help you find a life after Sarah.”
“ Life after Sarah. That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Right now, at this very second, I can’t conceive a ‘life after Sarah’. Sarah is my life. I didn’t realize until it was too late. Nothing else
They made their way slowly back to the vicarage, Simon feeling slightly better as they progressed. Mrs. Hughes held onto his arm firmly. Not, Simon mused, that there was much hope of the tiny framed Mrs. Hughes being much help should he decide to keel over again, but the support felt good.
“Watch out for dogs,” Mrs. Hughes advised redundantly, their arrival celebrated by a cacophony of yipping and barking. They fought their way through the motley gang of animals and Mrs. Hughes settled Simon in a chair at the kitchen table. “Now, Simon, brandy or whisky?”
“Ergh, you’re kidding? It’s only 11.30 a.m. isn’t it?”
“I thought you were supposed to give people a tot when they’d fainted. Anyway, as I shall be driving you home – don’t look at me like that, Simon, you can’t drive when you’ve had a banged head – as I shall be driving you home, you may as well have a drink. Brandy, or whisky?”
“Brandy would be lovely. A small one.”
Simon was grateful to be treated like a small boy, albeit one that was allowed hard liquor. In fact, there could be no better person in the world to take care of him right now. Mrs. Hughes (who did actually have a first name – Muriel - but was always referred to as Mrs. Hughes by her husband Duncan and therefore by everybody else) had a gentle, yet firm, personality. Old fashioned and posh, but with the ‘common touch’, Mrs. Hughes was loved by everyone. Her formidable energy was bundled into one tiny, well dressed and well spoken package. She poured it into charity work, her animals, cleaning the church, running the parish opera society and a million other duties, which she took on without complaint and exceedingly good grace. In short, she was a pocket rocket.
Mrs. Hughes poured his drink and winked as she tipped a thimbleful-sized amount into a glass for herself. “It would be rude not to.” She beamed and taking out a chopping board began to peel a pile of potatoes with astonishing speed. “So, Simon. How are you feeling? And I’m not just talking about your bruised head and hurt pride. We heard about Sarah. Duncan, as you know, sits on the school Board of Governors. No names were mentioned, but it came up that a child was being withdrawn. Obviously, we put two and two together. How are you holding up?”
Simon took a sip of the brandy. He noted the lady’s lack of platitudes. She had not said ‘I’m sorry’ . It was refreshing. Most people effused. All apologized. It was exhausting, forgiving people for something that they had most certainly not done. “Well, in fact, Mrs. Hughes, I don’t think I am holding up. Melissa doesn’t think I am. I thought I was, but apparently I’m ‘not dealing with things’. Perhaps I’m not. I don’t think I can. My mind starts to work on it, but then as soon as I start thinking about the future,” Simon paused, taking a deep breath, “about certain aspects of the future, it pops back out. Like a gear shift that won’t stay in place.”
“You can’t force it. We all have our own way of handling these things. You might talk to Duncan. He’s rather good at these conversations you know. It’s his job. He will be able to help you.”
“Unless he can find a cure for cancer, Mrs. Hughes, I’m not sure that he can help.” Simon spoke softly, staring into his brandy.
Mrs. Hughes regarded Simon steadily, taking her time. She was not a woman who was afraid of silences. In her long reign as Vicar’s Wife at St Matthew’s, she had consoled innumerable grieving parishioners. “No, Simon. He can’t find a cure for cancer. No one is going to. Not in time for Sarah, I’m afraid. But he can help you with your grief. Help you find a way through. Help you find a life after Sarah.”
“ Life after Sarah. That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Right now, at this very second, I can’t conceive a ‘life after Sarah’. Sarah is my life. I didn’t realize until it was too late. Nothing else
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