The Carpenter's Children by Maggie Bennett

pinsand fell to the platform, where it was picked up by a woman who handed it back to her with a reproachful look: such goings-on in public, and with a man of the cloth!
    ‘Let me take your case, Isabel – there’s a cab waiting outside,’ he said a little breathlessly as she replaced her hat on her tumbling hair. He took her arm to lead her through the barrier and across the wide, thronging concourse of the station.
    ‘How I’ve lived and longed for this moment, Isabel. I can’t believe that it’s really true – that it’s
you
again at last!’
    She looked up at him with shining eyes. ‘But it
is
true, Mark, I’m here and so happy to be with you again!’
    The open horse-drawn cab took them quite a long way, at first through scenes that Isabel knew from a day visit with a group from St Peter’s Church, the landmarks of history and the heart of the city. They passed through wide streets with huge shops, theatres and restaurants which Isabel found rather overwhelming; this was the London her sister dreamt of, she thought, the bright lights and the glamour that Grace was determined to be part of one day. They journeyed up Ludgate Hill and passed under the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, at which Isabel looked up in awe, which made Mark smile.
    ‘You’ll find St Barnabas’ Church a little less imposing, my Isabel.’
    ‘I shall prefer it,’ she answered contentedly.
    East of St Paul’s the shops gave way to housing, and the neighbourhoods became noticeably shabbier; soon they came to narrower streets with tightly-packed terraced houses opening directly on to the pavement, and backing against another row of similar dwellings separated by narrow communal yards, across some of which lines of washing were hung. Women stood talking outside small butchers’ and grocers’ shops, and a group of children, some with no shoes, gathered round a lamp post, yelling up at two boys who had climbed it. There were a number of public houses, some with a jug and bottle door, and Isabel knew that premises with the three balls sign were pawnshops.
    ‘This is my parish, Isabel,’ said Mark quietly. ‘I came here as curate, and now I’m its vicar. It’s a long way from North Camp and St Peter’s, and I shall quite understand if you do not want to make your home here. One day I’ll be transferred to another parish, but that may not be for—’
    ‘Hush, Mark,’ she interrupted, holding up her gloved hand. ‘You’ve told me so much about this place in your letters, and haven’t I told you how much I’ve longed to share it with you, and help serve these people as you do? I want to be where you are, Mark, haven’t I written that often enough?’
    He could only nod and squeeze her hand, for he could not trust himself to speak. She pointed to achurch spire a couple of streets away.
    ‘Is that St Barnabas’ over there?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, that’s my church and this is Old Nichol Street, sometimes called Old Nick’s Street, not without reason,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Go on a little further, driver, into Ainsworth Road, and it’s number thirty-seven – and oh, there’s Mrs Clements at her door, bless her, waiting for us!’
    Number thirty-seven was one of a long terraced row, with gleaming windows and a well-scrubbed white doorstep. Mrs Clements was a neatly dressed woman of about fifty, in a black blouse and skirt, her greying hair drawn back into a bun on the crown of her head, fastened with two large tortoiseshell pins. Her eyes softened at the sight of Mark, but she looked questioningly at Isabel, as if wondering whether to shake her hand or curtsey.
    ‘Here she is, Mrs Clements – Miss Isabel Munday who is visiting our parish for the weekend,’ said Mark with easy familiarity as he helped Isabel down with her suitcase. ‘Mrs Clements is the mainstay of St Barnabas’, Isabel, a lady I can always rely on in difficult times!’
    ‘Good afternoon, Miss Munday, very pleased to meet yer,’ said the