was. A Road to Damascus thing. I was raised as a Catholic. Went to a Jesuit school. When I was in my early teens I went to a C of E wedding at a church tucked away in the country and heard the vicar conducting the service in the simple, lovely words of the sixteen sixty-two Prayer Book—'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder'—and I thought, magic! This is what I must do. My future was decided that morning. Of course it was a hard slog in theological college learning the doctrine, but I never wanted anything else."
"Even though the words have been modernised?"
"They changed them a long time before I was ordained. I understand the reason and I don't knock it. As you know I still make a point of using the traditional liturgy one Sunday each month. Some people come specially for that service. I never see them otherwise."
She ventured into another personal area. "You've got the ideal name for the work you do."
"My name?" He smiled. "I've taken some stick for it, but people remember it, which isn't a bad thing. I can tell you a story of how it came about, but I can't guarantee it's true. The midwife at my birth was a West Indian called Miss Pushmore."
"No!"
"Really. People do get names that fit their jobs. And the story goes that at the critical moment Miss Pushmore cried out, 'O, 'tis joy, it's a boy!'—but I don't believe that one. And I don't believe the other story either."
"What's that?"
"That my parents didn't realise what they were doing when they named me. It's more likely, isn't it, that they were feeling playful when they were going through the possible names, and had a laugh about Otis and then decided it sounded rather good and took it seriously?"
"You never asked them?"
"They died when I was this high."
"Oh."
"At seven, I was shipped off to a children's home in Ireland. The nuns didn't call us by our names much. It was a case of 'You, boy. Hold out your hand.' "
"I'm sorry.
"Don't be. It paid off in the end. Learned my Bible from the nuns. Served me in good stead."
"Otis is distinguished. I like it," Rachel told him, wanting to hear more about his personal history, but not by probing.
"Then feel free to use it. I've already dropped into the habit of calling you Rachel." He looked at the clock on the wall. "I should be off. Thanks so much for the tea. And, more importantly, for agreeing to let me put you up for treasurer."
"If you're sure you want me."
"That's why I'm here. Between you and me, I wouldn't say anything about your inexperience to other people in the village. Let them think you're confident you can handle it with ease." He picked up the tray and carried it through; to the kitchen.
She followed. "Does it h|ave to be confirmed by the Parish Council?"
"Yes, and there may be another name bandied about, but you have my support, which ought to swing it."
She was alarmed by that. "Someone else is up for it?"
He put down the tray, turned and reached out, placing both hands on her upper arms. "My dear, you don't have to do a thing. It's pure formality. The PCC has to have a couple of names to consider so that it doesn't look like a fix."
She felt his fingers squeeze her slightly and convey something extra.
"Trust me?"
She nodded.
"Say it. Say, 'Otis, I trust you.' "
She repeated the words.
"Good. The next time I call, it will be to congratulate you."
He let go of her, went to the front door and opened it. "I hope you get your phone call."
She didn't understand.
"Your husband."
"Oh."
She watched him go.
Gary didn't call that evening, but she wasn't bothered. Her thoughts were all on this amazing conversation, on the way he'd held her, looked into her eyes, spoken to her.
"Trust me?"
She finished the wine, shaking her head at intervals. She was mature, married, sexually experienced, yet she felt like a teenager with a crush on some unattainable man. She could still feel his touch on her arms. Why would he single her out for this job she had no aptitude for
"Even though the words have been modernised?"
"They changed them a long time before I was ordained. I understand the reason and I don't knock it. As you know I still make a point of using the traditional liturgy one Sunday each month. Some people come specially for that service. I never see them otherwise."
She ventured into another personal area. "You've got the ideal name for the work you do."
"My name?" He smiled. "I've taken some stick for it, but people remember it, which isn't a bad thing. I can tell you a story of how it came about, but I can't guarantee it's true. The midwife at my birth was a West Indian called Miss Pushmore."
"No!"
"Really. People do get names that fit their jobs. And the story goes that at the critical moment Miss Pushmore cried out, 'O, 'tis joy, it's a boy!'—but I don't believe that one. And I don't believe the other story either."
"What's that?"
"That my parents didn't realise what they were doing when they named me. It's more likely, isn't it, that they were feeling playful when they were going through the possible names, and had a laugh about Otis and then decided it sounded rather good and took it seriously?"
"You never asked them?"
"They died when I was this high."
"Oh."
"At seven, I was shipped off to a children's home in Ireland. The nuns didn't call us by our names much. It was a case of 'You, boy. Hold out your hand.' "
"I'm sorry.
"Don't be. It paid off in the end. Learned my Bible from the nuns. Served me in good stead."
"Otis is distinguished. I like it," Rachel told him, wanting to hear more about his personal history, but not by probing.
"Then feel free to use it. I've already dropped into the habit of calling you Rachel." He looked at the clock on the wall. "I should be off. Thanks so much for the tea. And, more importantly, for agreeing to let me put you up for treasurer."
"If you're sure you want me."
"That's why I'm here. Between you and me, I wouldn't say anything about your inexperience to other people in the village. Let them think you're confident you can handle it with ease." He picked up the tray and carried it through; to the kitchen.
She followed. "Does it h|ave to be confirmed by the Parish Council?"
"Yes, and there may be another name bandied about, but you have my support, which ought to swing it."
She was alarmed by that. "Someone else is up for it?"
He put down the tray, turned and reached out, placing both hands on her upper arms. "My dear, you don't have to do a thing. It's pure formality. The PCC has to have a couple of names to consider so that it doesn't look like a fix."
She felt his fingers squeeze her slightly and convey something extra.
"Trust me?"
She nodded.
"Say it. Say, 'Otis, I trust you.' "
She repeated the words.
"Good. The next time I call, it will be to congratulate you."
He let go of her, went to the front door and opened it. "I hope you get your phone call."
She didn't understand.
"Your husband."
"Oh."
She watched him go.
Gary didn't call that evening, but she wasn't bothered. Her thoughts were all on this amazing conversation, on the way he'd held her, looked into her eyes, spoken to her.
"Trust me?"
She finished the wine, shaking her head at intervals. She was mature, married, sexually experienced, yet she felt like a teenager with a crush on some unattainable man. She could still feel his touch on her arms. Why would he single her out for this job she had no aptitude for
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