When he reached St Cuthbert's, Ian wanted to pack his bags and move on. As he approached the door to his home, it opened wide. A short, fair-haired, middle-aged man wearing a clerical collar stood at the entrance.

Their eyes met. "Bob Fellows. You must be Ian. Sorry about this, but the bishop insisted I start today. You'd better come in."

Ian shrugged. "So, you're the new Vicar, but there's no need to be sorry. I'll pack my belongings and be on my way."

"Why don't you stay the night and start afresh in the morning?"

"Thank you. This hasn't been one of the better days. Tell you what, how about we go to the local pub for a meal, my treat."

Bob paused before answering. "Great idea. You can sort out your things in the morning."

"I assume I still have a bedroom."

"Of course. I'm in the spare bedroom. Didn't think it was right to change anything until you had left."

"I suppose Elinor let you in."

"She did. I telephoned to tell her I was coming but not why."

"Great cleaner. Keeps this place as bright as a new pin."

Ian glanced at his watch. "Eight is a good time. I'll pack this evening, ready for a quick start in the morning."

"It's up to you; I'll be in the lounge when you're ready."

"Thank you," said Ian as he climbed the stairs.

In his bedroom, he pulled a black leather suitcase and holdall from the top of a wardrobe. Thirty minutes elapsed, and Ian had packed his possessions except for his washing bag. Bored, he went for a shower.

Both men left the house at eight and strolled to the local pub. On entering, they walked to where an inglenook fireplace with a roaring log fire heated the room. Finding an empty table, they seated themselves. The atmosphere was cosy and reassuring. Low smoke-blackened beams supported a nicotine-darkened ceiling. The haze of cigarette smoke and the smell of beer filled the room. Several men at the bar turned, raised their glasses and nodded to Ian.

They gazed around the room while waiting. After a few minutes, a young man with dark hair tied in a ponytail stood before them.

"Drinks? Food? Vicar?"

"What's the special today?" Ian enquired.

"Chicken and chips in a basket, one pound, fifty."

Bob licked his lips. "I love chicken."

Ian rubbed his hands together. "Two specials and a pint of IPA, please. Bob, what are you drinking?"

"Tonic water and ice, thank you."

Bob waited for the young man to leave. "They'll miss you,"

Ian shrugged. "For a day or two, but they now have a new vicar who will, I'm sure, do them proud.

Births, deaths, marriages and the odd blessing of a new home to ward off misfortune. Those who attend are good people. But most of the time, we're a shoulder to lean and cry on."

The food arrived, and they ate in silence.

Ian peeked up from his meal. "You're not a talker, are you?"

Bob shook his head. "Bit awkward. We don't know each other, and tomorrow, you will be off to new pastures. At this moment, I'm in the way."

Ian eyed him with surprise. "They didn't tell you, did they?"

"Didn't tell me what? All I know is I was to take over St Cuthbert's. Yesterday curate, today vicar. I've no complaints. I didn't have a choice."

"Don't suppose you did. You grabbed the chance of promotion, and here you are. I'd have done the same if I were in your shoes."

With their meal finished, Ian stood and faced Bob. "I hope you don't take offence. I'm leaving with my bags to find a hotel for the night. My leaving in the morning would mean an early rise. This way, I can catch the first bus out."

Bob nodded. "I understand." He stood and held out his hand. "All the best."

Ian shook the offered hand, dropped a ten-pound note on the table, turned and left.

***

After an uncomfortable night in the bus station waiting room, Ian boarded a bus at eight in the morning. He sat on the back seat of a single-decker, staring out the window. While the bus rattled along the country roads, he wondered what the village of Stonewall had to offer.

Three hours of a diesel engine droning in the background lulled Ian to sleep.

"Oi guvnor, this is where you asked to get off."

He opened his eyes to see the driver two inches from his face.

"Must have dozed off."

"Can't wait here forever. This beast blocks these narrow roads, so I'd be grateful if you lifted and shifted, Vicar."

Unprepared, Ian grabbed his bags and alighted, thanking the driver as he did so. A stiff, cool breeze wafting along a tunnel of trees stirred him into action. Ahead, he could see a few houses and began walking towards them. In ten minutes, he was in the village and found Church Lane. He smiled as he wondered how many streets with this name might exist.

Rounding a corner, he saw an old, uninviting, grey stone building. St Andrews church belonged in the Middle Ages.

His thoughts changed as he peered at the house on the grounds. It was imposing in its size and dirtiness.

The main door opened as he wandered up the gravelled path. A stern-faced, grey-haired woman gave him the once-over. She wore what appeared to be a man's dark blue overalls and stood as still as a statue.

There was a harshness in her voice. "By your clerical collar, I assume you are our new Vicar. Hope you stay longer than the last."

He dropped his bags and held out his hand. "Ian Spence. Pleased to meet you."

She ignored his hand. "Wipe your feet on the mat before you come in." She stepped back to let him through. "I'm the live-in housekeeper, Mary Wilson. I live on the ground floor, and you are on the upper floor. Follow me. You will find a list of my duties on your office desk."

Ian trailed after her as they climbed the broad staircase to the gloom-laden upper floor.

At the top, she pointed out, "Your Office, your bedroom, your bathroom. The other rooms are empty. I'll leave you to unpack. I serve dinner at seven; don't be late." She turned and left.

"It will do," he muttered. "Let's be fair; it's rent-free and could be worse." He shrugged and pushed the dark brown painted door to his bedroom. As it swung open and his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he stared at the dated, dark wood furnishings. The smell of lavender wax polish filled the air. He wandered over, opened the heavy dark green curtains and peered outside. The view of the graveyard did nothing to brighten his mood. Stone markers, some upright while others lay on the ground.

His eyes took in the massive room with high ceilings. The large bed appeared comfortable when he tested its softness. The polished mahogany wardrobe and chest of drawers were old but clean.

He placed his bags on the bed, and after removing his coat, he unpacked them. When he was finished, he put the empty bags on top of the wardrobe. His toilet bag found a home on the bathroom's windowsill.

Weary from travelling, he lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

Somewhere in the distance, the pounding on a door woke him.

"Yes," he shouted.

"Your dinner is on the kitchen table getting cold."

He listened to footsteps as she descended the stairs.