Call The Vicar! Fun 60s serial

Part One: It’s 1964, and Annabelle has a surprise when she arrives at the manse

The sight of St Edith’s Church filled Annabelle with relief as she turned off the busy main road into a quiet suburban street. The mid-morning sun was getting hot, and the weight of her suitcases was pulling her arms off.

Looking forward to a nice cup of tea, the twenty-year-old adjusted her grip on the well-worn leather handles of her cases for the final leg of her long walk from the station.

Across the street from the church, the vicarage was impossible to miss: a turreted Victorian detached house, clad in ivy and framed by a colourful but rather wild mature garden. The property’s ageing grandeur stood out like a relic of another time among the 1930s mock-Tudor semis and neat privet hedges that surrounded it.

As Annabelle steered her cases through a lopsided gate in an arch of sweetly scented privet, the sound of the Beatles belting out SheLovesYou assailed her from an open window.

Annabelle frowned. It wasn’t the sort of music she associated with the elderly Father Frederick Oak.

Dropping her cases on the step, she rapped the brass doorknocker, but the radio upstairs was turned up so loudly she doubted anyone would hear. She banged louder and yelled, “Hello?” “Hi, there!” a voice answered. Annabelle stepped backwards from the porch and looked round, shocked to see the leanly muscular naked torso of a young man jutting like a ship’s figurehead from the open window beside her. His long fair hair was wet and his wide grin was framed by a frothy white beard of shaving soap.

“Can I help you?” he called out confidently.

Taken aback, Annabelle forced herself to stop staring at that impudently exposed chest, and met his blue eyes – which were, truth be told, pretty distracting in themselves.

“I’m Annabelle,” she called back. “The housekeeper.”

“Oh wow!” He grinned. “I just got up. The back door’s open, go on round. I’ll be there in two ticks!”

Just got up? Annabelle glanced at her watch as the man ducked out of

“With the OLD BOY away it LOOKS as if I’m the NEW VICAR around here…”

sight. It was nearly eleven.

Wondering who on earth the young guy was, she grabbed her cases and brushed through the ivy and honeysuckle that encroached on the uneven path at the side of the house. The back lawn, bordered by purple hollyhocks and orange pokers, was a few weeks overdue for a mow.

Her dad had been right. Dear old Father Oak wasn’t the sort of man who ever asked for help, but he’d clearly reached the age when he was needing a hand around the place.

She smiled at the memory of Oak’s kindly pink face, framed with suitably Biblical white hair. He’d always looked ancient to her, like a favourite grandfather. It was a shame she hadn’t seen him for so long.

The back door opened into a kitchen with pale blue cupboards that were unchanged since her childhood visits, and doubtless for decades before that. The wonky cupboard doors, wellscuffed chessboard floor tiles and big white sink gave her a feeling of home.

Guessing Father Oak was out, because he’d never tolerate the din from upstairs, she decided no one would mind if she helped herself to a muchneeded cuppa. The shirtless Beatles fan certainly didn’t look as if he were the formal sort.

She’d just put the kettle on the gas stove when the music stopped, there was a trammel of feet on the stairs and a shout from the hall of, “Sorry – never been an early riser!”

The young man burst into the kitchen like Tarzan, pulling a white shirt onto his shoulders as he came. His damp,

shoulder-length hair was flicked back and the masculine tang of Palmolive shaving soap wafted from his freshly smoothed cheekbones and square chin.

“So you’re the new housekeeper, are you? I was expecting someone a bit older, to be honest!” “So was I!” she returned. He looked no older than she was. She tried once more not to gawp at his chest before he buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his jeans.

“Well, I’ll say this – the church sure knows how to look after a man!”

His eyes took the slow scenic route up her knee-high boots, flared abovethe-knee tartan skirt and the matching jerkin buttoned over a mustard poloneck sweater.

“I’m not here to look after you!” She frowned indignantly beneath the fringe of the glossy black hair that hung to her shoulders. “Is Father Oak home?” The man sighed. “No, I’m afraid he was taken into hospital last night.”

“Oh no!” Annabelle’s hand flew to her mouth. “Dad said he was ill, but…”

“It’s OK, he’s not in danger.” The young man put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I was with him till one o’clock – hence being up so late! He was quite comfortable when I left him, and he’s being well looked after. But at his age… I guess they thought it best to keep him in for a while.” “Of course,” Annabelle breathed. She was shocked by the news – and also by the unexpected depth of compassion in the young man’s eyes. It was as if he knew how much the old clergyman meant to her. He stepped back. “But where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself. Mark Hart.” He drew a finger across his throat to describe a dog collar that wasn’t there. “Reverend Mark Hart if you want the formal version, but I’d rather you just call me Mark.” “Reverend?” “For all of one week, would you believe? I’m supposed to be learning the ropes under Father Fred, but with the old boy away it looks as if I’m the new vicar around here!”

“How long are they going to keep him in?” Annabelle asked, worriedly.

“A few weeks at least.” Mark shrugged. “Could be longer.” The kettle whistled, and he took it off the gas. “Tea?” He pulled open a cupboard, took out a packet of cornflakes and shook it. “Breakfast?”

Annabelle found the tea caddy and spooned some leaves into a chipped brown teapot she remembered from family visits to Father Oak as a child.

The old man was one of her father’s closest friends – a mentor, really – and he’d been part of their family gatherings all her life. He’d even christened her, though naturally she didn’t remember anything about that. “But you said he’s comfortable?” “It’s just a precaution.” Mark sighed and gave her the deep compassionate stare again. “He is very old, Annabelle.”

His earnest tone made her wonder whether he was trying to prepare her for something. “I’d better go and see him.” “Of course.” Mark poured milk on his cereal. “I’m popping over later. I’ll drive you.” With a proud grin, he added, “That’s my MG outside.”

“Really?” Annabelle’s eyes lit up as she remembered the sleek little orange open-topped sports car parked at the kerb. The prospect of whizzing through the streets in it, with Mark at the wheel, his long hair flying in the wind, was an exciting one.

She pushed the thought from her mind, and looked instead at her cases.

“I suppose I’ll have to go home again until Father Oak’s better,” she sighed.

“What?” Mark yelped in alarm. “You can’t buzz off and leave me on my own! I’ve only been ordained a week. I’m going to need some help around here!”

“I can’t stay here with you!” Annabelle blushed. “I’m a vicar’s daughter!”

“Exactly! You know more about this lark than I do! Besides, we don’t know when Father Fred’s coming home, do we? You want him to come back to a well-kept house, don’t you?”

“Well, it does look as if it needs a spruce, yes,” Annabelle conceded. “But even so…”

“There’s a self-contained annexe.” Mark jerked a thumb over his shoulder and gave her a wink. “It wouldn’t be as if we were… cohabiting.”

The keen interest in his eyes made the back of her neck burn so hotly she wondered if he’d see steam escaping her collar. She was glad when they were interrupted by a loud rap on the door.

As the long-haired curate bounded down the hall to answer it, Annabelle blew out a long breath and wondered whether she really ought to stay at the vicarage in Father Oak’s absence.

Her dad wasn’t the strictest father in the world, not for a vicar at any rate, but she doubted he’d approve of the irreverent Reverend Hart. Then again, Mark was a man of the cloth – he had to have some morals. And she was twenty: old enough to start making her own decisions, surely?

As much as she loved Father Oak, she hadn’t been looking forward to becoming an old man’s housekeeper – it was just the latest in a long line of duties she’d been brought up to take on in life. A few weeks under the same roof as Mark promised to be a lot more liberating.

On the step was a shapely young blonde woman in a pretty yellow and white diamond-print sleeveless dress.

“Well, hel-lo!” Mark beamed as if he was getting two birthdays on the same day. Annabelle’s eyebrows beetled as she felt an unexpected stab of jealousy.

“Oh! Is Father Oak home?” the newcomer squeaked, her cheeks red.

“I’m afraid Father Fred, I mean Oak, is away for a few days. Can I help?” “Perhaps I should come back…” “He may be gone for a while,” the curate cautioned. “I’m Father Mark, standing in. Haven’t even got the collar yet!” The girl smiled nervously. “It’s a bit awkward, Father…” “Please, call me Mark.” “Embarrassing, really.” She dabbed at her eyes, then broke into sobs. “I’m sorry, Father...” “You’d better come in.” Showing her into the study, Mark commanded over his shoulder, “Bring some tea through, will you, Annie?”

“Right away, Sir!” Annabelle sarcastically curtsied to his back. She’d come here to help a dear family friend, not be ordered about like a servant!

Still, she threw together a tray of tea and biscuits and hurried through to the book-lined study, curious to know the cause of the visitor’s distress.

There was a large greenleather-topped desk in the bay window where Father Oak usually sat to write his sermons, his fading eyesight aided by the natural light. Mark had put his visitor in one of the ancient high-backed armchairs beside the fireplace, and taken the other armchair, his knees close to hers.

“Will that be all, Father?” Annabelle plonked her tray on an occasional table.

“Please join us, Annie,” Mark invited softly.

“It’s Annabelle,” she snapped, then felt bad on seeing what a state the blonde girl was in. She guessed the inexperienced curate wanted some support, and perched unobtrusively on a chair by the desk.

“So what exactly is the trouble, Miss…?”

“Stevens. Polly Stevens.” She blew her nose on the handkerchief he’d given her, and scrunched it up in both hands.

At last, her eyes damp, she said, “It’s the wedding, Father. I booked the church, but I have to cancel it.”

“You’ve broken off your engagement?” Mark asked sympathetically.

“Oh no! We’re still getting married. I just can’t marry in church. Not now.” “I don’t understand,” said Mark. “Not… in white.” A hand on her belly, Polly turned to Annabelle for help.

Embarrassed, Annabelle said, “I think Miss Stevens is trying to tell you she’s expecting a, ahem, happy event.”

“Well, yes, a wedding…” Mark said blankly.

“An unplanned event,” Annabelle hissed. While Polly wasn’t looking, Annabelle made a bulging motion in front of her belly.

“Ah, I see! Well, congratulations, Polly. But that doesn’t mean we can’t marry you in the church – um, does it, Annie?”

Annabelle couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She considered herself a modern girl and it wasn’t that she had no sympathy for Polly’s plight, but surely Mark had some sense of propriety?

“I can’t get married in white, in front of the whole parish then have a baby just a few months later,” Polly explained. “It would be too embarrassing – and I’ll be showing by then, too. It’ll have to be the registry office. More discreet, you know?”

“Well if that’s what you want,” Mark said lightly. “There’s no need to be so upset about it.”

“I feel so guilty for letting you down, Father.” Polly broke down again.

“No skin off my nose.” Mark shrugged. “Could you pass that box of tissues, Annie?”

“Letting Father Oak down, then,” Polly sobbed. “He married my parents. Taught me in Sunday school. I sang in the choir, I help out in church. He thought I was a respectable girl and now… I feel like a sinner!”

“Sinner? Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Mark said breezily. “Would you, Annie?”

Annabelle stared in disbelief at the churchman’s blasé attitude. She drew a finger across her throat and pointed at him to remind him he was supposed to be wearing a dog collar. Mark coughed and adopted a more priestly tone.

“What I mean, Polly, is that when two people love each other and, um, you’re getting married anyway… God understands these things.”

“Miss Stevens is trying to TELL YOU that she’s EXPECTING a happy EVENT”

“Really?” Polly brightened. “You don’t think He’d be disappointed?”

“Good Lord, no!” Mark slapped his thigh. “It’s the 1960s after all, not the Dark Ages. Could happen to anyone, couldn’t it, Annie?”

The implication took her breath away. Was he really suggesting a well-brought-up vicar’s daughter like her would get herself in trouble?

“Well, nearly anyone,” Mark muttered, interpreting her expression.

“It’s just such a shame about my beautiful dress!” Polly wailed, with fresh tears springing from her eyes. “I was so looking forward to wearing my train and veil! And the bridesmaid’s dresses are all made! I’ve even bought their shoes!”

“Hey, no tears!” Mark tapped her bare knee – a little too chummily for the liking of the watching Annabelle. “Just because you’re insisting on the registry office doesn’t mean you can’t wear your dress and have a few bridesmaids.”

“Do you think that would be alright?” Polly asked, uncertainly.

“Course it would. I’m sure they can let your dress out a bit. Tell you what, I’ll pop over and do the ceremony if you like. Give you a proper blessing.”

“Would you?” Polly beamed. “Oh, Father – Mark – you’ve made me feel so much lighter!”

“That’s what we’re here for!” Mark grinned. “The important thing is that you have the wedding you want to have.” “I could kiss you!” Annabelle’s eyebrows shot up under her fringe as Polly leaped up from her chair, wrapped her arms around the startled curate and left a big red lip print on his cheek.

“Sorry, Father,” she blushed, as she returned to her seat.

“Beats a shilling in the collection plate!” Mark stood up and went to the desk. “Now let me refund your deposit for the church.”

A few minutes later, Annabelle and Mark stood watching from the doorway as Polly trotted out of the gate looking a lot happier than when she’d come in.

“So that’s pastoral care, eh?” Mark reflected. “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

“Extremely well.” Annabelle archly eyed the lip print on his cheek.

“Saucy little thing, wasn’t she?” Mark flashed his teeth at her. “I’m not surprised she’s up the spout!”

Before Annabelle could reply, the grandfather clock at the end of the hall solemnly began to chime twelve.

“That time already?” said Mark. “Let’s get a bite at the pub, then we’ll drive over to see Father Fred.”

Some kids were playing football in the road as Annabelle and Mark left the gate. “Not wearing your collar?” She asked. “Do you think I should?” He fingered his throat through the open neck of his shirt. “I’m not on duty.”

“A vicar’s always on duty,” Annabelle said, before she could stop herself. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so pious. It’s just something my dad always says.”

“Hmmm. Well, the collar’s not compulsory. I prefer the informal look, personally.” “Look out!” shrieked a young boy. Annabelle turned in time to see a football flying straight at her face. She let out a cry as it stopped in mid-air, an inch from her nose. Mark had caught it in both hands. “Oi! Careful!” He yelled at the kids. Annabelle gripped his arm, shaken by how close she’d come to a flat nose.

“Sorry, mate!” mumbled one of the gang, shamefaced. “It was an accident.”

“You’ve got to learn some ball control, lads. Like this!”

To Annabelle’s amazement, the curate began bouncing the football up and down with his forehead. He dropped it to his knee and hopped from foot to foot, keeping the ball in the air with his knees.

The kids stood and stared at him, open-mouthed.

Like a pro, Mark booted the ball in a high arc over the street and the hedge that bordered the church opposite.

“Go and play in there. You’ll get run over in the road.” “Thanks, Vicar! You’re all right!” The kids charged, laughing, across the road after their ball.

“Thanks,” said Annabelle. “I thought I was a goner, there!”

“Like you said, a vicar’s always on duty!” Mark grinned. “Unless he’s on the way to the pub. Come on, hop in!”

Running around his open-top sports car, the young vicar swung his legs over the door without opening it, and slid down into the low-slung leather seat.

Annabelle actually felt heady enough to vault into the car in the same way, but as she was wearing her tartan skirt she decided to open her door and get in the normal way.

As Mark started the engine, she glanced back at the football bouncing around the church lawn.

“Do you think Father Oak would mind them playing in the churchyard? Oh, sorry,” she groaned. “I’m talking like a priggish vicar’s daughter again.”

She wondered what Mark must think of her, but when she met his eyes, her own full of repentance, he just smiled.

“I think the best way to get people to church is to give them a good time, not a hard time, don’t you?”

She stared at him in wonder. Then he roared away from the kerb so quickly she was flung back in her seat, screaming giddily.

Annabelle TURNED in time to see a FOOTBALL flying straight at HER FACE