The Writers' Circle

The parish church of Smeeford had been the focal point of the village since 1501 and over the last five centuries had witnessed many changes, but none like the change it was about to experience. 
Like many villages in modern times. Inter city train access to and from the big cities had taken its toll. Housing costs spiralled as highflying executive salary earners moved in, pursuing a safer and more stable home life. The only thing that remained, surviving the ravages of change was church life. Villagers new and old were proud of their church. The old folk seeing the church as the mainstay of village life and a spiritual crutch, helping them through the twilight years of old age. The new comers seeing the church as quaint and a must in their quest for respectability and acceptance. In the enlightened 90s when church attendances were low, Smeeford Church could boast a full house on Sundays and on other religious festivals.

 The Vicar, the Reverend Bill Foster had been the village priest for the last ten years and was respected by all.  He was a good-looking man. A bachelor, six foot tall with a fine manly physique.  Graduating from Cambridge as a young man wanting excitement in his life he had served as an Army Chaplain in the Parachute regiment.  In his life he had played every type of sport, but now took a more sedentary exercise. He was the captain of the village cricket and darts team.  Equally at ease whether eating cucumber sandwiches in the cricket pavilion with the ladies of the village or downing pints in the Dukes Arms with the lads after a rowdy game of darts. 
His forthcoming early retirement and nomination of his successor had been the topic of conversation in the village for weeks. There had been the usual gossip of course and speculation why he was retiring, so young, but no one questioned it.  They knew he would tell them in his own good time.   The Churchwarden's had already sent their Parish profile to the Bishop staking their claim on his replacement. They wanted a strong traditional vicar one the community could look up to.
The shrill ringing of the telephone halted him in his tracks, as he was about to leave the rectory. He was already running late. Every Wednesday he travelled to London for specialist treatment. 
'Smeeford Rectory, Reverend Foster speaking'
'Ah, Bill'. 
He had been expecting the call and recognised the Bishops voice immediately. He had hoped that he might have had the good fortune to have been long gone but he knew he would have to face it sometime. Oh hello your, Reverence'. 
	 'Ah, I'm glad I caught you, Bill. Can you pop over tomorrow morning I need to discuss your successor with you.' 
A sudden twinge of sadness enveloped him as the matter of his retirement was mentioned. He had never intended to retire, but the future for him was unsure now that the treatment had started.
 'Yes. yes of course your, Reverence, I'll be there'.
On the train to London, his thoughts were on his impending retirement and what it would mean to his parishioners.  It's no good going over this again he reprimanded himself. He had to accept that in the final stages he just wouldn't be able to cope with life as the village vicar. 
The following morning he awoke early feeling unwell. Looking in the bathroom mirror he saw for the first time the effect, the drugs were having on him.  He panicked. The specialist had warned him that this might happen.  Dressing quickly, he went to the church. He needed to pray.
'Dear Lord, please help me through my hour of darkness. Give me strength to see your work through to the end. I do not question why this is happening to me, I know you have your reasons. All I ask is that you be by my side at the hour of truth, Amen'.   Tears of unhappiness trickled down his cheeks as he left the church he had come to love so much.
 The Bishop, his Reverence Michael George Underwood was an old friend. 
 'You know, filling your shoes, Bill, is not going to be easy. I understand your reasoning for taking the action you are but I do wish you would reconsider your retirement.' 
Bill Foster shook his head. 'I know you mean well your, Reverence, but I think in the long term it would be better for the village if I just went. Already the treatment has started to take effect on me and I don't think I will have the stamina to give my parishioners what they want from me in the latter stages.'
The Bishop gave him a smile of reassurance. 'I accept what you say, Bill, it is your decision.' 
Bill Foster opened the file announcing his replacement the Bishop had just handed him and instantly thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. 
 The Bishop smiled at him over his glasses. 'Well. what do you think.'? 
Bill Foster suddenly felt his throat go dry as he tried to swallow. 'I'm. sure your selection is the right one. Whether the parishioners will see it that way, I'm not sure'.
 Clasping his hands as though in prayer the Bishop gave Bill a shrewd look.  'Well, that's where you come in, Bill, I need your help convincing them that having a female vicar is the right choice'. 
Bill Foster knew in his heart that the villagers would never accept it.  They had strong views about what was good for their village.  Smeeford had been male dominated in all areas of activity for years. Even the women approved and accepted that their role was purely supportive, never administrative.  
When the news broke there was an outcry. He held an emergency meeting in the village hall. Despite all his persuasive skill that his successor would be good for the village, they were having non-of it. In all his years as the Vicar, he had never known such dissent.  His parishioners were like lost sheep, separated from their shepherd.
The first Sunday after the news had broken, only a faithful few attended church. With a heavy heart, he conducted the service. The emptiness in the church he loved so dearly echoed his voice like a death toll.  There was only one thing he could do.    Monday morning he made a phone call.
 'I was expecting your call'
 	 Bill Foster's voice registered his surprise.  'You were your, reverence'?
 The bishop smiled perceptively. 'Yes, Bill, but that can wait. What is it you want'?
The reverend Bill Foster was trembling with anticipation. All weekend he had been troubled. If he didn't do some thing village life in Smeeford would be lost for ever changed because he was being selfish thinking only of himself.  He didn't know how he was going to cope, especially when the final scene had to be played.
  'I've changed my mind your, Reverence.   I can't leave my flock in turmoil.'
 The Bishop smiled, hoping God would forgive his duplicity. 'Bill, I understand you must do what you have to'.
When the news broke in the village that their vicar was staying the parishioners that Sunday, made an extra special effort. The church was decorated with flowers and a surprise light luncheon party had been arranged in the village hall. 
From the pulpit, Bill Foster scanned the sea of smiling faces of his congregation. His sermon, unusually short, but to the point, was flavoured with a hint of intolerance, hypocrisy and discrimination. They knew the criticism was at them, but they did not mind. It would have been the thin edge of wedge to have accepted a female vicar. They accepted that they had been discriminatory but they had got what they had wanted, their vicar back. The celebration in the church Hall was well on its way as the Vicar of Smeeford, stepped through the doors of the village hall to an assembly of shocked faces. Wearing high heel shoes. A smart A line black skirt and white blouse with dog collar.  Her brown hair styled in a bob complemented a slight hint of make up, pink lipstick and varnished fingernails. The Reverend Willamena Foster smiled nervously, her new gender identity on show for all to see.

                                                               THE END


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