Mrs. Oxenham and three lady friends enjoyed the rare sunshine of an English summer’s afternoon. ‘More tea, Daphne? Sandwich, Goria?’
Her extensive garden was separated from the vicarage next door by a high wooden fence.
The ladies shared opinions about the woman who ran the village shop, the two young men who lived together at Rose Cottage, and the ‘yobs’ on motorcycles from the nearby town who had begun to invade their quiet lives.
In time, discussion turned to the vicar next door; a middle-aged bachelor who had recently taken over the flock of Little Blenchley. ‘I hear he’s very High Church,’ sniffed Gloria, who had last set foot in a church fifteen years previously to see her son married.
‘He’s getting a reputation for working with the young,’ Daphne informed the others enigmatically.
Mrs. Oxenham checked the teapot. ‘I’ll get more hot water,’ she said, and as she stood there was a curious noise like a bat thudding against a cushion from over the fence.
The ladies exchanged embarrassed glances. Daphne spoke first, ‘The vicar appears to be working in his shed again,’ she laughed nervously and Mrs. Oxenham hurried away from the scene.
The ladies sat still, listening. Their silence underlined the swishing sound from the shed that was followed by a distinct crack. The women feigned not to notice the suppressed squeal that followed.
Swish! Crack! Swish! Crack!
‘It seems the vicar’s taking those awful motorbike boys under his wing,’ Gloria said, reaching for a cream slice.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 