‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’m not very good at this.’
‘Very good at what?’
‘I... I... Just wondered if you’d like to go on a date with me? Just a coffee. Nothing fancy.’ He hurried his words as he looked at his feet.
Taken aback, Clara almost did one of her famous little snorts again but managed to reel it in. She stood back for a moment. The handsome Tom Hartley was asking her out on a date! Goodness. She wasn’t expecting that when she woke up this morning. She had to mentally recall his words once again. A date? The only dates Clara had enjoyed for the past few years were of the edible variety and her favourite ones came in a special box that she ordered every Christmas. This was a real date. A date with a human and, at first, Clara didn’t know how to respond.
Meanwhile, Tom started to panic. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything. He cursed himself for thinking that she might be interested in him. What on earth was he thinking? It was the sermon. He’d got carried away in the moment. He knew all about getting carried away. He had done it yet again. He admonished himself for his lack of self-control. Why did he think asking his favourite reverend out on a date would end well? He may never be able to come back here again. His head was whirring away at great speed with all the consequences of what he had said. The one thing he had come to enjoy was being a later-in-life Christian. He had found a place of worship that he loved and was starting to settle in. Yet again, he’d blown something good. What an idiot, he told himself as he continued to stare at his feet, willing them to allow him to run away.
‘Sorry... I shouldn’t have asked. I...’
What Tom didn’t realise was that Clara had thought about it. Hadn’t she just told the congregation to seize the day? She was almost obliged to say yes. Although the truth was that an offer like this hadn’t come around for many years.
‘I would jolly well love to have a coffee with you, Tom. Why not?’
Since Tom had by now catastrophised and managed to convince himself that she would turn him down, he had to ask Clara if he’d misheard.
‘Pardon? Did you say you would go for a coffee with me?’
Clara gave him a big smile.
‘Indeed. I would love to go for a coffee with you, Tom.’
‘It’s a date then,’ said Tom in a state of amazement.
He didn’t know if he was happier about the fact that he wouldn’t have to leave the country in embarrassment, or that the beautiful reverend with the gorgeous smile that lit up her face and had the most infectious throaty laugh, had said yes to him. Tom and Clara stood staring at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say or do next. Tom hadn’t quite planned out the next part of this conversation. Should he arrange the time now? Where should they go? He needed to think fast.
Meanwhile, Clara still couldn’t believe she was going on a date with the most eligible singleton in the church.
As they grinned at each other shyly, Clara felt her décolletage flushing and was grateful for her clerical collar. She coyly looked away, and then turned back to him, smiling.
‘I very much look forward to it, Tom.’
They paused as their eyes met and that unmistakable cheeky grin that Tom had been blessed with spread further across his face.
‘Me too, Clara, me too.’
It was as though the world stood still as Clara and Tom laughed nervously. For the first time in ages, Tom felt full of hope. Perhaps his life was finally on the up. Clara had similar sentiments for her own reasons.
ChapterTwo
Along the cloisters, quads and archways, students scurried around as they prepared for the ivy ale celebration, a custom involving secret passageways and free beer that took place each Ascension Day. It had been a tradition between Brasenose College and Lincoln College since Clara had been a student at Oxford, many moons ago. Originating from a tale steeped in revenge, and where ivy was put into the beer to deter people from drinking too much and outstaying their welcome, Clara thought how times had changed. Where once she loved the idea of drinking ivy ale on that special day, the only interest she had in the evergreen vine nowadays was at the walled gardens of National Trust properties. Still, everyone enjoyed the traditions of the different houses at Oxford University, and as Lincoln choir sang from the rooftops and students threw pennies to children to teach them about greed, everyone’s spirits around the city were high.
While some of the students celebrated the ivy ale festivities, elsewhere around Oxford the congregations of various churches were about to pursue their own annual tradition. The beating of the bounds was an event where participants marked the boundary stones of the city by beating them with willow sticks. It was an annual tradition that dated back as far as Saxon times when the ritual had taught youngsters where the parochial jurisdiction ended and, in effect, marked their territory. Although it was still an event that local churches took part in, the boundary walls had long been built over and, unlike those Saxon times, now Marks and Spencer and Zara stores stood over those borders. Nowadays, as the local parishioners descended upon the shops with their willow rods, shoppers calmly searched alongside them for a new cardigan or socks.
This year, as usual, following Clara’s Ascension Day service, she headed out with her congregation and their willow rods as they went through town seeking out the stones. The group were gathered together, chanting, ‘Mark, Mark, Mark!’ before proceeding to beat the stones with their rods. For any bystanders unfamiliar with the tradition, it seemed a rather incongruous sight in the middle of a high street. However, Clara was at ease; perhaps because she considered herself as quirky as some of the time-honoured rituals around the city.
She was thankful for another lovely day and, as the sun shone, she smiled to herself and thought about the wonderful place she was from. Although she could sometimes take things for granted, and feel as though her life had stagnated, days like this were worth it. These traditions, not to mention that this was all she knew, were the reason that she had stayed in Oxford all her life.
Sometimes she dreamed of a promotion, or a new start, having never ventured far from her home, but she also had a sense of belonging. Clara went through the year in a haze of Michaelmas, Hilary and Trinity terms. As the official college chaplain, she had seen students excel and she had seen one or two face the dreaded consequences of rustication, when they were expelled.
This year for the beating of the bounds, there were a mix of students and older parishioners who walked with her through an alleyway, and then into a restaurant kitchen where they beat a stone on a wall. The chefs smiled knowingly as diners looked on confused, but it was all part of the peculiarity of the custom. By the time Clara finished all twenty-nine parish lines, her feet were beginning to ache and she was glad of the buffet lunch that she had waiting for her back at the university. She felt herself fortunate that, unlike in a staff canteen, Clara got to dine in a historic hall where portraits hung of English writers, intellectuals, philosophers and artists.
Hannington Hall, with its resplendent dining room, was packed full of students when Clara arrived. Many of them she knew by name, and she loved how she was able to join them for lunch when she could. She noticed that there was a space on one of the wooden benches next to three students she knew quite well. Arabella, Ffion and Jade had all grown close over the past two years that she had known them. Clara had watched the trio arrive at Oxford University nervously, not knowing anyone, to becoming the best of friends for life. This was one of the things about her job that satisfied her the most. She loved to watch students grow and succeed.
‘Room for a small one?’ she asked.
