POISON ON Pink Paper
Letters!’ called a voice behind Bree, making her pause at the lychgate of St Mary’s-on-the-Green.
Lydia Kirby came puffing up, clutching a vase.
‘You must deal with your correspondence in a timely manner, vicar. It can’t be helped that you don’t have a parish secretary right now.’
Bree noticed that while her retired, male predecessor was still referred to as ‘Reverend’, she’d attracted the snappier (less respectful?) title of ‘vicar’.
‘Are you volunteering, Mrs K?’ she asked mischievously, watching Lydia flush.
‘I’m busy running the flower-changing rota, as you know, vicar.’
‘Of course. Thank you for reminding me about my correspondence. I will get round to it.’
Lydia’s expression revealed what she thought of a vicar who ‘got round’ to things.
‘There’s the roof repair fund as well,’ she ploughed on. ‘You need to do more arm-twisting to make local bigwigs cough up.’
‘Thank you, Mrs K, I will.’
Bree hurried on her way. If she had a pound for every parishioner who’d made free with their advice since she came to St Mary’s, the church would have had a rainproof roof 10 times over.
‘It won’t be easy,’ the bishop had warned her. ‘You’ll be their first female vicar. And places like Lower Melchem take a while to adopt new ideas.’
That was an understatement. In the two months since she’d
