Tales from the Matthewsburg Manse

By Kate Tompkins

When city girl Viv's husband Mark accepts his first pastoral charge in rural Matthewsburg, she wonders what to expect, and what will be expected of her. This collection of connected fiction stories, some humorous, some suspenseful, some even romantic, explores Viv's new life as she tries to find her place in the community while dealing with local gossip, old rivalries, suspected murder, sabotaged car shows, and more. Who says life in a small town is boring?

 

"This book entertains us with our own humanity, we laugh at human foibles, nod our heads in the mutual pains of life's adventures. Interspersed are poems expressing poignant moments. These provide a place to rest, ponder and even smile before we are once again taken on the life journey of being a spouse in a small town parish. I found myself laughing out loud on occasion. This book is a wonderful read and leaves us with the feeling that life is good."

Nita Kotiuga, retired pastor, Director of Spiritual Formation at Bakke Graduate University.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Matthewsburg Manse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223678243

Kate Tompkins

Kate Tompkins finds her BA in anthropology comes in useful for story ideas, especially in the science fiction and fantasy genres. Sometimes the cat will let her off lap duties for long enough to actually write them.

Book preview

The Welcoming Committee

Iwas up to my elbows in lilac paint when the manse doorbell rang. Mark, can you get that? Mark? No answer. He must have slipped over to the church for something. Paintbrush in hand, I squeezed past the unpacked boxes in the front hall, and opened the door just as the bell pealed again.

Four women in floral-print dresses, white gloves, and straw hats stood on the front step. I blinked. Surely gloves had gone out in the fifties? Unless you were meeting the Queen, of course. And here I was, my feet bare, in a pair of old cut-offs and my grubbiest T-shirt.

The tall birdlike lady at the front fixed her dark eyes on me and sniffed. I’m Bessy Dingwall, head of the Nominating Committee. Right. She was the one who had signed Mark’s contract and made all the arrangements to have us moved here to Matthewsburg from Toronto. She looked formidable.

I’m Vivian Cottrell. I brushed my hair back out of my eyes, belatedly realizing my hand had wet paint on it. Mark doesn’t seem to be in right now. Can I help?

We’ve come to call on his wife. She glanced past me into the hall.

I am his wife.

Oh. She raised an eyebrow. But surely his last name is Preston?

Welcome to the country, Viv, I told myself. I kept my maiden name.

But you are married? she persisted. It’s not one of these common law arrangements?

Properly married in a church, I reassured her. Won’t you please come in?

As they followed me down the hall, I wondered where to put them. The living room was covered in drop sheets, Mark’s study was full of unshelved books, and the kitchen smelled of paint. But at least it had chairs.

Bessy introduced me to Selma Best, a cherubic, silver-haired lady, Ruby Dorfman, a tall, masculine-looking woman, and Min Embury, a serious-looking brunette about my own age.  They sat in a row behind the big old oak table that had come with the manse. No gavel in sight, but I felt like I was on trial.

I’ve never seen mauve cupboards before, Ruby said, nodding at my morning’s work. Such a handsome salmon colour Adele had them. And the aubergine trim set them off so nicely. Adele was the wife of the previous incumbent, she added in explanation.

Should I have asked someone before repainting? I said. After all, the house came with Mark’s job, it didn’t belong to us. But it was our first home together, if you didn’t count the dingy basement apartment we’d spent the first six months of our married life in, and I wanted it to be beautiful.

Of course no... began Min.

Bessy cut her off. Normally, that’s the caretaker’s job. If you felt the paint needed freshening up—although I must say it looked perfectly fine to me—the Maintenance Committee, of which I am co-chair, would have seen to it. Always assuming it met the Budget Committee’s approval, of course.

I wouldn’t want to put you to that trouble, I said. The condition of the paint was fine. I just don’t like salmon.

Indeed. Bessy snorted. Adele and I chose that paint together.

I flushed. I was getting off on the wrong foot with Mark’s new parishioners. Now I’d insulted their taste. If I’d known they were coming, I’d have dressed for the occasion and had some baking on hand, but as it was... Would anyone care for a cup of coffee? I said, hoping to distract them.

A pot of tea would be nice, said Bessy.

I rummaged through an open box on the sideboard, looking for the teapot. Somehow I didn’t think these ladies would appreciate being handed a mug of hot water and a tea bag.

We’ve come to welcome you to the community, said Min, and see which committees we can put you down for. I’m afraid the piano’s not been tuned for a while, but the Music Committee will look after that for you.

Piano? I hadn’t seen one in the manse.

In the church. You do play?

Memories of childhood lessons came back to me, Ms Brown frowning as I stumbled through a series of lessons. I’m afraid I don’t.

Four jaws dropped. But you’re the vicar’s wife, said Bessy.

Pastor’s wife, I said, wondering what that had to do with playing the piano.

Adele played like an angel, said Bessy. You should have heard her Moonlight Sonata.

Perhaps she’d rather lead the choir, Selma said.

I chewed my lip. I’m afraid I’m tone deaf.

Bessy snorted. Adele was our soloist. She was on CBC Radio once. And of course she sang at all the weddings.

There’s always Meals on Wheels, said Ruby.

Ouch. If there was one thing I was worse at than singing, it was cooking. Somehow these women were hitting on every fault I had. I knew it was ridiculous, that there were lots of things I was good at, like needlepoint and sewing and painting, but I felt I was shrivelling up in front of them. Deep breath, straighten up, I told myself. You’ll have to admit it. I’m a terrible cook.

Bessy snorted again. Some vicar’s wife. Adele cooked like a dream. She could have opened a gourmet restaurant.

I stood up, scraping my chair across the floor. My face flooded with heat. I’m sure Adele was a paragon of womanly virtues. I’m not. And so what. You hired my husband, not me. This isn’t one of those two-for-one fast food deals. You probably can’t play the piano either.

Bessy rose trembling to her feet. Well, I never heard the like. I always said we’d rue the day Adele left us. She stalked out of the kitchen. A moment later I heard the front door slam.

I dropped into my chair and covered my face with my hands. Mark hadn’t preached his first sermon yet and I’d already turned his congregation against us. Of all the times to lose my temper. What was I thinking?

A shrill whistle filled the air. Kettle’s boiling, said Min. How about that pot of tea?

Ruby chuckled silently, one hand on her belly. Oh, that was rich. Haven’t seen Bessy that worked up in a dog’s age. Adele used to let her walk all over her.

Selma nodded, patting my hand. You’ll do just fine here, dear. Just fine.

On My Knees

Father God

You brought your people out of Egypt long ago, with upraised arm and mighty signs, rescuing them from death, and breaking their chains.

And I, too, have been ransomed, set free, called out to be one of your people.

Yet of late I feel stuck in the wilderness, lost in the desert, coming upon my own tracks again and again. The promised land lies over there, but I’m afraid to cross the river. There be giants.

Then again, if a teenaged David could take on a giant with nothing more than a pebble and a piece of leather—and YOU, what have I got to worry about?

Belonging

We hadn’t been in Matthewsburg three weeks when Tammy appeared in my life.

I’d spent most of the morning painting our bedroom walls a soft yellow, and even with the windows open, the paint fumes and the day’s heat combined were giving me a killer headache. Time for a break.

Back home in the city, I could have called up a girlfriend, and met her somewhere for coffee. Here, the only person I knew was Mark, and he was, ironically enough, at a seminar on ministering to people who feel isolated from society. I knew he had been called here, but what about me? Despite daily prayers on the subject, I still had no idea what to make of my new life.

I grabbed a glass of lemonade and stepped out on the back porch, only to find it occupied. A young girl of nine or ten sat on the porch swing, sucking on a wedge of watermelon. She wore a green gingham sundress originally made for someone shorter and wider. A large gold-coloured locket hung from a fine chain around her neck. Beside her a black kitten sprawled, belly to the sun.

I don’t know you, she said, dark pigtails bouncing.

Probably not, I agreed. I’m new here. I sat in the basket chair, the wicker creaking under me.

I wish I weren’t here, she muttered. I don’t belong.

She had a rather thick English accent, something I hadn’t expected to hear in Matthewsburg. I’d thought I was the only one in town from somewhere else.

Neither do I, I said. At least, not yet. You’re from England?

London. I’m Tammy. Tammy Bayse. And this is Winston. She took another bite of watermelon.

Viv Cottrell.

You’re not gonna scream at us, are you?

Scream at you?

Me and Winston. The last lady used to yell a lot. She didn’t like me. I don’t think she liked cats much either.

I promise not to scream, I said. I’d be glad to have someone to talk to.

Me, too. She sat there rocking for a minute, the locket bumping against her chest. Do you have children, Mrs. Cottrell? Even boys would be okay.

Ms Cottrell, I nearly corrected her. But she was close enough, and these days, it’s rare to find a child who doesn’t address you by your first name. Why discourage politeness? Sorry, we don’t. Not yet, anyway.

She sighed. No one around here wants to play with me and the ones where I stay are just babies. We don’t know the same games. And they say I talk funny. She shook her head. I talk fine.

It can be hard to be different, I agreed, thinking of my own experiences of the past weeks. I wasn’t used to living in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else and had done since kindergarten. Surely I’d fit in in time, but right now Tammy was the closest thing I had to a friend, and I’d just met her.

She cocked her head to one side. They’re calling me. I gotta go. They’ve probably got more chores for me to do.

They? I couldn’t hear anyone.

The people I’m staying with. They treat me like a servant. Gotta go! Tammy jumped up from the swing and ran down the path to the back gate. The cat yawned, stretched, and followed her.

I sipped at my lemonade and stared out at the back yard. Perhaps Tammy would have better luck making friends in some organized activity. Wasn’t there a pack of Brownies that met at the church? I could suggest that to whomever she was living with. If I knew who that was. Maybe they’d know at the post office. Time I went to pick the mail up, anyway.

The post office was empty except for the woman behind the counter, a plump homebody type with dyed-orange hair. She smiled as I came up to the counter. Ms Cottrell, isn’t it?

I nodded. You wouldn’t happen to know a Tammy Bayse, would you? A young girl about this height, dark hair in pigtails, speaks with an English accent?

Not off the top of my head. There’s no mail slot for Bayse.

It was a long shot. She apparently lives with another family, and I don’t know their name.

She pursed her lips. I could check the book. I keep a list of who gets mail at each house, because so often these days the kids don’t have the same names as the parents, or even each other. It could take a while, though. Why don’t you come through and have a cup of coffee while you’re waiting?

I’d love to, I said.

She held open the counter and I walked in, then followed her through another door into her kitchen. It was a large cheerful room, with pine cupboards, white walls, and red plaid accents everywhere. A table and benches had been fitted into one end and she nodded towards it. Have a seat, Ms Cottrell, and I’ll get the coffee on.

Please, call me Viv.

Only if you’ll call me Maddie.

It’s a deal. I slid onto a bench and put my purse down. I’ve seen you in church, haven’t I?

Maddie nodded. I’m one of the regulars. I like what your husband’s doing with the choir. All they ever did before was sing back-up for the soloist. It’s good to have them front and centre once in a while. I might even join. She passed me a plate of cookies.

Still warm. A rich gingery taste. I had a momentary flashback to my grandmother’s kitchen. These are really good.

Maddie’s face lit up. I’ll give you some to take home with you. It’s Chantal Malbaie’s recipe.

Is she in our congregation? I said, running faces through my memory in the hope that one would match the name.

The singer, Maddie said.

She’s in the choir? I was still drawing a blank.

Maddie laughed. The Acadian singer.

I blushed. Oh, that Chantal Malbaie. I took another bite. You know her?

She shook her head. I wish I did. She’s a marvellous voice on her. And such an inspirational woman. Grew up in a small town and look at her now!

Then how did you get the recipe?

It was her turn to blush. Out of a magazine. I keep a scrapbook on her. But this isn’t answering your question. Let me get the binder of names.

Maddie had no luck finding Tammy in her records. You might try Sylvia Jones at the library. She’s on town council, maybe she’d know if someone’s keeping a foster child.

Another day, perhaps, I said, looking at my watch. I need to get home and start dinner. Thanks again for the coffee and the conversation. And the delicious cookies.

Stop in anytime, said Maddie. I’m always glad of a chat.

Thanks, I will.

When I got home, I found Winston sitting on the front step, but no sign of Tammy. What are you doing here, cat? I said. This isn’t your home.

Meow.

I shrugged. Come on in, then. I haven’t got any cat food, but I can at least offer you a spot of milk. And maybe some leftover chicken.

He meowed again, and followed me down the hall into the kitchen.

Winston was still in the kitchen when I went down the following morning, sitting by the back door, his tail curled around him. Odd. I was sure we’d let him out after dinner. The soaking wet copy of the Goodiston Spotlight beside him said otherwise. I opened the door and he stalked out, tail held high.

Winston! Tammy stooped over and picked him up. He batted at her locket with one paw.

I’m afraid your cat spent the night with us, I said.

He’s not really my cat, she said, stroking his back. They won’t let me have a pet. He belongs to the dairy, but one of the boys who works there said I could play with him.

So you do have a friend your own age? I found myself disappointed—I’d miss her company.

Naah, he’s years older than I am. Anyway, he has to work.

Oh. I stood there on the steps, not knowing what else to say.

I don’t mind if you look after Winston, too. He needs feeding and such, and I don’t always have time. They keep me busy, running after the babies and the chickens.

I’d like to talk to them, I said. Where do you live, Tammy?

In the cottage next to the hotel. But you don’t want to talk to them. They’re nasty. Her nose wrinkled. But I’m not s’posed to say that. I’m s’posed to be grateful because I’m an orphan.

I hardly think...

Hon? came Mark’s voice from somewhere upstairs. Have you seen my good tie? I’m supposed to be going to a senior men’s breakfast.

I’ll be right back, I told Tammy, and stepped into the kitchen. Did you check the top shelf in your wardrobe?

Yes, and both my drawers.

Try the closet.

Got it, thanks!

I opened the door again. How do you feel about the Girl Guides, Tammy? I said. But she wasn’t there.

On my way to the library, I thought over what Tammy had told me. Matthewsburg had no hotel that I knew of, and in my three weeks’ residence, I’d seen most of the town. There was a motel out by the highway, but there were no houses near it, just the police station and the liquor store. Maybe she’d meant a bed and breakfast? There were a few of those.

I walked up a short flight of steps and entered the library. A dark-haired woman with feathered earrings was working behind the desk.

Maddie Pringle at the post office sent me here to speak to Sylvia Jones.

That would be me. What did you want?

I ran into a young girl who’s having trouble making friends in the neighbourhood. I’d like to speak to her guardians about the Girl Guides, but I don’t know who they are.

She raised an eyebrow. And you are?

I flushed. Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Viv Cottrell. I’m married to Mark Preston.

Ah, the new pastor’s wife. She held out her hand. How do you do?

I shook it. Did I no longer have an identity of my own? Don’t get me wrong, Mark and I are very much a team, but since we’d moved to Matthewsburg, people had been treating me as an appendage. It was like being a kid all over again and being introduced as Ben and Julie’s daughter Vivian, with the emphasis on Ben and Julie. That had stopped when I left home for art school, making friends who didn’t know my parents. Now that smothering feeling was back.

At least you are part of a unit, I told myself. What about Tammy, apparently not living with her own family. Unless calling the people she lived with them was just part of the standard childhood adoption fantasy.

What do you think of our little town?

I realized Sylvia was talking to me. I’m enjoying the chance to have a garden.

The manse garden needs someone to take an interest in it. It’s been sadly neglected. There used to be a splendid collection of roses. Some may be there yet, underneath the vines.

I hope to find out. I’m concentrating on the day lilies in the front flower beds at the moment. If I don’t thin them out, they’ll invade the lawn next.

She laughed. That should keep you busy. So, who’s this girl you’re looking for?

Tammy Bayse. She’s an orphan. She told me she lives next to the hotel.

The hotel? Sylvia shook her head. There hasn’t been a hotel here since the fifties. The building’s still there, mind you. It’s been divided up into apartments. But the only thing next to it is the garage, and no one lives there.

And you don’t know the name?

Bayse? No. It’s not a local name as far as I know. Neither here nor on the rez, though I’ll ask the next time I’m home.

I don’t think she is local. She told me she was from London—England, not Ontario—and she certainly has the accent.

An English orphan here? That’s very odd. Not that we don’t have English people around, but they’re all seniors. Maybe she’s someone’s granddaughter. She drummed her fingers on the desk, thinking. I wonder if Walt Winterburn would know. He lives over at the Golden Oaks, the seniors’ home, and he knows everyone, old-timers and newcomers alike.

I do need to introduce myself to the seniors. I’d been putting it off. I like seniors, but seniors’ homes were another matter. Some are nothing more than human parking lots, with everything arranged to suit the staff, not the residents. Depressing enough for visitors, I don’t know how the people who have to live there cope. Do they have specific visiting hours?

Of course not. Well, they probably lock the front door after ten at night.

Then I guess I’ll go over today.

In that case, could you do me a favour? I have a bag of books to go out there, it would save me a trip.

Delighted, I said. I’ll head over this afternoon.

Both Tammy and Winston were waiting on the veranda swing when I returned from the library. Tammy was in tears, and Winston was rubbing up against her, trying to distract her.

Why, Tammy, what’s the matter? I asked.

She sniffed and rubbed her hand under her nose. They’ve been teasing me again. Everybody hates me. Especially the boys.

Kids can be so cruel, I thought. Would it make it worse if I went to their parents? What exactly are they doing, Tammy? They’re not hitting you, are they?

No, she gulped. But they call me ‘short stuff’ and ‘cat girl’.

I relaxed. That sort of teasing I understood. You don’t have any brothers, do you, Tammy?

No. Why?

I smiled, thinking of my own. Boys aren’t very good at talking to girls. Sometimes, if a boy teases you, it’s not because he doesn’t like you, it’s because he does, but he doesn’t want anyone to know.

That’s silly, she said, nose wrinkling.

But often true. They must call each other nicknames, too.

Yeah. Stinky and Ratface.

Well, then, it probably means they like you. Otherwise they wouldn’t give you a name.

Her eyes lit up. Thanks, Mrs. Cottrell! She grabbed a protesting Winston around his middle and ran for the back gate. ’Bye!

I waved, then headed into the house. Roses, Sylvia had said. Perhaps under the poison ivy in the far corner? I’d better get my heavy coveralls and gloves.

Of course I knew I was procrastinating, even as I dug around in the box in the laundry room for my gardening clothes. But thinking of seniors’ homes reminded me of Grandma, who’d spent her last years in one. It was the smells that had bothered me the most, that and the rows of bundled-up patients parked in their chairs in front of the lobby TV all day. I needed an hour of fresh air to get myself psyched up.

By the time I came back out armed with spade, shovel and pruning shears, Winston had returned. He lay on top of the garden wall sunning himself. I began uprooting poison ivy and stuffing it in garbage bags. As I worked away, I discovered Sylvia was right. There were rose bushes underneath. Straggly-looking, but still living. Well, now that they had some sun, they’d have a chance. Maybe I could put a trellis in behind for them to climb up.

Winston hopped down off the wall and sniffed around one of the rose bushes.

You think there are mice in there, cat? Could be. I tied my last garbage bag shut. The roses still needed pruning, but that could wait for another day.

Winston pushed at something shiny with his nose.

What have you got there? I knelt beside him, and brushed the dirt away. Tammy’s locket! Now how did that get here? It was plain gold, rather scratched up, with the initials TMB on the front in swirly letters. I was tempted to take a look inside, but it’s not like it would have her name and address in it. I’ll have to give it to her the next time I see her, I said, giving Winston a pat. No, why don’t I let you do that? You’ll probably see her before I do. Kneeling down, I fastened the locket to Winston’s collar.

Winston returned to his post atop the wall, and I returned to the house to clean up before going out to the Golden Oaks.

The Golden Oaks, at four storeys high, was probably the tallest building in Matthewsburg. I’d stopped to ask Maddie about it before going out, and was told that while it did have a small nursing home, most of it was taken up with apartments for autonomous seniors. I wouldn’t have thought Matthewsburg had that many seniors, but apparently at least half of the residents used to farm in the area and had only moved to town when they had retired.

I pulled into the parking lot and stared at the building, trying to get my nerve up to