This story is set in the last decade of the 20th Century. All characters are fictitious, the names are made up and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental. British speech, measurements and dress sizes are used throughout.
She was the first woman whom Matt had ever really fancied. Of course, there had been girls in his class and also actresses and singers on the telly that he fancied too. But she had a special place in his prepubescent fantasies. Her name was Miss Jane Beckenridge, and she was his teacher in the village school. She was tall, golden-haired, blue-eyed and very pretty albeit her hair and her dress sense were conservative if not downright old-fashioned. Although in her late twenties, she had elderly parents who kept her on a tight rein, her mother in particular being rather controlling. As hemlines rose in the sixties and came down in the seventies, Miss Beckenridge's skirts and dresses finished resolutely below her knees although they could not hide her hourglass figure and shapely calves.
When Matt finished junior school in the mid 1970s and had to go to the senior school in the nearest town, one of the many bad things about the new arrangement was that he would no longer see Miss Beckenridge. But then, in a rather surprising development, he started attending the village Sunday School at which Miss Beckenridge also happened to be the principal teacher. Matt had never been known for his religious fervour although he did attend the local church from time to time. His mother looked at him suspiciously when he announced that he wanted to start attending but his more devout and conventional grandmother applauded and warmly commended his late found zeal. Of course, he only went there to look at Miss's legs and think impure thoughts about her. He was often gently scolded by her for not paying attention. In fact, sometimes he was deliberately naughty just to get her attention and be told off.
The village loved Miss Beckenridge but could never understand why she had not got snapped up in matrimony. Many of the local young farmers had tried wooing her but all had failed in the face of her natural reticence and the overt and stubborn hostility of her parents who discouraged any social life beyond the safe environs of church functions. Mr and Mrs Beckenridge didn't want anyone taking their only child away from them especially as she waited on them hand and foot. By the time she was in her early thirties the village gossips wondered if she'd been left on the shelf. Then the only person whom her selfish parents feared and respected took her away from them.
He was the Reverend Dr Henry Parsons, the vicar of the local church, appointed a couple of years earlier. He had quite a few letters after his name but the most important ones, "DD Cantab", written in gold lettering on the sign outside the village church, showed that he had a doctorate in divinity from Cambridge University. "Parson Parsons" some of the villagers called him laughingly behind his back, although none would dare to make such a joke (or indeed any joke) in his presence. The Church in general may have been getting more liberal, but not the vicar. He was a throwback to the stern old divines of a hundred years ago - all fire and brimstone. As well as his daunting and towering intellect, he was physically imposing. In his late fifties, he was tall and balding with a fringe of greying hair, big bushy eyebrows over a fierce pair of dark eyes and big beaky nose.
"He looks just like Sam, the Eagle, in The Muppets!" Matt said to his mum and grandma one day.
"For shame, Matt, talking about a man of the cloth that way!" scolded his grandma who got even crosser when she saw his mum laughing.
Grandma and the older villagers approved of the Rev Dr Parsons marrying Miss Beckenridge. A very respectable match and a great helpmate for the Vicar who was widowed with two daughters, one the same age as Matt and the other a year or so younger. Mum wasn't so sure.
"Fine for the Vicar, but I don't think that an old buzzard like him will make Miss Beckenridge happy!" Matt overheard his mum saying to a neighbour (and out of her own mother's hearing).
"Escaping from her parents, I'd say," rejoined the neighbour and Matt's mother gloomily agreed.
But married they were and Miss Beckenridge became Mrs Parsons, transforming from the dutiful daughter to the dutiful vicar's wife and the dutiful stepmother to his daughters. She was very dutiful, everyone said so, but cheerful and sweet with it so, perhaps she was at least content if not happy.
The village was too small for a man of Dr Parsons' talents and ambitions. He already had a burgeoning reputation as a conservative theologian and after a year or so he took up an academic role at a theological college in another part of the country. Later he was also promoted in the church hierarchy to the prestigious position of Archdeacon (entitling him to be addressed as the Venerable Dr Parsons). He often had articles published in the Sunday Telegraph, a very conservative British broadsheet, fulminating against the evils of the "permissive society" and the erosion of public morals since the sixties.
When the Parsons left, Matt immediately stopped going to Sunday School and relapsed into a godless atheism (well that's what his grandma called it). However, he never forgot Jane Parsons, who remained his ideal of beautiful, if chaste, femininity and class. After school he joined the merchant navy and spent several years roaming the world. He got married, got divorced and in his early thirties found himself back in his home village where he started a small business as a marine cartographer.
Dr Parsons, now in his eighties, was now retired. His energies burnt out after decades of theological rigour and polemical struggle. He had had a stroke and a heart attack, both brought on by his choleric temper and an over indulgence in vintage port. Still in poor health, he spent most of the day either in bed or on the sofa reading good works. His fire was spent and Jane, his patient and dutiful wife, assumed the burden of looking after him. They retired to the same village that they had got married in and of which Jane still retained very fond memories. Her parents had long since passed away, but she still had many former friends and acquaintances and she quickly got back into village and parish life, her domestic duties permitting.
The Parsons had moved into a grand old Georgian house in the centre of the village. It was far too big for a retired couple and many of the rooms, especially upstairs, were not in a good state of repair. But the Archdeacon had always had his eye on it when he'd been just a vicar, so when it came on the market he swooped in and bought it. In a typical act of conceit, he renamed it "Archdeacon House" although strictly speaking he had only an honorary claim to the title of archdeacon now that he had retired. At the end of the large garden was the little cottage where Matt lived. It had been the dwelling place of the servants to the big house in bygone days and there was a discreet connecting path to the back door of the larger dwelling.
Matt was surprised and pleased when he heard that Jane Parsons was going to be his neighbour. He wondered how she'd look after all these years and whether time had been kind to her. He was not disappointed.
Jane was still very attractive for her age. Her hair was now ash blonde rather than the more golden colour of her youth. She'd never dyed it as Henry disapproved of such frivolous behaviour. Her face, though lined with quite a few crow's-feet, was still very sweet and her pretty blue eyes retained their sparkle and humour. She'd filled out over the years and could no longer be called slim. In fact, buxom would be a more accurate description. Her bust and hips had expanded although not having had children she had kept her tummy under control (with a bit of help from shapewear). This had preserved, accentuated even, her hourglass figure and her legs were still slim and elegant.
Matt was immediately captivated again by his old teacher. He reintroduced himself and helped the Parsons move in and did a few odd jobs around the house. He was rewarded a couple of weeks later by an invitation to dinner one Sunday. Given the Archdeacon's fearsome reputation he dressed conservatively in a suit and tie and was very respectful to both.
"Thank you, Mrs Parsons, I would like some roast potatoes," and "I quite agree, Dr Parsons, it really is deplorable."
The Archdeacon was polite in return, although fixing his eagle eye on Matt, remarked that he had not seen him at church that morning. Jane tactfully changed the subject. Henry soon became fatigued and Jane helped him to bed. Given his infirmity, Henry's bed was situated on the ground floor.
Matt made his excuses to leave but Jane asked him to stay awhile and his polite offer to wash up was gratefully accepted. So, once she'd put Henry to bed, Jane helped him dry up and they returned to the living room.
"Come and sit next to me, Matt, we have loads to catch up on," she said, topping up his wine glass, "Oh, and do call me Jane, I'm not your teacher now."
