Free A Child of the Cloth by James E. Probetts

I was occasionally called upon to go back to Wimbledon Village where the business had originally started, to submit estimates. I never looked for this work, as the firm had somewhat moved on, but I felt a certain loyalty to some of the old customers who had been good to me in the early days. One such customer was Mrs. Stevenson, an elderly, widowed lady living in an Edwardian house with her spinster daughter. Her husband had been a Minister of the Church and he had died some years ago. Her daughter was of an indeterminate age but looked toil worn; no doubt the years of looking after her mother had taken a heavy toll on her. She had devoted her entire life to her and her Christian beliefs. The daughter would telephone my office to enquire whether I would be in the Wimbledon area in the next few days, as her mother was considering whether she should have some work done in the house and would be obliged for my guidance. Her mother was also enquiring as to how well the business was progressing. I quite liked visiting Mrs. Stevenson, not because she was a particularly likeable person, that she most certainly was not but because she could be interesting. I had never met anyone with such religious commitment. She literally believed everything as written in the Bible of which she had a superlative knowledge, no doubt gained by reading and re-reading it since childhood. She translated her understanding of the Bible into sin and guilt. She had somehow completely missed compassion and was selfish in the extreme. There was only one view allowed to be held in the house and that was her own.
    My visits would fall into the same pattern each time usually in the mornings at the time she took her coffee. She was completely bedridden; it was not unusual in those days for a woman to take to her bed as a form of escape from the realities of life. Each time the ritual was the same: on my arrival, I would be taken upstairs where Mrs. Stevenson would be propped up in her bed. After a few words of greeting, she would invariably complain to me that she was in great discomfort because the pillows had not been arranged exactly to her liking. She would insistently ring her hand bell, displaying great irritation that her daughter had not responded instantly to bring up the coffee. It was always served using the same old silver tray laid up with the fine china coffee cups accompanied by a plate of toasted buttered crumpets, which were cut in half. I found it quite strange as there was always an odd number. I could never make my mind up whether the odd number was parsimony or etiquette or whether, perhaps, Mrs. Wiggins the housekeeper was partial to half a crumpet. I would usually stay for about two hours, the conversations would never range any further than her views on religion would allow and the discussions could be somewhat narrow and when talking about how other people should live, she would often quote Leviticus but I learnt a lot from her. She knew of my interest in religions, she played the part of an evangelist, never failing to find an answer that suited her argument. It was through talking with her that I first became aware of the writings of the Reverend Frederick Farrar whom she quoted regularly.
    It had been some time since I had heard from the Stevensons when I received a call from Miss Stevenson to inform me that her mother had passed away. She had for the last year been in a nursing home. Miss Stevenson asked me if I could possibly call at the house as her mother had asked her to pass on to me the old silver tray which we had regularly used on my visits. She seemed delighted when I said how pleased I was that her mother wished me to have the tray.
    I said I would call the following morning at twelve o’clock, she suggested that perhaps we could have coffee together. I arrived as arranged and was greeted most warmly. Miss Stevenson had obviously been standing on the steps waiting for me to arrive. The house looked a little neglected and