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I remember the first time I met Our Bernie. Angie and I were on duty at the door of our church, welcoming people as they arrived and handing out notice sheets. At least – Angie was on duty and I was standing with her because I saw that as preferable to sitting down in the church on my own and being approached by members of the congregation trying to show an interest in one of the young people.
As I say, we were standing there on the steps when this girl came along. She was a bit shorter than Angie and looked very young – partly because her hair, which was a sort of nondescript mousey-brown, was braided in two plaits, which hung down her back and made her look like a refugee from St Trinian’s. She wore national health glasses and no makeup. I judged her to be about sixteen and wondered what had brought her to church on her own without any parents.
Angie greeted her warmly – newcomers always get an especially warm greeting, particularly if they are young – and asked her if she’d been before. Angie was always much better at that sort of thing than I am and, before long, she had found out that the youngster was called Bernadette Fazakerley, but preferred to be known as Bernie; that she was a postgraduate student (which made my estimate of her age at least five years out); that she was studying for a mathematics degree; that she lived in a rented house not far away and that she hailed from Liverpool. (That last piece of information was obvious the moment she opened her mouth!)
Before she went to sit down, leaving Angie free to speak to the next arrivals, we also knew that Bernie had been brought up to attend the catholic church and the salvation army citadel in equal proportions, that her father worked in the docks and that her mother was dead. I marvelled at Angie’s ability to get people to talk about themselves and wished that I was as effective when questioning witnesses.
When it was time for the service to start Angie and I crept in at the back and Angie made a beeline for Bernie, who was sitting on her own. We sat down next to her and she smiled at us rather absently. I got the impression that she might have preferred to remain alone.
There was tea and coffee served after the service. At first Bernie looked as if she were intending to go home, but Angie pressed her gently to stay and we all trooped through to the church hall and joined the queue. Betty Appleby, who was serving, asked Bernie her name and where she was studying and then, as Bernie put out her hand to accept the biscuit that Betty offered her, she commented on the engagement ring that Bernie was wearing.
‘Who’s the lucky man then?’ Betty asked cheerfully.
Bernie immediately coloured and looked extremely uncomfortable. After a second or two she recovered enough to say, ‘he died.’ And that was that. Betty looked very taken aback and then she looked as if she were about to ask some more, but Angie, noticing Bernie’s discomfiture, intervened.‘Bernie,’ she said firmly, taken her by the arm. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but you really must see the artwork that my Junior Church group did last week. Come through here and I’ll show you.’