Chapter Text
“It's a very fine day.” said an incoming, deeper voice, causing her to startledly look over her shoulder.
“Mr Darling…!”
“How do you do, Miss Collins?” greeted the vicar, and she quickly proceeded to explain herself.
“I'm awfully sorry, sir, I told them to stop, I told them that they were being impertinent and they disregarded my words, they mocked my words, abate their pride, assuage their malice, and confound their devices-”
“Collect your wits, child.” interrupted Mr Darling, offering a placating smile, “I understand your distress, as a survivor of Weybridge… but you must understand as well, that your companions aren't doing any harm. They may have a looming lot to thrive through, and this is how they want to do it.”
Flora frowned, once again grasping at her rosary.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice fading into a cautious whisper as she lifted herself up from the grass, “Have they brought any more news from Siberia?”
The vicar fell silent for a brief moment, during which he cast an attentive glance at the children that were still frolicking in the churchyard, and then came closer to partake in the whispering.
“The cylinder has disappeared.” he said, “Many suspect that it has moved on its own, and it's currently being searched for.”
“Disappeared? On its own?” gasped Flora, recoiling like a wild rabbit, “How on earth can such a big and heavy object disappear…!?”
“How on Earth indeed.” replied a sudden intruder.
“Oh, Jack! Fancy seeing you here.” greeted, once again, Mr Darling, and Jack nodded in acknowledgement.
He had been standing there for perhaps a minute or two, with his hands behind his back.
“I was going to get my bat and then I overheard.” he said, rather nonchalantly, “So? Was it truly a Martian cylinder?”
“That's what the few witnesses have claimed, but we can't know for sure.” replied the vicar, “Not until it reappears, at least.”
“If it reappears…” seemed to remark Jack, to then turn to Flora, “How do you like Eyke, sister? Reckon you can stay for a bit longer?”
And even though she had certainly basked in the peacefully painted countryside, her deep-rooted apprehension would often remind her that she was still an evacuee.
That they were all evacuees hanging by a thread, yearning and praying for home.
“It's not just… a preventive measure anymore, is it…?” she muttered.
Mr Darling found himself at a challenging loss, yet managed to remain calm for her sake.
“Remember, Miss Collins.” he said, “Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
“…we will fear no evil…” she sighed, and the vicar smiled and nodded.
Jack, contrariwise, gave them a somewhat scathing look, and then rolled his eyes to further express his opinion on the matter.
“Anyway!” he chimed, with a loud clap, “I'll get my bat and try scoring some runs before teatime, praise the Lord!”
Flora frowned, but decided to not yield to another pointless quarrel, and let him step out of the discussion as abruptly as he had stepped in.
“As I was saying…” resumed Mr Darling, “This is how they thrive, and it's alright. We can't expect everyone to immediately embrace the Lord, much less little children.”
And she didn't want to rudely disagree, yet once again couldn't restrain her knee-jerk reaction.
“Why not?” she enquired, meekly, “Isn't it our responsibility? Wouldn't it be the best for them…?”
“It would be, but we can't coerce them.” he replied, “We must be patient, Miss Collins. We must be patient and compassionate, even and especially in adversity.”
Flora then clutched her rosary.
“I was spared for a reason…” she said, “If I can't protect these children, if I can't meet my worth…”
“You have been protecting them with tooth and nail, by praying for them every morning and every night.” reassured Mr Darling, “Now, please, grant yourself a well-deserved respite. Mrs Darling is making lavender biscuits.”
Suddenly that earlier scenario she had imagined, in which he would condemn the children's unruliness and her inability to control it, had become rather inaccurate. Rather tainted by unconscious preconceptions, by her own experiences concerning her upbringing in Weybridge's St James' Church.
It had been a mistake, a foolish mistake that Mr Scrope, vicar of St James', would have undoubtedly lectured her about. He would have said, she supposed, that she had to appreciate the kindness and respect the rules of those who were willingly and selflessly giving her shelter.
Therefore, even Mr Scrope would have encouraged this respite.
A less forlorn and more soothed sigh escaped her frail body as it gratefully accepted this realisation.
“Alright…” she replied, “But I'll help her set the table first, if I may.”
“Of course.” smiled Mr Darling.
Flora then took one last look at the children, at their blissfully innocuous cricket match, and quietly revelled in the restoration of her pastoral painting.
“What's the time, Mr Martian?” chanted most of them, shortly after she went back into the church.