The pastor and the gossip

1.

Springfield, 1974

The early morning sunlight streamed over the town of Springfield, USA. It was Monday morning, 7am, and the few people who hadn't managed to skive of work (for one more hour, at least) were grumbling at the unfairness of life in general. Only one man had set off to his job with a smile on his face, and that was Timothy Lovejoy.

He was enjoying his second week as minister of the First Church of Springfield, and, as far as he was concerned, nothing better could ever have happened to him. He'd made it a week, and for a young minister like himself, a week without a mentor was incredibly good work.

Timothy parked his red Karmann Ghia convertible in his usual space, then he strode across to the church door, straddling his guitar on his back. He'd hardly had time to play this guitar since starting his job, but he continued to bring it to work, just in case he needed to entertain a disgruntled parishioner by playing a verse of "All things bright and beautiful". He was looking forward to such an occasion, even meeting a disgruntled parishioner; Timothy loved everything about his new job.

As luck had turned out, he'd arrived too early. As he waited for the volunteers to arrive, he began to consider what was going to happen to him today.

The usual, I suppose, he thought to himself. I'll meet new people, help new people, study the Bible...

He had no idea that one of these new people would make a major impact on his life.

He didn't see her until his lunch break. He'd been taking a drive around town, looking for a nice place to eat, when he remembered what the janitor had said about Shorty's Coffee Shop. They served the best tuna melts in town, apparently, and Timothy was in the mood for a tuna melt. Besides, the janitor had also said it was on Elm Street, and as the car drove past a sign reading WELCOME TO ELM STREET, he decided it would be a good place to eat.

At first, he had been taken aback by the sign - swirly red writing in a heart-shaped pink board - but Timothy needn't have worried; the only other people in the place were the owner and a large group of girls. Timothy sat in a booth, a few seats away from the girls' table, and waited patiently until the owner came over to take his order.

"That's a tuna melt and a cup o' Joe, right?" the scruffy, overweight man asked.

"Yes, thanks." Timothy replied. He was a bit self-conscious about his voice - it had always seemed so dull and monotone - but his teachers had always thought it was a good thing for a minister to have. The owner paid no attention to his customer's voice; he had other things to worry about.

"That's 8.50," he said gruffly, and when Timothy gave him the money, he spoke again: "Nice hair, Reverend."

"Thank you," replied Timothy. His clothes weren't much - a brown jacket, faded blue jeans and a black shirt with a white clarical collar - but Timothy was secretly quite proud of his hair. It was a dark black, the same colour as his eyes, and people always seemed to compliment it. Personally, Timothy was glad - he thought it drew attention away from his nose.

While he waited for his tuna melt, Timothy stretched out in the booth, drinking his cup of coffee and listening to the radio. After a while, a song by the Doobie Brothers came on. Timothy straightened up to hear it better - the Doobie Brothers were his favourite band - when a string of laughter from the girls drowned out the music completely.

It was very annoying, but Timothy tried to ignore it. However, after the third time, it became to hard to ignore. He leant over and tapped the nearest girl on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," said Timothy. "But do you mind keeping it down? I'm trying to listen to the radio, you see, and-"

"Oh, I'm sorry." the girl replied snobbishly. "Is our conversation interrupting your music?"

"Well, to be honest, yes."

The girl stared back at them. She, Laura Benidorm, had never been spoken to directly like that. The other two girls looked over at her. Laura turned around, a smile on her face.

"What did he want?" asked one of the girls. She had long red hair, blue eyes and was wearing a black and white minidress.

"Nothing, Maude." Laura replied, tossing her own brown hair out of her face. "He just thought we were interfearing with his private affairs, which we weren't." she smirked. "Not his, anyway."

"Who is he?" asked the third girl. "He's cute."

"Just some preacher." Laura looked scornfully at her friend. "None of our business."

"But look at him! He's all on his own!" the girl glanced over at him. "Maybe I should talk to him."

"Hold on, Hel," Maude put her hand on her friend's arm. "I don't think your father would like it-"

"He's not here, is he?" her friend retorted. "There's nothing wrong with talking to him, is there?" and she got up, leaving her friends over at their table.

That tuna melt is taking an awfully long time, Timothy thought, as he stared at his now empty cup of coffee. The girls were now quiet, but it didn't matter; the music on the radio had been replaced by the commercials. He was contemplating asking for another coffee when a shadow fell over him. Startled, he looked up.

"Oh, good, I was hoping to see you. May I have another-"

But it wasn't the owner of the cafe. Standing over him was one of the girls from the cafe, and a rather pretty one at that. She had short, grey hair (because, in Springfield, even the younger people have grey hair), green eyes, and a pointed nose. Her slender figure was covered by a blue blouse and green skirt.

"I'm very flattered," she said, smiling down at him. "But I don't think I'm authorised to get you anything."
"That's okay," said Timothy, looking up at her. "So, what is it?"

"You seemed lonely," the girl replied. "I thought you needed someone to talk to."

"Do you offer this to everybody?"

"Nope. You're a special case."
"I'm very flattered. You can sit with me if you want, but I don't think I'll be here for long; I'm only here for a tuna melt."
"So am I, and let me tell you; tuna melts take a long time to cook." She settled down next to him. "What's your name?"

"Timothy Lovejoy."
The girl glanced at his collar. "Reverend Timothy Lovejoy."

"That's right. And you are?"

"Helen Cresswell."

"Like the author?"

Helen nodded. "I've never written a book in my life, though, to be honest."

"That's fine with me." Timothy smiled. He had no idea what it was, but there was something he liked about Helen.