The Black Joke

by David Bramhall

  Chapter 7

  And in thy book all my members were written (Psalm 139)

  In two days' time school would start. Pert decided to take this opportunity to visit the church and look into the boxes under the altar. As he went out into the back yard he found Fenestra. She was sitting on an old box, showing her puzzle to next door's cat and singing a little story to it. The cat yawned and looked bored, but evidently had nothing better to do. Once in a while it would stand up and rub against her knee, and she would stroke it and tickle it under the chin before continuing the story.

  She looked up when Pert appeared. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Up to the church,” he replied. “I have something to do there.”

  “Can I come? The cat's heard this story before. He's just being polite, he doesn't really want to listen.”

  “No, I'd rather you didn't.”

  She got up and hung on his arm. “Oh please, please, please?” she pleaded. “If you take me with you I won't get in the way and I'll give you a bit of my supper and I won't tell Mother about your mouse!”

  “How do you know about my mouse?”

  “I went up into the attic when you weren't there, and it came out and sat there bold as brass. And I knew you must have been feeding it, otherwise it would have run away.”

  “It's a she. And you mustn't tell.”

  “Silly, I wouldn't. I was just saying that. It was rather a nice mouse. Can I come anyway? I meant it about the supper.”

  “Oh, all right then,” he relented. “And you can keep your supper. But you'll have to be my lookout. I don't particularly want the vicar to know what I'm doing.”

  She hung on his arm on the way down to the Square and then up the hill towards the church, skipping and talking gaily. Market stall holders scowled at her. They weren't happy, so what right had she? They passed one of the Emporium girls, carrying a shopping basket. Fenestra smiled but the girl scurried past, ignoring her.

  “Pert, what've you got to do?” she asked.

  “Look for something.”

  “What something?”

  He laughed. “I don't really know till I've found it. Just something.”

  “That's not a very good answer.”

  “If I find it, I'll tell you. Now, here's the church gate. I want you to sit here and keep watch up the hill. If the vicar comes, run in and tell me quick.”

  “All right. Suppose anyone comes who's not the vicar?”

  “That's a point. Look, don't stay here, come and wait in the doorway and tell me if anyone looks like coming into the church, anyone at all. And try and look as though you're doing something normal.”

  “What do you mean, normal?”

  “Well, something that girls normally do.”

  “I'll just read the gravestones. I've never seen anyone else do it, but it's normal for me,” she said.

  Pert took the key from its usual hiding place and unlocked the door. He slipped inside, pulled the door to behind him so no one could tell from a casual glance that it was open, and crept up the aisle. He listened carefully, then went and checked the vestry to make sure it was empty. He put his ear to the door that led down to the crypt, and the one that opened into the organ loft where all the pipes were. They seldom had an organist these days, just Miss Tizzard on special occasions. She wasn't very good at it, and mostly held a chord with one hand and played the tune with the other. When she felt especially adventurous she would spend several seconds groping for a different chord and hold that.

  There was no sound. He had the church to himself. Under the altar cloth it was dim and dusty, making him sneeze until he got used to it. The boxes lay in a muddle. He remembered roughly which ones he'd looked at and which he hadn't, and decided to start at the other end.

  The first box held great leather-bound books filled with records in tiny, crabbed hand writing. “Burials” he read, underlined in red ink. Then a list ...

  Zebedee Walduck, 79, fisher, 12th March 1848

  Rachel Vacher, 38, wife, 19th April 1848

  Simeon Trusting, 46, clerk, 22nd April 1848

  Unknown seaman washed ashore, --, ---, 30th May 1848

  Mabel Scrutch, 27, woman, 6th June 1848

  ... and many more. He wondered about poor Mabel Scrutch. What was so lacking in her that she could only be described as “woman”? And the “unknown seaman washed ashore” - who had told his bewildered family? Did they ever know that he'd received a proper Christian burial, miles from home? He turned to the next book. More burials. And the next. The dates had reached 1883 now, a year before he was born.

  The next book was more interesting. The heading, again underlined neatly in red ink, was “Births”. The dates began in 1870, and progressed steadily upwards. In 1884 he found ... 26th September 1884 to Obadiah Potts, fisher, and ys wife Potentia Potts, a son Pertinacious. In 1887 ... a daughter Fenestra. And turning back to 1881 ... a daughter Vernilia. And in 1885, 11th August 1885 to Patroclus Prettyfoot, haberdasher, and ys wife April Begonia Prettyfoot, a daughter Rosella Fortunata.

  Pert leaned back against the leg of the altar. This was something worth knowing. “Rosella Fortunata Prettyfoot” - this was name indeed, a name to cherish. But wait – her father was a haberdasher? But there was only one haberdashery in town, and that was Grubb's Emporium. There could be no other. Here was a mystery. Had Urethra Grubb or her father (or her murdered father, so people said) taken over Prettyfoot's business? Had they bought him out, or just forced him out somehow? And how was he making a living now? Rosella's house was a nice one, comfortable and neatly kept. Mister Patroclus Prettyfoot and ys wife April Begonia Prettyfoot were plainly not penniless. Perhaps they'd found ye tressur?

  No way to find out, he thought. I can hardly ask. Rosella scarcely knew he existed. And what could he say to Mister Patroclus Prettyfoot? “You don't know me but I'm in your daughter's class and I worship her from afar, so can you tell me where you get your money from? Have you got ye tressur hidden in your cellar, and if so can I have some because it was my grandfather that stole it in the first place?”

  Pert pulled himself up with a jerk. He was getting as bad as everyone else, weaving fairy tales where none existed.

  He heard the door burst open. “Pert? Pert?” his sister called. She sounded shaky. “Oh Pert, quick, they're coming!”

  He put his head out from under the altar cloth. “Who's coming?” he called, but instead of answering she ran helter skelter up the aisle towards him. She was crying.

  “Who is it?” he whispered fiercely, reaching out and pulling her under the cloth.

  “Oh God, help me, Pert!” she sobbed, “it's Darren Durridge and Batty Bunt! They saw me in the churchyard and they came after me. They're going to come in!”

  He held her and tried to quiet her tears, fearing that she'd give them away. As he did so there were footsteps at the west end of the church. He put his hand over her mouth.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you be?” called a voice, and another voice sniggered. The footsteps moved towards them.

  “Come out, skinny little sneak, and take your medicine!” There was a bang which made them both jump.

  “Show yerself, Potty girl!” More bangs. They were kicking the pews as they came. Pert risked a peep under the cloth. Darren Durridge and Batty Bunt were making their way up the aisle, looking under every pew.

  “We're going to give you Potts, Potty girl! We'll Potts you one way, and we'll Potts you the other way, until you won't know which way up you are, Potty girl!”

  Fenestra put her hands over her ears, and Pert held her close. Her eyes were screwed shut. There were a few moment's silence out in the church. Then the footsteps receded. The bullies had given up, for now.

  As they reached the door, one yelled “We'll get you, you skinny little freak! We'll pull your skirts up and smack your skinny bum, see if we don't!”

  The door slammed behind them and they could be heard going down the path to the Canonry, whooping and call
ing. Fenestra whimpered and burrowed into Pert's chest. She was shaking.

  “Are you supposed to say 'bum' in church?” she whispered.

  “I don't think so,” he said. “I don't understand why they're picking on you, though. Why not me?”

  “You can run faster'n me. I can't get away. I'm easy,” she said. Pert thought that was probably about right.

  “We need to give them time to go further away and find something else to amuse them,” he said. “While you're here, you can help me search.”

  Her eyes brightened. “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything to do with the Church Council”.

  “What's a Church Council?”

  “I'm not quite sure. I just know there used to be one, years ago. I'll carry on with this box, you look in that one.”

  They worked on. Pert found more records of births, and then some volumes of marriages. He didn't want to know whether anyone was married, so he left these to one side. He looked across at Fenestra. She sat cross legged on the floor, a great tome on her lap, reading avidly. She had gone in a few seconds from abject terror to complete happiness. She was a funny girl, his sister.

  Right at the bottom of the box there was a bundle of loose papers. The top one was headed ... Diocesan Audit, Western Area, Year ending 31st December 1850 ... and began “one vestment chest, oak, with lock”, and “lectern in shape ' eagle, oak w.iron pediment”. Pert knew these items. The vestment chest was still in the vestry. “Vest” meant “clothes” in church, not the sort of vest you wore under your shirt, but church robes, cassocks and things. So the vestry was where you put your clothes on, and the vestment chest was where you kept them when you took them off again. The lectern in shape ' eagle, oak w.iron pediment was behind a curtain in the south west corner of the church, in a heap of broken chairs.

  He read on, and towards the end of the second sheet he found an entry that read ... Silver dish, 18 inches, chased with angels, ancient. This was a surprise. He'd never seen anything like that in the church. The vessels used for communion were crude, pewter things, and when you had to carry them they were heavy.

  Further down there was another: Communion cup, eleven inches high, ancient. Gold. And another ... Cross, two feet and 5 inches, with stones at extremities, gold. With increasing excitement he rushed through the rest. In all there were three silver dishes, two silver communion cups, one gold one, several gold and silver candlesticks, a gold cross and a number of enigmatic entries he didn't understand but which used the words “gold” or “silver”. There was a treasure after all.

  The next three sheets were dated 1852, and all the same entries were there. They were worded a little differently in some cases, but it was plain that they were the same valuable items. The same was true of 1854, 1856 and 1858. But in 1860 they had all disappeared.

  Pert felt a little downcast. His joy at finding that there had been a real treasure here in this church was spoiled by the realisation that at least half of the stories about his family were probably true. If there had been a treasure, then perhaps Grandfather Mascaridus really had stolen it.

  “Pert,” his sister said, “is this it?” She had pulled out another large book. “It says 'Ye Parish of St.Severus of Ethiopia'.”

  Pert crawled over to her and looked over her shoulder.

  “Ye Parish of St.Severus of Ethiopia” he read on the cover in gilt embossed letters, very faded. Inside on the first page was written in fine copperplate “Proceedings of the Parochial Church Council, Sunday 23rd Aprille 1849”. Below that was a list of members present.

  “Are there more like this?” he asked.

  “Yes, two more. But the last one's nearly empty. It stops in 1882 and there were only two people present, look.” She held out the third book. The list of members held just two names. One was Tench, and the other was U.Grubb.

  “I'm going to take these,” he said. “No one'll miss them, and I want to look through them all.” He began to select some of the audit papers and put them between the covers of the books.

  “You can't,” Fenestra said, “you'll have to walk all through the Market Place and people will see you and wonder where you got them from.”

  “That's true. Let's see ... I'll hide them in the churchyard, and then I'll slip out after dark and get them. No one will see me then.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Absolutely not. Mother'd kill me if she knew I'd involved you this afternoon. If I take you out of the house after dark, she'll kill me twice.”

  “I could tell her it was my idea?”

  “No, she'd still kill me. She'd kill you a little bit, and me a whole lot.”

  And so it was. They left the church and locked it behind them, and Pert stuffed the books under one of the tombs whose walls had crumbled in. That would do until night time, then he would slip back and recover them.

  It was not easy for Pert to stay awake that night, but he dare not venture downstairs until he was sure his mother was asleep. He read by candlelight for a while, and managed to decipher another entry in the old bible. Once he had puzzled it out it said “Augste ye 9th 57 sightd Campeachy weyre is log woode”.

  Pert knew what this meant. He had heard sailors, deep sea sailors who had turned to fishing instead, talk of the Bay of Campèche in the Caribbean Gulf and the logwood trade. But what of the year? Did it mean 1857, or 1757, or even 1657? He turned to the front of the bible and read the front page. There at the foot of the page were the words "Prynted in Bristol at ye house of Thos.Thomson 1741”. So that was it. The bible was probably a hundred and sixty years old, and the mariner who had owned it dead for a hundred and forty.

  Pert wondered how the man had died. Attacked by pirates, perhaps. Or perhaps he was a pirate himself – Pert had heard that Campeachy was a pirate haunt. Or simply a ship-wreck, which was why the bible was so damaged by the sea. And what kind of man had he been? A drunken, ignorant lout as so many seamen were in times past? But he had kept written records, he evidently wished for some order in his life. And he had been a man of some education, for he would hardly own a bible he wasn't interested in reading.

  Tiring of this speculation and feeling his eyelids drooping, Pert pushed off the bedclothes and deliberately kept himself cold. He had saved a small crust for the mouse, and broke it into tiny pieces. He put one tiny piece on the floor quite near his bed, and waited. Before long his little friend appeared, sniffed the air with her whiskers, and scampered out for the crumb. When she returned to see if there were more, he had put the next crumb actually on his bed. He knew she ventured into his bed sometimes, for he had found her droppings there. But she'd never done so while he was on it. She paused, sniffing, evidently tempted. Then she made a brave dash, leaped onto the bed, snatched up the crumb and fled.

  He smiled. This was a splendid new game. Who knew, he might by small stages be able to coax her to take food right from his fingers, or even sit on his hand. But now he judged it was time to make a move. Surely his mother was fast asleep by now. He left the rest of the bread on the floor, pulled his shoes on and crept painstakingly down the stairs. He knew from experience which steps creaked and which did not.