The Black Joke

by David Bramhall

  Chapter 10

  For the needy shall not always be forgotten (Psalm 9)

  He spent the afternoon puzzling over the Church Council books. It was hard going for an active boy with better things to do, but he thought it was necessary. The Minutes didn't tell you very much, because they didn't report any of the discussions that must have taken place, simply the decisions that resulted from them - “Resolved that yesum of 13/6d be payed to ye Curat fr new chasubel” for instance, or “Resolved to accept Wm.Walduck, his quotatioun of £3/7s/9d in respect repares to chauncel roof”. 13/6d seemed rather a lot for a new chasubel, whatever that was, Pert thought. Thirteen shillings and sixpence would have bought quite a few Christmas dinners for poor Mr.Surplice, and Mr.Surplice did not own any chasubels at all so far as Pert knew. He would try and remember to ask him.

  At the beginning of the books which started in the year 1743 the Church Council was quite large. At each meeting the members were listed, and it was interesting to see how the membership changed slowly over the years. Many of the names were familiar, and must refer to the ancestors of families still living in the town. In 1761 Jeremiah Scattock evidently died or retired, and his place was taken by Joseph Scattergood. Joseph only lasted three years before he gave up his place to Hosea Scattergood – his son, perhaps.

  In 1822 the first woman appeared on the council, Amerelia Scutch, wife – there were still some Scutches in the town, Pert knew, and there was a girl in Fenestra's class called Meriella Scutch. More women appeared as the years went by, until in 1882 came the first appearance of the name Urethra Grubb, spinster. She was a permanent fixture from then on, but the total membership quickly dwindled from year to year. A.Dolphin, widow, dropped out in 1884, and H.Wheable, wife, in 1885. Sir H.Comfrey attended only spasmodically in 1885, and then stopped. Finally in 1887 there was one meeting where the only council members were U.Grubb and S.Tench, Vicar. That was the last one.

  Pert closed the last book and sat thinking. What had brought about this rapid decline? Was it that there was less and less business to discuss? Or perhaps they'd simply bowed to U.Grubb's overbearing ways and let her get on with it? Or had she deliberately set out to offend and humiliate until there was nobody prepared to serve except herself and the Vicar, who was obliged?

  And if she had done that, why? Why did she want to be on the Church Council at all? She never came to church.

  If there were to be any clues, they might lie in the decisions of the meetings where she had held sway. He decided to concentrate his researches on the meetings from 1882 to the end. Although there were twelve Church Council meetings every year, there was one group of items that recurred only once a year. Each December the Minutes included ...

  “Resolved to accept ye accounts of ye Parishe Fund”

  “Resolved to accept ye accounts of ye Poor Box”

  “Resolved to accept ye accounts of ye Funde for ye Relieve of Destitution”

  Pert did not know what any of these were. Besides, where were ye accounts? They weren't included in the book. Perhaps they were among the Diocesan Audit papers? He searched quickly. Nothing headed “ye accounts”. Pert wasn't certain what accounts were but he knew they were something important, and if the Minutes said that the Council had accepted them, they should be somewhere. This was something else to ask Mr.Surplice.

  There was one more thing to look up. He knew his grandfather had disappeared during the Great Storm of 1860. Would there be any mention of that in the Minutes? The treasure disappeared at the same time – surely they'd have discussed that at one of the meetings? He read right through all the meetings in 1860, and went on halfway through 1861 just in case.

  There was nothing. The Great Storm was mentioned all right, for the wind had taken the weather cock off the top of the tower, and blown down some of the gravestones and one of the yew trees, but nowhere could he find his grandfather's name, and no mention of the treasure at all. It seemed that the church had owned all those gold cups and plates, had reported them faithfully to the diocese, and never mentioned them to the Church Council at all. Did the Church Council not know about them?

  Suppose the treasure had been a secret? Suppose these fine cups and plates were not used in the church services at all, but were hidden away and never taken out? Perhaps they didn't even belong to the parish but had simply been placed there for safe keeping? In that case, who would have known about them? The Vicar, presumably. But that wasn't the Reverend Tench, he wasn't old enough. There must have been another vicar in those days.

  He turned to the list of members present at one of the 1860 meetings. There at the bottom was the name “J.Tench, vicar”. Surely the Reverend Tench was not that old? - he must have been only a boy in 1860. But wait – the Vicar's name was Silas Tench M.D., so J.Tench must be someone else. His father, perhaps? Did vicarages get passed down from father to son? Pert had no idea.

  All this research had made Pert's brain ache and the dim light in the attic was straining his eyes. It was almost supper time, but he still had half an hour and he knew where Mr.Surplice would be at this time – it was Tuesday evening, so the curate would be taking the children for their Catechism in the vestry. Pert had done his some years before, though he had promptly forgotten every word of it. He clattered down the stairs and raced down the street.

  In the vestry all was orderly and quiet, which was surprising. Pert remembered these classes being rather rowdy, as Mr.Surplice was not adept at keeping discipline. As he pushed open the door and slipped in, he found that ten little children were sitting still and repeating their sentences after the curate like little angels. Two of them were the two middle Prettyfeet, and then Pert realised why everything was going so well. On the windowsill perched Rosella, her skirt hitched up to her knees and one big boot swinging, watching over the class grimly, daring them to misbehave. She ignored Pert as usual, so he sat on the vestment chest and waited for the class to end.

  Before long Mr.Surplice reached a convenient point, rose and praised the children's attentiveness, and dismissed them vaguely. Rosella got down from the windowsill, gathered up her two charges and marched them out of the vestry. One of them looked back at Pert and winked. Pert winked back. He was getting the hang of this.

  “Why Pert,” said the curate genially, “how nice of you to drop in! Surely you haven't come for a refresher course, have you?”

  Pert grinned at him. “No. I came to ask you a couple of questions. What's a chasubel?”

  “Ah well, a chasuble, well, it's a sort of frock a priest wears for communion. It's round with a hole in the middle, and you put it over your head and it hangs down all round, but you can still poke your hands out to pick up the communion things. The vicar has a lovely embroidered one.”

  “Have you got one? Do curates have them?”

  “My goodness no, I couldn't afford it. They're expensive, and curates aren't paid very much, you know. And even if I could afford one, the Vicar would just say I was showing off, and stop me wearing it.”

  Pert frowned. “All right, next question: what's the Parish Fund?”

  “Why, that's easy. It's all the money the parish collects, mainly from the plate going round on Sunday but also from bequests – you know, often people leave a sum of money to the church when they die, and rich people sometimes make an annual grant as well. The vicar's stipend is paid from it, and the upkeep on the vicarage, and repairs to the church and so on. And the curate's tiny mite, too!” he laughed sadly.

  “So quite a lot of money, then? Is that where the money goes that I collect and give to the Vicar on Sundays?”

  “Yes, it is. And quite a lot, I would say. Several hundreds of pounds a year.”

  “And the Poor Box?”

  “That's the money box that sits at the back of the church, and people put their pennies in. It's kept separate from the Parish Fund because it's dedicated to helping poor people. It says so on the box.”

  “And the Fund for the Relief of Destitution?”

 
“That's quite different. Ah, we should sit down. I can't explain this very simply.”

  He pulled up a chair to the table, and planted his elbows. “The Destitution Fund doesn't belong to the church at all. It's money raised by collections and bequests, by a levy on property and generous donations from rich people to help those who have fallen on hard times.”

  Pert wondered why his mother had never received any of this money. Her times had been hard enough. “So who's in charge of it?” he asked.

  “Well, it depends. In some places it's the mayor. In others there's a special committee formed to do it. And in others it might be the Parish Council or the Church Council.”

  “It's the Church Council here,” Pert said. “I saw it in ... some papers I happened on.

  The curate didn't seem to notice Pert's slip. “Is it really? That's the first I've heard of it. But there is no Church Council, is there, so who has the money and who gives it out to the needy?”

  “No idea,” said Pert. “It's a mystery.”

  “It is indeed. Any more questions?”

  “Yes. Where are the accounts kept?”

  “What accounts?”

  “The accounts for the Parish Fund and the Poor Box and the Destitution.”

  Mr.Surplice sat and thought for a moment. He was beginning, Pert could tell, to realise that here was something rather serious. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “Perhaps the Vicar keeps them.”

  “Could you ask him?”

  “Oh no, I couldn't possibly. He'd be ever so cross if I did. Oh no, no!”

  “I've one more question,” Pert said as he got up.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like to come home with me for supper?”

  “Oh, how lovely! Yes, yes, by all means, how very kind!”

  Pert could hardly keep up with the curate as he galloped down the Canonry and up the Bearward, his nimble feet skipping on and off the pavement to avoid the rubbish thrown there. It was rather like showing a dog a piece of steak, he thought, or a rancid fish to a seagull. Mr.Surplice's thin legs twinkled as he raced up Pardoner's Alley.

  “I brought Mr.Surplice home for supper,” said Pert as he ushered the curate into the kitchen. He watched his mother, hoping desperately that there was some supper to offer, but she rose to occasion wonderfully.

  “Oh Pert, what a kind thought!” she said. “Mr.Surplice, do come in and have a seat, you're very welcome! It's only simple fare, I'm afraid, but the butcher had some knuckle today and I've made a broth. Pert, go and call your sister.”

  The meal was a great success. There was enough to go round, although Mr.Surplice ate two great bowls of the broth and nearly half a loaf of bread. He listened with rapt attention while Fenestra recounted the tale of the little servant girl who lived in the attic and had a pet mouse. It was quite long. The servant girl endured indignities that surprised Pert who couldn't think how his sister could imagine such things, but rose above them thanks to the love of the mouse which brought her crusts and nibbled at her bonds when she was tied up, and all was well in the end.

  At the end Mr.Surplice thanked her, and praised the story. Fenestra glowed.

  “Are you going to come and live with us?” she asked. “Then I can go and sleep with Pert in the attic. We have a mouse too, that's where I got the idea!”

  Pert hid his face with embarrassment. He should have seen this coming. He looked sideways at his mother, but once again she seemed to be trying not to laugh. She didn't seem cross at all.

  “Oh, Fenestra,” she said, “you and your big mouth! Mr.Surplice, we had a conversation here the other day about taking a lodger, and Pert wondered if you might be looking for alternative lodgings.”

  Mr.Surplice looked from one to another with growing astonishment. “Well, my goodness!” he exclaimed. “Oh my, oh my! I ... well I never! How kind! I ... well, yes, my present lodgings are ... not very convivial, that's true. I don't know what to say.”

  “Say yes, then, you silly man!” said Fenestra, and sat on his lap. She ruffled the thin hair on the top of his head and dislodged his glasses.

  “Fenestra!” gasped her mother, “you wanton, you can't sit on a clergyman! Get off this instant!”

  The curate seemed to be in the grip of some powerful emotion. His eyes filled with tears and he gazed around wildly. He gently put Fenestra down on the floor and stood up, wiped his eyes with a rather dirty handkerchief, and said “Dear lady, dear boy, and dear little girl ...”

  “Don't forget the mouse,” muttered the dear little girl.

  “Yes, and ... dear mouse, if it can hear me ... I can't remember the last time anyone treated me with such kindness. I am quite overcome. But yes, if you'll have me, I should be honoured.”

  “Don't you want to see the room?” asked Pert.

  “Frankly, no,” he said. “I've seen the people, and that's quite enough. Oh thank you, thank you!” and he shook first Mother's hands and then Pert's and then Fenestra's. “I shall move in tomorrow, if I may!”

  “Whee!” said Fenestra, leaping for the stairs. “I'm going to tell the mouse!”

  Later, when they had managed to disengage themselves from the curate's gratitude – and he did seem to have an awful lot of it – Pert asked his mother if she was really content with the idea.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, “though I wasn't quite prepared for Fenestra to blurt it out like that.” Fenestra looked not in the least abashed. “I had thought about it, and decided it was a good idea, though a curate ... I thought clergymen would like something a little more comfortable.”

  “I think he's only a very small clergyman, and not much used to comfort,” said Pert. “I'm sure he'll be fine.”