For a brief period every summer, the lonesome struggle to produce the world’s heaviest gooseberry emptied the cottages of Aidensfield and district of its men folk — and a few ladies. There were indeed some few dedicated lady berry growers and their activities were observed with great concern because one of them, four or five years ago, had come dangerously close to winning the heaviest twins prize with her Oyster Girl Wilkinsons, two lovely berries moulded on one stem, as someone said, quoting from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In their isolation, these berry growers nursed and cajoled their little trees into producing the biggest of big berries, tending the fledgling fruit as if they were newly whelped pups and doing so with all the tender care of a new mother with her delicate baby. Some remained all night, spending their vigil with flasks of coffee or bottles of beer as they warded off predators of various kinds, human and otherwise. Some of the men resumed their annual but temporary bout of pipe-smoking, pipe smoke being a fine deterrent to wasps when blown across the maturing berries. It produced a protective coating of tobacco gunge and it was said that regular dressings of smoke from black twist would deter even the most determined of wasps.
Marauding wasps were the final threat, the one thing that could ruin a berry even seconds before it was removed from the tree in readiness for its perilous journey to the weighing table — except, of course, for the other risks such as the biggest berry in the world dropping off the tree during the night, or being nobbled by birds or other insects, or sabotaged by ruthless competitors, or even bumped off the tree and trod upon by careless families or grandchildren rushing about the garden.
It is fair to say that few Big Berry Men slept a wink during those final days. If I had to call upon any of them during that time, I knew where to find them — but they always met me in that part of the garden which was furthest from their secret berry grove. Somehow, they knew when anyone was approaching, thus no one achieved a sneak preview of the competition berries. One trick, used chiefly at night by berry growers, was to place a length of black cotton across the entrance to the garden, usually near the gate. This was connected to something like a tiny bell, or a tin can perched on a wall, or even a complicated system of pulleys and fly-wheels, all of which would produce a warning noise if anyone trespassed into the unseen cotton. I must admit I never managed to gain complete access to anyone’s genuine berry patch during those final weeks, except, of course, to Claude Jeremiah’s moorland haven. I did wonder, though, whether he had a hidden garden, some secret place with a crop of even bigger berries . . . that was indeed a matter of concern. The cunning of keen berry growers was legendary and I had to admit that Claude had appeared rather too willing to reveal his pride and glory to me. But, I thought, he was not a very sophisticated grower . . . devious in business but naïve in matters of gardening perhaps?
On a fine sunny morning during this long and agonising period I was walking, in uniform, to St Aidan’s Church for a chat with Father Simon. As I was passing the garage, Bernie Scripps rushed out and hailed me. His urgent windmill-like gestures were highly suggestive of some kind of deviousness and I wondered if he wanted to show me his berries.
He led me into his office; it adjoined the work area and resembled a storeroom for spare parts such as spark plugs, fan belts and windscreen wipers. Once inside, he closed the door.
“I’d like a word, Mr Rhea.” He had a conspiratorial look about him as he indicated a chair before his untidy desk. He moved aside some boxes of brake linings, shifted the tailpipe of an exhaust off his desk and rescued the blotter from beneath a pile of spare-parts catalogues. Then he sat down.
“I didn’t know who to ask about this; it’s confidential, I suppose, up to a point, but I didn’t want to appear grasping, or seeming as if I was undermining the customs of the village or anything like that . . . besides, everyone’s too busy these days, they’re all so secretive and furtive . . .”
“It’s crunch-time in their berry world,” I told him.
“It’s what?” he frowned, and so I explained what was happening in the village.
“Oh, I see. I thought summat serious must be happening. Anyway, it’ll keep ’em all occupied as I set about learning something about this place. Which is why I asked you in.”
“This sounds interesting!” I wondered what on earth he was leading up to.
“It’s about Joseph Marshall. You know him?” he asked.
“I do,” I confirmed.
“Well, I’m aiming to establish an undertaker’s business here, as you might have heard, and I’m making fairly good progress with my plans.”
“I did hear rumours,” I acknowledged.
“It’s amazing how things get known around here,” he muttered. “Anyway, I’m in touch with my advisers and have had discussions with the planning department of the council about the change of use for my spare parts of the garage premises, so it seems I will be given the go-ahead.”
“A funeral parlour next door to a garage?” I asked.
“It’s all part of life, Mr Rhea, and I don’t think there’s anything to stop me having a funeral parlour alongside the garage.”
“The planners might feel that new businesses are welcome in Aidensfield,” I said. “Especially if they create jobs.”
“That’s how I see things, with me expanding so I can eventually take on staff such as a qualified coffin-maker or hearse-driver. Now, what I would really like is to start off with a flourish, once I get the go-ahead, that is. For that, though, I need a funeral that’s good enough to establish my reputation,” he went on. “I’m looking ahead, but what I would really like is to be given the chance to arrange one that gets into the newspapers, preferably with photographs and a long report; something big enough to give me widespread publicity, to make my service known to all, so to speak.”
“Like a film stars funeral, you mean, or one for the royal family?” I smiled, tongue in cheek. “The snag is there are no famous people in Aidensfield.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite so far as wanting somebody very famous,” he said, rather embarrassed at what he believed I thought he was trying to say. “I was thinking more of Joseph Marshall.”
“Joseph? But he’s not dead!” I cried.
“No, but he is dying from cancer with not long to go on this earth, so I’ve heard, and I understand he’s a member of some guild or other which sees to the funerals of its members. It’s one of those Catholic things. They all wear robes and sashes and walk in procession beside the coffin.”
“It’s a very historic guild, Mr Scripps,” I said.
“I know, and I’ve heard it’s very spectacular, Mr Rhea, ideal for a picture in the paper.”
“You’re talking of Joseph’s funeral? When he’s dead, that is.”
“Well, he is very well known hereabouts; he’ll attract a lot of interest when he goes. He’ll get a right good send off, I would imagine. It’ll be a good funeral for me to start with, Mr Rhea, especially if it involves the guild in all its finery. It’ll be rather like a royal funeral in some ways, I would imagine, with pomp and ceremony and hymns in Latin.”
“But Joseph is not dead, Mr Scripps, and I don’t see any sign of him departing this world just yet. There’s no guarantee he’ll die soon, and he might have other plans for his farewell event. He’s very big in St Aidan’s Guild, you know.”
“I know about his guild membership, somebody told me about that, that’s what set me thinking. But so far as his funeral’s concerned, I’ve heard he’s not long for this world. I can’t say I know him all that well, Mr Rhea, but folks hereabouts have told me he’s only got weeks left. I have seen him pottering up and down the village, looking like a corpse warmed up and, if I’m any judge, I’m agreed he’s not got long with us. It’s not often I’m wrong in forecasting a passing away, Mr Rhea. The way I see it is that he’d be the ideal customer for me to start my business with, Mr Rhea, if you see what I mean.”
“I do see what you mean, and there’s nothing like planning ahead!” I
commented. “But I think you might be a bit premature.”
“Thinking ahead and making plans is the secret of business success,” he returned.
“I can’t argue with that. So what do you want to discuss with me?” I asked.
“Two things, Mr Rhea. I want to get things right if I do get the contract for his funeral. For one thing, do you think I need to get the police involved for traffic control or crowd control if it’s likely to be a very big affair? I would think it’ll generate a fair crowd in the village and I don’t want to get in the way of regular service buses, delivery vans and things. So that’s the first question.”
“It’s always a good idea to notify me of any funeral in the village, large or small,” I advised him. “It means I can be on hand to make sure there’s no traffic congestion outside any of the churches, Catholic or Protestant, when the cortège arrives and departs. So yes, keep me informed; a telephone call will do. And the second question?”
“This business of that guild. I’m not sure what it is, Mr Rhea, and don’t know who to ask without appearing as if I’m being too presumptuous. But you see, if I have to plan a Catholic funeral — I’m not one of them, by the way, I can’t even make the sign of the cross without getting my arms all tangled up — if I have to plan a big Catholic funeral with those guild members in attendance, I have to know what they do and where they sit or stand or say their prayers or whatever, and who’s in charge . . . it’s a funny business, having to cope with an outfit like that. Who’s the chairman or secretary? Mebbe I could ask them.”
“That’s Joseph Marshall,” I laughed. “He does all those jobs.”
“Well I can’t ask him, can I? I mean, I can hardly ask what’s needed at his own funeral . . .”
“You’ve tried Father Simon?”
“I have, but he’s fairly new to this parish and hasn’t done a guild funeral, Mr Rhea. The last one was before the war, long before he came, and nobody I’ve asked can remember what the procedure was. Somebody must be able to tell me because I do want to get it right, you see, and I want to make a big success of my first Aidensfield funeral. And I think Joseph will be just the fellow for that. The hard bit is finding the right folks to ask without stepping on a few local toes or upsetting local interests, if you understand. In my business, discretion is important.”
Even though I thought his attitude rather too mercenary, I explained what I knew of St Aidan’s Guild, adding that members would probably act as a choir during the requiem mass, they’d lead the prayers and attend the coffin by marching in procession either alongside or behind it. In addition, they’d care for the relatives of the deceased. But, I told him, in modern times they did not make the coffin or dig the grave, nor did they usurp the functions of the family undertaker.
In these modern times, they worked together with the undertaker, although in the past, they would have probably organised the entire funeral, even digging the grave, making the coffin, securing the flowers and arranging the funeral tea which, by tradition, always included ham.
According to what people had told me since my arrival in Aidensfield, a guild funeral was a spectacular affair, although modern people rarely called upon its funds. They had their own insurance nowadays which meant that guild funds were increasing all the time without any heavy expenditure, but its members, always in their colourful regalia, continued to attend all funerals of deceased members. I added that they attended other events too — at mass on Easter Sunday, for example. They would all attend in their costumes and occupy the same pews as they sang the Easter hymns and made the responses at mass. As I explained all this, I could see Bernie’s eyes widening at the thought of all the prestige and publicity he would gain from arranging Joseph’s burial.
“You could always ask Joseph, he’ll know more than anyone,” I grinned.
“I don’t think I’ll bother, Mr Rhea, but thanks for telling me all this. I can see the potential of a guild funeral, you know . . . done properly, it could establish my reputation for life and if I got a contract for all guild funerals, well, what prestige that would be . . .”
“It would indeed,” I said, pondering his use of words as I made my move to leave.
“A guild funeral could be the making of me . . .”
“And,” I said, tongue in cheek, “you might like to know that until just before the war, the guild used a hearse drawn by four black horses, all with red rosettes on their harness . . .”
“Did they by gum? Now there’s an idea . . .”
And I left him pondering the merits of a splendid funeral with black horses drawing a black hearse with cloaked guild members walking alongside to a good old Catholic hymn in Latin.
* * *
Upon leaving Bernie to his musings, I continued to St Aidan’s and went inside to find Father Simon arranging the altar for that evening’s benediction and Stations of the Cross. He led me into the vestry where there were chairs.
“So, Nick, what’s the legal verdict on my fundraising schemes?”
I confirmed there was nothing unlawful in arranging lotteries such as raffles or tombola, plus bingo or other events, with or without a gaming element, provided the income was for his proposed church fund, stressing he could not raise money specifically for Joseph. I added that events like whist drives, dances, sales of work, bring-and-buy sales did not require any sanction from the police. I advised him that the accrued funds could be utilised by a committee to send Joseph to Lourdes, perhaps with some of the cash being allocated to church purposes. During our chat, I discovered that the profits from a village whist drive had already raised £19 and a bring-and-buy sale was being planned for a couple of weeks’ time in the parish hall. It looked as if there would be enough money to send Joseph to Lourdes.
“Did you manage a chat with Dr McGee?” I asked. “About Joseph’s true condition?”
“I did indeed, Nick,” he nodded vigorously. “And you were right. He’s got a copy of the consultants’ reports and although he didn’t divulge any of the details, he did say there was nothing physically wrong with Joseph. It seems Mabel’s slightly misunderstood the situation, but he said he’d have words with her to explain things. There is, however, some reason for believing Joseph is worrying himself so much about something that he’s been shedding pounds — as if he was doing the dance of the seven veils and they were the veils. His loss of appetite is associated with the same problem. But Joseph has told them he had no worries.”
“So if he’s not physically ill, how does that affect this fundraising?”
“We’re going ahead, Nick, and we are sending him to Lourdes, if only in the hope we might remedy the cause of his mystery condition. We believe the whole village will support the idea — they all think he’s dying of cancer and they want something done for him. So we’re doing it. As I told you earlier, the date of his pilgrimage has been fixed and we’re going ahead.”
“And he has no idea?”
“No, not a hint.”
“And Mabel?”
“We decided we daren’t tell her, not yet. She might let the news slip, so she’s being kept in the dark too. Apart from you and I, the only people in the know are the small committee.”
“I’ll not mention it,” I promised. “So what about the red-tape side of things? A passport for Joseph, I mean.”
“He’s got one, would you believe. Joe Steel at the post office told me. He had to sign Joseph’s passport application form and sign the back of his photograph. Years ago, Mabel persuaded Joseph to go to Paris to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary, but he cried off at the last minute with some excuse or other. He’s never been overseas since; mind you, he’s never even been to London or Edinburgh either. He’s not one for travelling far, isn’t Joseph, in spite of working on the railways. I’m surprised he agreed to go to the hospital in Scarborough! But Mabel makes sure he renews his passport every time it’s due, always hoping for a trip overseas, and he always agrees for the sake of peace and quiet even though he won’t go a
nywhere. She lives in eternal hope!”
“So it’s all systems go for Joseph, as they say,” I smiled.
“It is, Nick. I’ve had words with the pilgrimage organiser at Middlesbrough, and she’ll make sure Joseph has close attention and support throughout his trip. They’re very good like that, making sure folks are never alone.”
“And so we’ll all pray for a miracle, shall we?” I asked.
“Privately, yes,” chuckled Father Simon. “Publicly, we’re praying for success in repairing the church roof and windows.”
As I was leaving the church, I noticed Joseph approaching and we stopped for a chat in the car park. Looking at him critically, I felt that he had a little more colour to his cheeks and that he might have put on a few pounds too.
He was carrying a file containing some papers and was puffing contentedly at his pipe. I thought he looked very cheerful even if his clothes still hung from him as if they were several sizes too large.
“Now then, Joseph,” I greeted him. “How’s things with you these days?”
“Can’t complain, Mr Rhea.” He adopted a solemn stance. “I’m feeling fine, and I think I’ve put on a bit of weight lately.”
“That’s good. No more stomach pains?”
“No, nowt like that. I’m still not eating much, though I’m not forcing myself to try and I’m not touching stuff I don’t like.”
“Give it time. I’m sure your appetite will return. So, any further news from the hospital or doctor?”
“No, no news is good news, as they say. Dr McGee pops in quite regularly and gives me a check-up. He still says there’s nowt wrong with me and reckons I’m doing fine.”
“You’re back to gardening, then?” was my next question.
“Aye, but it’s a poor year for berries, Mr Rhea, mark my words. We had a right good start but summat’s slowed ’em down and they’re not filling out like you’d expect, so this year’s show might be full of little berries without much weight on ’em.”
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 15