Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  Arthur realised that the dean was indicating that he go: to Arthur the feeling was mutual. With almost unseemly haste the dean stretched out his hand, briefly and weakly shook hands and ushered Arthur to the door. A terse, ‘Thank you for coming, I know My Lord the Bishop will read with interest my summary of our time together.’

  SIX

  Afternoon, Thursday, 28 March

  Leaving the bishop’s palace, Arthur felt a mixture of disappointment and anger; disappointment at not meeting the bishop or having any further clue to his future, anger at the dean and his questioning about Eleanor. He wondered if it had always been the intention that the dean, perhaps a new hatchet man, should see him. Such things were not unknown in the intrigues of the church.

  Distressed, even annoyed by his feelings of anger, Arthur checked his agitated stride, turned and hurried along the paved path to the main door on the west side of the cathedral. Apart from a lady arranging flowers and a family of three, probably visitors, the great building was empty. He gazed first at the wonderful fan-vaulted ceiling, remembering how he had felt overawed on his visit to King’s when at the age of thirteen his father had walked him around Cambridge. Arthur had never understood why his father intended to set him on a highly academic course which, in his own mind, Arthur knew he would never achieve. His eyes moved on to the beauty above the altar, a series of stained-glass windows revealing the life journey of Christ from humble birth to the cross.

  On one side was the smaller Beaufort Chapel to which he moved. Before its small but wonderfully clothed altar, he knelt, waited and gradually became consumed by the history and magnificence of the cathedral. He trembled at his own weakness in wanting a move to suit himself rather than his God. He waited, yet a certain emptiness caused him to feel that in some unexplained way God was further from him than when he knelt in his own church.

  He left, retracing his steps to the beginning of the narrow market lane; its downward slope matching his recent declining regard for the meeting at the bishop’s palace. Unlike his own feelings, the sky had cleared and a gentle sunshine lit up the street. Arthur purchased a newspaper from a young lad as he needed something other than the morning’s meeting to occupy his thoughts. The next train was in twenty minutes, a slow one stopping at each station on its way to Rusfield. He determined to read his paper.

  The main story revolved round the Women’s Enfranchisement Bill being defeated in the House of Commons. Clearly the Canchester Daily Times applauded this result, although Arthur knew that Eleanor and her friends would accuse the government of downright trickery in gaining a victory. All were waiting to hear news of Captain Scott’s attempt to reach the South Pole, but meanwhile, the newspaper gave details of Norwegian claims that Amundsen had reached it three weeks previously. Scott’s disappointment made his own frustration at the meeting with the dean of little significance. He needed to pull himself together.

  Reading on, he saw that plans were almost complete for the opening of the Olympics in Stockholm and his mind turned to Abraham Richards whom he knew hoped to run for Great Britain four years on. His musing was interrupted by the approaching train.

  Once inside the carriage, he finished the newspaper all too quickly and found his thoughts returning to the morning’s unexpected outcome. Arthur wondered if the bishop had told his new dean how to run the conversation and did the dean really mean that unless he stopped his wife being an active member of the suffragettes, he would certainly not get any form of promotion? It certainly seemed so. How would he put things to Eleanor when he got home? They had always been honest with their own views and whilst they had often discussed, indeed sometimes argued about each other’s views, they always respected the other’s opinion.

  He was surprised how quickly the return journey was over. The sky further lightened and there were traces of blue above Steepleton station as he alighted from the train. It reminded him of one of his mother’s many sayings and proverbs, ‘Enough blue to make a sailor’s pair of trousers’. He thought of his mother with great affection and wondered when she and his father would next travel up from Dorset to visit them.

  He found himself really enjoying the hour-long walk back to the village. It did not matter if he messed up his shoes now, although he was careful to avoid the deepest potholes which were well over ankle-deep in water. He stopped to watch a hovering kestrel looking for an unsuspecting vole and giving a masterly display of aerial suspension; then his attention was caught by a much larger bird flying some distance to his right over Bramrose Hill - a buzzard. He was reminded of his student days at Wycliffe Hall when he cycled into the Oxfordshire countryside and enjoyed the things of nature. Arthur had never had any doubts that whilst magnificent buildings were created by men, albeit to the glory of God, birds and all nature could only have been created by God.

  Getting to the edge of the village he walked across to give a friendly greeting to Mrs Cruise, one of the oldest parishioners. She was sitting in the doorway to her cottage, busy plaiting the last of the straw from the previous year’s harvest. No doubt she needed all the light she could get, Arthur knew her eyesight was failing in her endeavours to gain a meagre income to add to her old age pension. How glad she must be that Lloyd George had introduced the pension; five shillings might not seem a lot, but he knew it made a huge difference to Mrs Cruise and others like her.

  Rounding the final corner before he would reach home, he almost bumped in to one of the Reynolds’ children. ‘Hello,’ said Arthur, ‘where are you off to?’ Although seeing one of the youngest of this family of ten children, he already knew the answer.

  Tucking the bedroll even more tightly under her arm, Lily replied, ‘Well, sir, it’s my turn to sleep at Auntie Bertha’s house this week.’

  Arthur knew that the Reynolds’ house, like most in the village with just two rooms downstairs and two up, could not possibly sleep all of the large and growing family and some of the children slept elsewhere. ‘Take care,’ Arthur called out, ‘see you at Sunday school.’

  Five minutes later, he was standing on the vicarage doorstep searching for his key when Eleanor opened the door. ‘Arthur, my love, welcome back. You must be exhausted. I’ve got the kettle on.’ She put her arms round him and they kissed. Arthur took off his mud-splattered shoes, hung up his hat, coat and cape, following Eleanor into the large kitchen. ‘Now, Arthur, you sit down. I’ve made some teacakes so have one, or more if you like, with your tea.’ He sat down in his favourite chair wondering how best to tell Eleanor all that had happened. He need not have worried, for how good she was at judging the best way to start a conversation. The soft blue eyes settled on Arthur, but she let him get well underway with his tea and teacake before prompting him to speak.

  ‘So, how did you get on my love? How did you find the bishop?’

  From telling his wife how surprised he was to find that his meeting had been with the dean, he moved on to what he now thought to be the real purpose of the summons to Canchester.

  ‘It seemed to me that you should really have been there although, of course, I didn’t know that until this morning.’ His wife gave a slightly puzzled look, but refrained from interrupting him. ‘Well, it was as if his questions about my background and St Mary’s were just a prelude to his real purpose: to launch into the fact that you supported the suffragettes.’

  ‘He what?’ In spite of her intended silence to listen to Arthur she couldn’t help interjecting these words of surprise. He could sense her tone of disbelief.

  ‘After I told him about the support you give to me in the parish, he said in a very direct way that he knew you supported the suffragettes. He leapt to the conclusion that you supported, indeed were actively involved in their more extreme activities.’

  Arthur was finding it increasingly hard to relay to his vivacious wife all that had transpired at the bishop’s palace, but neither he nor Eleanor ever stopped short of telling the truth. ‘He really said all that, Arthur? Pray tell me what you said?’

  He fin
ished his cup of tea, a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘I told him that you definitely supported the movement, but the sanctity of life was overwhelmingly important to you. In other words you would never knowingly cause harm to another. I told him I respected your views as you do mine. Believe it, or believe it not, he demanded to know whether I had used my position as a priest to dissuade you.’

  He wondered how Eleanor would respond: disbelief, anger and if anger, to whom would that anger show? To the bishop? The dean? Even to himself? As had been the pattern in so much of their life together, he was surprised at her words.

  ‘Poor Arthur! And you had gone wondering whether you were to be offered a bigger parish, whilst the whole plan seems to have been spying on me.’ She stood up, moved across and lightly kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you for saying what you did. I know we don’t see eye to eye on votes for women, but we will always respect each other. I love you even more for saying that.’

  Arthur relaxed as their love remained unaffected. ‘Come on,’ said Eleanor, ‘it’s not raining and it won’t be dark for another hour. Let’s take a walk along Church Stream.’ Arthur nodded in delight.

  Quickly dressed in warm coat and wellington boots, they left by the back door, walked to the end of the garden, through the small wooden gate and onto their own special path which came to the deep gully from which Church Stream emerged and crossed Bury Way beyond the churchyard. How many times had they walked together along this narrow path as it followed the shallow stream? It was slippery now and care needed to be taken. The trees, a mixture of oak, horse chestnut and elm still showed their unadorned winter wear.

  Eleanor stopped and turned back to her husband, the path was too narrow here for them to walk alongside each other. ‘I love this time of the year,’ she said. ‘Of course, it’s lovely when all the leaves show themselves, but look at the patterns of the bare branches; that oak over there, amazing.’ They stopped, too, a little further on and Arthur gently pulled a low branch even lower.

  ‘Look, sticky buds. I remember as a child I once collected some, took them home and gave them to mother. Strange, I hadn’t thought about that until just now.’

  Eleanor ducked under a low, almost horizontal branch on which many children had swung, stretched out her hand and took Arthur’s and guided him underneath. Like the many young lovers who had walked hand in hand along this stretch over many years, they rejoiced in each other’s company. ‘Damn the dean,’ thought Arthur.

  As if reading his thoughts, Eleanor returned to their earlier conversation. ‘If the dean should ever question you again about my support for the suffragettes, suggest he and I meet. Perhaps I can persuade him to change his views. I just cannot believe that God plans for people to have different rights; surely he is a God of equality.’ Quickly realising that she had, perhaps, unwisely returned to this theme, she pointed to some small yellow flowers on the nearby bank. ‘Aconites or celandine, I can never remember which. I really ought to know.’

  They wandered on a further half mile, stopping to look at some lonely violets, a few late snowdrops and a cluster of rooks’ nests in the tall beech trees. ‘I think we must turn back as it will be dark in thirty minutes or so.’ Reluctantly at first, but then more eagerly gaining pace, they turned and retraced their steps along the same path. A pair of bickering mallards and a late-calling blackbird which flew angrily across their path were the only sounds. Now they held hands even on the narrower parts of the track. Arthur opened the gate and together they went in to the vicarage, took off their coats and wellington boots. It was as if each knew how the walk would end.

  A few minutes later they were in their bedroom. Eleanor had slipped off her outer clothing. She held out her arms, Arthur crossed to her and they embraced. Their embracing became more passionate as each undressed the other. They stepped a shade apart and gazed at one other. Arthur could not believe how beautiful she was, she of how aroused he was. Arthur, a full foot taller, stooped and kissed her firm breasts and hardened nipples with much gentleness. She lowered one hand and held his manhood. They kissed again, almost fiercely. They fell, rather than being led by each other, on to the bed. In a moment Arthur was astride his love, she so ready to receive him. They were drawn together as magnets. The rhythm of their loving equal only to the way they understood the rhythm of each other’s lives. In a single moment of joy, their lovemaking reached wonderful heights and they were spent. Their love for each other was immense: Arthur, unable to understand how he deserved such a beautiful and loving woman after all that he had done; Eleanor, with equal love, had one remaining thought going through her mind: God, maybe this time.

  SEVEN

  Morning, Wednesday, 3 April

  A week later, the first Wednesday in April, sunrise was shown in Arthur’s diary as six o’clock, but the sky suggested another overcast day. He had been up for almost an hour, for much needed his attention. Having lit his table lamp, he was planning three services: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter Day itself. He knew he could leave the choral parts in the hands of Rita Small and the choir which was blessed with some good voices, not least those of Eleanor and young Albert Jones. Encouraged by the school, Albert had been auditioned by the cathedral choir, but had felt that he belonged in Rusfield; his voice had easily changed from a boyhood soprano to a rich baritone.

  Starting with a time of prayer, Arthur’s thoughts were now fine-tuning the sermon for Good Friday. Rereading the story of Christ’s suffering and death, he prayed that he could somehow convey this central tenet of the Christian faith to his congregation, which he knew would be considerable. The day before, a letter from his parents had announced they would call in on the Saturday. He knew that calling in meant a three or four-day stay and so some of his parishioner calls would have to wait until Charlotte and Hector Windle returned to Dorset. It would be good to see them.

  Around the village, a few other lighted windows showed up. The Johnson family had long started their day, as Ruby needed to be up at the manor to light fires for the de Maine household and, whilst her brother, Willy, officially started work an hour later, he chose to walk with his young sister on these grey mornings. They had both got up as quietly as possible, but with Frank, Harry, Robert and David sharing Willy’s room and Ruby sleeping alongside her mother and Rachel, it was almost impossible not to trip over someone or knock something over. Washing downstairs in the small scullery with water drawn the night before and dressing from already prepared clothes, Ruby and Willy were soon ready. After a hurried slice of bread with some of their mother’s rich plum jam along with a mug of tea made from the ever-simmering water on the wood-burning stove, they reached for their outdoor coats and stepped outside into Meadow Way.

  As they turned from Pond Street to face the slightly uphill ten minutes’ walk to the manor, the sky began to lighten from its iron grey. Whilst not being able to see his face which was partly covered by a hood, they knew it was Racer setting out on the rather longer journey to Spinney Farm. As ever he was moving at a fast trot, not through any lateness, but to help keep his body finely tuned for the approaching running season. They exchanged waves.

  The path, flanked by mainly bare hedges on either side, was wide and well worn. It led not only to the old manor, but eventually to Wensfield four miles away. Halfway up the slight hill, Willy took his sister’s arm and whispered: ‘Stop a moment; I want to show you something. Look over there, see the large oak tree?’

  The ever-faithful Ruby followed his instruction, though her puzzled look showed that she had no idea what she should be seeing. ‘It’s hard to see now, but in the vee from the main trunk you should be able to see a dark shape.’ After a few minutes Ruby was able to make this out. ‘Well,’ explained Willy, ‘that’s almost certainly the buzzard’s nest, a big one made of sticks. If it’s really come to stay it should be laying as many as four eggs in the next week or so: might even have already laid one or two.’

  Ruby smiled at his words. ‘You’re so good at these things, Willy,’
marvelling at her brother’s knowledge.

  ‘Well, I just try to keep my eyes open. Now don’t ever go closer than we are now, but have a look each day on your way home. Keep an eye open for the adult bird sitting on its eggs and later feeding the young birds, but sadly, they probably won’t all survive.’

  They reached a fork in the path, taking the right one which led slightly downwards to the wooded dell where they could make out the high chimneys of the manor. The dark-haired Willy had approached this late sixteenth-century house from the same track on many occasions, but he never ceased to be enchanted by its appearance. To him it was perfect, rising seamlessly from the surrounding land, its stone walls almost growing out of the earth.

  By now the sky had considerably lightened and there was promise of a better day. They reached the barred gate over which they climbed. Old Peter was under close orders to lock the slightly dilapidated wooden barrier at night to deter poachers from stealing any livestock, though such attempts were not always successful. From the gate, the way to the house became well defined, as vehicles needed a good surface before entering the road off to Steepleton.

  ‘When is Master Lionel getting home?’ Ruby rather suddenly asked, enquiring about the nineteen-year-old younger son of the de Maines.

  A slight frown came to Willy’s face; he had little time for someone whom he thought arrogant, rude and a little untrustworthy. Turning to his sister, he replied, ‘Any time now he’ll be back from Cambridge. I heard the major mentioning this to Florrie, but why do you want to know?’

  ‘I just wondered. Nothing, really.’ The interest of Ruby rather puzzled Willy. He looked at her and realised how grown up she was now: pretty, if slightly overweight, with a sweet face. One part of him was pleased as her question suggested she was beginning to become interested in boys for, which he thought, it was about time. But the other half wished that the haughty Lionel had not been the first youth about whom his sister should pay attention.