Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  At the moment the letter came through the letter box, Eleanor was passing through the hall having come downstairs from checking that everything was ready for their guests in two days. She picked up the pale cream envelope, noting that it bore a Canchester postmark, passed through to the writing room, picked up the letter opener from the bureau top and slit the envelope open. She unfolded the boldly handwritten letter and read the Canchester address. Under the heading, “Votes for Women, The Women’s Social and Political Union”, she read:

  Dear Mrs Windle,

  I am taking the liberty of writing to you since I understand you are rightly sympathetic to the great Suffrage Movement. No doubt you have heard of increasing action being taken in our determination to gain our rights. On Friday 24th May there is a meeting of all interested women at the George Room, 25 Bowker Street, Canchester. The meeting will start at 7.00pm sharp.

  I am delighted to say that Mary Sophia Allen who has been imprisoned three times, twice bravely going on hunger strike, for supporting our movement will be the speaker.

  I have pleasure inviting you to participate in the meeting; please make yourself known to me on your arrival.

  Yours sincerely,

  Amelia Payne-Croft

  A variety of feelings came to Eleanor as she reread the letter. She was pleased at the association with women’s rights, yet uncertain of her feeling towards the tone of militant action. Since she and Arthur had first fallen in love, she had kept to their vow of being open and honest. She would not have difficulty in showing Arthur the letter, but knew that it would cause him concern at a time when he had much on his mind with all that Holy Week promoted as well as his parents visiting. She decided it would be best not to tell Arthur until after his parents’ visit. She returned the letter to its envelope, took it upstairs and placed it with other correspondence in her dressing room.

  Good Friday dawned clear and bright. It would be a quiet day in Rusfield as many in the village would attend one of the Good Friday services. Arthur would lead both an hour-long service late morning and a period of reflection before the cross in the late afternoon. There had been a modest-sized congregation at the watch service in the two hours leading to midnight the previous evening. Children were generally not expected to play out of doors on Good Friday, although Eleanor had expressed the view to Arthur that she did not really think God would mind.

  Eleanor, still with the previous day’s letter in her thoughts, set out after an early lunch on the short distance to Jackson’s Farm where she had been invited for a cup of tea with Henrietta and Fred Jackson. Eleanor realised that Arthur must be weary with all the church services and made it easy for him to stay behind in the vicarage: ‘You have a rest, dear; there are still Sunday’s services and you won’t get much rest time with your parents here.’

  Arthur was most grateful for his wife’s thoughtfulness. Complete with a glass, jug of cool water and a report on the World Missionary Conference which had been held in Edinburgh almost six months previously, he went in to the large conservatory and settled into his favourite chair. After something less than two pages, his mind turned away from the report and his own thoughts took over. He realised, not for the first time, that he was uncertain about his own ministry. He wondered if the villagers received anything worthwhile from his sermons for as he had looked down on the pews, with faces he knew so well, were there any that looked really caught up by his words? He doubted whether anything his sermons included made any difference to their lives.

  He stretched out to take a drink, still wondering about his calling. He was sure his faith was firmly placed, but did God actually mean him to be living his years out in Rusfield. He wondered how disappointed he, and perhaps Eleanor, was that his visit to Canchester Cathedral had not brought about an offer of a move.

  He closed his eyes so that he could reflect more deeply on his life. There had never been a single moment when he had felt God’s call, no moment on a road to Damascus as Paul had known, rather a gradual stutter towards entering the church. He remembered the village near Aldershot where it all began, a smart house suitable for a young army officer, wife and child. His father was often away, but he could clearly remember one occasion when great excitement had abounded on his father’s homecoming; he would have been five or six at the time. Of course, his mother was always around, loving and gentle, but then had come the time when he was sent off to Longchase Grange School. He could recall the building, a rambling country house, cold and somehow unfriendly. He had sometimes slipped in to the quietness of the small, wood-panelled chapel and found peace there; the dark and rather eerie corners of the old building became less frightening, although he still stayed away from them.

  There had been George Berman, who had been a good friend, and together they had comforted each other when things went wrong or bullying had reached out to one or other of them. He remembered one Saturday afternoon when he had found George in tears, but refusing to say what was wrong. However, a few days later his friend had suddenly come out with a story which Arthur at first could not understand. George said that after the whole school had been on a run the previous Saturday and he had been the last to leave the cold and sombre washing room, Mr Elders, the mathematics’ master, on supervision duty that day, had come in. He had smiled and had offered to rub George’s back dry. His friend had been surprised, but not inclined to contradict a teacher. Having dried his back, the master commented on what a fine body George had. He reached down and rubbed his stomach saying that was still a little wet. In his friend’s own words, the next thing George knew was that Mr Elders was touching his willy. Arthur asked his friend what he did. He tearfully replied that he had cried out, picked up his clothes and run out of the changing room. George was too upset to say any more and two days later, term ended. George did not return to school for the summer term and Arthur never heard from him again. There was a thought in his mind that God would protect someone as hurt as his closest friend. Arthur was saddened by the loss of his friend, but delighted, though puzzled, that Mr Elders had also failed to appear for the new term.

  He went on to Monkswood, a larger school, when he was thirteen and settled in quite well. He still loved the holidays and spent as much time as he could with his mother who now usually declined the opportunity to accompany her husband on his overseas tours to South Africa, Egypt, Ireland and India, where he was based for three years. Then the time had come for Arthur to sit the entrance examination for Oxford; he failed, as he knew he would. His father was by then a lieutenant colonel and very much wanted his son to follow his own footsteps into the army, as he had his own father. Arthur had always felt uncomfortable at this idea and whilst his eyesight may not have been sufficient cause for rejection from the county regiment, this was the reason he gave to his father. Arthur had then to think of an alternative path to follow.

  He remained uncertain about his career, but increasingly felt the appeal of going in to the church. He had thought that every priest must have no doubts in their own personal faith, but perhaps that was not so. He believed in God and felt this in his heart, but remained uncertain of some of the church’s teachings, but maybe that was just a matter of searching after that truth. He respected the ordered form of the church, its official hierarchy and learnt, from his father, a love of great church buildings and liturgy. He loved great cathedrals, but not the high orders of service or the Oxford Movement which struck no inner chord for him. Quite close to Oxford was an Anglican seminary, Wycliffe Hall, established less than twenty years earlier. Arthur applied for entry and commenced his studies for the training of clergy there in 1888.

  Arthur came to as a shadow hovered over him. ‘I’m so glad you had a good rest, Arthur. You deserve it after all your recent activity,’ said Eleanor as she placed a cup of tea on the table beside her husband. ‘Now, you enjoy your tea. I just need to check one or two small things and then we are ready for your parents’ visit tomorrow. It will be lovely to see them. I will be ready to join you in a fe
w minutes for the time of reflection before the cross.’

  As she went out of the room she smiled to herself at the thought of what her father-in-law would say if he ever learnt about the letter she had received the previous day.

  FOURTEEN

  Saturday, 6 April

  ‘Come on, Arthur. It is your parents who are staying, not royalty,’ Eleanor laughingly commented to her husband when she saw him unnecessarily tidying the bookshelf on their main landing.

  ‘Sorry, my love. It’s just a silly habit. I love mother coming, but I always feel anxious about father.’ He had often wondered why this should be; always feeling close to his mother, able to share his hopes and doubts with her, but quite different with his father. Family friends and acquaintances sometimes spoke of Colonel Hector Richard Windle in revered tones, alluding to his bravery and outstanding courage. Arthur knew how as a young officer, his father had escaped from a ferocious tribe in the Gold Coast, that his colleagues had been killed, but he alone had struggled and managed to escape. However, Arthur thought to himself, I am over forty now and must stop feeling intimidated by him.

  His parents arrived promptly at three o’clock, dismounting from the modest carriage in which Sparky Carey had collected them from Steepleton station. Arthur and his mother’s hug was a genuine welcome of affection, the colonel’s light kiss on Eleanor’s cheek rather less. Son and father shook hands, mother and daughter-in-law warmly embraced.

  Twenty minutes later and the four were sitting in the conservatory with tea served by Eliza Carey who had come in to carry out a few extra duties. As talk continued about the journey from Dorset, mutual friends and family news, Eleanor looked at her husband and again thought how he had taken the strong, good looks from his father, yet the more gentle nature of his mother. Colonel Windle still bore an upright six-foot frame, little spare weight and Eleanor could well imagine Arthur looking like this some twenty-five years on, although she hoped with less harsh lines souring his face. Arthur had inherited his father’s very fair hair although his father’s had now taken on an almost silver appearance.

  The afternoon and early evening passed by with an amicable exchange of news until Eleanor announced it was time to change for dinner to be served at seven-thirty.

  ‘Your parents seem well, although perhaps your father looks a little more frail than last time we saw him,’ Eleanor remarked as her husband laced up the back of her green floral frock. Going downstairs, Eleanor and Arthur were almost immediately followed by the older couple. After each had enjoyed a glass of the colonel’s favourite sherry, they were soon seated round the large, well laid out oak table, where dinner was served; conversation moved on quite easily.

  ‘So, Colonel Windle,’ began Eleanor, who had never wished to give any offence by using any other title, ‘I’m sure you are still as busy as ever. Are you involved in any new projects?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually I am. You may have heard of the Territorial Force which is made up of volunteers and linked with its local regiment, in our case the Dorsets.’ The colonel, although sitting and enjoying the game pie, seemed to grow an inch or two as he launched into his reply: ‘They are a support force to our regular army in case of serious problems. I was asked to give assistance to those running this Territorial Force when they are carrying out military exercises, mainly on Salisbury Plain. I thought my army days were over when I retired back in ‘06, but it seems there is still a role for me to play.’

  ‘And I’m sure you play it very well,’ interjected Arthur. ‘I think a similar group has been formed in Steepleton.’

  The colonel placed his cutlery on his plate in order to give more weight to his words by using his hands. ‘Glad to hear it. Many of us have been aware for the past ten years or so that Germany has been building up its forces and I’m glad to say that some of the far-sighted government politicians have realised that we have to be prepared.’

  ‘But surely,’ Eleanor said, ‘no one is really anticipating fighting between our countries? After all the King and the Kaiser are cousins.’

  ‘Maybe,’ spoke the colonel with increasing hand gestures, ‘but we just have to be prepared. None of us wants any more wars, but the best way forward is to make sure that any potential enemy realises it would be easily defeated. The Territorial Force is just a reserve in case our regular army has to leave our shores.’

  Charlotte Windle carefully levered the conversation away from wars to less contentious issues. She knew all too well that her son felt as strongly as her husband about maintaining the strength of Britain and its Empire, but felt this might not be a view shared by Eleanor.

  After a choice of desserts followed by coffee, Charlotte asked if she might be excused as tiredness was setting in after their long journey. Goodnights were said and she left, followed five minutes later by her husband to his room.

  ‘Well, thank you darling,’ said Arthur giving Eleanor a kiss. ‘That was a good start to their visit. A pleasant enough evening, let’s just hope the rest of their stay is as peaceful.’

  ‘Indeed it was,’ commented Eleanor. ‘But Arthur, was it just my imagination that there seemed something of a distance between your parents? I know they have never demonstrated much in the way of feelings towards each other; that simply doesn’t appear to be your father’s way, but they really didn’t seem to communicate with each other at all today; but it’s probably just my imagination. Anyway, I must go to thank Eliza for all the help she’s given tonight, and pay her. She really is a treasure. She will have done most of the clearing up and we can finish anything else in the morning.’

  A few minutes later, Arthur extinguished the downstairs’ lights and went up to his sanctuary. He knelt down before the cross given by his father, crossed himself and prayed: ‘Dear Father, I thank you for all that you have given to me. I pray for my parents, that any space between them may be filled with love; that you will lead me as I take the Easter Day service. May the great joy of the resurrected Lord shine through the service and through any words you place in my mind. May all the people of our village learn more of your love. Forgive me for my sin. You know the most inner secrets of my life, forgive me. And Lord, I thank you for the love of Eleanor. Amen.’

  FIFTEEN

  Morning & Afternoon, Easter Day, 7 April

  As she walked along Pond Street towards St Mary’s with six younger members of the family, Grace may have thought it a happy coincidence that Abraham was approaching from the opposite direction. In truth, he had told his parents as they left for St Mary’s that he would catch them up, and then dawdled until he saw Grace coming from the opposite direction.

  ‘A happy Easter, Abraham,’ welcomed Grace as they met at the church gate.

  ‘And a very happy Easter to all of you,’ a smiling Abraham said to the family. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Grace. I expect you’re taking a Sunday school class, but I wonder if I could speak with you afterwards?’

  ‘Of course, the children can walk home with father; we can see each other then.’

  She led the Reynolds flock into the church where Frederick Richards, Abraham’s father, was welcoming people in his usual charming way. The church quickly filled up, children sitting near the front wearing their Sunday clothes, quite different to their everyday wear. Eleanor, together with Arthur’s parents took their places and the congregation moved closer together to create spaces at the end of pews for last-minute arrivals. Rita Small had begun playing the organ some time earlier, but on the hour the music changed and the choir processed in, followed by Arthur who climbed the six steps to the pulpit.

  Arthur later felt that it had been a joyful service for Easter Day with well-loved hymns and readings, but he was, as ever, less sure about his sermon. For all the spiritual nature of a church service, Arthur sometimes felt like an actor; he had to give a good performance. But he knew one essential question that separated him from an actor: had the people felt God’s presence?

  After the service there were many conversations betwee
n villagers. Eleanor sat in a corner pew with her words of comfort being graciously received by Violet Rushton. Abraham was waiting near the lychgate for Grace and after her siblings had set out for home, they chatted easily with many smiles. He asked Grace if she would walk out with him the following day, perhaps towards Bramrose Hill where Willy had mentioned a nesting buzzard. Knowing she would be busy helping with domestic duties in the morning, Grace suggested meeting at three o’clock to which Abraham happily agreed. Arthur was busy shaking hands, wishing everyone a blessed and happy Easter.

  The sun had cut through the clouds and although far from providing other than early spring warmth, it added to the general feeling of a contented community. It was left to George Cooper to bring a cloud to the occasion. ‘Vicar,’ started the old and seemingly joyless churchwarden as he approached Arthur at the church door: ‘I don’t know why you never have that great hymn, “Forty Days Thy Seer Of Old”. It was one the Reverend Gulland always had and we miss it.’

  Before Arthur could think of an appropriate response, he was aware of another within hearing distance. Frederick Richards, with a gracious smile at the churchwarden said, ‘George, it’s twenty years since the Reverend Gulland left us and it was always a hymn I, for one, couldn’t really understand. Vicar, it was a grand service and good that so many shared it. Thank you.’