Felburgh

by Ivan B

  Felburgh

  Ivan B

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): Novel Church Suffolk

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publically performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was obtained of as strictly applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Published by barlebooks.net©2002

  My thanks to Tim Massey for editing this book into shape.

  Chapter 1

  It's Felburgh

  “Felburgh” said the Bishop, jabbing his finger on the map at the Suffolk coastal town of Felburgh as he glanced across at Peter.

  “I reckon that’s far enough away for your reputation not to follow you.”

  His wide hazel eyes sparkled with a mixture of mirth and anger.

  From the other side of the table Peter gazed forlornly at the map as if it were the portent of doom.

  “But I don’t want to move.” He replied in his soft Wiltshire accent. “I don’t want to run away and hide. I have no need to run away and hide.”

  The Bishop flat-handed the table hard; shaking the elegant cut-glass vase and trembling the flowers.

  “You don’t have a choice; it’s either Felburgh or nowhere. Certainly it’s nowhere in this diocese, not after what you’ve done.”

  The tone of voice was unmistakable: take it or leave it.

  He gazed across the table at Peter and decided that Peter did not look like a vicar; he looked more like a university professor who’d been frightened by the sunlight. On a normal day he had a tall impressive figure with his imposing face, gaunt cheeks, large Roman nose, brown eyes, bushy grey eyebrows, and unruly mat of grey hair. He was also a man of some intellect. However, today he was shrivelling, which wasn’t surprising considering the verbal roasting he had been given a few moments before. The Bishop decided to back-off a little and softened the tone of his voice.

  “Look, I’ve pulled a few strings with my fellow Bishop, the job’s yours. You just have to pack up and go. He’s expecting you to move into the Vicarage on St Cedd’s day, that’s January 7th and to license you to the parish three Sundays after that.”

  Pulled a few strings was putting it mildly, thought the Bishop, downright grovelling while calling in every favour his colleague owed him would have been a more accurate description.

  Peter visibly trembled.

  “Suppose they turn me down.”

  The Bishop gave a short barking laugh, more like a Hyena cough.

  “They’ve got no choice either. They’ve gone through four Vicars in less than seven years and since then have failed to agree on a single candidate that’s been offered to them. They take you or they get no-one.”

  Peter rolled his eyes, “You mean it’s an impossible job.”

  The Bishop shook his head.

  “Not impossible, they’ve just been unfortunate. Their last vicar disappeared; one moment he was there the next he’d gone: Left the lights on in the vicarage and his unlocked car in the driveway. Might as well have been abducted by aliens.”

  Probably run away screaming thought Peter, which is exactly what he felt like doing, except he couldn’t, not here. Not when the Bishop was offering him a dubious chance at redemption.

  The Bishop slid a pink file across the desk; “Go there, it’s not what you think.”

  He sighed through his nose.

  “Look Peter, you’re still young enough to have a good ecclesiastical career ahead of you; one dent doesn’t write off the whole car. You haven’t committed an unforgivable sin, just been unwise, appallingly unwise. Who knows, one day you may look back on this as a colourful part of your career.”

  Peter took the file and studied the word ‘Felburgh’ inscribed in big green copperplate letters on the cover.

  “But what do I do there?” Peter bleated.

  The Bishop leaned forward, “Do what you’re good at – listen to the people. Let them talk to you, you have a natural ability to put people at ease.”

  His voice hardened, “And for goodness sake don’t go near the Sunday School.”

  Chapter 2

  Arrival

  Peter didn’t like large vicarages as he thought they sent out the wrong message to the community at large. And this one was certainly large being double-fronted vicarage with at least four bedrooms, three reception rooms and an overlarge almost square hall with an extra-wide staircase. This was such a principle to him that he even considered moving into the small flat above the double-garage behind the vicarage; however one thing stopped him; Aquinas his large four year old Old English sheepdog, a gift from a former dog-breeding parishioner whom Peter had helped over the bereavement of his wife. Aquinas was big for his breed and needed space, lots of space. Within a few minutes of their arrival Aquinas had both checked out the large gardens and claimed the cupboard under the stairs as his own, so with the die cast. Peter moved his few goods and chattels into the vast space and, as soon as he could, he set out to explore the church that lay directly behind the vicarage, hoping that it would give him a ‘feel’ of his new parish, though to be honest any sort of idea about the reality of his new parish would be welcome.

  The church also proved to be huge and, surprisingly in this age of organised church pilfering, unlocked. Aquinas settled beside the 14th Century font and Peter stood at the back to survey the building. The first, and immediate, impression was that this was an exhibition showcase and not a living building. The nave, the central part of the church, was large enough to sit well over three hundred people on dark oak much polished pews. There was absolutely nothing out of place. Each pew glistened with fresh wax and had the appropriate number of equally spaced hassocks, hymn books, and service books. It was all laid out with such military precision that Peter wondered if anybody ever had the courage to move anything. The chancel and high altar was just the same; four long choir pews equipped with books, lamps and candle stands just like an advert in a church requisites magazine. The altar itself was a slab of six inch thick polished grey marble balanced on a central plinth with the words ‘Do this in remembrance of me’ inscribed in large gothic letters along the front.

  The side aisle were similarly pristine and yet different. The North aisle, the one to the right of the nave, had been isolated from the church itself by huge glass partitions that stretched from floor to ceiling and ran between each of the seven pillars. It had obviously been intended as a meeting area and children’s play area, but although there was a large chest of new toys and a giant play-mat, there were no other signs of children’s occupation. The very end of this aisle had been sectioned off into a sort of large glass cage, a so-called coughs and sneezes area where the noisy and the babies could be corralled and not cause a disturbance to others. Peter hated such areas and much preferred families to sit together. Try as he might Peter could not find one mark on the acres of glass. The South aisle was not sectioned off; rather it had a number of stacks of folding chairs, not your ubiquitous plastic folding chair, but folding oak chairs with red leather upholstery.

  Peter returned to the back and tried to get the ‘feeling’ of the building; what did it say to him? As far as he was concerned it screamed, ‘we are a wealthy congregation and expect you to fit in, otherwise you are unwelcome,’ so loud any feeling of God’s house had been meticulously drowned out.

  Peter stood there for some time trying to grasp the implications of the building. He could get nothing but a sense of dread. If the congregation expected this of their church, what would they expect of him? He was saved
from complete depression by a chuckle and the sound of Aquinas’ large tail thumping on the floor. Peter turned to see a stocky man in an old blue fisherman’s sweater, faded blue jeans, and sea-boots, scratching Aquinas’ head between the ears. He looked up.

  “You must be the new vicar; nobody else would dare bring a dog in here.”

  The voice was rich in friendly Suffolk vowels. He held a hand out.

  “I’m Mark, I’m the unofficial verger.”

  Peter shook his hand, by far the largest and most powerful hand he had seen.

  “Notice board said that Bill Prime was the official verger.”

  Mark gave a lopsided smile on his somewhat weather-beaten face.

  “True, but he’s ninety-seven next week and nobody has had the nerve to ask him to stand down.”

  He pointed to Aquinas.

  “Never seen an Old English with a tail before.”

  “Breeder who gave him to me didn’t believe in docking and I must admit some sympathy with that.”

  Mark nodded and patted Aquinas’ head.

  “Had a good look round?”

  “Just about. Tell me is there a sound system here?”

  “Oh yes,” he replied before leading him to the side of the organ and opening a hidden door. “Two radio mikes, three set mikes (pulpit, lectern, and chancel step), and a flat table mike on the altar. There’s also an induction loop for the hard of hearing, and a CD/Tape player”.

  Peter was quietly amazed, he’d begun to believe that this was a church locked into the eighteen century, but they certainly hadn’t shunned technology. Peter looked at the far end of the church.

  “Any chance of a look up the tower?”

  Mark produced a bunch of keys and jangled them before he moved off. As he followed Mark, Peter tried to estimate his age, which must have been somewhere between fifty and sixty, but it was difficult with his tanned weather tanned face and sprightly step.

  The tower was a box of surprises. Firstly in the base, hidden behind a pair of huge dark oak double doors, was a fully equipped kitchen furnished entirely in stainless steel to conform to hygiene standards. It was all there; double oven, dishwasher, double-bowl sink, hand basin, steel fronted cupboards, and gleaming worktop.

  “How often is this used?”

  Mark gave a wry grin, “Not often enough.”

  The second surprise lay in the ringing chamber above the kitchen. There were no bell-ropes at all, but it was packed from floor to ceiling with a mixture of radio equipment.

  “It’s the highest building for miles” grinned Mark. “So we are home to four mobile phone companies, the police, ambulance and fire service radio, the coastguard radio net, the local radio repeater station and the army air band radio for helicopters who use this area for low-level flying practice”.

  Mark stamped on the floor.

  “Even got our own generator in the basement, courtesy of the Army.”

  Peter surveyed the equipment.

  “How much do we get for this lot?” he queried.

  “About £48,000 a year” laughed Mark. “It easily pays for the upkeep of the church and some!”

  A piece of the jigsaw suddenly fell into place. Peter had glanced at the church accounts and wondered where all the money was coming from. Now he knew.

  The belfry itself had just one bell and numerous different antennas. Finally, once on the flat roof of the tower, Peter discovered that what he had thought was a flag pole turned out to be the aerial for the local radio station, and the corner pinnacles were plastic covers over further aerials.

  Peter took his eyes off of the actual church structure and looked around. He realised that what Mark had said was true and the view from the top was stunning.

  “Coastguard uses this in the summer,” said Mark. “They use it to study the yachting and beaches for the inshore lifeboat. Been here since they were chucked off the Martello tower last year when the coastal radar was fitted on top of it”.

  “Do they pay?”

  Mark seemed affronted.

  “Of course not; its part of our support to the local community!”

  Peter deemed that he had touched on a raw nerve.

  “But some people think they should?”

  “All those who have never been at sea in a small boat” Mark scoffed. “Landlubbers all.”

  Peter waved his arms around and asked Mark to talk him through the view. Mark took Peter to the East side of the tower.

  “Old town directly between here and the sea-front. Mostly built in the early 1900s and from here to the sea is a conservation area, except for the allotments on the other side of the road from the church and the park on the other side of them.”

  “Seems a funny place for allotments”

  “Used to be a public house and village hall there, but they burnt down. The Town Council has been arguing about replacements ever since and the allotment association sort of moved in to use the area while they were thinking about it.”

  “How long have they been there?”

  Mark laughed.

  “Upwards of twenty years.”

  They moved to the North side of the tower.

  “Fringe of Old town followed by Felburgh common and then Felburgh Creek Golf course and the posh houses.”

  “Why is it called Felburgh Creek when it doesn’t have a river?”

  Mark smiled.

  “‘Cause the Victorians diverted the river in about 1890 into what is now the harbour”

  He moved Peter to the South side of the tower and indicated the harbour.

  “The creek had been silting up for some time and the local trade association wanted a deep harbour for steam driven fishing boats. You can see the town goes right up to the harbour edge. It’s all coffee shops and fancy boutiques now on this side of the river, but at one time it was all fishing sheds. The other side of the river is much, much better and has the boatyard. But that’s not in your patch, that’s your neighbouring parish of Glumburgh.”

  Finally he took Peter to the West side facing inland and continued his mini town guide.

  “In front you have the new estate; 1500 new homes built over the last twenty years and the supermarket right on the other side of it.”

  Peter nodded as he could clearly see the supermarket and it’s nearly full car park.

  “To your left,” Mark continued. “On the other side of our main road lie the old barrack houses, now a so-called collection area for problem families, and the old fish factory cum warehouse between them and us.”

  Peter could see the old ruin; it looked in a desperate state.

  “Two lots want to take it over Social Services for a community rehabilitation scheme for young offenders, and the County Council for an asylum centre.”

  Peter grinned. “I bet both of those ideas are popular.”

  “There’s an open town council meeting scheduled in the church later this year, we might need extra chairs!”

  Peter decided to change the subject.

  “Any pubs?”

  “The Harbour Lights on the quayside – now a yuppie sailors pub. The Quay on the Glumburgh side of the harbour – basic pub with basic food, but friendly and unpretentious. Couple of tourist wine-bars on the sea front, but they’re nothing to write home about. Up The Creek at Felburgh Creek. ‘Up The Creek’ by name and up the creek by nature; drinks cost about twice as much as anywhere else.”

  He then pointed to a pub that was fairly close to the church and just between the derelict factory and the old barrack houses.

  “The Fisherman’s Friend – not very friendly and definitely very rough. Finally, there’s The Battleship by the new supermarket, yet another yuppie pub, it has music so loud that there should he a health warning on the door.

  They wandered back to the East side of the tower and stood together in silence looking out to sea. After about five minutes Peter stirred.

  “So what brought you to St Nathaniel’s then?” He said quietly.

  Mark stood still stari
ng into the far distant horizon and for a moment Peter thought that he had not heard his question.

  “I’m a fisherman born of a fisherman in that white cottage,” said Mark softly, indicating a small white cottage on the other side of the harbour.

  “I guess fishing is in my blood and in my nature. I first went to sea when I was ten, but started working on the trawlers when I was fourteen. It was a hard life then, out at sea for weeks at a time, poor conditions, and mediocre pay.”

  He leant on the stonework and gazed into the past.

  “Then the price of petrol went through the roof because of the Middle-East crisis and we had to lay up for a few months. I took a temporary job as a hospital porter in Ipswich hospital, and I met Lucy. I was twenty-four and she was twenty and just about to finish her nurses training. We were both allocated to the same ward and fell in love. Neither of us was looking for it, especially as she was a nurse and I was just a porter. That wasn’t all; her parents thought she could do better, and my parents thought she was a toff. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we married three years later and moved into the pink cottage.” Again he indicated a cottage on the other side of the harbour.

  “Pretty soon times were getting better for fishing, and worse in the hospital, so I went back to sea.”

  He sighed and swallowed deeply.

  “Then in two years later we lost a trawler, the Felburgh Castle. It must have been suddenly overcome in deep water for it was never found and no bodies ever recovered. This had a deep impact on Lucy and she began to worry when I was at sea and implored me not to go back every time I had shore leave. In the end it broke up our marriage. I knew no other life; she knew she couldn’t stand it.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “It could have ended there, it should have ended there by all rights, but it didn’t. I was out fishing and we ran into a gale. Not just a standard storm, but one of those evil ones where the sea seems to be coming from every direction and the waves brake over the boat from ever point on the compass. After a couple of hours the boat broached and sank from under me. I should have gone with it, but I was on deck at the time and had on two life jackets. I was tossed about like a pea in a washing machine, half the time I was under the water and half the time I was rolling in the waves. After a while I lost track of what was up and what was down. I had no hope. I remember crying out to God at the top of my lungs. ‘Save me! Come on save me!’ Then I hit something hard.”