Felburgh

by Ivan B

  “The last three ministers have been Priests-in-charge” replied Peter. “But this time the Bishop and the Patron have given me the freehold. That means I can only be removed by time, a church court or my own surrendering of the title. In other words either when I reach seventy or if I seriously break Canon law and am found guilty of such a misdemeanour or if I resign. It is a unique part of the English Church establishment that a Bishop cannot force a parson with freehold out of his parish. It’s a throwback to past times when Bishops tried to fill their dioceses with their cronies.”

  The three stood in amazement.

  “So we’re stuck with you” said the Major.

  “‘Fraid so” said Peter.

  He let them stew on this for a moment, before he used a softer voice.

  “However, I am prepared to work with you if you are prepared to work within the rules.”

  It was the Major who puckered his lips and stated what he assumed to be the collective position.

  “Rules are for the weak to adhere to,” he said looking down his nose. “And the strong to bend. We’ve seen off other ministers and we’ll see off you.”

  They all left without Peter showing them the door.

  Saturday turned into a desperate day for Peter; he agonised over the sermon, couldn’t settle all day, and did not get to sleep until the early hours.

  On Sunday the 8 o’clock Communion service went well, but then it would be difficult to do otherwise it as it followed the Book of Common Prayer and did not contain a sermon. After the eight o’clock the few people that attended drifted away, but one remained and introduced himself as Albert Splines. Albert gave his apologies for not attending the last council meeting, adding that apparently he did not miss much. He did not smile at all during their conversation, did not make eye contact with Peter, and did not attempt to shake Peter’s hand. Either he was very depressed, or Peter was already persona non grata.

  The main Sunday Service turned out to be an absolute unmitigated disaster. It wasn’t that Peter felt his sermon was bad, or that he did not feel the congregation weren’t encouraging. The problem was the music. There were five hymns and Peter had specified the tunes to two of them. For the three hymns where he didn’t specify the tune, Dan chose a tune that was obscure and unknown, and in one case almost impossible to sing. The two tunes that were specified Dan deliberately mangled. One he played at the wrong pace, slow enough to die between stanzas; the other he played with the wrong stresses so that people did not know when to start the verses. Dan’s message was clear, ‘I can control the worship from the organ, you can do what you like, but I am in control.’

  As Peter was disrobing in the vestry afterwards and considering his approach to Dan he heard Dan playing a Baroque fugue. It was exquisite. He’d heard this piece before at his previous parish, but the organist there could not quite manage it. Dan was including all the twiddly bits and giving it an expression of joy and wonder. He really was a magnificent organist. Although there was coffee and cake in the side-aisle after the service, and Peter was due there, he slipped into the chancel and sat on the organ stool next to Dan. Dan noticed him, but finished the fugue perfectly before looking at him.

  Peter still wasn’t sure how he was going to approach this, but he started calmly.

  “OK Dan,” he said gently. “We’ve both made a point and I guess we could spent our entire ministry here at loggerheads, but that wouldn’t do either of us justice, and it certainly would not honour God.”

  Dan was watching him closely. Peter ploughed on, well aware that Dan was quite capable of giving him a total rebuff.

  “I would rather work together where we can do so than waste our time in a futile quarrel.”

  Dan raised his eyebrows.

  “You’re not going to try and sack me then? Last three vicars have.”

  Peter managed a smile.

  “No, definitely not. You are a marvellous organist.”

  “And you’ll abide by my list?”

  Peter thought for a minute.

  “I know as the official appointed organist you have a say in what is played here and by whom. I promise I will not ask you to play anything not on your list, but from time to time I will want hymns sung to other accompaniment”.

  Dan responded, “You mean to the sounds of your squeeze-box?”

  Peter said, “Probably, but I would like to use the church piano or if I can get the council to agree it, a guitar.”

  Dan looked doubtful, but eventually sighed.

  “Fair enough, I’ve had my fun with you today but it’s a shame the congregation suffered. Peter offered Dan a hand and they shook hands.

  As Peter stood up he said to Dan.

  “Don’t worry I’ll keep my word and stick to your hymn list, but I think it is a pity, there are some wonderful new hymns out there that could do with an organ arrangement and I’m sure that you could do them justice.”

  Dan renewed his suspicious look.

  “Could I look at the hymns if I wanted to? I mean you wouldn’t force them on me?”

  “Certainty not. And I’d be the first to admit that there is some dross out there that is musically inept and theologically off the wall, but just because some are bad it doesn’t mean that they all are.”

  Dan stood up and eventually nodded.

  “I’ll not promise anything, but I’ll consider it.”

  Peter then went down to the side-aisle and, as the Americans say, ‘pressed the flesh’.

  That afternoon Peter took stock of where he was with the church council and the church as a whole. As he did so his eyes caught sight of Jo’s card of skiing penguins.

  “Well Aquinas old boy”, he said, “let’s hope that the precipice is not too close.”

  On Monday morning Peter had just established himself in his study when the doorbell rang and he heard Aquinas charge down the hall. He opened the door to Bunty and ushered her inside. Once settled in the lounge with a cup of tea she gave a long sad sigh.

  “I was so sad Peter that you’re first service should be upset the way it was.”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Peter, “Dan and I have come to an accommodation, I don’t think it will happen again.”

  Bunty looked surprised.

  “You mean you’ve got him to play hymns outside of his wretched list?”

  “Not yet, but give it time. At least we have agreed not to try and score points off of one another.”

  “We are not all egoistic control freaks on the council you know; some of us are quite sane.” She said softly.

  “I know that, but I have not yet met any other of the council members apart from Albert, and he was totally diffident.”

  She chuckled,

  “Don’t mind Albert, he’s a bit depressed. I think it’s because he’s lost his garden, but there are probably deeper reasons.”

  “Lost his garden?”

  “Albert’s garden was his pride and joy, but recently he and his wife Harriet moved into sheltered accommodation. They are not all that old; Albert was retired early from the railways and he doesn’t yet get his state pension. It’s his wife, she has had a hip replacement, and they thought the steep stairs in their old house were too dangerous for her. The sheltered housing unit doesn’t have a garden.”

  “Where is it?” queried Peter

  “The other side of the allotments.”

  “Couldn’t he get an allotment?”

  Bunty laughed, a sort of twittering sound.

  “It’s flowers Peter he loves flowers, not vegetables.”

  “And what about you?” Peter asked, “What do you love?”

  “When you get to my age Peter you love living!”

  Peter grinned and asked, “Have you always loved living?”

  Bunty grinned from ear to ear.

  “Oh yes, I’ve had a wonderful life. I’ve met people all my life who have gone through tragedies and heartaches, or for whom the world has stopped turning, but somehow for me the sun has always shone a
nd the sea is always blue.”

  Peter stayed quiet aware that Bunty was about to give him her life story, and for once it looked like it was going to be a story without angst or disaster.

  Bunty gently obliged.

  “I am the only child and I was born in London in an era when it was thought that girls should know their place. Fortunately my parents had other ideas. My father ran a pair of garages. The motor car was just getting hold and there was plenty of work. My mother had what is quaintly termed ‘her own money’, although in reality that meant that she had a large stake in dad’s firm. They were a happy couple, at least as far as I know because they were from a different generation where parents did not discuss feelings with their children. I was sent to a private day school for girls because they didn’t want me to go to boarding school. They encouraged me all the way. You might say it was a privileged background and I suppose in a way it was. I wanted for nothing and yet they would not give me the moon. As I was nearing the end of my schooldays my mother asked what I wanted to do. I had no hesitation: I wanted to teach. They supported me totally; I got a place at Cambridge and they paid for me to go through university. By the time I finished university the Second World War was about to begin. I found a position at a school in London and lived at home until the children were evacuated. I came with a group of children to Felburgh and to help out at the school here. In February 1942 both my parents were killed during an air raid. Dad had unbeknown to me sold the garages in 1939 and bought a stake in an aero-engine company so by the end of the war I had a sizeable nest egg. I did feel the loss of my parents deeply, yet people all around me were also grieving and somehow the mutual mourning gave support and succour.

  “I stayed here in Felburgh at the end of the war, there was no point in going back. Felburgh was a large village then rather than a small town. A year later, when Mrs Jesrand retired, I became the headmistress. Actually I became the school as I was the only teacher! I stayed there till I retired twenty years ago, and I loved every minute of it. I loved the job and the job was kind to me. I’m not saying there weren’t difficult times, but somehow they were always overshadowed by the good ones.”

  Bunty paused to drink some tea, then resumed.

  “I met Joe, my husband, five years after the war; the village put on a summer fair and Joe was the farmer whose field we used. We were married nearly fifty years, that was a good innings for Joe as he had had rheumatic fever in his childhood and only just survived. It left him with a weak heart. We both knew he could go at any time, especially running a farm, but we decided to live life for the day and never plan for the future. Somehow the future crept up on us and we found ourselves both retired and full of life. We used our money to see the world; I’ve been on four world cruises and two visits to China. I do miss him greatly, but I’m glad for all those years together that we thought we would never have.”

  Bunty fell silent.

  “Any children?” asked Peter

  “Yes” replied Bunty, “just over one thousand.”

  Peter didn’t know what to say, so he took the safe option of saying nothing.

  After a while Bunty said softly.

  “My own children just didn’t happen, but I’ve loved every child that walked through the school gates, even if some of them have turned out a bit malevolent.”

  “What have you been up to recently?” asked Peter

  “While I was headmistress I couldn’t help noticing two things, firstly how lonely some young mums are, and secondly how difficult it can be for the single mum. For a time we had a spare classroom and I used to let them mums meet in there, a sort of in-school crèche for mothers not children. However, the council took a dim view of this, so I moved it into the village hall. When the hall burnt down along with the pub, and the town council in their wisdom decided not to replace it, I started organising small groups in people’s homes. I try to group like-minded folk, or people in the same situation, along with a couple of older women to act as mentors. The groups organise speakers and outings. The number of groups has fallen over the years what with working mums and the general post-modern trend of wanting to do one’s own thing, but there are still six in the town. Four of those are for single mums.”

  “Is the church involved?” asked Peter

  “Of course, I always try to get the mentors from the church, and encourage the children to Sunday school; sometimes though it’s an uphill struggle. If only the church still had a mothers and toddlers group.”

  “Why hasn’t it?” inquired Peter. “The council minutes are somewhat obscure.”

  Bunty gave a sad smile.

  “Marjorie persuaded the church council that it was inappropriate for the church to be used for such a rowdy exercise, and by so many people who were not church members.”

  “Hence the unused box of toys in the side-aisle” remarked Peter.

  “Quite”

  “How much room do you need?” Peter asked.

  “Room about this size!” said Bunty giving a broad smile.

  “I can do better than that” said Peter, “follow me.”

  He took Bunty upstairs and showed her the attic. “This is huge,” she said, “but what about fire regulations and toilets?”

  Peter showed her the back staircase and the three doors at the end of the attic space. A large cupboard, a tank room, and a toilet.

  “I think there were servants here years ago” he said. “Hence the oddity of a toilet in an attic space.”

  “And you’d let us use it?” asked Bunty.

  “Well I’m not using it, and I am thoroughly embarrassed about the size of the house for one person.”

  “What about the church council”, she said with a twinkle in her eye “They’ll probably say that it is totally inappropriate for a vicarage!”

  “I shan’t ask them” laughed Peter, “The house is owned by the Diocese not the church.”

  He continued, “I ask only one thing, not on a Tuesday or a Friday. On a Tuesday I’ll get my cleaner to work up here, and Friday is my day off.”

  Bunty almost jumped up and down with excitement like one of the schoolchildren she had taught so many years ago.

  “Mondays and Wednesdays are always the best days for Mothers and Toddlers. Monday because they need a break after the weekend and Wednesdays because it’s mid-week. We’ll probably start with just a Monday.”

  “Start when you like,” said Peter. “I’ll give you a set of keys.

  They went back downstairs and into the lounge.

  “Actually,” said Peter, “I’m glad you called because I have a couple of favours to ask you, but I want to make it clear that you can decline to do both without offending me or affecting Mothers and Toddlers.”

  “Go on” replied Bunty warily; vicars asking favours usually meant extra work.

  “First off would you mind not attending the church council meeting in four weeks time?”

  Bunty looked quite surprised.

  “Somebody’s got to be there to try and head off the mafia.”

  “I know” Peter replied, “but I’ve had a sheaf of apologies and I reckon that by a numerical quirk if you don’t attend there won’t be a quorum.”

  The light dawned in Bunty’s eyes.

  “You mean they won’t be able to vote on anything and you’ll have a clear run to the Annual Church Meeting at the beginning of April when a new council could be elected?.”

  “Correct.”

  “Consider me otherwise engaged; and the second favour?”

  Peter rolled his eyes.

  “I’m heading up a diocesan committee on the problems of integrating those members of society that have undergone permanent or forced gender re-alignment into the church.”

  Peter paused and Bunty butted in; “You mean what we do with people who have undergone a sex change or feel they are the wrong sex?”

  “That’s it exactly. We are looking at the whole spectrum from those who have had a surgical change to transvestites and incorpora
ting those who are one sex but have been brought up as the other. My problem is this; I’m heading up the committee because I was involved in such a committee for my previous diocese – that one was inconclusive as we had a change of Bishop and the new Bishop axed the whole affair. So I have read a great number of books on the subject, and spoken to a large number of people already. In other words my head is stuffed with theology and opinions. I have formulated my views, but I’d value yours.”

  “You mean as a simple Christian who doesn’t understand the complexities of such things?”

  “No! I don’t mean you are simple at all I mean…”

  But Bunty was laughing at him.

  “Of course I’ll give you my opinion, I will work on it the night I should have attended the council meeting; you can then give my apologies and say I am working for a diocesan committee. It will sound grand!”

  “Thanks,” said Peter, “who knows, one day we may have such a person walk through the church doors.”

  “Oh you’ve already got at least one” replied Bunty.

  Peter must have looked surprised and she wagged a finger at him.

  “Don’t forget I ran the school for nearly thirty years. I know when someone I taught as a Jack has become a Jill, or instructed as a Tania has become a Timmy. But I will not tell you who; if they want you to know I guess they’ll tell you themselves.”

  Bunty then got up and made for the door, she stopped on the doorstep.

  “You are serious about us using your attic; I mean you won’t change your mind?”

  “Deadly serious, it’s yours to use.”

  After lunch Peter made his way across the allotments to Albert’s home. When he got there Albert’s wife Harriet opened the door and let him in. She informed him that Albert had popped round to the shops to get some pipe tobacco.

  “Not that he smokes it much” she said, “as I won’t let him smoke in the house.”

  “How is he” asked Peter.

  “Getting under my feet” was the reply, “I love living here, it’s so much easier for me, but I’ve lost my personal space. He used to go into the garden and I was free to read a book, or crochet, or something else, but now he wanders ‘round the flat like the lost tribes of Israel.”