Felburgh

by Ivan B

  “I may have a solution,” said Peter, “but it depends on Albert.”

  Harriet produced some tea and a piece of coffee cake that TV cooks would die for and they passed the time talking about Harriet and Albert’s family. Their daughter-in-law had apparently died a year ago; that was the real trigger of Albert’s depression. However, they did have two grandchildren, Samantha and James and these were obviously the apple of both Harriet and Albert’s eyes.

  Albert eventually arrived back and was more than surprised to see Peter.

  “Don’t take your coat off Albert,” said Peter, “I’d like you to take a walk.”

  So a somewhat bemused Albert and Peter set off across the allotments.

  “I hear you worked on the railways,” said Peter as they walked, trying to get some conversation going.

  “Yes”, he replied, “I used to work out the timetables for the southern sector of the eastern region and organise the through freight routes.”

  “You mean queuing theory, steady flow equations, and all that.”

  Albert looked at him keenly, “Yes that’s right, and how come you’ve heard of such things?”

  I studied Mathematics at university,” Peter replied, “but I’ve never used those particular types of equations in anger.”

  “Did you use any?”

  “Yes, I worked as a mathematician for five years in the electronics industry, but I didn’t enjoy it and I knew that my vocation lay elsewhere.”

  By now they had reached the Vicarage and Peter walked Albert into the Garden.

  “What do you think of that?” asked Peter.

  “Downright mess,” replied Albert. “Last two vicars have ruined it with their muddling, there are wrong groups of shrubs together, un-pruned roses running amok and enough weeds to carpet a warehouse.”

  “I need help,” said Peter. “I am a useless gardener, and I don’t enjoy gardening anyway. I just enjoy sitting in the garden. I’ve heard on the grapevine that you’ve lost your garden, how about helping me out here?”

  Albert stood in the garden and slowly looked round.

  “All of it?”

  “‘Fraid so, except the undergrowth at the end of the garden, it makes a good security screen with the end of the churchyard.”

  “Best not touch it anyway,” said Albert, “there’s an old air-raid shelter under there somewhere and I wouldn’t like to fall into it”

  Albert paused for a moment.

  “Do you know what you want?”

  “No, I just want it to be tamed and looking good so that I can use it for garden parties and the like.”

  Albert continued to survey the landscape.

  “I’m quite happy to fund what you need.” Said Peter temptingly.

  “It’s not money this garden needs,” snorted Albert, “it’s tending, the place just needs tending.”

  Albert paused. “I couldn’t cut the grass, everything else, but not the grass.”

  “That’s OK,” said Peter. “There’s a sit-on lawnmower in the garage; even I can manage that.”

  Peter took Albert round the back of the house and showed him the outhouse, really a set of stables now converted into a double garage and workshop with a studio flat over the top. On the back of this building was an unused wooden framed conservatory that had seen better days and a small brick cupboard that contained the gardening tools. He gave Albert a key to the studio flat and pointed upwards.

  “The flat’s not used so you can use it to store your gardening clothes and go to the loo.”

  Albert was still taking it in.

  “I can come anytime?”

  “Anytime except Fridays”

  “Can I bring Harriet, she used to love sitting in the garden on a sunny day.”

  “Of course, and you can use the flat to make tea and suchlike.”

  Albert gave the barest hint of a smile.

  “Leave it to me,” he said, “can’t do that much this time of year, but come spring I’ll get to grips with it.”

  Albert shook Peter’s hand and walked off towards the allotments, perhaps Peter imagined it, but his steps seemed a little jauntier.

  Chapter 5

  Getting Down To It

  As February progressed Peter fell into his normal routine. He had what he called his core structure; Mondays – pastoral visiting; Tuesdays – study (start on the next sermon); Wednesdays – administration; Thursdays – committees and hospital visiting; Fridays – off; Saturdays – finish the sermon; Sundays – services. Of course it never worked like that; people needed visiting on other days, sermon ideas popped up at all times and so on, but he knew that without a core structure to his work he might just flounder.

  By the end of February the Mother and Toddlers had still not started, but everything was almost ready. That had included an interesting visit from a Council Inspector that gave Peter an interesting glimpse at the underlying set-up of the town. To say she was initially acerbic would be an understatement. As Peter walked her up the stairs towards the attic she began her tirade, her words coming out of her mouth as if shot from a machine-gun.

  “If you are intent on turning your house into a public place you will need the proper fire extinguishers. Water ones by the front and back doors, a CO2 in your study and dry powder in the kitchens, plus an asbestos blanket in the main kitchen. You’ll need smoke detectors on all floors and a large hand bell to warn of fire.”

  By now they had reached the first floor, but she didn’t pause for breath.

  “And you’ll need to keep this door locked for the whole duration of the group’s meetings. Then you’ll need safety plugs in these main sockets and a decent first aid kit.”

  By now they had reached the attic, she marched in and put her hands on her hips.

  “There’s no furniture here yet! I am wasting my time if you haven’t got any furniture!” This last statement was almost spat at Peter.

  Peter replied as placidly as he could.

  “The furniture should be arriving later today, Bunty has it organised.”

  The inspector looked at him intently.

  “You mean Bunty the ex-headmistress?”

  “Yes”

  It was like throwing a switch. Her whole demeanour changed. Instead of being the all-knowing bossy inspector she became the submissive lamb.

  “Oh well in that case there’ll be no problem; I’ll put the letter of permission in the post”

  And with that she walked down the stairs and out of the house. Peter had a slight sense of deja vu about this as when he had first mentioned the extra cleaning to Jo he thought she was going to be touchy about it, but on hearing that it was run by Bunty she had just nodded and turned down any extra pay.

  Sure enough on the first Monday in March the furniture and other paraphernalia arrived and were carried upstairs by the not too keen delivery staff. Peter phoned Bunty to say that it had arrived and also asked her where the money had come from to pay for it.

  “There’s no problem,” she said, “There are plenty of charities I can tap into.”

  But for Peter it was a problem as his church was sitting on a small fortune while one of its members went round with a begging bowl. As Peter pondered on this he heard Jo moving about in the kitchen and remembered that he’d better give her the key to the brand new lock for double doors on the first floor landing. He wandered into the kitchen. Jo was standing on tiptoe trying to lever a coffee jar off of the top shelf of a wall cupboard using a broom handle. Peter walked over, reached over her head, and picked it up.

  “Now I understand while all the cleaning materials have ended up in a lower home,” he joked.

  Jo turned and looked at him. Today she had light green lipstick and dark green eye shadow. In the short time he had known her she had gone through black, blue, orange, yellow, and now green. He also noticed that as usual her nails had been carefully manicured, but each nail was a different colour and those on her right hand had little pictures on them as well.

  �
��I didn’t like to make a fuss,” she said, “after all it is your house.”

  Peter replied, “Sorry, I just didn’t think.”

  Peter then made two cups of coffee and they stood in the kitchen talking.

  “Sorry,” he said to Jo somewhat absent mindedly. “I should have offered you the stool,” and he passed over to her the high bar stool he used when eating in the kitchen.

  “And how am I supposed to get onto that?” Jo asked.

  Peter reached over, put his hands under her arms, and lifted her onto the stool.

  Jo grinned.

  “Thank you, just make sure you are here when I have to get off!”

  Peter grinned like a schoolboy, and then a terrible thought crossed his mind. He had just done what he had been taught never to do, namely touch a woman parishioner when they were alone together.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you”.

  Jo looked at him quizzically.

  “None taken.”

  They then talked as they drank their coffees. Peter had learnt from other conversations that she had a teenage daughter called Danielle.

  “How’s Danielle?”

  Jo pursed her green lips.

  “Today I had the ‘everyone has’ discussion again.”

  “Everyone has?” echoed Peter.

  “Everyone has a play-station, or a personal DVD player, or designer trainers, or their own TV. You name it and miraculously everyone else in her class has it; except her of course.”

  “And of course it is not true.”

  “Of course it’s not true,” Jo sighed. “Talk to any other mum and they all suffer the same conversations with their offspring. It is so sad that they are all so materialistic, you get the feeling that every teenager is watching every other teenager to see what they need to keep up with.”

  “It’s not just teenagers,” Peter replied. “I am afraid society is becoming materialistic and concentrating too much on things rather than helping each other.”

  “You would say that,” Jo chuckled. “But is there not a place for a few materialistic niceties, or to be goody-goody, should we all live like Cappadocian monks?”

  They then enjoyed a conversation together on the subject until Jo wiggled her way off of the stool and remarked that she’d better get back to work as she had a slave-driver for a boss; they both laughed.

  Back in the study Peter settled down to read the proof copy of the Parish Magazine. He had yet to compose the article for the normal ‘Vicar’s slot’ and as yet nothing had inspired him. He would have written a section on Easter, but there was already an excellent piece by Marjorie on ‘Why Easter is more than Eggs ‘. In fact the whole magazine was excellent. Marjorie was the editor and the magazine was a mixture of articles aimed at churchgoers and non-churchgoers. It didn’t suffer from Christian jargon and it managed to get over a clear Christian message without either being condescending or confrontational. There was even a section on local businesses listing plumbers and suchlike. Half way down the list Peter stopped reading. He’d got to Funeral Directors and suddenly realised that he had been in post for four weeks and not taken a single funeral. In his last Parish, funerals and all the associated visiting had taken up stacks of his time. He pondered this and decided to seek local knowledge from Jane, so he telephoned her. Jane, for once, was in and Peter did not have to leave a message.

  “Hi Jane,” he started. “Peter here, can I tap you’re store of knowledge?”

  “Hi, Peter,” came the reply, “of course, but how are you settling in? The jungle drums say that you’ve declared war on your Church Council already.”

  “Not war, just a minor skirmish I hope!”

  Jane laughed.

  “And how’s the back?”

  “Better than it has been for years, I’ve decided that it’s time I had a cleaner, and I have a parishioner who might tackle the garden.”

  “You mean you’re following Doctor’s advice for once?”

  “Possibly. We’ll see how it goes. The cleaner is working out well and I have high hopes for the garden. Certainly it’s freed up a lot of my time.”

  “Good. What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Funerals; I’ve been here four weeks and not done one. Have we got some retired colleagues who do them for us, or am I missing something?”

  “Both,” came the reply. “There are two retired ministers in my Parish, and they sometimes are asked to undertake funerals because they know the families. But probably you’re lack of funerals is due to the undertakers.

  “I can’t have offended them,” responded Peter, “I haven’t met them yet.”

  “It’s not you, it’s them, and the larger one’s gone independent.”

  “What?”

  Jane explained chuckled.

  “There are two undertakers in Felburgh and their work seems to come along traditional lines. Samuel Pottergate’s comes from the Free Church sector and you are unlikely to get a funeral from him as normally he uses a Free Church minister. He is an excellent undertaker and if you get to work with him it is a revelation of just how much can be done. I’ve even known him to sit up all night with a widow because she couldn’t bear to be alone the night before the funeral. The other undertaker’s is called Joshua Freeman and that is a totally different kettle of fish. Really it is no longer a local undertakers, but part of a national chain: Joshua’s sons sold the business six months after he died. The national chain has instructed the new manager, Claude Ramsden, the need to make a certain level of profit. I guess the level of profit is set by the town branch capabilities, he certainly thinks that it is unachievable by a rural outpost. However, he thinks he has hit on a clever wheeze. He offers a total package called ‘From Bedside to Graveside’ and it doesn’t involve the church. He reasoned that the church has to charge a set fee by law, but that he can undercut it by doing it himself. Claude claims to be a humanist and therefore his package reflects that. You get a nice looking pine coffin, a humanistic farewell in the function room of the hotel, and a graveside goodbye, complete with a bugler blowing the last post. He’s laid out his price list with this service as the standard, if you want the church it costs more. Even better, he’ll get you to sign a form so that he collects the death benefit on your behalf, and then gives you the residue. All in all his customers get a nice farewell, don’t have to worry about a thing, and don’t even have to put money up front. Needless to say he is currently meeting his expected rate of turnover.”

  “That’s dreadful,” said Peter. “What about choice? What about after care? What about the deceased’s wishes?”

  “Funny enough I’ve just drafted a letter to his head office complaining of what’s going on. Shall I e-mail it to you and maybe we can jointly sign it?”

  “Yes please”, said Peter, “Have you tried talking to him?”

  “Have you tried beating your head against a brick wall?” came the reply.

  “Thanks Jane,” he said. “But I will go down and have a look, it will enable me to stretch my legs.”

  “Good luck,” she replied. “Daniel probably had a better chance.”

  “Daniel who?”

  “Daniel in the lion’s den!”

  Peter laughed said goodbye and hung up.

  “Well” he said to Aquinas, “looks like time for a walk.”

  Aquinas obviously agreed.

  Peter first passed Samuel Pottergate’s premises. There was a sign on the door that said ‘Due to the retirement of key personnel these premises will not be open today, in emergency please phone our helpline’. Peter then went literally round the corner to get to the next funeral directors. There was a splendid sign across the top of the whole frontage which read ‘Joshua Freeman Funeral Directors’ and then in smaller print underneath ‘Part of the Cosy Group of Undertakers and Embalmers.’ Peter entered and found the office empty, but almost immediately a man dressed in a long grey undertaker’s coat came from out the back. He stopped and smiled.

  “You’ll be the
new vicar, thought you’d come down ‘ere sometime soon. I’m Eli Travis, I’m afraid Claude is out o’ the office at the moment. The ‘earse is due back in about ten minutes, so wait if you like, but I warn you that you’re wasting your time.”

  Peter was quite surprised at Eli’s frankness.

  “How do you know what I’ve come for?”

  Eli smiled, showing a fragmented set of badly maintained teeth.

  “Same as all the other ministers, the chairman of the ‘umanist Society and the manager of the local crematorium. But ‘e won’t change his mind, ‘e’s a bean counter. If ‘e can do it a penny cheaper and increase ‘is margin ‘e will. That’s why I’m off.”

  “Off where?” asked Peter.

  “Off to Samuel’s. ‘E’s ‘ad two of ‘is assistants retire - I’m off to their party as soon as Claude returns. Jacob and I are moving over. I’ve been ‘ere twenty two years and Jacob’s been ‘ere nineteen years. Claude didn’t even offer us a leaving present, just muttered that ‘e would be able to use casual staff and reduce ‘is overhead.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Peter.

  Eli looked at Peter closely, then crooked a finger.

  “I’ll show you what ‘e’s like, follow me.”

  So Peter followed Eli into the Chapel of Rest. On the wall there was a plaque that read ‘dedicated to St Cedd’; and in the centre of the chapel was a magnificent casket, thankfully empty for the moment. “This is where ‘e puts ‘em on ‘is special package” said Eli. “The casket isn’t even ours. It was bought by an American Lady nine months ago, but she ‘ad to return to the States quick like and we didn’t ‘ave the chance to deliver it. We’re still waiting for the paperwork to export it; meanwhile Claude is making the best use of it ‘e can.”

  Eli then turned and led Peter into the back of the shop. Here there were a number of coffins, two of which looked plain pine. “This is Claude’s special pine coffin. It looks good, but it’s rubbish; ‘ere ‘elp me off with the lid.”