by Ivan B
Peter and Eli lifted the lid off; it was remarkably light. The walls of the coffin were made of thin three-ply wood and it was also obvious close up that the pine effect was merely an iron-on fabric.
“See,” Eli continued, “rubbish. We ‘ave to lift it by the base because the sides are so thin. We even ‘ave to tie the body down inside to stop it rolling about and breaking out of the coffin. The lid’s made of block-board, the only decent bit of wood is the bottom, but I bet ‘es working on that! Claude saves no more than £30 a coffin by building it like this, but to ‘im it’s manna from ‘eaven.”
Peter was appalled.
“Doesn’t he get complaints from customers?” he asked.
“Customers long passed caring,” joked Eli. “Relatives don’t seem to mind. Claude sells them the ‘sign here and forget’ package and likes as not they are so overcome with grief they don’t notice, especially as ‘e uses the casket to lay ‘m out in. ‘Taint right though, it’s a disgrace, poor old Joshua must be turning in ‘is grave.”
Eli paused for a minute wringing his hands in distress. Then he continued mournfully.
“Do you know ‘e even tried to convince the crematorium that there was mileage in a re-circulating coffin.”
“Pardon?”
“It would work like this; we provide a top quality coffin, but the body is in one of them plastic body bags. At the crematorium, round the back like, they take out the body and send the coffin back to us. Of course they wouldn’t ‘ave nothing to do with it, but it shows ‘is way of thinking.”
Just then they heard the hearse arrive.
Eli looked sheepish as they put the lid back on.
“Don’t tell ‘im I showed you,” he said, “or I won’t get my ‘oilday money. ‘Es been looking for an excuse not to give it to us.”
Peter held his finger to his lips.
“I’ll treat it all in priestly confidence.”
Just then another person, wearing an identical grey undertaker’s coat to Eli, appeared - Peter assumed him to be Jacob. “Dogsbreath is back, time to go” he said, and they both disappeared out the front door.
Then Claude appeared. He looked every inch the perfect undertaker. Charcoal grey suit, plain white shirt with a dark grey tie and a pair of black shoes that were so polished that Peter swore he could see his own reflection in them. Claude’s face, however, did not match the cloths. He had one of those set back jaw-lines that give a chinless appearance, a swept back forehead, and a nose that was so pointed it looked more like a beak. All in all he looked more like a carrion crow than any other person he had met.
Claude’s eyes narrowed when he saw Peter.
“Hello, you must be the new Church of England Minister.”
Peter shuddered. It wasn’t the voice, high pitched and nasal, it was his breath. Claude obviously had serious trouble with halitosis. Peter was a good six feet away and even at this range the man’s breathe was overpoweringly awful.
“Yes”, said Peter, managing a smile, “I thought I’d better come and introduce myself as we will probably work together quite often.”
“From time to time,” said Claude, “but not often. The people of Felburgh seem to be leaving the old religious myths behind and moving on to new ways of saying goodbye.”
Peter by now had realised two things, firstly he could not stay in the presence of this man at the current range of three feet, and in any case he would get nowhere.
“Just thought I’d show my face” and with that Peter escaped into the fresh air.
Once back home Peter rattled off his article for the Parish magazine and also sent a note to Marjorie saying that he though we should not allow Claude to advertise in the parish magazine. Satisfied he had got funerals off his chest he sat back and started to consider again his strategy for the Church Council meeting later that afternoon. He just hoped that he could get through it without a major row; he desperately needed to get to the Annual Meeting reasonably unscathed if he was to have a hope of following through on his vision of where the church here should be going. As he was pondering on how to tackle the matter of too much money in the bank, the phone rang. It was Marjorie, Peter immediately wondered if his article had been a little over the top.
“Thank you for the e-mail Peter,” Said Marjorie smoothly. “That’s just what I like, a nice controversial leader to ensure that people at least start to read the thing. However, are you sure we should pull Claude’s adverts? Isn’t it a matter of balance? I don’t think we can advertise only one of the two town undertakers without comment, especially in view of your article.”
Peter gathered his thoughts.
“I’ve been looking at the Parish records Marjorie, we have not had one funeral from Claude in the last six months yet the graveyard say he has been the undertaker for twenty five funerals in that time, and the crematorium say eighteen.”
“And how many have we had from Samuel?” came the frosty reply
“Two. But the graveyard says he has managed sixteen burials with them, all with a Free Church minister, and the crematorium say twelve. Claude is just freezing the churches out, and I don’t believe we should advertise his services when he is in effect steering his clientele away from all the churches in the town. Incidentally it’s not just the churches; I hear that the Humanist Society and the Green Burial Movement are also up in arms.”
There was silence at the other end of the line, Peter decided to let it run it’s course and not say anything else. Eventually Marjorie sighed.
“I didn’t realise it was that bad. Of course I’ll pull the advert, though goodness knows how I’ll fill the space.”
“Thanks and Marjorie?”
“Yes Peter?”
“I must say that I think the magazine is excellent, I’ve never seen such a good magazine.”
“Why thank you Peter,” she replied. “It’s nice to know that you don’t think we are all a load of degenerates. See you in half an hour.” And she hung up.
Peter rushed around gathering his papers together and arrived at the church around five minutes before the meeting was due to start. When he looked around his heart sank; Albert was there. So all his careful planning about not having a quorum had just gone to pot. He now wished he hadn’t asked Bunty not to come. They soon got down to business and Peter gave Bunty’s apologies. It was like a bombshell.
“Not coming?” Queried the Major. “Not coming? She never misses a meeting; I say the old girl isn’t ill is she?” There were several other murmurs of concern.
“No she’s not ill, she just happens to be working on a paper for a Diocesan Committee.”
This brought looks of total disbelief. The apologies also brought relief as in amongst all the apologies were some from Roger. Peter Carefully counted: the Major - 1, Henry - 2, Marjorie - 3, Dan - 4, Albert - 5, Sam - 6, Cameron - 7, himself - 8. With seventeen council members listed they were one vote short of a quorum. Peter smiled at the assembled body and dropped a second bombshell.
“Welcome,” he started. “Thank you for coming. Now we have a little problem, but it should not be too irksome. We do not appear to have a quorum, therefore I can allow discussion on the items tabled, but not votes, and therefore we cannot make any major decisions.”
“Actually,” butted in Henry. “It means we can’t make any decisions.”
“Thank you Henry,” said Peter. “I stand corrected.”
There were looks of total disbelief.
“You mean your going to run a second meeting where we can’t say anything?” Said Sam bitterly.
“What a Chairman: couldn’t run a pennant up a flagpole” muttered Cameron.
The Major had other ideas.
“Actually old chap,” he said, “You have two votes, which makes nine, so we are in business.”
“My second vote is a casting vote,” replied Peter quickly. “And frankly I hope never to have to use it. If the church is so divided over any issue that I have to use it, the issue will be so contentious that
it shouldn’t go forward anyway.”
The Major looked at Peter and nodded.
“That’s true, we had a vote on finance last year that split the council down the middle, it’s probably why a few members don’t come any more.”
Peter recalled reading the minutes, by all account the meeting had been explosive from the start and with only sixteen members present the voting had been split. The Major who was acting chairman had used his casting vote for the motion of paying to have the church cleaned by professional cleaners rather than volunteers. The repercussions had been continuing ever since.
After ploughing through the last set of minutes and the usual dross that no church meeting ever seems to start without, they reached ‘Finance’.
“Right” said Peter, let’s talk about the accounts. “Sam you have the final accounts ready for the AGM?”
“Of course”, Sam replied with a scathing look.
“And they will lay out exactly where the church investments are?”
Sam didn’t bat an eyelid.
“They are invested with Porlock, Whitby, and Scanes, a group of city investors who spread the portfolio over a range of investment opportunities to maximise the return and minimise the risk. Such portfolios change on a daily basis and I could not possibly predict exactly where our money will be at any one time. Except of course to say that it is safe.”
Peter was not going to be fobbed off.
“But you could give us a list of last year’s investments and where our money was used, that would give us a good idea of how it is being managed.”
“I could, but it is a lot of work.”
“Its one phone call to the fund managers’ darling,” interrupted Marjorie. “I ask mine all the time.”
Peter ploughed on.
“It’s the church’s money, and they have a right to know how it is being used.”
Sam had turned bright red.
“Are you saying that I am an untrustworthy treasurer.” he challenged.
“Of course he isn’t,” piped up Albert.
“But we wouldn’t want our money invested in drug cartels would we?”
“Seems reasonable enough” commented the Major.
“If it was my own money I’d want to know how it is being used,” remarked Henry.
Sam, realising that he couldn’t wriggle any more finally capitulated.
“OK, I’ll do my best to have a list ready for the AGM”.
Peter decided to have a go at another goal and stayed on the issue of finance.
“Now, what are we going to do with this money? We can’t just sit on it.”
“Why not?” snapped Cameron.
“Ever read the parable of the talents?” suggested Peter; “the money has been entrusted to us for its use, not for us to bury it in an investment fund.”
“So we give it all away?” Cameron again venting his spleen.
“No I suggest we use it for ourselves and the community on a worthwhile project.”
“Such as?” Cameron was not going to let go.
“That’s up to the church, but I would suggest a community centre. We haven’t got a church hall, the village hasn’t got a communal hall, and there are many worthwhile uses for such a centre.”
“And I supposed we build it on the allotments and upset the whole town.” Cameron virtually yelled.
“No,” Peter replied calmly, “If it were up to me I’d suggest the old warehouse site, after all we wouldn’t have to buy the land, and it’s already ours by bequest.”
This was met with total silence.
Finally the Major spoke up.
“Wrong place.”
“I’d have thought it was exactly the right place,” Peter replied. “It’s in the area of town where there is most need and it is virtually on our doorstep.”
“Allotments are closer,” said Cameron instantly switching sides.
“It’s less than two hundred yards away, “Peter responded.
A lively discussion followed and as the meeting could not make any decisions Peter urged them all to go home and pray about it.
The rest of the meeting after that was a non-event; there was nothing else that Peter wanted to tackle at the moment; one thing at a time he kept telling himself, one major thing at a time. The meeting finished at about 5pm and everybody drifted off home, except for Henry who was locking up.
“How’s Caroline?” Peter asked.
He got a blank look.
“You told me she was pregnant.”
“Oh, she’s fine. Complaining of backache and feeling like a load of blubber, but she’s fine. We had a visit to the maternity unit yesterday and they said that she was in great shape for her age. Her age! Good grief she’s only thirty eight.”
“Looking forward to an addition to the family?” asked Peter.
Henry froze.
“Actually Vicar I’m bloody terrified.”
Peter looked at him; he certainly looked terrified.
“Terrified of what.”
“Just about everything.”
At that point Henry sat down and put his head in his hands. Peter did not speak, but sat down next to him. After two of three minutes Henry started:
“My parents were both lawyers. My father was a judge and my mother a barrister. I was their only child and they had me late in their careers; mother was about thirty-six when I was born. It was just expected of me that I would become a lawyer. All through my childhood I heard my parents discussing cases over dinner and referring to points of law. I was sort of inculcated with the damn stuff.”
He stopped and looked up, “I’m terrified of placing my expectations on my children, and I don’t want to push them into anything.”
Then he resumed his story.
“I took A-levels in English, Latin and French. I failed the French miserably, but got ‘A’ grade in the other two and I was accepted by Kings Lynn University to study law. I found out later that Father had pulled a few strings with the Law Professor to get me admitted.”
He looked up again, “I don’t want to manipulate my children. I was manipulated. I’d told father that if I couldn’t get into Kings Lynn I’d give up the idea of law and study to be an English teacher.”
He paused.
“I scraped a first degree, I enjoyed the high-life of Kings Lynn far too much, and found a set of chambers in London willing to take me. I made sure it was my choice, not one set up by my parents. I decided that I would practice civil law, not criminal law. I guess this was to spite my parents as they both had practised criminal law. To be honest I quite enjoyed it and by the time I was in my late twenties I’d already started to make a name for myself and acted on behalf of two large corporations. The money started to roll in, it seemed that you could just state any price you liked, and they would pay up as long as you delivered the goods; why quibble about a £20,000 retainer when you stand to make a profit of millions? On the other hand my social life was a mess. I only had colleagues as friends and could not handle the opposite sex at all. My parents never talked to me about girls, or the facts of life, or how to handle feelings, or any other aspect of life that would divert me from the law.”
Another pause, another dose of eye contact, “I’m terrified that I won’t equip my children for life; that I’ll be unable to relate to them; that I’ll leave them ill equipped to face the trials of life.”
Another pause.
“When I was thirty-six I took on a high profile libel case. I did it on a no win, no fee basis on the understanding that I’d take 25% of any compensation. We won and the jury awarded £1,000,000. After that I took on three similar cases; I won two of them with a similar size reward. Then I met my nemesis. It was Christmas and I was thirty-seven. My parents must have been in their seventies and my grandmother, on my mother’s side, was nearing a hundred. We all thought that grandma was a funny old bat. She’d spent a great deal of her life in Africa with some mission or other and insisted we all watch the TV midnight service on Chris
tmas Eve. As usual, over the Christmas dinner, we talked about the law and I talked about my latest cases. I had just completed a case for one of my corporate clients who wanted to regain possession of a house that was used as a young mum’s refuge. It was the haunt of single mother’s, who had nowhere to go run by a small unregistered charity. They were technically in breach of their rental agreement so on behalf of my clients who wanted the premises for offices; I had them evicted. When I’d finished talking about the obscure points of law that I had used to win the case we noticed that grandmother was crying. Mother asked here what was wrong, she replied, talking to me, ‘and what would you say if the young mums turned up on our doorstep? No room! No room at the inn!’ I had no reply, what could I say? I’d been concentrating so much on points of law and winning cases that I’d forgotten that real people were involved, and affected by my actions.”
Henry paused again, Peter thought he’d mention another thing he was terrified of, but after a few moments he continued.
“As soon as Christmas was over I contacted the woman who managed the charity. Out of respect for Christmas and the difficulty it would pose in finding accommodation the judge had given them until the end of January to move out. I offered to fight the case on the charity’s’ behalf for no fee. She was understandably suspicious as I’d virtually roasted her in court. But really they had no option as they could not afford anyone else, especially as I’d had costs awarded against them. We appealed the case and won. The corporation took it to the House of Lords; we still won. But I lost all my corporate clients in the process. I’d become a turncoat, a persona non grata. Actually I didn’t care; I had already made enough money to be comfortable for the rest of my life. I took up championing the underdog. I suppose I was a man with a mission, I fought cases for no money; cases on legal aid; cases funded by newspapers; any case where I thought large corporations were trampling over small people.”
Henry suddenly looked Peter in the eye, “I don’t want to force my values on my children, I am passionate about what I did, and still do. I know that I should let them work out their own values and seek out their own natural balance, but have I got the courage to let them?”