Felburgh

by Ivan B

  “It would be a shame if we couldn’t make good use of this,” murmured Mark, “there’s many a charity would give their right arm for a sum like this.”

  Peter walked over to the tunnel entrance and picked up some gloves, he gave a pair to Mark and walked over to the computer. The side cover was not screwed on and lifted off easily. Peter unplugged the red hard-drive and placed it on the desk. He carefully put the cover back on. “And what do we do with this piece of kit?” he asked?

  “The drive or the whole computer?”

  “Both. No wait I think I know how to get rid of the hard-drive.”

  Mark replied, “And I think I know how to get rid of the body.”

  Peter looked at him, Mark pointed vaguely towards the church.

  “Can you wait till next Wednesday? If you remember there’s a funeral on Thursday morning.”

  Peter did remember. The Churchyard was officially closed as it was full; however people were still allowed to be buried if they had rights to half of a double plot or a family grave. Peter had given permission for a double plot to be used, but he wasn’t taking the funeral it was one of the town’s retired ministers. Mark smiled at the thought of his deception.

  “Remember I’m the verger so I have to arrange for the grave to be dug. I’ve hired a mini-digger and it should be here early on Wednesday morning. I’ll dig the grave real deep, and Wednesday night you and me can slip the old Vicar here into the bottom and cover him up. Once the real burial has taken place no one will ever know.”

  Peter was not sure if this was a good plan.

  “Won’t Lucy be suspicious?”

  “No, as luck would have it she doesn’t return until Thursday morning; I have to meet her at Ipswich station just before mid-day.”

  There was not much more to say, so Peter picked up the hard-drive and they made their way out of the shelter.

  After Mark had gone Peter went out in search of The Reject Farm, when he got there he found Tom washing down a Jaguar. Tom grinned at Peter like a schoolboy going to his first disco.

  “Got a date tonight so I thought I’d give to old girl a bit of spit ‘n’ polish.”

  “Nice car,” said Peter, “Better than the battered wreck I saw you in last-time!”

  “I try not to take it out in the rain and there is always a driveable wreck or two lying around.”

  Peter must have looked surprise as he hastily added.

  “Don’t worry I make sure that they are legal.”

  “Tom,” said Peter hesitantly, “I need a favour.”

  “Ask away squire.”

  Peter pulled the red hard-drive out of his pocket.

  “I need this totally destroyed.”

  “Yours?”

  “No, it belongs to a Parishioner who no longer wishes to have the contents available.”

  “Oh,” said Tom, “a confession job. Come this way.”

  Tom led Peter over to the office hut.

  “Put it here,” he said indicating an old anvil. He then disappeared into the hut. When he reappeared he had a sledgehammer. He grinned at Peter and walloped the drive hard; it exploded with the sheer force of the impact. Tome gathered up all the larger pieces and took them to an old wreck of a car at the other end of the yard and threw them inside. He then climbed in a forklift and used it to place the vehicle in a large piece of machinery. Tom then started the machine; it crushed the car to a cube.

  “Good enough?”

  “Good enough,” said Peter

  Tom then took Peter into his caravan and they had a cup of tea together. They talked over the drink, but Tom did not ask one single question about the hard-drive.

  As Peter left he asked Tom who the lucky lady was, Tom just shrugged.

  “A fellow bird-watcher – don’t worry she’s not from your congregation.”

  As Peter drove away he thought to himself, ‘that’s disposed of the hard drive, now there’s just the problem of the body.’

  Sunday it was business as usual, two services at Felburgh and an afternoon service at one of the residential nursing homes. He spent the evening scanning through all the local history books he’d acquired from the library on Felburgh. Not one of them mentioned the Navy occupying his house during the war, whereas virtually all of them mentioned the surprise mock D-day landings and how the town woke up to hoards of troops coming from the sea.

  Monday turned out not to be as planned. Just as Peter was settling down to his morning prayer time the phone had rung. When Peter arrived at the hospice he was shown in to a single room where there was a dying woman. She was obviously weak, but had not yet reached the stage of being in a drug induced coma. The nurse sat her up and left the room.

  Peter was always at a loss on first meeting a sick person he did not know, so he went for a bland opening.

  “Hello, I’m Peter the Felburgh Parish Priest, I believe you asked for me.”

  “I did,” she said. “But sit down young man you’re making my neck ache.”

  Peter smiled and did as he was told.

  “I’m Norma Pintle. I’ve been going to your church since I was a girl, except for the last few months; and I don’t expect I’ll be going there again, at least not while I’m alive.”

  Peter was always amazed at the way some people faced death in a matter of fact way.

  She continued, “But I want a promise from you young man.”

  “I’m listening,” said Peter not wanting to be manipulated into something he could not in all conscience do.

  “I want you to make sure that I don’t end up as one of Claude’s special packages. I want a proper burial and I want the service in your church.” This last statement was said with such passion that Norma took a minute or two to recover her equilibrium.

  Peter gave her a big smile.

  “I promise,” he said. “Is there a danger that your next of kin may not know your wishes?”

  “No adult next of kin left. I’m eighty-nine and I’ve outlived my husband, both my children, and my only grandchild. I do have a great grandchild, but she is only six. She may be my sole beneficiary, but she sure as houses can’t arrange my funeral!”

  Peter asked her gently what she wanted. She reached under her pillow and handed him an envelope. “It’s all in here. You don’t have to do it exactly as I say; it’s more that I want it in this manner.”

  Peter took the envelope.

  “Have you seen your great-grand daughter recently?”

  She smiled a smile of contentment.

  “We had tea yesterday. The nurses set us up a picnic in the day-room complete with Gingham tablecloth and her favourite chocolate cake. I thought that it was the best way to say goodbye.”

  Peter had no answer to that.

  Norma could see that Peter was struggling.

  “Don’t be sad young man, I’ve had a good life and I know when Gabriel’s blowing his horn calling me home.”

  She grabbed hold of Peter’s hand.

  “Will you please pray for me?”

  “Of course!”

  Peter prayed with her and stayed talking to her for about another half and hour, then she was clearly tired. Peter left her when she was asleep.

  When Peter got home his hall way looked like an advert for Mothercare; there were about twelve baby buggies of various designs. Mothers and Toddlers had obviously started. Actually Mothers and Toddlers had just finished, for as he entered his study, picking up his mail from the hall table on the way, the mums came down the stairs, and the organised chaos of departure started. When they had gone Peter went up to the attic to see Bunty, but she was sitting on the top step looking old and despondent.

  “It won’t work Peter, It won’t work,” she almost wailed, “There’s two flights of stairs to carry the toddlers up. The sloping roof of the attic means that the toddlers can go where adults can’t. We had two mums bang their heads. And the noise, the room just echoes with noise. And then there’s Carol.”

  “Who’s Carol?” Peter asked. />
  “She’s a young mum in a wheelchair; oh Peter, I can’t turn her away she’s isolated enough as it is.”

  “Right” said Peter, “We’ll use the lounge, I can shift what little furniture I have into the sitting room.”

  “Peter, I can’t take your lounge.”

  “O yes you can. We just have to move the furniture.”

  “That’s no problem,” said Bunty, “I’ll get the Fathers to move the furniture. We don’t meet now till after Easter so there is plenty of time. Are you sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  Bunty almost hugged him.

  Next on the agenda to take over Peter’s day was the post; when Peter finally got round to reading it there was a letter from the Diocese about the revised Churchwarden’s measure and its effect upon churchwardens responsibilities towards buildings. Peter knew that Henry should have this as soon as possible, especially as the AGM was only a few weeks away. Peter had not yet been to Henry’s, but a quick consultation with the map showed that Henry’s house was in the old town and not very far away. Peter decided to walk and he was soon at the correct address, Flat 1, 22 Jubilee Terrace or at least he though he was. The house was an old Victorian triple decker with a double frontage and a series of steps leading up to the door. As Peter walked down the path towards the steps the front door opened and a large woman stood, arms folded, at the top of the stairs. “And who are you?” she said in a voice that commanded obedience.

  “Hello, I’m Peter the new vicar, I’m looking for Caroline and Henry’s flat.”

  She was not impressed. “We don’t allow men here.”

  Peter decided to go on the attack. “And who is we?”

  It was no good; she just stood there with her arms folded.

  “I said we don’t allow men here, so bugger off.”

  Peter knew when he was beaten and retreated to the gate. He then walked past the house to see if he’d got the wrong address. No, the next house was number 24. Peter turned round and viewed the house from a different angle; from this view he could see a little metal sign saying ‘Flat 1’ and an arrow down the side of the house through a separate gate. Peter tried this entrance to the house and rang the bell. Caroline opened the door.

  Peter had not yet met Caroline although he had seen her once at the licensing service. If marks were awarded for natural beauty she would get twelve out of ten; she was stunning. Although he had not met Caroline before Peter knew one major thing about her, she was profoundly deaf. Peter smiled and in his best British Sign Language said, “Hello, I’ve come to give this letter to Henry.”

  Caroline invited him in. When they were upstairs (on the top floor noted Peter) Caroline turned and faced Peter and signed a question to him - she was too fast. Peter made the motion for please slow down, and she tried again.

  “Where did you learn to sign?”

  Peter replied trying to remember a language he hadn’t used for years.

  “My father was deaf and I learnt as a child, but I haven’t signed in nearly ten years, so please be kind to me.”

  They then had an on-off conversation as she made some tea. Peter had forgotten what it was like to fully communicate in silence.

  When they were finally in the lounge Caroline grinned and signed.

  “Did you try the front door?”

  “Yes and got warned off by Brunhild – ‘We don’t allow men.’”

  “It’s a woman’s refuge, we use the top floor and the attic, they have the lower two floors.”

  Peter nodded, and then asked.

  “And how are you? When is the baby due?”

  Caroline placed her hand on her tummy, then signed.

  “Three months, if she arrives on time.”

  “She?”

  “I think it will be a girl, Henry thinks it will be a boy, we’ll both be happy whatever.”

  Peter then asked the question that everybody would be asking, but no one dare put.

  “Is there a chance they will be deaf?”

  Caroline shook her head.

  “No, my mum had German Measles when she was pregnant and it left me deaf, our child should hear normally. They will hear what I have never heard, but they probably won’t feel what I feel.”

  “But you will teach them to sign?”

  Caroline looked at him as if he were stupid.

  Peter tried to recover.

  “Sorry stupid question. I never realised that other children didn’t sign to their parents until I was about seven. It came as quite a shock.” Peter continued, “Did Henry sign when you first met him?”

  “No, but he started classes without telling me about a month after we first met. But he doesn’t have to sign all the time, I can usually lip-read him without much trouble.”

  Then she spoke, as in spoke words in that careful enunciation of those who cannot hear their own voice. “And I can speak to him as well. It is funny but it is difficult for me to speak to you when you sign to me, or sign to Henry when he speaks to me. Your signing is not bad; you’ve begun to pick up speed even in the short time you have been here. Don’t waste the gift God has given you; I work at a school for the hearing impaired in Ipswich. We are looking for a chaplain - you might be the answer to our prayers.”

  Peter tried talking to her.

  “When I was a curate I took some services for the deaf, but have not signed in anger since then.”

  Caroline shook her head and signed.

  “Sorry I cannot lip-read you accurately, give me about five months in your company,”

  Peter replied - signing - “Sorry, I thought I’d give it a go. How long did it take you to lip-read Henry?”

  “About five weeks, but I was younger then and Henry hadn’t yet learnt to sign; it was either try and understand him or lose him. I take it he’s told you how we met?”

  “I’ve heard his side of the story.” Caroline smiled. Again Peter thought to himself that she had a face that magazine editors would die for.

  She switched to the spoken word again.

  “I spent most of my childhood in special schools for the deaf. That’s what they called them in those days, not schools for the hearing impaired. There were also only minimal attempts at integration into normal education. So when I was offered a temporary job in chambers, I was like a fish out of water. The head clerk did her best, but she could not sign and had to explain everything to me by a series of notes. However I could copy type and it was assumed that I could file alphabetically. I used to wear a little badge that said ‘Wearer is deaf, please be patient.” Henry took it off of me one day in the park and tossed it in the pond.”

  She paused.

  “I first saw Henry when he was looking for some files and obviously having trouble. I could tell by his body language that he was mad, and then he turned to face me and shouted something. I thought that I had got the sack and when he left the room I burst into tears. Margaret, the senior clerk, calmed me down and explained that the lawyers sometimes got a little uptight and told me that basically Henry was a good guy, but that he took on too many cases because he could never say no to a worthy cause. The next day there was a large bunch of white roses on my desk. When I say large I mean large, there were thirty seven roses in total; I still have one today, neatly pressed and in my Bible. I went to thank him and I think for the first time he noticed my little badge and he offered me dinner. I didn’t want sympathy and said no. He persisted and somehow he ended up buying me a sandwich in the park. I was going through a vegetarian phase and he bought me a venison sandwich. It was either eat it or upset him - he’d been so sweet I ate it. Here ended the vegetarian phase,” and Caroline laughed. At least Peter assumed it was laughter, it was a cross between a cackle and a cough.

  She continued. “The next week he appeared at my desk with a pack of sandwiches and we went to the park again. It became a regular routine. I was not looking for love; I was still struggling with life and dreaming of a young and handsome prince. At sometime or other, I’m not sure when,
I forgot about my handsome young prince and realised I had a handsome king. He was so shy about our relationship; I guess he was worried about the age gap and that people might think he was seducing me. We didn’t tell the staff in chambers for eighteen months; although, of course, they all new already. And he didn’t meet my parents till after then. They had guessed I was going out with somebody, but Peter came as rather a shock. Dad didn’t take to the idea well, but he’s reconciled to it now. Henry was so shy that I had to ask him to marry me; I figured that he would never pop the question.”

  Caroline stopped talking.

  Peter signed, “And you are happy?”

  Caroline smiled.

  “Blissfully. When we were married Henry said I didn’t have to work, but I could if I liked, and that I could do what I wanted to do not what other people forced upon me.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I really wanted to be a model. My looks were my greatest asset and I’d already had some offers – deafness is no bar to modelling. But I knew Henry would not be able to cope with the thought that other men were ogling over me and photographing me. She I took up me second love; painting.”

  “Oils or water-colours?” Peter asked.

  “Walls” she replied and fell into a fit of giggling. “I love painting murals.”

  Peter though for a minute. “Did you paint the side of the school?” The school Peter had noticed had a large mural down the side that faced the playground; it started with Dennis the Menace and Gnasher, and finished with Little Bo Peep.

  “Yes, we change it every year.”

  “And you get paid for this?”

  “Not by the school silly, but we do get paid for the murals we have painted in the Ipswich Underpasses and in railway stations and other public places.”

  Peter suddenly had an inspiration. “Do you take commissions?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “My lounge is a dingy brown, but we are going to use it for Mothers and Toddlers meetings. I would like the children to feel at home, so a simple mural with characters the children recognise would be a Godsend.”