Felburgh

by Ivan B

  “Peter, I’ve got a reply to our letter to the funeral parlor people; I’m afraid it’s not very encouraging.” She said after the usual pleasantries.

  “They’re supporting their man?”

  “Something like that. If you want to see the letter I’m in Felburgh this morning and just leaving, how about coffee at The Captain’s Table?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Peter quickly got ready and walked down to the captain’s table. The great thing about this café was that they allowed dogs in providing they were quiet and sat under the table. As Aquinas and Peter arrived so did Jane; they entered together and sat in the window. Peter noticed Jo and Lucy having coffee on the other side of the room and gave them a lazy wave. Jane showed Peter the letter. He read it carefully; in fact he had to read it twice because the English was so tortuous and poorly scripted.

  “Its gobbledygook,” said Peter, “pure gobbledygook.”

  “I agree, but the clear message is that they will not put the reins on Claude, so where do we go from here?”

  “I’ve already put an article in the Church magazine, it had zero effect. I was expecting howls of protest from Claude and some publicity; but nothing came of it.”

  Jane laughed.

  “Touché. I did exactly the same thing, with exactly the same response.”

  “I wonder if we should try and get the local press involved?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “But they may come out against us not for us. Claude does say that he is providing what the people want, and the number of funerals he does could be used to bear out that fact.”

  They pondered this and decided that they would not take unilateral action. They had a minister’s fraternal with the other clergy in the area next week; they decided to get it discussed there. Maybe they would come to a way forward together. Peter then sat back and relaxed as Jane told him all about her escapades with her sister; it seemed that they’d had a really good time.

  As Jane and Peter had coffee together Jo watched them from across the room; she thought how relaxed and easy they seemed together. They sat in the window, sea behind them and with the dog at their feet: just like the perfect couple. Jane as ever looked immaculate and self composed the complete antithesis of how Jo felt. She began to feel that changing her makeup was probably fruitless. Peter had been won. Lucy watched Jo gazing across the room and smiled inwardly; the expression on Jo’s face said it all.

  “Make a nice couple don’t they?” she said to Jo.

  Jo sighed.

  “They look made for one another.”

  “Just watch them say goodbye.”

  Jo didn’t think she could, but a few moments later Peter stood up and just walked away from the table with Aquinas following.

  “See what I mean,” said Lucy, “no peck on the cheek, no touch of the hand; nothing.”

  Jo responded.

  “Probably early days.”

  “No, they are not going out.”

  “What?”

  Lucy laughed.

  “She’s going out with somebody else. I saw them the other night sitting on picnic bench behind the restaurant in Minsmere bird reserve. He had his arm around her and she was snuggling into him. Better body language than that goodbye.”

  “Oh. Who is it?”

  Lucy grinned.

  “Not saying. They had obviously taken the trouble to meet outside Jane’s parishes and in comparative secret. If the relationship matures you’ll know soon enough.”

  Jo pondered this; she had not considered before that Peter was public property and anything he did in his parish would be scrutinized and conclusions drawn.

  She turned to Lucy.

  “How did you know?”

  “You mean how did I know you fancy him? It was written all over your face as you watched them.”

  Lucy was sure that Jo was blushing, but it was impossible to tell with all that make-up.

  Jo looked at Lucy.

  “Please don’t tell anyone; it’s probably just a total fantasy.”

  “Some dreams come true,” said Lucy wistfully.

  “Some dreams come true – mine did.”

  That evening Mark turned up at the vicarage. He surveyed Peter who was dressed in a pair of casual trousers and shoes.

  “Bit posh for The Fisherman’s Friend, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”

  Peter noted that Mark was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and old trainers. He considered his options and went upstairs to change. He came down in a pair of brown cords and plimsolls.

  “Don’t possess any trainers or jeans,” he said.

  Mark rolled his eyes and they walked to the pub.

  Peter had been to most parts of the town and even looked in most of the other pubs, but heeding Mark’s first description of it not being friendly he had not ventured into The Fisherman’s Friend. Basically in was a dingy hole. The floor was bare with the boards old and stained. The atmosphere was drab with the lingering odor of stale beer and vomit. The clientele looked harmless, but then so do swans. They walked up to the bar and Peter noticed the landlord; he looked like a heavyweight prize-fighter that’d gone fifteen rounds with a cement mixer. Damian appeared from nowhere and offered to by Peter a drink.

  “Thanks, I’ll have a half of Bitter.”

  Damian looked unimpressed.

  “They serve sixteen different types of lager here.”

  Peter could think of nothing worse, well perhaps seventeen different types of lager.

  “I prefer Bitter.”

  The landlord looked at Peter.

  “St Cedd’s or Draper’s?”

  “I’ll try St Cedd’s”

  Mark nudged Peter.

  “You’d better go easy on that, it blows your socks off.”

  The landlord returned with the Bitter and handed it to Peter

  “First drink is on the house; my name is Taffy.”

  He offered a giant knarled paw to Peter, who duly shook it. Damian led them into the back room; this was even more threadbare then the front room, but obviously the home of The Cripplers as Peter recognized a few faces. He took them to the far table and sat down. Peter suddenly realized that there were no women in the pub; it seemed to be a male only enclave.

  Damian grimaced.

  “Sorry about the wedding vicar, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble I only wanted to stop the wedding.”

  Peter was incredulous.

  “You mean you were sick over me deliberately?”

  Damian grinned impishly.

  “Well I didn’t intend to be so sick over you; I intended do a little bit.”

  Peter was still perplexed.

  “Well why on earth did you want to stop the wedding in the first place?”

  Damian took a large swig of larger and put his glass down.

  “I didn’t feel I was doing right by Kimberley. If we ever shack up I want it to be our decision not her fathers.”

  A glimmer of light started to dawn in Peter’s brain.

  “You mean it really was a shotgun wedding?”

  Now it was Damian’s turn to look perplexed. Mark chipped in.

  “He means were you being forced into it?”

  “To true.”

  Peter didn’t reply, so Damian continued.

  “I work on the Felburgh Estate and Kimberley started working in our office as junior receptionist. We got talking and before I knew it we started having lunch together in the local café when I was working close enough to the office to get there. Then she found out that I played football and came to watch the team on Sunday mornings. She’d watch the match and have a drink with us afterwards. We met like this for about half a season, but she wouldn’t let me take her out. Then one Sunday morning she didn’t appear but her big brute of a father did. He took me round the back of the changing rooms and gave me a real pasting; he told me if I even went near his daughter again he’d make sure I’d never walk again. Believe me, I knew he meant it. See
ms Kimberley had told him she was going to church, I wondered why she only drank red wine, but he had found out the truth. Kimberley didn’t appear at work and I was told she had found another job.”

  Damian paused for another swig.

  “Then out of the blue three months later her father appears here and tries to take me round the back of the pub, but luckily I saw him coming and got Taffy to stand by me. He called me all the names under the sun and said that if I didn’t make an honest woman out of Kimberley he’d have my balls for breakfast. He told me that the wedding would be in six months time, as he wasn’t having any daughter of his walking down the aisle pregnant. Don’t get me wrong vicar, I fancy Kimberley something rotten but I hadn’t slept with her and to be honest we’d only kissed once.”

  Damian paused for a drink and Mark remarked that it must have been a real powerful kiss!

  Damian grinned and continued.

  “I managed to meet Kimberley for a short time in the hospital when she went for a check-up. She’d dropped me a note there and said she would intentionally give her mother the slip. She said that she didn’t want to marry me just because she was pregnant, but if she didn’t she was worried what her father would do to me. She hadn’t dared tell him who the real father was and she certainly didn’t want to marry him. She said she was sorry she’d mucked things up. I said that I’d find a way to stop the wedding and me an’ my mates came up with the idea of nobbling you. It’s simple really, no vicar no wedding.”

  Peter laughed; the absurdity of it hit him. .

  “What made you think that her father wouldn’t make you go through with it on another day.”

  Damian’s grin got even wider.

  “Because Kimberley and I planned that she would do a runner in the confusion.”

  “But you said you met her only once and for a short time,” said Mark.

  “Yeah, but I slipped her a mobile phone her dad didn’t know about.. Her dad thinks she was doing research on the Internet about baby care, but she was really talking to me on the mobile. I promised to somehow stop the wedding and cause enough confusion so that she could get away.”

  “Where is she now?” Said Mark.

  Damian became conspiratorial.

  “Here.”

  “Here?” Said Peter and Mark almost together.

  Damian nodded as he finished off his pint. Taffy and Bronwyn have a flat over the pub and she and Sarah are using their spare room. I figured that even her father wouldn’t bother her with Taffy around.”

  “Sarah’s her daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  Peter asked.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Fine,” replied Damian. “Just fine. But she’ll have to move somewhere else soon; it’s not fair on Taffy and Bronwyn.”

  Mark said.

  “Will she look for a flat?”

  “Can’t afford it. She should be entitled to housing benefit, but the powers that be have declared her intentionally homeless.”

  Mark said.

  “Good grief.”

  Damian said.

  “Don’t worry we’ve got the heavy guns on the case. Bunty and Harriet are planning a dawn raid on the Social Security Offices tomorrow.”

  Peter took another sip of the bitter.

  “Will you get married?”

  “Like to, and so would Kimberley. But not this year.”

  Damian eyed Peter over the table.

  “She’s just had Sarah and is adjusting to being a mother. She needs to find her feet with Sarah first and then she’ll begin to know if she really wants to marry me. It’s a serious business you know vicar; you should not enter into it lightly.”

  Mark nearly choked on his beer.

  They continued their conversation for another ten minutes with Damian telling them all about The Cripplers and Peter saying that Rugby had been his game. As Peter was just beginning to sup his second half-pint a door in the rear of the pub opened and a steady stream of women appeared.

  “Woman’s hour arrived?” Quipped Mark.

  Damian laughed.

  “No, they’ve been out the back in the function room having a talk on childhood development by one of the local doctors.”

  “Do they often have talks?” asked Peter.

  “Once a week there’s a speaker on something or other; last week it was pensions. Bronwyn started it all. She said that they liked the trade but it was wrong for us all to come here and mentally fossilize, so she arranges the talks. We take it in turns; men decide one week, women the next.”

  “So pensions were the men’s choice.” said Mark.

  “Too true, have you ever tried to work out what’s right and wrong? I hadn’t until Kimberley told me she was pregnant.”

  “Are you any the wiser?”

  “Possibly, we’ve got another pensions advisor coming next week, and we intend to ask him all the same questions.”

  At that point Kimberley came through the door and started towards the table where they were seated. As Peter stood up (he was the only one to do so) Kimberley froze in her tracks. Damian got up and went over to her and whispered in her ear. A look of relief spread across her face and she came and sat down. A few moments later an older woman joined them and placed two glasses of white wine on the table . Damian introduced everyone; the woman was Bronwyn. She was wearing a dark brown knitted dress and had her black hair in a bun. She had that look about her that meant no nonsense, but soft brown eyes with prominent laughter lines.

  “So you’re the vicar all the controversy was about?” She said in a thick Welsh accent.

  Peter’s heart almost stopped.

  “What controversy?”

  “Holding a rowdy establishment, I thought that only happened to publicans.”

  Peter relaxed; she meant controversy here, not in his former parish.

  “You should come on a Sunday,” said Mark dryly . “The services are really wild.”

  “Not as wild as Damian’s football,” said Bronwyn.

  Kimberley spoke upfor the first time.

  “I’m really sorry Father I, I mean we, didn’t mean…”

  Peter smiled.

  “That’s OK. I’d rather I didn’t marry you if you were being forced into it. But I would be happy to marry you when it is your own decision.”

  Kimberly still looked apprehensive; she was such a timid young thing Peter thought.

  “You did ask me in the church porch if I wanted to go through with it and I almost said no then, but dad’s grip on my arm was so tight I didn’t dare.”

  “Have you seen him since the wedding?” Peter asked.

  Kimberley shook her head.

  “I have talked with mum on the ‘phone. I think she understands. She does miss seeing Sarah terribly.”

  Bronwyn chipped in.

  “Are you going to let her see Sarah soon?”

  “Only if I can be sure that they’re not going to try anything.”

  Kimberley turned her attention to Peter.

  “Father would you be prepared to baptize my child?”

  “Of course, but I would probably need to talk to you about what baptism means first. And the name is Peter.”

  Kimberley shook her head.

  “I can’t call you Peter.”

  Bronwyn said.

  “She has been thinking about godparents.”

  Kimberley nodded.

  “Bronwyn, my friend Tracy and Damian.”

  Peter thought about this.

  “You might like to break with tradition and have two male godparents. If Damian does marry you he will be in a slightly different position that most Godparents.”

  “Oh I thought you were only allowed three; in that case I’ll have Jeremy as well. He was Damian’s best man.”

  Peter leant forward.

  “There are two things you’ve got to consider; firstly all the godparents have to be baptized, and secondly you will all promise to bring Sarah up in the Christian faith.”

  Kimb
erley looked at Bronwyn and Damian.

  “Have you been baptized?”

  Bronwynnodded.

  “Baptized and confirmed in the Church of Wales.”

  Damian looked sheepish.

  “No.”

  Kimberley got up and walked over to another table and talked to the people on it; the lighting was so bad in that part of the pub that Peter could not recognize any faces. Kimberley came back.

  “Neither has Tracy or Jeremy.”

  She suddenly looked like she was going to burst into tears.

  Mark suddenly spoke.

  “Couldn’t you baptize them all together?

  “Could you Father?” said Kimberley.

  Peter thought for a moment, but before he could answer Bronwyn spoke up.

  “That wouldn’t be right if they were only being baptized to be godparents. They’ve got to mean what they say. When’s the last time any of you went to church except for the odd wedding or funeral?”

  “I would not want to force anyone to church,” Peter replied. “People have to come because they want to not because they feel they should.”

  “And church is on Sunday mornings,” said Damian.

  “Father,” said Kimberley.

  “Try calling me Padre,” said Peter.

  “Padre, wouldn’t Sarah go to hell if she wasn’t baptized.”

  Before Peter could answer that, old chestnut Bronwyn spoke up again.

  “There might be a way out of this. The last pub we ran was in Gwent and the vicar there had some ideas I thought were a little odd at the time. One of them is that he said that there were other ways of being church than going to a medieval building on a Sunday morning. He used to run a service in the bar on a Sunday morning just before opening time, couldn’t we do that here?”

  “When’s opening time?” asked Peter

  “Noon,” replied Mark.

  Peter shook his head.

  “Timing’s all wrong.”

  “Does it have to be on a Sunday?” pleaded Damian.

  Peter suddenly clapped his hands.

  “No, it doesn’t. I could have a service here on a Saturday evening,” and seeing Damian’s expression went on, “after the football results.”

  Bronwyn nodded.

  “About 6pm?”

  “Yes, but there would have to be some ground-rules.”

  “Such as,” said Damian