Felburgh

by Ivan B

  Peter thought quickly.

  “One: no one would be allowed in who has drunk more than one unit of alcohol. Two: I would hold a service in the back room, but not the bar; using the bar forces people who’ve come for a quiet drink to attend and I think that is wrong. Three: any baptisms take place in the church; I don’t mind officiating at an afternoon service, but they would be in the church. Four: no one tells the press. Five:” Peter paused; he knew what he wanted to say but did not want to sound patronizing. Damian helped him out,

  “Five: if you go you’ve got to be dead serious – no prating about.”

  Peter smiled.

  “That’s sort of what I mean; but we are allowed to enjoy ourselves as well.”

  Peter turned to Bronwyn.

  “Would you and Taffy allow that?”

  Bronwyn thought.

  “I’ll ask Taffy in a minute. Would you allow children in?”

  “What are the terms of your license?”

  “Children are allowed in the back room only, but I can’t serve liquor there.”

  “Then children are more than welcome.”

  Bronwyn got up and moved across to the bar to talk with her husband and . Kimberley virtually dragged Damian across the room towards the far table.

  Mark looked at Peter.

  “Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk? By all accounts you’re not the flavour of the month and if this goes wrong…”

  Peter looked around.

  “Would you bring this lot to St Nathaniel’s? They’d be like fish out of water. It wouldn’t be fair on them or the congregation there. I can’t stand by and not address their needs.”

  Mark shook his head.

  “Well, in for a penny in for a pound; I’ll come and help. Lucy might come to, although she is very wary of this place.”

  Mark suddenly looked around. Bronwyn was still at the bar and Kimberley and Damian on the other side of the room.

  “I think I can get rid of the paper.”

  “Not another burial,” groaned Peter.

  “Sort of, but at sea. I’ve got to replace the bilge pumps on a small trawler next week and will have to do a sea trial. If it’s reasonably calm we could easily drop something over the side.”

  “Easily and safely.”

  “Yes.”

  At that moment Bronwyn came back.

  “It’s on. Taffy also said he’ll get the piano tuned and provide some coffee and squash afterwards.”

  Peter smiled. His smile got even bigger when Kimberley and Damian came back.

  “They said they’ll come,” said Kimberley. “Tracy used to go to Sunday school at the Salvation Army and Jeremy said he thinks his parents were Methodists once.”

  “When do you want to start?” asked Peter.

  Damian surveyed his empty glass.

  “No time like the present; how about this Saturday?”

  “Fine,” said Peter.

  And so The Fisherman’s Friend Fellowship was born.

  Chapter 10

  Falling Into Routine

  The rest of the week after the visit to The Fisherman’s Friend was largely uneventful. Peter wrapped up his diocesan committee and promised to have the final report produced by the end of May. He spent his day off mooching around Felixstowe; this was steadily becoming one of his favorite haunts. On Saturday he had two sermons to finish: the first one for St Nathaniel’s, and the second for The Fisherman’s Friend. He’d decided there that he would go through the six baptismal vows one at a time, if he could get what they mean across, he would automatically give them the fundamentals of Christianity.

  Come Saturday evening Peter was not feeling quite as confident. First of all he should have inspected the back room. If the bar was a dingy hole, the back room was a total tip. There were tiles missing from the suspended ceiling; deep gouges in the walls, which were of a sort of dirty brown colour. But the pièce de résistance was the floor; it did have a carpet on it, but over half the pile had disappeared leaving a Hessian type weave behind. However there were plenty of clean plastic chairs and an old upright piano. When Mark arrived they set out a few chairs in a circle and a thin modern hymnbook on each seat. Peter decided that twelve would be enough. Then they waited. And waited. And waited. By 5:57 Peter had already decided that no one was coming. At 5:58 the door opened and in strolled Damian, followed by Kimberley carrying Sarah, followed by Tracy and Jeremy, followed by the majority of The Crippler’s and their girl friends and families. They quickly had to adjust the size of the circle up to twenty-six. Come 6pm Peter was facing a circle of faces in an awkward silence. Peter swallowed nervously.

  “I’ve never done this before; that is, held a service at the back of a pub and I’m not sure what to do. I’m also not sure what you are expecting. But I thought for a first try we could sing a couple of songs and I would talk about Baptism. Is that OK?”

  The response was total silence.

  “Right let’s start by singing All Things Bright and Beautiful; I believe most of you will know this.”

  Silence.

  “Does anybody play the piano?”

  Someone said, “C’mon David.”

  A tall thin spotty faced youth came forward and sat at the piano; Mark handed him a music copy of the hymnbook. He balanced it on the open lid of the piano, cracked his knuckles and launched into a raucous rock ‘n’ roll tune. Fifteen bars in he suddenly stopped, peered at the book and turned it over as if it had been upside down. He then played the introduction to All Things Bright and Beautiful perfectly. It was an old joke, but Peter couldn’t help laughing, neither could anyone else. This effectively broke the ice and from then on the service went well. Everyone joined in the singing and was clearly enjoying themselves. Peter spoke for twelve minutes on “Do you turn to Christ as Savior” and they closed by saying the Lord’s Prayer together (those that could remember it). True to his word Taffy opened up the hatch into the bar and served hot drinks and squash. During the mêlée afterwards David offered to learn a few of the tunes in the hymn book, Tracy offered to play her violin and Bronwyn, being clearly embarrassed about the state of the carpet, said that she’d find something clean for the children to play on.

  The following day Peter was back in the familiar setting of St Nathaniel’s for Holy Communion. The service had just started when halfway through the first hymn all the lights went out and the organ ground to a gasping halt. There was a pause and then a deep rumbling sound from the crypt, followed by half the lights and the sound system coming on. Mark came forward and whispered to Peter.

  “The power’s gone off; the army standby generator only covers a few lights and the sound system.”

  He then exited the church through the vestry pulling his mobile phone from his pocket as he did so. Dan walked down to the grand piano and they sang the hymn again. On an organ Dan was masterful; on a piano he was dreadful. Peter ploughed on, but by the next hymn he noticed that Jack had replaced Dan; this was a 1000% improvement and the rest of the service went without a hitch, but the power did not come back. After the service there was no coffee because there was no hot water, but people lingered and talked anyway. Mark sidled up to Peter when he was standing alone.

  “Power will be off for at least two hours: there’s been some sort of incident at a sub-station.”

  He looked furtively around the church.

  “It gave me a chance to check out the army power cable in the ditch. It’s intact, wherever Reginald got his electricity from it wasn’t the army.”

  Peter listened to the steady rumble of the generator.

  “Got some time this week? We must explore the basement thoroughly and I can’t resist having a go at counting the money.”

  “Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Fine, but after 1pm. Jo cleans on a Tuesday morning and she doesn’t always leave on time.”

  “OK.”

  Following the comparative success in the pub, Sunday afternoon was one of the worst moments in Peter’s ministry. When he
got home the police were waiting for him. The power was off because the son of one of his parishioners had climbed into a sub-station to retrieve his football that had got stuck on top of one of the transformers; he had died in the attempt. Peter spent the afternoon with the distraught parents. It was one of those occasions when there is nothing you can say; so Peter said nothing and just sat with them in their misery and cried his tears with theirs. The following morning, at the couple’s request, Peter visited them again and helped them deal with the police, who had sensibly held the paperwork off until the day after the tragedy. By the time he got home mid-morning the last thing he really wanted to do was visit Mothers and Toddlers; he would rather have gone to his prayer room and sat in silence. But Peter had promised himself he would visit so he popped in his lounge. At first it looked like chaos, and then Peter realized that the armchairs were in small groups and the children playing in the middle. Peter did not quite know which group to approach when Carol waved to him and he went over to her.

  “Can you start the baptismal classes next week? I’ve been asking around and there are eight of us who would like to come, but we can’t all make it this week; it’s too short a notice for some.”

  In the trauma of Sunday afternoon Peter had forgotten all about the baptism classes and grabbed for Carol’s lifeline.

  “Of course; let’s take our time. Is that four adults and four children or eight adults?”

  “At the moment three adults and five children, but by the time next week comes around it may be more. Is that enough for you to bother with?”

  “I’d do it for one,” Peter said with feeling.

  One of the other mums chipped in.

  “If we come along do we have to be baptized at the end?”

  “No, the idea of the classes is to explain baptism and for people to make up their minds.”

  The woman shook her head slightly.

  “That’s not what I meant. I was baptized as a child and I had Nigel done when he was six weeks old. But I was suffering from mild Post Natal Depression at the time and can’t remember a thing Revd Graye said about baptism. So I’m after a refresher course really.”

  “The more the merrier, “said Peter

  Carol laughed.

  “See that’s four adults and six children already!”

  Peter spent some time with Carol’s group and then moved round to the next. This was a much harder group to penetrate and Peter suffered five minutes of polite social conversation before moving on. The third group had Bunty; she launched in immediately.

  “I hear you’re starting baptism classes for those interested in having their children baptized.”

  Peter responded carefully.

  “Not just that, but if they want to think about baptism themselves or join in as a sort of refresher course… ”

  Of the four mums in the group two said they would like to join in on a refresher basis and one asked if she had to firmly commit to baptizing her child. Peter gave his previous response. By the time he got to the last group, where Harriet sat, word had got round and one mum tackled him as soon as he sat with them.

  “Do we have to have our children baptized to come to this group; I thought it was an open group?” She said beligerantly.

  “And so it is,” said Peter. “The baptism request does not come from me but one of the groups. I have placed no restrictions on the group, you and your children are welcome baptized or not baptized.”

  She pondered this and then launched into another abrupt question.

  “So Muslims would be allowed to come?”

  “Most certainly; they need as much company as you do and their children need to play like any other children.”

  “Not certain I’d want my children mixing with them.”

  “They’re probably equally as apprehensive about their children mixing with yours,” responded Harriet.

  The whole group fell about laughing. Just then Bunty declared it was midday and people started to get up to go. Harriet turned to Peter.

  “Did you mean what you say, open to all?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to start an afternoon group next week. There are a small group of mums from the so called dumping ground who are refugees from mixed countries, but nearly all Muslims; would you mind us asking them?”

  “Of course not.”

  Harriet went to see Bunty and after a quick discussion they both came back.

  “Peter you are sure about this. You could be opening yourself up to criticism.” Said Bunty.

  Peter looked at her.

  “Are you unhappy at including them?”

  “Of course not! But you are a Christian priest and some of our more vocal church members might say they should seek a Mothers and Toddler’s group at the nearest Mosque.”

  “Which is probably miles away,” said Peter. “And in any case if you want to breed mistrust you start with the children. They are all welcome here; God’s love embraces all, not just a select few.”

  “Here here!” responded Harriet.

  By the time Peter got back to his study he felt a lot better, but still ached inside for his parishioners with the dead son.

  That evening Peter held his first special council meeting; he knew from talks he’d had with various people since the AGM that everyone was coming prepared to argue their case. After welcoming everybody he tapped his agenda.

  “There are three items on our agenda for this special meeting. Missionary giving; what to do with the old warehouse site; and community involvement.” He paused. “I must say that I have been down to the old warehouse site since our AGM and had a look round. It covers a much larger ground area than I imagined and has enough space to accommodate more than a community centre.”

  Cameron chipped in.

  “You mean a community centre plus some residential housing for the elderly?”

  “Possibly,” said Peter. “But personally I would include some housing for the single, or those just starting married life. Felburgh may have what is called mixed housing, but as far as I can see from the estate agents adverts, there are precious few starter homes.”

  “Would we sell them or rent them?” Someone asked in a high pitched nasal voice.

  “I won’t answer that, nor do I think we need to discuss this anymore. We’ve all come here with our own agendas of what to do in these three areas, but what is God’s agenda? For this first meeting I’d like us to put all our papers to one side and pray about these areas of our ministry. Whatever we do we must be united not just going forward on small majority.”

  Initially silence greeted Peter, and then Sam said, “Novel approach-.”

  But before he could go any further the Major stood up.

  “That’s a good idea otherwise we’ll argue till the cows come home, so let’s not knock it.”

  “Do we just sit in silence for an hour?” Asked the nasal voice.

  “Not necessarily; prayer out loud is obviously allowed. I would suggest that we each offer to God our ideas, note that’s our ideas, not our criticisms of other people’s ideas, whether out loud or silently doesn’t matter; what does matter is that we listen to what God wants.”

  And that is exactly what happened, in fact the meeting continued in prayer for an hour and a half; they then shared the grace and left for home.

  Henry was last to leave and Peter wondered if Henry wanted to talk again, but he didn’t; at least not in depth.

  “I hope this is beneficial in the long term Peter. Don’t get me wrong I believe we should start with prayer; however I hope that not all the old agendas surface when we do start talking.”

  Henry then handed Peter an envelope.

  “This is from St Cedd’s school for the hearing impaired asking you to be their chaplain. I know you’re a busy man Peter and just settling into the Parish, but vicars who can use British Sign Language are few and far between.”

  Peter nodded and remembered the Bishop’s advice.

  “I agree, but am
I the right person for the job? It’s more than just language; it’s the ability to relate to the children. I’m not sure that is one of my gifts.”

  “You won’t know lest you try. In any case Caroline could sense your reluctance, so the offer is for a term’s trial. If it doesn’t work out at least we would have all given it a go.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Peter.

  “I’d rather you prayed about it,” said Henry.

  Peter grinned.

  “Oh, and can you thank Caroline again for the wonderful work she did in my lounge? The Mothers and Toddlers were overwhelmed.”

  Now it was Henry’s turn to smile.

  “Your payment is just about to start. I think Caroline wants to start painting your attic wall next week.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me. But she has one golden rule when she’s laying out a mural; she must not be disturbed at any price.”

  “Fine,” said Peter, “I won’t disturb.”

  Henry smiled at an inner joke.

  “She must not be disturbed, but she may disturb you. She has periods where she works non-stop and forgets the time. You may find her cooking snacks in your kitchen in the early hours of the morning; even then she must not be disturbed. She calls it her regroup think time. You may even find her sleeping on the floor of your attic; once she starts she can’t bear to stop until she thinks it’s basically laid out right.”

  “But what happens when it gets dark?”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’ll probably bring some artificial daylight lamps to work by anyway; apparently it gives her consistent and uniform lighting.”

  “Tell her she can come and go as she pleases and have the run of the kitchen – she can help herself to any of the microwave meals in the freezer, but she’d better put a sign on the door or Jo might try and clean the attic.”

  “If she does she’ll get a paint-pot thrown at her; and I’m not kidding! Some men change personalities when they get behind the wheel of a car; Caroline changes personality when she starts a singleton commission like this. She becomes moody, is prone to tantrums and may well scream a couple of times; you have been warned!”