Felburgh

by Ivan B

  Peter was actually secretly pleased; he was embarrassed about the size of the vicarage for a single man and this was all being done at the instigation of someone else so Jasper could not accuse him of gaining yet another female acolyte. Peter smiled at them.

  “I’m quite happy. Where do I sign?”

  Harriet whipped out a contract from her capacious handbag and handed it to Peter.

  “Here and here,” she said.

  Peter duly signed. Then turned to Harriet.

  “Albert’s got a key to the flat so he can use the toilet. You’d better pass that key on.”

  Harriet nodded.

  “But he doesn’t use it. What you thought was a cupboard full of tools off the back of the conservatory is actually an old-fashioned toilet complete with overhead cistern and cold tap. He’s taken to using that.”

  Peter remembered what he had stored under the eaves.

  “When will she move in?”

  Bunty replied.

  “Were off to the Diocesan office now so the paperwork will be complete by tonight. We were rather hoping that she could move in Thursday.”

  “Fine,” said Peter. “But you’d better warn her about Bryan, I don’t want his yelling and thumping scaring her to death.”

  Harriet smiled at Peter as if he were a seven-year-old schoolboy who’d asked a daft question. “According to Albert, Bryan only comes irregularly now. Bryan started chatting to Albert because he’s interested in horticulture; apparently he’s taken up cricket; he plays for the school first team and is one of their fast bowlers.”

  Peter smiled inwardly, as usual Harriet and Bunty had got every angle covered. They didn’t want to stay for a tea as their mission now called them to the Diocesan offices. Peter showed them out; then he rang Mark to arrange for help in shifting the money yet again.

  Late in the afternoon the doorbell rang again. Peter opened the door and a young lady was standing on his doorstep with a large carpetbag and a rucksack. She was about five foot six with black hair in a plat down to her shoulder blades and with what you would call a wholesome physic; neither excessively plump nor able to fit easily in a size 14. Peter gave his usual smile.

  “Hello, can I help.”

  “Hi, I’m Charmian Glazier.”

  Peter must have looked blank because she added, “Two weeks ago I was Charmian Parker.”

  Peter still was at a loss. So she added, The Reverend Charmian Parker.”

  The Penny dropped and Peter burst into laughter, much to the displeasure of the young lady.

  “Come in,” he said, “and I will explain all.”

  Peter took her into the kitchen to talk as he made a drink; he explained that he’d been told that her name was Charlie Parker and that the Archdeacon had deliberately placed her here because he thought that having a male curate around would cramp Peter’s style. Charmian thought it was a great joke. They went into the lounge and sat down. Charmian looked around.

  “Well it’s different; I bet your kids love it.”

  Peter smiled.

  “I’m not married; the Mothers and Toddlers group use this room.”

  Now it was Charmian’s turn to laugh.

  “I was told that I was being placed with a clergy couple as I specifically asked to be in a team with a female priest.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” said Peter. “How come you are here in the first place?”

  Charmian considered where to start.

  “I was initially sponsored by the Diocese of Lindisfarne so a placement in the North of England is what I more or less expected. When the Bishop asked me where I’d like to go I said anywhere, but if it was a team ministry I would value the presence of a woman priest in the team. To be honest, I didn’t want to be the only women in a group of men. So I was initially targeted on a parish near Newcastle, but two months before I left college there was some sort of problem there and I was moved to Berwick. This suited me fine; the churchmanship was high church and there were three people in the team, one of them being a woman. I found Berwick wonderful; the congregations were friendly and the team very supportive. Then two months ago all hell broke loose; one of the team vicars was discovered having an affair with a churchwarden’s wife. He resigned and they left the area, but the fallout continued. It turned out that the Team Rector had known of the possibility of the affair and privately warned the vicar on two occasions, but to no avail. Rather than take the matter further, he had buried his head in the sand hoping it would go away, but it didn’t. Once this was disclosed the Team Rector resigned; his wife was the female priest so she too is destined to move when the rector finds another post. So there I was, ten months into my first year and two months away from my ordination as priest, and the only clergy left in the team. The Dean of Alnwick took over the benefice as a temporary measure and I must admit he was marvelous, but he didn’t have time to look after me as well. The Bishop pulled me straight out and said that he would find me another position, but due to the time of year it might not be in his Diocese. Frankly I was relieved: I felt like the meat in a very unpleasant sandwich. One week later he told me I was coming here to stay with a clergy couple and finish my curacy.”

  She paused and Peter pointed at her wedding ring.

  “Meanwhile you got married?”

  She gave a broad smile.

  “Yes, I married Angus fifteen days ago.”

  “Is he coming to Felburgh?”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s an officer on a nuclear submarine. We just fitted in the wedding at the end of his shore leave; he’ll be back in around eight months and I can’t wait!”

  “What sort of officer?”

  She grinned.

  “He doubles up; he is both the ship’s chaplain and doctor.”

  Peter thought where to go from here and decided to lay his cards on the table; this young lady had been pushed round enough.

  “On my side of the equation I was offered a curate out of the blue; I am definitely not the Archdeacon’s flavour of the month, but he is a good friend of the Dean of Alnwick and I suspect more than a few strings have been pulled. Felburgh is not a team ministry; it’s a singleton post, although I do work closely with the Rural Dean Jane Sato; she is in the next door group of parishes. This is not an easy post - don’t get me wrong, I’m beginning to like Felburgh – but the church council and I do not have a harmonious relationship.”

  Peter paused wondering where to go next.

  “I live alone, so there is no question of you staying here and the churchmanship of St Nathaniel’s is middle of the road.”

  “Can you expand on that?”

  “I wear a simple alb for most services. There is a set of chasubles, but I don’t use them; in any case they were made for midgets and only come down to my knees. I don’t have a set time for confessions, but I will listen to them if people request me to do so privately.”

  She considered all this and rocked her head from side to side.

  “So let me see if I’ve got this right: Not a high church. Not a clergy couple. Not staying here. Not a team ministry.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  She paused.

  “What’s the most exciting thing going on here at the moment?”

  “I’m holding a modified form of a church service in a pub and loving every minute of it.”

  She sat very still. Peter realized that she had been sold up the river, probably unintentionally, but nevertheless fed totally the wrong information. Peter leant back and smiled.

  “Notwithstanding all that, I would love to have you as my curate. Most of these difficulties can be overcome. For instance I could arrange for you to have Jane Sato as a mentor and possibly have a placement with her later on in your curacy. But I feel it only fair to warn you about one more thing.”

  Peter paused to get the right words.

  “I tend to be accident prone. If someone is going to fall foul of Parkinson’s Law, it will be me. If you are associated w
ith me, some of the flack may stick to you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘accident prone’?”

  Peter smiled.

  “One of my most recent weddings ended in a punch-up before I got to the vows and one day when I let the Archdeacon in there were two nude ladies in my hall. To be correct only one was nude, but it was hard to tell the difference.”

  Charmian laughed.

  “Interesting ministry then?”

  “Very interesting. I could already write a book and I’ve only been here just on five months.”

  Charmian gazed at a picture of Daniel in the lion’s den.

  “In reality I’ve got nowhere else to go. You’re Archdeacon made it quite plain; I’ve got to make a success of my curacy here or consider my options.”

  “So you’ll stay?”

  “Yes.”

  Peter then realized what Charmian had said .

  “So you’ve met Jasper?”

  She shook her head.

  “We did it all by e-mail.”

  “So he has not realized that you are not Charlie Parker?”

  She stared at Peter.

  “My e-mail address starts char parker so he wouldn’t have known I’m Charmian.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Joy.”

  Peter then asked her again if she wanted to stay. She nodded.

  “Right,” he said. “Let’s get you some accommodation and get you licensed by the Bishop before dear old Jasper finds out.”

  Peter then rang Jane, who thought the whole mix up was very amusing and could only happen to him. They arranged for Charmian to stay at Jane’s for a couple of nights and Jane said that she would tackle the Housing Department first thing in the morning, and that she would not involve Jasper who in any case was away at an Archdeacon’s conference. Peter then rang the Bishop; this was a more delicate communication. As usual the Bishop was at work even though most people would have stopped by now. Peter explained the situation honestly: the Bishop had been a great support to him and he was not about to pull the wool over his eyes. To Peter’s relief the Bishop laughed uproariously.

  “I’d love to license Charmian,” he chortled. “But I’m busy for the next four Sundays with confirmations.”

  Peter heard him shuffling diary pages. The he muttered something under his breath.

  “Oh blow it. I’m free for eight o’clock communion this Sunday morning – that’s my only offer.”

  “Done”

  Peter went back to Charmian and told her how to get to Jane’s and that she would be licensed in five days time. He also told her to spend the rest of the week wandering around Felburgh and getting to know the place. Charmian was obviously pleased.

  “It’ll be good to get back to working in a normal environment,” she said.

  Peter wondered if she had any concept of what ‘normal’ had come to mean in this particular parish.

  When Charmian had gone Peter went into his study and prayed for a while; he had a phone call to make that he had been putting off, but Charmian’s arrival had forced his hand. He phoned the Major. As had become usual the Major was brusque . Once the so-called niceties were out the way Peter got down to business,

  “George I’d like you to spread the word. Our curate has arrived and the Bishop is going to license them at the 8 o’ clock service.”

  “But Jasper is away.”

  “The early morning service is all the Bishop can manage and we need the licensing service before they can start work.”

  “Very well. It will be a change to have more than the usual motley gathering at 8 o’clock.”

  The Major paused, and then continued.

  “But of course it will still be a Book of Common Prayer Service.”

  “Of course.”

  “Right, I’ll get it all arranged. Anything else?”

  “Actually, yes. I shall be holding Baptismal services next Sunday and a fortnight later.”

  Before Peter could continue the Major interrupted.

  “Do I have to remind you Peter that our policy is that babies are baptized within the format of the morning service unless there is good reason not to do so?”

  “I believe there is a good reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “This Sunday I’ll be baptizing twenty-seven people; nineteen adults and eight children. The other Sunday I’ll be baptizing five adults and eight children.”

  There was a pause.

  “Did you say twenty-seven one Sunday and thirteen the next?”

  “Yes.”

  There was another pause; the Major was obviously finding this difficult to digest. Eventually he snapped,

  “And have they been properly prepared or have you just raked them in off the street?”

  “Each adult has had a series of six baptismal classes or heard six sermons on the baptismal vows; they all understand what they are doing,” replied Peter, who was desperately trying to keep his patience.

  “Is some of this the result of your fraternizing with the riotous pub crowd?”

  “Yes.”

  “And once you’ve done this mass baptism will you stop?”

  “No.”

  The Major was silent again, but before he could say something uncivil Peter butted in.

  “I seem to remember there was someone else who was accused of eating with publicans and sinners.”

  “Eating,” replied the major swiftly, “not drinking.”

  Peter thought of reminding the Major that in Bible times every meal was accompanied by wine, but decided against it. The Major then asked if he wanted him there.

  “It would be nice if you came and supported them, but it is not necessary.” Peter then could not resist adding, “Unless of course you think there might be a riot and you are needed to keep control!”

  But the only reply Peter got was a swift goodnight and the Major’s phone being placed on its cradle.

  On Wednesday morning Peter visited St Cedd’s school again. This visit just reinforced to Peter what he was fearful of; namely that he would be a useless chaplain. He saw some lessons in progress, talked to some of the pupils and took an RE lesson; but he did not manage to actually relate to the children. The only good thing about the visit was the computer; the school now had it up and running. They were using it, via the Internet; to allow pupils and teachers to chat to other schools for the hearing impaired.

  “It’s marvelous,” said the teacher in charge, “it’s a state of the art machine we could never have afforded. It’s already making a difference.”

  On his way home Peter resolved to see the term out, but doubted that he would stay beyond that.

  When he arrived home Mark had also just arrived; so they spent some time moving the money from the under-eaves storage in the studio flat to the bottom drawers of one of Peter’s filing cabinets. Once finished Mark remarked.

  “What’s happened to the paper?”

  Peter grinned.

  “When the Navy was here-.”

  “I thought they were the Army,” interrupted Mark.

  “Believe me, they were the Navy – but don’t tell that to anyone else. When they were here pumping tons of concrete under the floor of the crypt I packed the paper into three sacks and talked to the officer in charge. I was a bit economical with the truth, but I told him that the paper had been left behind by a now dead parishioner and it was proving to be an embarrassment to the relatives. I then asked if it could be placed in the liquid concrete. The officer was very obliging and he had his men collect it and dump it in the concrete.”

  “You are sure they disposed of it?”

  “Absolutely, I watched the whole procedure.”

  Peter then changed tack.

  “I saw the article in the paper about the life-boat collection. Seems that worked out well.”

  Mark nodded.

  “But there was one problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “When I emptied that moneybag out there was a snub-nosed revolver in
the middle of the coins.”

  Peter was aghast.

  “Where is it now?”

  “The bottom of the North Sea. But it does indicate the sort of world Reginald was mixing in.”

  Without a word Peter got out the three other moneybags and they emptied them out one by one. The bags holding the pound coins held nothing else, but the one containing two-pound coins also had a box of bullets in it. They put the moneybags back in the cabinet and stared at the bullets . Mark spoke first, “I’ve got some more sea trials tomorrow, what me to get rid of them?”

  “You can do it without being seen?”

  “Easily, old Ted will be below testing the pumps and I’ll be on deck. Piece of cake.”

  Peter handed him the box.

  “Be careful; I don’t want you being arrested as a terrorist.”

  Mark stuffed the box in his jacket pocket.

  “What are we going to do with the money?”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m not sure. The major problem is how to launder it.”

  Mark looked quizzically at Peter, so he continued.

  “It’s one thing dropping a few coins or notes in the right place, but to dispose of the bulk of it we’ve got to be able to write cheques. Writing cheques means having a bank account and I can’t just walk into a bank and hand over a third of a million in cash. They might reasonably ask a few questions.”

  “Or think it was dirty money from drugs.”

  “It just might be Mark; we will never know,” Peter sighed, “But I do know I want to put it to good use.”

  “Any ideas so far?”

  “Only hazy ones. I’d like to plough some money into St Cedd’s school and I’d like to do something about the lack of affordable housing for young people.”

  “And I’d like us to put some of the money into the facilities as the Seamen’s mission – they could do with a better Internet Café – and start some sort of sponsorship fund for people who want to take a year out and work with Christian Missions abroad.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking much along the same lines; and I also know a drug rehabilitation unit run by a Christian Community that could do with an injection of cash.”