Felburgh

by Ivan B

  They both sat and thought for a while. Mark eventuallt stirred from his dreaming.

  “Must go: due at the boatyard in twenty minutes. Don’t worry Peter; everything has worked out so far. There’ll be a solution somehow.”

  “I hope so Mark, I hope so,” replied Peter.

  The following day Charmian reappeared.

  “Jane said I ought to look round the church before Sunday and that I ought to have told you that before I entered the ministry I was a school teacher.”

  “What subject?”

  “French and sports.”

  “Any special sport?”

  “Hockey.”

  Peter handed her his set of church keys just as Jo came in through the front door. Peter introduced Charmian to Jo and told her she was the new curate; he also said that she used to teach French. Jo immediately spoke to her in French and they started up a conversation. Before Peter could interrupt the phone rang and Peter went into his study to answer it. Initially Jo was wary of Charmian: she had become used to having coffee with Peter alone on a Thursday and did not particularly want to share him. The one redeeming feature of Charmian was that she was sporting a brand-new wedding ring and an engagement ring the size of a small egg, so she would not be chasing Peter. However, as they chatted Jo warmed to Charmian; she was easy to talk to and obviously had had a rough ride in her previous parish. She was also clearly deeply in love with Angus. While Peter was out of the way Charmiangave a furtive look.

  “Do you know Peter well?”

  “Fairly well” replied Jo cautiously.

  “Has he got any quirks?”

  “Quirks?”

  “My last Team Rector would not fly or go abroad and absolutely loathed football.”

  Jo shook her head.

  “If he has any quirk it’s that he won’t say no and takes on far too much.”

  “That’s not a quirk, that’s general weakness in clergy!”

  Jo responded smartly.

  “I did not say he was weak!”

  Charmian was slightly taken aback by the response, and then realized that there might be more to the relationship between Jo and Peter than met the eye.

  “He did tell me he was accident prone.”

  Jo grinned.

  “I suppose he is; do you know he lost a whole Sunday school once?”

  Just then Peter re-appeared.

  “Diocesan Housing on the phone. They have found you a sea front flat in the old part of town. It only has three bedrooms and you’d have to use one of them for your study. Do you want to look at it? If so you’d better talk to them.”

  Charmian nipped into Peter’s study and told the office that she’d look at it as soon as possible. When she put the phone down she heard Jo and Peter moving away into the kitchen, so she took a few moments to survey Peter’s study. On the shelves were several theology books that she had found unreadable at college and a myriad of Bible commentaries. On his desk was a pile of books on transvestism and a report from some committee or other on transvestites and sexual deviates and the church. She was then surprised to find that Peter was the report’s author. The floor of his study was something different; there were various piles of papers and some unpacked boxes. What struck her most though was his tatty brown Bible for inscribed on the flyleaf was ‘To dear Peter from your favourite wife, I hope that this book gives you the inspiration you need.’ It was signed but apart from the capital letter J the signature was unreadable. She thought for a minute. Peter had said he was single and whoever J was she was now off the scene. She wondered if Jo knew that he had been – or perhaps still was – married. Charmian wandered round to the kitchen, Peter and Jo were both perched on barstools and in deep conversation. She made a swift decision.

  “I’m seeing the flat this afternoon – I’ll just pop over to the church for a mooch around it,” and she left them to it.

  They made an odd pair she thought; Peter looked every inch an other-worldly academic and Jo looked like nothing on earth, what could they possibly have in common? But she had already realized that there was more to Jo than met the eye. For a start her French was immaculate, but not the French of someone who’s learnt it at school: it was the French of a natural born Frenchwoman to whom the language came naturally and easily.

  Meanwhile Peter was explaining to Jo about Kimberley and the studio flat, and the fact that the whole thing had been a set up by Bunty and Harriet. Jo laughed.

  “Have you told the archdeacon that you now have a permanent female acolyte in your back garden?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “He’s a member of the Diocese Housing Board; I’ll let him find out that way. It’ll be safer for me.”

  They then talked about Danielle, Jo was worried that she had started smoking, but hadn’t caught her at it. Jo was also concerned because one of Danielle’s classmates had become pregnant.

  “She’s fourteen Peter, fourteen! And has her whole life before her, what’s she going to do with a child. And if she’s been having sex with the boys… ”

  “Danielle might be having sex with the boys,” Peter finished.

  Jo put her head in her hands.

  “I don’t even want to contemplate it Peter.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “About smoking?”

  “No, about sex with boys.”

  “Isn’t that terribly parental?”

  “You are her parent.”

  “It’s difficult you know Peter. I want to try and instill in Danielle the concept of a stable family life; you know Father, Mother and a couple of kids. But the images around her are all wrong. Half her class comes from homes where one or more parents are divorced. Half of them from homes where the parents are just living together and the other half – including Danielle – from single parent homes.”

  “That makes three halves,” said Peter.

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  Peter suddenly became pensive.

  “People might think that I have a hard job, that maybe so, but it is nothing compared to that of being a parent. The very thought of it would terrify me. It is one thing to make your own mistakes and having to live with them; it is totally another to make your mistakes and pass them, or the effects of them, on to the next generation.”

  They were both silent for a time and Jo suddenly sighed a forlorn long sigh.

  “Peter I have enjoyed our chats together over coffee. Thank you for listening to me as I rabbit on about Danielle.”

  Peter was confused.

  “Why the past tense?”

  “I guess Charmian will be joining us in future.”

  Peter had not thought about this at all and realized that, as usual in such a matter, Jo was streets ahead of him. He made a swift, and he thought later extremely selfish, decision.

  “I don’t think so. I’m going to ask Charmian to have Thursday as her day off. That way there will always be a minister on call in the parish.”

  Jo muttered, “Thank you,” and disappeared into the loo.

  Charmian reappeared about an hour later.

  “What a church,” she said, “it’s immaculate, well maintained and full of radio equipment.”

  “But do you think you could work there? There is still time to pull out.”

  “No,” she said, “I think you’re stuck with me.”

  There was a knock at the door and a heavily pregnant Caroline was on the doorstep, with her six female assistants behind her. She signed to Peter.

  “We want to come and take some photographs, and then the attic is all yours again. If you want us to cover the paintings up we’ll happy do so, but I’m also happy to leave them for future reference.”

  “Future reference?”

  “Remember York Minster and Peterborough Cathedral? Churches have a habit of burning down and it’s always nice to have the original planning painting tucked away somewhere.”

  “Then photograph to your heart’s content, but please don’t over-paint.
”

  Caroline gave Peter a searing look; “you haven’t been peeping have you?”

  “No, scouts honour.”

  Peter stood to one side and Caroline walked in. Charmian, who had been watching the whole silent process with interest, hesitatingly signed to Caroline, “hello.” Caroline replied “Hi, I’m Caroline and you are?” But she was far too fast for Charmian. Caroline tried again at about half the pace and with exaggerated correctness in the movements. They had a short and halting conversation then the group trooped upstairs. Peter turned to Charmian.

  “So you sign?”

  “Badly. I only started seven months ago when two deaf children joined the Sunday school. They were a pair of little devils and I thought they might improve if I could speak, or rather sign, their language.”

  “Did it make any difference?”

  “No.”

  “You learnt a remarkable amount in seven months.”

  She blushed slightly.

  “There’s a school for the deaf in Berwick and I used to join them for assembly every day and try and spend an hour a day in the beginner’s class. They used to think it was great fun; the five year olds loved trying to teach me, an adult, to sign things properly. But of course to them it’s a natural language and to me it’s not. How come you’re so fluent?”

  “Dad was deaf.”

  “Is that whole group deaf? I saw them signing to one another as they went upstairs.”

  “Not all, Tammy can hear normally.”

  Charmian grinned.

  “So that’s seven ladies in the attic, one in the flat out the back, and one in the kitchen. No wonder Jasper wanted to cramp your style!”

  One hour later Caroline and her band of helpers left. Jo was also about to leave, but Peter asked her if she wanted to see Caroline’s painting and they went upstairs and into the attic. The mural now dominated the attic end wall. It portrayed three crosses on a hillside separated from the viewer by a crowd. The crowd was all facing the crosses so you could only see their backs. You felt like you wanted to try and push yourself into the crowd to see more, to get close. The sun was behind the crosses so they were in stark relief and detail on them was difficult to see; this contributed to the feeling that you wanted to get closer. The overall feeling was that there is something important going on, but you are on the margins and only catching a glimpse of what’s happening. They stood there in silence for about ten minutes just looking. The Jo said softly to Peter that he ought to turn round. Peter did so, and there at the other end of the attic was another mural. Another crowd, but this time everyone was facing you and staring beyond you to the scene on the other wall. On the first mural the urgency and importance of the situation was conveyed by body posture; but on this one there were also the facial expressions. It was all there: fear, bewilderment, anger, despair, grief, love. The backdrop to the crowd was, in the distance, the city of Jerusalem. Between the two murals you felt sandwiched. If you faced the rear wall you just had to turn round and see what everyone was looking at. If you faced the front wall you could not quite see what was going on, but you had to try and see through the crowd. The detail on both paintings was amazing. Bits of threadbare clothing on one person, delicate embroidery on a rich person’s scarf, and so on. Peter then noticed the centurion standing by the crosses, you could clearly see him through the crowd; the uniform was first century, but the face and posture were that of Anthony’s CPO. Jo said, quietly.

  “Have you noticed?”

  “Noticed what?” Spoken equally quietly by Peter.

  “The mural in front has a little boy eating a pack of sandwiches.”

  Peter looked closely, and sure enough on a far hillside sat a shepherd eating his lunch.

  Jo continues.

  “But the one on the rear wall has a dog.”

  Again Peter looked closely at the other painting and sure enough there in the bottom left had corner, sitting at the feet of a crying woman, was Caroline’s contentedly scratching dog.

  Peter said, almost in a whisper.

  “She’s only painting one wall in the chancel. The rear wall must be how she would like it to be.”

  “And it’s a ‘thank you’ to you for the use of the room.” Jo replied.

  They stayed there standing together for some time. They would probably both see the murals again many times, but somehow for them this first look was a once in a lifetime-shared experience.

  Chapter 12

  Sunday Sweat and Monday Moil

  If the end of May had been a period of blessed routine, the second week in June proved to be a time of frenetic activity. On Sunday Peter decided that it was probably a good wheeze to have a new curate every Sunday as congregational numbers were up for all services. The eight o’ clock communion service turned out to be one of those sweet moments of life; not only was it spiritually uplifting; it was also pure pleasure. Peter arrived at the church about seven-thirty and the Bishop arrived soon afterwards. The eight o’ clock service was a straight said communion, so there was no need of the organ or the choir. The fun started about ten minutes after Peter arrived; the Major and Henry came over to see the Bishop to check out how he wanted things organized for the communion and licensing. The Bishop was fairly laid back and replied that he’d just preside over the BCP communion and then license Charmian. The Major’s antenna immediately picked up the name.

  “Sharmaine? Don’t you mean Charlie?”

  “No, Charmian. Her name is Charmian Glazier; I believe Charmian is derived from the Greek for joy.”

  The major plainly could not believe his ears.

  “Jasper told me the curate’s name was Charlie Parker.”

  Peter chipped in.

  “Her name was Charmian Parker, but she recently married and her married name is Glazier.”

  “But she’s boarding with you!”

  This comment was obviously aimed at Peter, shook his head.

  “No, Diocesan Housing has found her a flat on the sea-front; she moves in next Tuesday and until then is staying at the Revd Sato’s in Glumburgh.”

  If you’d told the major the Martians were coming he might have been less surprised.

  “But she’s a woman!”

  “Born that way,” said the Bishop, “is that a problem?”

  The major shook his head.

  “Not a problem, just a bit of a surprise.”

  Peter was actually convinced that he meant what he said and just then Charmian arrived. Peter introduced her to the Bishop and the two churchwardens. Charmian turned to the Major.

  “Are you the Major Thrushton, the one who organized the logistics for the famine relief in central Africa?”

  The Major was clearly taken aback.

  “Yes, I suppose I was.”

  Charmian smiled at the Major, Peter actually thought she was piling it on a bit, but obviously the Major was lapping it up.

  “I had a friend working out there at the time, he said that you’re smooth operation must have both saved the aid agencies a fortune and saved many lives through the relief getting through so swiftly.”

  Peter knew that from now on the Major would be putty in her hands. The actual service got under way on time and Peter noted that instead of the usual eight old ladies there were some sixty people in the congregation. The Bishop presided with ease and after the Prayer of Thanksgiving he read out Charmian’s license and prayer for both Peter and Charmian. Peter then expected the Bishop to finish the service with a blessing; instead he got the congregation to sit down and began to speak.

  “Now I know that you don’t normally have a sermon at this service, but being a Bishop I guess I have certain privileges and I want to say a few words. First of all, let me say what a joy it has been to be here; I don’t often get the chance to preside at an early morning communion and I’d almost forgotten what a joy it is to do so. But of course I’m not just here for that, though if Peter cares to invite me I’ll do it again! No I am here to license Charmian to work in this Parish
under Peter’s guidance; actually if you listened to the wording of the license carefully I have licensed her to work in this Parish and the next-door benefice of Glumburgh. This was Peter’s idea, and I think a good idea, as it will allow Charmian – what a lovely name that is – to work with Jane and gain further insights into women’s ministry as well as the overall ministry. Basically I’ve done my part and the license is now in effect, but I want to urge you all to do your part, pray for them and support them. In my role as Bishop I see far too many casualties of the ministry and one of the usual elements in clergy stress is friction between the church and minister, or in lack of any real support. Please do not let that happen here; you have two good people here; support them, pray for them, care for them and they in return will be able to minister to you and the community in the love of God.”

  The Bishop then said the blessing and sat down. All of a sudden someone started clapping and the whole church erupted into applause; whether this was for the Bishop or Charmian, Peter didn’t know, but it was a lovely gesture.

  The ten-thirty service was equally well attended. Peter had thought that people would not turn out twice, but he was wrong as the congregation must have been approaching two hundred; a size that was only normally reached at Easter. It was not a communion service and Peter led the service, but Charmian preached. They had agreed that she should preach as quickly as possible as it made it easier for her and introduced her quickly to the congregation. As Peter listened he could not help but analyze her sermon; this he had learnt was a normal clergy occupation and most priests could not help doing it when they heard others preach. Charmian did not preach as Peter preached, he tended to follow the logical progression; point A leads to point B which leads to… Charmian, on the other hand, seemed to tell a story with a number of strands; it was not until the end of the story that all the strands fell in place and the intent behind the sermon was revealed. Peter was almost immediately convinced that the church would benefit from this divergence of styles. After the service there was the usual coffee and biscuits and Charmian circulated easily. Peter also noticed that she talked to the children, but not as an adult normally would, she squatted down beside them or sat on the edge of a chair. Even better, Peter noted, was that the children talked to her, try as he might Peter never usually had more than a one-way conversation with a child. As they were leaving Peter asked Charmian what she was doing for lunch, she grinned.