Felburgh

by Ivan B

  Jasper got up to go. At the bottom of the stairs he looked upward.

  “I came here to tear you off a strip about getting Charmian placed here. But to tell you the truth, I would probably have tried the same trick myself when I was a parish priest. That painting puts it all into perspective.”

  Peter sensed something deeper in Jasper.

  “Do you miss the parish work?” he asked quietly.

  Jasper inclined his head slightly.

  “Peter, if they ever offer you the post of Archdeacon turn it down. You end up being caught in the middle and regarded as the piranha of the Board of Finance.”

  “You could always go back.”

  Jasper looked at him as if he had been offered a pot of gold.

  “Not many do that.”

  “Perhaps only those for whom parish ministry is God’s true purpose.”

  Almost as soon as Jasper left the Mothers and Toddler’s broke up and Peter had to take the final baptism class for them. At least he had Charmian to help him; she’d been with the group all morning. When the class was over Charmian and Peter dived into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a snack. Charmian intended to sit in on the afternoon group as well. As they drank their tea (Charmian didn’t drink coffee) Peter decided it was time for a little talk.

  “Have you thought about what sort of routine you’re going to try and establish?”

  “Don’t bother,” said Charmian, “I just take things as they come.”

  Peter put his cup down.

  “Not here and not while I’m supervising you. You must have at least the pattern of a routine otherwise prayer and study gets marginalized and you become ineffective and prone to burn out.”

  Charmian studied Peter; he had suddenly gone into stern parent mode.

  “What sort of routine?”

  “You will have to work out your own routine, but the elements I want you to include are: Firstly, don’t work all day – it is very easy to do in this job – divide the day into threes; morning afternoon and evening, and work two of them. I don’t care what you do with the third; join a hockey team, study croquet, but do something that is not church.”

  Peter paused and then continued.

  “Secondly, set time aside in your diary for prayer, study and sermon preparation; and don’t forget the study. It’s all too easy to stop reading around and then you have no fresh things to say to your congregation. Thirdly, work out what you would like to do while you are here, this may take a month or so, this is the one time in your ministry when you are free to experiment.”

  Charmian was about to but in, but Peter ploughed on.

  “And finally, I will give you one Sunday a month off any service duties at St Nathaniel’s. Go and find somewhere else to worship, somewhere you are not involved and can worship in peace. Try out a few different churches; go to Felixstowe; there are over twenty churches in the town and they all have something to offer.”

  Peter paused and Charmian jumped in.

  “I seriously thought about what I wanted to do in my last parish. I’d like to try some schools work, I’d like to try some work with house-groups and I’d like a placement at a hospice.”

  Peter nodded.

  “All possible. But first, I want to see your routine on paper next Monday. Oh, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like you to have Thursdays as your day off, but that is not mandatory.”

  Charmian smiled thinking she knew exactly why Peter wanted her out of the way on Thursdays.

  “Fine, I used to have Thursdays off in Berwick and am used to it.”

  They then chatted about the Mothers and Toddlers group and the party at the Fisherman’s Friend. Eventually Peter grinned.

  “Did you really have a cramp?”

  Charmian laughed.

  “Certainly not, but I thought it would be undiplomatic if I beat Damian.”

  “Would you be happy to join me in the Saturday evening meeting there?”

  “More than happy. However did you get them started?”

  Peter told her about the wedding punch-up and the subsequent meeting with Damian. Just then the afternoon Mothers and Toddlers started arriving. Peter motioned towards the lounge.

  “This afternoon group, it may contain some mothers of other faiths; please don’t preach at them, just welcome them.”

  Charmian studied Peter. In her last parish she had almost been commanded to do the opposite and had found it almost impossible. Here it seemed that Peter had an open-arms policy.

  “Never talk about God?”

  Peter smiled.

  “Don’t worry, they will talk about their faith to you; you just talk about your faith to them. Mutual animosity never got anyone anywhere, but mutual understanding might.”

  Once Charmian had joined the Mothers and Toddlers, Peter thought he would have time to go and do some visiting, but he was wrong. A rather earnest young lady walked into the hall with the last of the Mothers and came directly up to Peter. She was clearly excited about something.

  “Are you the Vicar here?” She exclaimed in a burst.

  “Yes. Can I help?”

  The girl nodded vigorously.

  “I’m Jennifer Smith, I work at the records office and I’m researching a book on the late Victorian era and I may have found something very interesting in your churchyard.”

  Peter’s blood ran cold.

  “Really, what is that?”

  “I’ll need to show you.”

  Peter followed her round into the churchyard. As they walked she prattled on about the book she was researching and some of the cases she had uncovered. Once they got to the churchyard she headed straight as a die towards the hawthorn hedge. Peter feared the worst. Then all of a sudden she stopped and pointed at an old family grave. It must have been from the late Victorian or Edwardian eras for it was slightly raised and totally surrounded by a set of old iron railings. Within the iron railings was a total mayhem of brambles, Ivy and weeds.

  “There,” she said triumphantly. “I think that is the grave of Emma Anne Stokes, née Jefferson and her bigamous husband Joe Stokes.”

  Peter was both relieved and a little perplexed.

  “Married more than one woman did he?”

  “Not him, her. At first I thought that she had bumped off her first husband, but it seems that he went to sea and she knew all about it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Josiah Grant was sexton here from 1897 to 1914 and he kept meticulous records until he left for the Great War and never returned. The records aren’t in my record office because Josiah’s widow moved back home to Scunthorpe and she donated his diaries to the museum there. They show that Joe Stokes died in 1910 and a Tomas James Jefferson was buried here in 1912. She had him buried next to Joe and died one year later.”

  Peter said.

  “So you are looking for three grave stones?”

  “Four.”

  Peter almost wet himself.

  “Four?”

  “Yes, according to Josiah, when she failed to get a divorce she tried to have a funeral in the churchyard for her first husband, Thomas. But the local vicar smelt a rat because she could not produce a death certificate. However, according to the local stonemason’s records she had had a headstone made for Thomas that read, ‘Tomas James Jefferson 1865-1901 Much Missed’ the week before the mock funeral. Wouldn’t it be grand if that is in there?”

  And she pointed to the tangle of weeds.

  “Wouldn’t it just,” murmured Peter.

  “So,” she continued, “I just need your permission to clear the weeds and I can explore the headstones.”

  Peter began to see a way out of this predicament. What he needed to do was stop her snooping around the rest of the graveyard. If she finds the stone he reasoned, the next thing is that she’ll think about the coffin.

  “Can’t give it,” he said, and as she was about to protest he continued.

  “The churchyard is in two halves and this is the old part. Th
is part has been taken over by the County Council and I have no jurisdiction over it. You’ll have to apply to them.”

  She looked terribly disappointed; Peter felt that she wanted to start ripping out the weeds with her bare hands right now. Peter continued and in a kind voice said.

  “They might ask you if you’ve the relatives’ permission. If Tomas was buried in 1912, then a hundred years has not passed, so not just anyone can work on the grave.”

  Jennifer considered this, and looking at her watch said.

  “I’ll go to the County Offices now, I know exactly where to go. See you soon.”

  She marched away towards her car, which was parked in the car park, and Peter heaved a sigh of relief. He watched her go and then ambled over to the line of stones by the hawthorn hedge. He walked from one end of the line until the other and then back again. One thing was for certain, dear old Tomas’ headstone was not there.

  Peter was still pondering this when he arrived home. He decided that he needed to talk to Mark fairly swiftly. But all thought about headstones fled from his mind when he arrived home; Sam was sitting on his doorstep with an ashen grey face and a look of total doom.

  “Sam, are you all right?” Peter asked.

  “I need a toilet” he gasped.

  Peter opened the front door and Sam rushed in, as he did so he thrust the noon edition of the evening paper into Peter’s hands. Seconds later Peter heard him throwing up. Peter looked at the paper; it was folded so that the business section was on one side and the classified ads on the other. Peter reasoned that Sam must want him to read something in the business section. Halfway down the page was a long article on the fact that Eco-Mines had gone into receivership. They had perfected a land mine that only stayed active for three years; after that, it released a chemical that neutralized the explosives. The problem was that the eco-mine cost 30% more than a non-eco-mine and the Ministry of Defense had pulled the plug on a major contract. Peter continued reading the other articles.

  Sam reappeared.

  “Read it,” said Sam, who was trembling violently.

  “Read what?”

  “Eco-Mine! Eco-Mine! Apparently Porlock, Whitby and Scanes had most of our money in this firm. They say our £300,000 that is with them is now down to £80,000!”

  He turned an interesting shade of green and headed back to the toilet.

  Peter sat down on the old pew in the middle of a pool of baby buggies and pondered the situation. When Sam reappeared again Peter guided him into his study and sat him in the armchair. He carefully placed his brown Bible out of vomit reach. Peter asked Sam quietly.

  “Did you send the letter you read out at the AGM to Porlock, Whitby and Scanes?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Did you receive an acknowledgement of that letter?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can you check?”

  “Files in the car,” said Sam heading out of the study door.

  A couple of minutes he was back waving a letter.

  “Yes, they said they noted our letter and were dealing with it.”

  “And how do you know they say that it is us that have lost the money?”

  Sam reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled fax and handed it to Peter.

  Peter read it and looked at Sam.

  “I think we should involve Henry. I’m not sure, but I think we gave Porlock, Whitby and Scanes a clear instruction that they have ignored.”

  Sam looked thoroughly miserable, but nodded.

  “I’ll resign as treasurer” he moaned.

  “It may not come to that,” Peter replied as he called Henry.

  “Hi, Henry, how are things?”

  “Approaching lift-off I think,” replied Henry, “Caroline has suddenly stopped eating anchovies and custard and gone back to normal food. Midwife says it’s a clear sign baby will soon be on the way.”

  They chatted about this for a minute or so, and then Peter came to the nub of his call and explained the problem. Henry’s reply was immediate.

  “Have you got the documents there and have you got a fax machine?”

  “No fax machine,” replied Peter, “but I can scan them in my computer and e-mail them to you.”

  “Then please do that,” said Henry, “and I will fire off a missive to dear old Porlock, Whitby and Scanes.

  “Then what?”

  “We wait. I’ll be back to you within the hour hopefully.”

  “As fast as that?”

  Peter could almost hear Henry chuckling.

  “There’s nothing like putting the pressure on. My missive will go to the chairman demanding an immediate reply and threatening to ask a court to sequestrate a quarter of a million of their funds pending legal action.”

  “Would they do that?”

  “Not in a million years, but usually it is the threat that brings actions. Send me those documents. Chow.”

  Peter duly scanned in the documents and e-mailed them to Henry. Sam was by now beginning to regain his normal colour, so Peter asked him if he wanted a coffee. Sam shook his head. Peter had heard of people being sick with worry, but never seen it quite so plainly.

  “Have you got any clients who use Porlock, Whitby and Scanes?” Peter asked.

  “Not that sort of accountant. I specialize in rural accountancy; you know farms and village stores plus the occasional pub. Really I’m just a glorified book-keeper.”

  “What led you into that?” asked Peter, really to keep Sam’s mind occupied on something other than Porlock, Whitby and Scanes.

  Sam glanced at Peter.

  “Hunger.”

  “Hunger?”

  Sam sat back in the armchair and closed his eyes.

  “Hunger. Have you ever been really hungry? It consumes your thought, your very being.”

  “And you were that hungry once?”

  Sam sat dead still, eyes closed, but his hands gripped the arms of the armchair hard. “Yes.”

  Peter remained quiet. After a minute or so, Sam began to re-live his memories.

  “When I was at school I was determined to be a nurse or a doctor or a vet. So I took biology, chemistry and English at a-level. I gained a place at Nottingham to study Human Biology with the possibility of transferring into medical school after a year. During the summer holiday, I got a placement at the local hospital as an orderly. There I found out something about myself that I hadn’t realized before. I’m squeamish: I can look at films of operations and read books about them, but put me in the actual environment and I usually throw up or pass out. People told me it would pass with familiarity, but it didn’t and halfway through my first term at university I dropped out. I guess I should have tried to transfer over to another degree course, but at the time I was so depressed about my inability to become a doctor, I didn’t consider it. My father was furious; he’d spent a fortune getting me to university, something he never managed, and obviously felt I was throwing away my future. He did offer me the chance of working on the farm, but my older brother already had his feet under the table there and to be honest I had no interest in growing corn just to cut it all down and start over again. So I left home confident that I would make my way in the world and return home a few years later as a semi-millionaire. But in reality I had no idea what I wanted.”

  Sam hesitated, relaxed his grip slightly.

  “But I couldn’t get a job; or rather I couldn’t keep a job. I’d start each job with enthusiasm and then after a few months pack it in through boredom. Each job I got was poorer than the one before; the first one was as a ticket clerk for British Rail; the last one was as a washer-up in a Soho restaurant with low pay and daily hire. Eventually I became one of the street people; I had a little patch under the Willesden Railway arches to sleep in and got jobs during the day to keep the wolf from the door. In the end I couldn’t even get a casual job and I could not get any state benefits because I didn’t have a fixed address. I suppose I should have gone home, but I could not bear to turn up an
d disgrace my mother.”

  Sam started crying gently, tears rolling down his cheeks; he did not let go of the chair’s arms.

  “I became an expert in soup-kitchens and would wander around London from free handout to free handout and return to my railway arch. Then in some sort of purge the local council cleared out the railway arches and moved us all on. I didn’t know it then, but that council probably saved my life as three months later, when winter arrived, I started sleeping in a church crypt. Really it was a night-time doss for down and outs, but it was warm and the natives were friendly. You don’t tend to form friendships in such places, you are always worried that the next person will try and steal the little you have, but I bumped into Wendy one night and we started looking out for one another. By that I mean she would look after my bags if I went scavenging, and I would look after hers when she went begging. She had Ernest who was just under a year old. She was painfully thin, more like a mobile skeleton, and that with the baby meant that she usually got enough money each day to buy a few bits of extra food. Then one night I was so hungry I stole her money, all £4.32 of it, and went to leave the crypt. To get out I had to pass whoever was on the door. That night it was one of the ministers and as I drew level with him he said, ‘whatever it is son, don’t do it’. He later told me that I looked as guilty as sin. His words made me stop, and I turned round and went back to the corner and popped the money back under Ernest’s pillow. I didn’t make any grand resolutions, saw no blinding lights, but that day my life turned. The church ran a scheme where it would help its crypt dossers to get jobs and I managed to get a job as a dustman. Not on the regular collections, but clearing up filthy alleyways and derelict buildings. I shared my money with Wendy; it wasn’t out of love, I had no capacity then for love, it was guilt. After a while we moved out of the crypt and into a squat, then later out of that squat and into a better squat. The work was awful; you have no idea what filth people leave behind, but I stuck at the job. After two years I got a piece of paper from the Council saying that I was regarded as a permanent employee and under their equal opportunities scheme I was allowed one day off a week to study without breaking the terms of my employment. They would not pay me for that day, but they would pay college fees and give a small book-grant. Wendy and I discussed it at length. While I had been clearing up rubbish she had been looking after Ernest and helping out in a corner shop. She found a free nursery place for Ernest two days a week and I studied book-keeping. It wasn’t my choice, but I had to have Wednesdays off and it was either book-keeping or secretarial skills. The course paid off and after two years of study I got a book-keeping job with a local garage. Then Wendy fell pregnant. By now we were living in a small rented flat above a take-away; we’d got fed up with squatting and the fear of bailiffs. I knew instinctively that we could not manage. We were living hand-to-mouth and an extra child, plus the inability of Wendy to work, would drive us back over the edge.”