Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  She takes a seat behind a solid oak desk which dominates the cramped space.

  “Please, pull up a chair,” Claire says, waving at two leather-bound, oak chairs, positioned in front of the desk.

  We sit, Clement’s chair creaking in complaint at the sudden load.

  Claire opens a sleek Apple laptop and stares at the screen while tapping the touchpad.

  “Give me a moment to open my diary. This is a new machine and I’m still finding my way around.”

  While we wait for Claire, I cast my gaze around the room. It reminds me of my headmaster’s office at primary school. I only visited it twice, both occasions for praise rather than punishment. Two of the walls are lined with shelves, straining under the weight of books, coloured binders, and stuffed document trays. Feeble light is provided by two tiny windows above Claire’s head, supplemented by a desk lamp.

  “How long have you guys lived in Camden then?” she casually enquires, her eyes still on the screen.

  “Few weeks,” Clement answers.

  “And why have you decided you’d like to get married at All Saints?”

  “Beth wants a proper wedding with all the trimmings. Choir, big organ, bells — don’t you, doll?”

  “Um, yes, especially the bells. My father was a campanologist.”

  I don’t know where it came from, but I feel a sudden buzz of excitement at my totally plausible lie.

  Claire looks up from the screen. “Was?”

  “He passed away when I was seven.”

  She eyes me, her face awash with sympathy. “How awful. I’m so sorry to hear that, Beth.”

  I stare down at the desk and shuffle awkwardly in my chair. “Thank you,” I mumble.

  Detecting my discomfort, Claire wisely decides to move away from the subject of my father. “You’ll be glad to know we have bells again though.”

  “Again?” Clement interjects.

  “Yes. Up until last year, we’d been without bells here at All Saints for a long time.”

  “Why?”

  “There was a storm, maybe seven or eight years ago, before I arrived. It brought down a large tree in the grounds, and unfortunately, it fell into the bell tower, half-destroying it. The wooden structure supporting the bells also collapsed and they crashed through the belfry floor. Sadly, they couldn’t be salvaged.”

  Clement looks across at me and frowns. I feel my shoulders slump.

  Wrongly interpreting our body language as concern for safety, Claire tries to put our minds at rest.

  “Don’t worry. The whole bell tower was rebuilt six years ago, and it’s regularly inspected, as are the trees in the grounds. The only reason it took so long for the bells to be replaced is because of a rather protracted legal wrangle with the insurance company. They said the damage to the bells was an ‘Act of God’, and therefore not covered by our policy.”

  Claire chuckles at that irony. I offer a half-hearted snort but Clement remains silent.

  “And of course, the church is a grade one listed building, which didn’t exactly help,” she adds. “English Heritage insisted we use all of the original stone to rebuild the tower. Every piece of stone had to be extracted from the mound of debris and meticulously catalogued. I’m told there were four skips full of it. The restoration company did an incredible job though, and you’d never guess anything happened. Our beautiful tower, restored to its former glory.”

  I smile, but inside I’m crushed. If there was any gold hidden in the belfry here, there’s no way it would have been missed when they catalogued the debris.

  “Right, I’ve got a slot free on Thursday evening at six,” Claire chirps. “How does that sound?”

  Clement suddenly gets to his feet and looks down at me. “Sorry, doll, but you and me — it ain’t working. I can’t marry you.”

  With that, he stoops through the doorway and out of the vestry.

  I watch him leave, then slowly turn to Claire.

  “Did he really just do that?” she says, clearly stunned.

  “Err, he can be…a little unpredictable,” I laugh nervously. “I’m sure it’s just nerves.”

  “Sounded more than just wedding jitters to me, Beth. Are you sure he’s the right man for you?”

  “Is anyone ever sure?” I offer in defence. “I’d better go after him. Sorry, Claire.”

  I don’t wait for her to reply.

  I bolt from the vestry and scurry back down the aisle. I glance over my shoulder, hoping Claire isn’t in pursuit, ready to administer spiritual guidance. I’m relieved to see she isn’t.

  As I step through the main door, I raise my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes from the bright sunlight while I scan the church grounds. I spot Clement, leaning against the lychgates, smoking a cigarette. I canter over to him, frowning.

  “Well, that was humiliating. Thank you, Clement. ”

  “Sorry, doll. Just wasn’t working,” he says, a slight smirk on his face. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  I have to bite my lip to prevent a laugh escaping. “Well, you could have warned me.”

  “What can I say, doll? I’m an impulsive sort of bloke. You’ll find someone else.”

  I deploy my terrible Cockney accent again. “But who’s gonna buy ya fags now, darlin’?”

  Clement chuckles and I allow myself a wry smile as I lean up against a wooden pillar, opposite him.

  “Ignoring the fact you dumped me in front of the vicar, at least we got a definitive answer, I suppose. Harry clearly didn’t hide his gold here.”

  “Nah. They’d have found it when the tower toppled over. Didn’t see much point hanging around once she told us that. And while we’re on the subject, when did they start allowing women to be bloody priests?”

  “Years ago. Do you have a problem with it?”

  “Not really a churchy sort of bloke, so it’s no skin off my nose.”

  “Perhaps you should have spent more time in church. You wouldn’t be stuck with me now if you’d led a more virtuous life.”

  “Easy, doll. That would suggest you believe why I’m here.”

  I don’t think I believe anything anymore, but at least Clement’s lies are easy to separate from the truth. The worst kind of lies are those that creep up and slap you around the face — the lies you should have seen coming. Conversely, this particular lie has slowly drawn me in, much like the plot of a good book: you absorb it, you live it, and you want it to be true.

  Clement flicks his cigarette butt away. “Let’s get going then.”

  I pull my phone out and plot the short walk to St Jude’s. Six minutes to get there, and maybe another ten minutes until we know if this exercise has been a monumental waste of time, or otherwise.

  22

  As we wander through the northern fringes of Camden, towards Kentish Town, Clement spends an inordinate amount of time stroking his moustache.

  “Penny for them,” I casually remark.

  “They’re not worth a penny, doll.”

  “Perhaps I can be the judge of that?”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry yourself.”

  “Come on, Clement. A problem shared and all that.”

  “Jesus, doll. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “Well, excuse me for showing concern.”

  We pass a sports ground where a six-a-side football match is in full swing. Men who look grossly unfit shout instructions at one another: ‘pass’, ‘switch it’, and ‘away’. Most of them appear unable to follow said instructions.

  Still deep in thought, Clement finally relents.

  “Alright, if you must know, I was thinking about what you said, to the vicar.”

  “Which part?”

  “About your dad.”

  “Oh.”

  “What happened?”

  “He died. Not much else to say, really.”

  Twenty strides and another stroke of the moustache.

  “Suppose that explains why you turned out the way you are.”

  “And
what way am I?”

  “You know…controlling, defensive, cynical.”

  “Don’t hold back, Clement” I scoff. “That’s some character assassination considering you barely know me.”

  “I doubt many people know you, doll.”

  We reach the end of the path and turn into a leafy residential street.

  “Next left,” I murmur.

  We cover another twenty yards and turn into a road lined with redbrick terraced houses. In most towns, these would be considered modest homes, but I guess in this location they carry a price tag close to a major lottery win.

  It seems Clement isn’t great at reading body language, and continues his psychoanalysis.

  “What do you reckon then? You think losing your old man screwed you up a little?”

  “Who knows,” I sigh wearily. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

  “I like to know what makes people tick. Helps me do my job.”

  “Is that what it is? A job?”

  “Suppose it is.”

  “And what does that make me?”

  “The hardest part of the job, doll.”

  As the spire of St Jude’s appears above the rooftops ahead, I replay Clement’s words in my head, trying to determine if his views were profound or puerile. Either way, it’s perturbing that I’m actually giving them any thought at all.

  Why should I care what he thinks of me? It annoys me to think that I might.

  We round a slight bend in the road and St Jude’s creeps into view on our right.

  “This is it, doll. Last chance saloon.”

  St Jude’s is like an amalgamation of the three churches we’ve already visited. It’s another redbrick Victorian church, but on a much grander scale than the United Reform Church, or St Michael’s. Sited in a quiet residential area, St Jude’s isn’t blighted with a grimy veneer of pollution like its urban siblings. It’s far more imposing than All Saints, but not as pretty.

  “Right. Same plan as before?”

  Clement nods and pushes open a wrought iron gate which leads onto a tarmacked area, stretching the full width of the church. I assume it’s an area for the congregation to gather before and after a service. A bit like the church itself, it’s stark, functional, and not the most picturesque location for wedding photos.

  We make our way towards the vestibule, jutting out from the front of the building on the left, and housing two heavyset doors positioned within a stone arch. Even beneath a backdrop of bright blue sky, the entrance to St Jude’s looks foreboding rather than welcoming.

  We approach the doors, the silence suggesting there isn’t anyone around. I, perhaps naively, hadn’t considered the implication of finding the church locked up. It matters not though, because in a few seconds we’ll know for sure if the last chance saloon is open for business.

  Each door has a wrought iron handle. Clement grasps the handle on the right-hand door and pushes down. It doesn’t budge.

  He switches his attention to the left-hand door and repeats his action. Same result.

  Clearly frustrated, Clement then grasps both handles and shakes them hard. Even with his obvious strength, the doors steadfastly refuse to budge.

  “Bollocks.”

  “Now what?”

  He turns and surveys the street. An end-terrace house, fronting onto an adjoining road, sits directly opposite our position. There are a few small windows and an overgrown rear garden offering limited views of the church. The only other houses with any type of view are at least forty yards away.

  “We look for another way in.”

  “Are you kidding?” I hiss. “You’re not suggesting we break into a church?”

  “It’s God’s house, doll, and I’m sure he won’t mind, considering the bigger picture.”

  “I’m not worried about God. I’m worried about the police.”

  “You worry too much,” he says with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

  He then steps away from the doors and looks left, then right. “Let’s go and have a nose around the back.”

  “Clement, this is a really bad idea.”

  “We’re just gonna have a look, alright?”

  He doesn’t wait for permission and sets off across the tarmacked area towards the far end of the building. Frustratingly, it appears I have little option other than to follow.

  I scamper up behind him, paranoid we’re being watched. A quick glance at the street allays my fears a little, but my primary concern is what Clement intends to do next.

  We reach the end of the tarmacked area and find a narrow path leading down the right flank of the church. There’s no gate and no warning sign to indicate we aren’t allowed to follow it, not that I suspect either would have deterred Clement.

  We edge down the path, trapped between the church wall and a hedge. My claustrophobia is tempered by the fact that at least nobody can see us.

  We emerge onto a small lawn at the rear of the church, hemmed in with a five-foot panel fence. Beyond the lawn, more tarmac, and a path that disappears around the left flank of the building.

  I follow Clement as he moves along the rear of the church, scanning the walls as he goes. Apart from breaking a window, there doesn’t appear any other way in. We get half way along when he stops.

  “Look at that, doll.”

  I stare down at a wooden grill fixed into the brickwork, a few inches off the ground. It’s maybe twenty inches high and about three feet wide.

  “I reckon that’s a vent for the cellar.”

  “Churches don’t have cellars, Clement. They have crypts.”

  “Not a church this age.”

  “Semantics. I don’t think you’ll fit through there anyway.”

  “No, but you will.”

  I stare up at him. “Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

  “All you’ve gotta do is drop into the cellar and let me in. Where’s your sense of adventure, doll?”

  “Clement, this is not a bungee jump. This is breaking and entering.”

  “Do you want that money or not?”

  “Not so much I want to risk a few years in prison.”

  He slumps against the wall and shakes his head. A few choice expletives are mumbled but I don’t care — there is no way I’m going along with his crazy idea.

  We reach an impasse and silently glare at one another. Just as I’m about to suggest we simply come back when the church is open, a booming voice breaks the peace.

  “Hey, you there. What are you doing?”

  I spin around in the direction of the voice.

  A man is striding towards us. I’m slightly relieved he’s wearing a tweed jacket and brown slacks, rather than a police uniform.

  He gets within ten feet and asks us again. “I said...what are you doing?”

  “We’re having a row,” Clement replies nonchalantly.

  I don’t know what possessed Clement to say that, but as I’m standing mute, I guess it was better than nothing.

  Clement’s reply appears to throw the man and he stops in his tracks. We all stare at one another. The man is short, stocky, and has a face like a dried prune. I’d guess he must be close to pension age and clearly doesn’t present a physical threat — not that Clement ever seems worried by such things.

  “Why are you rowing out here?” the old man says.

  “She ran off, in a huff,” Clement replies. “I chased her down the path, trying to reason with her. You know what they’re like though.”

  Clement moves towards the old man and holds out a hand. “I’m Clement, and this is my other half, Beth, but I’d give her a few minutes to calm down.”

  The old man looks at me, and then, almost with a glint of sympathy in his eyes, shakes Clement’s hand.

  “Yes, well, this part of the church is out of bounds to the public. And I’m Father Norris, by the way.”

  “Oh, great. It was actually you we came to see, Father, before Beth had her tantrum.”

  “What did you want to see me about?” Father Norris repl
ies.

  I feel like a spectator at a tennis match, watching two men bat a conversation back and forth while my presence appears incidental.

  “Um, excuse me. I am here you know.”

  Both men turn to face me. Neither says anything. Clement then turns back to the priest and wheels out our now-familiar lie.

  “We want to tie the knot, Father. Hoping you might be able to help us with that.

  The priest tries, and fails, to hide his surprise. “Oh, really? It’s quite a commitment, marriage. If you don’t mind me saying, most couples don’t turn up at my door on the back of a row.”

  “Yeah, what can I say, Father? I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “Right, well, I’ve got five minutes free if you want to come inside and book an appointment. There’s a bit more to it than simply turning up with good intentions.”

  “Understood, Father. Thank you.”

  Clement then turns to me. “Beth, apologise to Father Norris for making a scene.”

  “What?”

  I look at the priest and he looks at me. From the corner of my eye, I can just about see Clement’s smug face. This is the third time he’s put me in an embarrassing situation, and I’m starting to wonder if he gets some perverse enjoyment from it. However, I also have to begrudgingly admit he has a real knack for thinking on his feet.

  “Sorry, Father,” I mumble.

  “It’s quite alright, young lady. If you’d like to come with me.”

  We follow Father Norris along the rear of the church towards a glossy blue door, set beneath a limestone lintel.

  “The vestry is just in here,” he says, pushing the door open.

  We enter the vestry, remarkably similar to that in All Saints. The key difference is the bulky computer monitor on the desk. The computer itself, on the floor next to the desk, is adorned with a Windows XP logo. If we have to wait for the priest to boot up his archaic machine, we could be here a while.

  Father Norris invites us to take a seat. Much to my relief, he opens up a diary and thumbs through the pages.

  “Sorry, Father,” Clement suddenly rasps. “My guts are giving me jip. Don’t suppose I could use your lav?”

  This is it. Three churches discounted and we finally get to implement our plan.