The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Tim sat down next to the woman. “Please. I’m a hard worker. Ask anyone at Deeping Drove. I won’t be a bother. Please give me a chance.”

  Michaela stood up. “Why don’t you come and meet Sarah?”

  Tim rubbed the last remnants of tears from beneath his eyes with hurried fingers. When he stepped out into the sunlight with the teacher, a sudden breath caught in his throat. Sarah Claridge might not have looked older than her years like Tracey Lane, but her cascading blonde hair, sparkling eyes and tight, rounded curves forced him to swallow hard. Great. What a first impression. She must think I’m a complete wimp, crying and not wanting to go to school at my age.

  Michaela looked from Maggie to Constance and back. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Connie clapped her hands together with a resounding snap. “Great. Deeping Drove now has a school; of sorts.”

  Maggie shook the teacher’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs Claridge. I can’t tell you-”

  “Kyla,” the woman stopped her. “Call me Kyla.” She eyed her daughter. “Sarah, this is your new classmate, Tim. I'll need a few days to prepare the first lessons. Why don’t you two go for a look round? I imagine Tim knows every inch of the site.”

  “More than any of us,” Maggie replied. “I suppose Howie might also show up later once he’s done with school for the day.”

  “Howie?” Michaela asked.

  “He’s a boy a couple of years younger. Tim sometimes plays with him over by the Welland tributary. His parents home school too.”

  “Are they part of the community?”

  “No,” Connie joined in. “They’re elsewhere.”

  Maggie scratched the back of her neck. “Reclusive types, I guess. We’ve never met them; or their son. Howie doesn’t venture into the dwellings. But, he and Tim get along well.”

  “Okay,” Michaela said. “I thought I was about to gain another pupil.”

  Connie smiled. “No more on the cards for now. Why don’t I let Maggie show you the ropes? It’ll give you two a chance to get better acquainted.”

  Tim and Sarah walked at a relaxed pace along the top of a bank overlooking the River. The boy pointed to a section of reeds below them. “Howie and I often mess about down there. It should be hopping with frogs anytime now, if it’s like the water near our old farm. I didn’t come over here much this time last year. We were so busy getting everything started.”

  “Farm boy, huh?” Sarah’s piercing eyes glittered. “How long did it take you to adjust to this basic life?”

  Tim thought for a moment. “Not long. I was never like the other kids, glued to a phone or computer. There were always outdoor chores to do at home.”

  “So what do you miss most?”

  Tim didn’t hesitate. “Flushing toilets.”

  Sarah giggled. “Yeah. I got my first taste of the toilet arrangements after we arrived. Yuck. Like being stuck in the middle ages or at some sub-standard holiday camp. It must be freezing at night in winter.”

  Tim stopped. “Would you rather not be here?”

  The girl watched him with half-lidded eyes. She pouted her coral lips. “I’ll miss our old, comfortable life; but no. Mum got ill. Nothing worked and everything about the world made her worse. If this place helps her get better, I can put up with crapping through a hole in a plank. Even a cold, damp one. Don’t mistake me for a wet, girlie pushover, Tim. I'm a teacher’s kid, remember? If you want advice on standing up to bullies, I’ve a lot of experience. I had to learn fast, to make it past eleven.”

  Tim flushed.

  The girl reached up to feel the moist purple bruising around his eye. “Does that hurt?”

  Tim fought an urge to recoil at a tender stab of pain from the contact. The tingling electricity of Sarah’s touch dulled its impact. “I was set upon by a gang. Four to one.”

  Sarah tilted her head and smirked “Boys or girls?”

  “Ha Ha.” Tim let his sarcasm ring out.

  The pretty teenager released his face from her invigorating connection. “No wonder you didn’t want to go back to school.” She studied the reeds. “Want to see if there’s any frog spawn down there?”

  “Yeah. Hey, that’s a good idea.”

  At the edge of the reeds, Sarah bent forward to inspect the slack ripples. Tim watched the rounded beauty of her feminine curves, accentuated by figure-hugging denim jeans. These clung to her shapely buttocks so tight, they could have been woad painted on the skin of some ancient native. The girl flicked her long blonde locks back across one shoulder, to stop them dipping in the water. She caught his stare while tossing her head. A cheeky grin followed by a chewing motion occupied a mouth the boy’s gaze was now drawn to. Sarah straightened and stepped away from the water’s edge. A playful light danced in her confident stare. “You were having naughty thoughts about me.”

  Tim half-turned, in part to avert his eyes from the overwhelming power of her strong personality, but also to hide growing visible evidence of his sudden arousal.

  Sarah’s voice reduced in volume and force. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

  Tim didn’t answer.

  “It’s all right, Tim. I don’t mind. You’re cute.” The mischievous expression spread back across her face. “Just remember my dad’s a butcher, okay? Don't mess with his daughter. He’s used to chopping up sausages.”

  The boy shot her a pained glance.

  Sarah giggled and put a hand across her mouth. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with you. Come on, silly. Show me more of this place. If it's my home now, I want to see it all.”

  8

  The Mission

  Stephen Colefax looked up from kneeling in a front pew at his church of St. Michael. The Cambridgeshire vicar forced himself not to blink, as if that would burn the view of the sanctuary and altar onto his memory for posterity, like a photographic plate. Stephen had spent the majority of his sixty years in the ministry. The better part of those at St. Michael’s. Dust motes hung in coloured shafts of light from the elegant stained glass window behind the altar. It depicted several Stations of the Cross around the perimeter, and the passion of Christ dead centre. The minister sat back on the long wooden seat. A fresh aroma of beeswax polish mingling with brass cleaner for the candlesticks, lingered in his nostrils with sad familiarity. It was Friday. The cleaners always came in the day before. With the weather warming up, his faithful flower arrangers would pop in later that day to liven the house of worship with the glories of God’s creation. But they wouldn’t find the heartbroken minister here then. Stephen loved the rhythm of the church calendar, as he loved the rhythm of the seasons. It was safe, predictable, comforting. Thin flecks of wispy grey hair lifted in a slight draught on his otherwise bare crown as he rose. He was short with a round head and square neck. A combination that caused his silhouette to offer more than a passing resemblance to an Emperor Penguin. His kind smile disarmed the most irate of upset parishioners. Shining eyes scanned about, ever looking for God in all things.

  A heavy latch on the front double door clicked open. June sunlight stabbed through the arched entrance to illuminate a sturdy oak table. It stood covered in pamphlets and stacked high with copies of the Book of Common Prayer. A middle-aged woman with short, greying, centre-parted hair stepped down from the porch. In her arms she clutched a round, metal biscuit tin. Downcast eyes swept across the nave until they fell upon the vicar. “Reverend Colefax,” she called in an unnecessary, hushed tone, as if God were asleep and she didn’t wish to disturb Him.

  “Hello Margaret. How lovely to see you.” He walked towards her.

  The woman met Stephen half way. “I was hoping to catch you before you left. Here’s a little something to speed you on your way.” She handed him the biscuit tin.

  Colefax studied a picture of shortbread on its blue metal lid.

  Margaret waved at the container. “It’s an old tin. No shortbread in there. Something I thought you’d appreciate far more.”

  The vicar prised open the lid to a sickly sweet but pleasin
g aroma. “Your coffee and walnut cake.” He tried to conceal a tremor in his voice. “How thoughtful, Margaret.” A hundred memories of afternoon tea with the woman and her husband threatened to overspill the old boy’s tear ducts.

  Margaret touched one wrinkled hand to the base of her neck. “We will miss you so much around here, Reverend.”

  Stephen blinked back the emotion and swallowed. “Bless you.”

  The woman fidgeted, unsure whether to press him with questions. “Where will you go for your retirement?”

  “I’m about to spend two weeks with an old friend and his wife in Lincolnshire: Terry and Victoria Emery. Terry has a parish there. I need to pray and seek the Lord’s guidance about where to live and what to do next. I wasn’t expecting to be retired so soon. Not against my will.”

  “Have you met your replacement?”

  “Karen Gleason? No. I hear she’s a young woman with lots of bright, new ideas the Synod are keen to embrace. No doubt she will serve you well. It seems I’m a little long in the tooth and no good at bringing in new blood to our communion of worship.”

  Margaret gasped.

  Stephen lowered half-closed eyes. “Forgive me. I’m speaking out of turn and with bitterness and jealousy in my heart.”

  The woman rested a loose hand on his wrist, out of genuine affection.

  Colefax replaced the tin lid. “Thank you for your gift, Margaret. It means the world to me. Give my love to your husband. I know you’ll both do everything you can to help Reverend Gleason settle into her new position here. The Lord bless and keep you. Go with God.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, Stephen. Did you sleep well?” Terry Emery sat at the large kitchen table of his vicarage. Two unconscious fingers wandered up to adjust his dog collar. His wife, Victoria, spread butter on slices of hot brown toast beside him.

  Stephen Colefax sat down at a place set for his breakfast. “Yes, thank you. I can’t believe I’ve been here ten days already. Though perhaps you can?”

  Terry grinned. “Nonsense, old man. You’re no burden.” He gulped down a mouthful of tea, almost spilling it as his wife nudged him with an encouraging elbow.

  “Are you going to…?” she half whispered.

  Stephen tipped some cereal into a bowl. “Are you debating whether to disclose your news from St. Michael’s?”

  Victoria turned three different shades of crimson in rapid succession. “How could you know that?”

  Stephen poured milk from a jug onto his breakfast. “Dear Victoria. I may be sixty, but I’m not deaf. I didn’t mean to overhear; but you were so agitated when you told Terry. The volume of your voice carried the words upstairs.”

  The woman’s shoulders sank.

  Terry leaned over his tea. “How much did you take in?”

  Stephen picked up his spoon then changed his mind and put it back down again. “Enough. Karen Gleason is having the pews removed and replaced with stackable plastic chairs.”

  Victoria nodded.

  Colefax sat back. “Any idea why?”

  Terry Emery swallowed and took a slow breath. “To use the space for yoga classes every Wednesday and multi-faith services on Fridays.”

  Stephen’s appetite vanished in an instant. He sat rigid. “Multi-faith services? You mean: holding worship of foreign Gods by the enemies of Christendom in a Christian church?”

  Terry sighed. “I know. It’s not the first place to try it. I’m under increasing pressure from higher-ups to offer the same. So far I’ve resisted without too much blowback. Don’t know how long that will last.”

  Stephen puffed out his cheeks. “It comes to something when a desire to maintain the basic integrity of traditional Christian worship, makes you a radical fundamentalist. Are we just two old men who can’t embrace change?”

  “Old? Speak for yourself. I’m ten years younger than you.” He paused. “No, Stephen. Holding to what's good and true is an act of faith, not obstruction. Victoria and I have agreed for a long time that the Anglican Communion has lost its way. St. Paul may have become all things to all men that he might save some, but we have our doubts he would approve of certain compromises in the church today.”

  Victoria nibbled her toast. “How are your entreaties for guidance from The Almighty? If it’s not flippant of me to ask, Stephen?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Not flippant at all. The heavens are silent. Rubber ceiling syndrome. My prayers seem to bounce back without response. If God is going to show me the way forward, I imagine it won’t come as a bolt from the blue. More like a nudge from some insignificant natural source I’m not expecting.”

  Victoria and Terry exchanged excited glances.

  Stephen sensed their desire to tell him something. “What is it?”

  “How about a mission?” Terry asked.

  “At my age? Who would take me on? I’ve been retired from the ministry. Can you imagine me flitting off to some third-world country, like a wet-behind-the-ears zealot straight out of seminary? I’m as far beyond that as I am the idea of getting married.”

  Victoria stood and poured the older vicar a cuppa from a round, blue-spotted teapot. “We were thinking a little closer to home.”

  Stephen guffawed. “Not inner-city youth ministry?”

  Terry roared with laughter. “Not quite, old man. Victoria and I attended a meeting down the road at Crowland... Ooh, when was it now?”

  “November.” Victoria sat back down.

  “That’s right, November,” Terry went on. “There’s a group of down-shifting, off-grid living, back-to-the-land types out on the fens. They’ve set up home on a site with an ancient church. It was Anglican once upon a time, but pre-dates our tradition. When the last permanent community left it derelict over two hundred years ago, the church was abandoned. Back in 2000, an independent Christian group renovated and reconsecrated the place. They were some middle-of-the-road, halfway-house believers with one foot in evangelicalism but a focus on traditional liturgy. Heavy Celtic influence to their style. It was a big fad in the late nineties.”

  “I remember,” Stephen replied. “Some Anglican congregations got a taste for it too. You said they ‘were’ rather than are. Did the group move on?”

  Terry twiddled his fingers.

  Stephen watched him with interest. “What?”

  “There are a lot of far-fetched local stories about the Christian community being driven out by ghosts.”

  Colefax snorted. “Ghosts?”

  Terry shrugged. “All I know is: one of their children died and was buried at the church. Then the vicar suffered a heart attack, and they all lit out of there overnight. Something happened for sure. But who knows the truth of it?”

  “And now this other group have set up home on the same spot. Are they religious?” Stephen asked.

  Victoria joined in. “Not as such. Terry and I spoke to one of the founders after their presentation; a woman called Constance. Very driven and focused, but pleasant to talk with. She asked us if we knew anyone who might be interested in serving the community in a ministerial capacity at the church. We didn’t, at the time.”

  “I thought you said they weren’t religious?”

  “They’re not,” said Terry. “But she had enough foresight to realise a calm soul with a listening ear and counselling experience might help smooth any conflicts or tensions that arise. The more people who settle in, the greater the need for mediation. Plus, there was at least one family on site who were believers and missed their old church. Could be more of them by now. The church there is an independent place of worship with no denominational affiliations. This post wouldn’t pay anything in monetary terms. The living conditions might make that mission to the third-world seem desirable. It’s basic in the extreme. These people are amazing. They work hard and rely on each other for survival. But you’d have a roof over your head, home-grown or slaughtered food on your plate, and a spiritual purpose. They’re a community in need of pastoral care, who want to get away from the modern worl
d, its pace and crazy orthodoxies.”

  Stephen pondered every word out of the couples’ mouths. “The money doesn’t matter. Not in a place like that and not at my age. I have my pension, anyway. It’s funny, I’ve always dreamed of being a pioneer minister. Like one of those sturdy souls from the old American west. That’s a calling.” His eyes glistened. “Could it be mine? A new chance for an old vicar to serve the great commission?”

  Victoria smiled. “This is about as close to pioneer ministry as you can get in the current day and age, without boarding a plane.”

  Their guest's heart leapt. His muscles loosened and became animated. “When I walked downstairs for breakfast and heard your news from St. Michael’s, my already dark world lay in tatters.” He lifted one open hand to the ceiling. “Now I'm like our Lord, back from the dead. The stone has been rolled away to reveal sunlight. Are you sure these people haven’t found someone else in the meantime? That meeting was seven months ago.”

  Terry pushed back his chair to stand. “There’s one way to find out. We can’t phone them, but it’s no problem to drive out there. We’ll show you the way and come along to make introductions. Would you like to see?”

  Stephen got up to join him. “Yes please.”

  * * *

  Stephen Colefax planted a suitcase down beside the desk of a small study adjoining the nave at St. Guthlac’s, Deeping Drove. Peter and Maggie Leonard carried his other few boxes in behind. Constance Greek placed a basket of firewood and a bundle of kindling alongside a black, potbellied stove in one corner. Its pipe reached out through the back wall of the church. Warm shafts of July sunlight jutted down across the tall but compact space from a round, high window about four feet in diameter.

  Connie addressed the vicar. “With the current heatwave, I doubt you’ll need the firewood for general warmth. Not even at night. But the logs can season here and you’ve a source of heat should we get a chilly evening. Any of the residents will be happy to supply you with hot water from their own fires, now we’ve some reasonable housing. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay in one of our caravans?”