The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  “No, thank you. I like it here. If I can heat water over the stove and not bother anyone, that would be nice. My neighbours won’t want a smelly vicar on their doorstep at all hours, seeking water to wash.” Stephen sat down on a patchwork quilt spread across a single camp bed against one of the thick, stone walls.

  Connie continued. “When Joe and his two labourers - Jason and Darren - get a spare moment from their chores, they’ll start work on a proper home for you. One like the others. We’re bound to attract new members in time, so a couple more cottages wouldn’t go amiss. Materials are plentiful at present.”

  Stephen studied the ancient room. He reached out to stroke and pat one of the sturdy walls. “No rush. I'm like a young vicar again; revitalised and reborn. Sleeping in the church won’t be a chore, even with my creaky old bones. I’ve a source of heat and I’m closer to the well than anybody else.”

  Maggie Leonard put one arm around her husband. “We’re so glad you’ve come.”

  Stephen Colefax eyed the farmer and his wife. “When my old friends Terry and Victoria brought me out here, I knew this place was the answer to my prayers.”

  Connie spoke up. “Maggie and Pete will be glad to attend your services with their son, Tim. That’s the teenage lad you saw being taught with young Sarah Claridge out in the main body of the church. Her mother, Michaela is our teacher. We call her Kyla. Her husband Dean is site butcher and general help. They’re also believers.”

  Stephen rose and rubbed his hands together. “A congregation of six to begin with isn’t so bad. I’m assuming the teenage girl will attend, too?”

  “Make it eight,” Connie said. “I thought I’d pop along. You don’t seem like a radical firebrand. Some gentle spiritual input might be nice. Martin our thatcher also said he’d try it.”

  “Correction: nine,” Maggie added. “Daniel Charter plans to attend. He was a churchgoer before moving out here.”

  Connie stroked one cheek with an idle finger. “Dan? I never knew that. Well, he’s such a quiet, introverted type it’s no surprise.” She regarded the vicar. “If you need any special wood or metalwork for the church, Dan Charter is a craftsman of considerable skill. That reminds me: I’ll get him to bring over a spare kettle for heating water. One that will fit your stove. You’ll need it to fix yourself a hot drink, anyway. Anything else you need?”

  Stephen peered beneath the bed. “A pot or pan for night-time might be useful.”

  Connie frowned and then a sudden realisation dawned in her big, brown eyes. “Of course. The loos are so close to where the rest of us live, I hadn’t thought about it.”

  The vicar nodded. “At my age, I get up three times a night to answer the call of nature. It’s quite a trek along to the toilet shack from up here. Worse in the dark, no doubt.”

  “I’ll get right on it. As I said when you came out to visit, we don’t have an organ in the church. None of the group are musicians, either. At Christmas we carried a tune or two between us, by way of carols.”

  Stephen lifted a worn book of his favourite hymns from one box. A loving but wrinkled index finger caressed the spine. “Not to worry, we’ll manage. The same way generations of our forebears did.”

  The faintest hint of a smile crinkled one corner of Connie’s mouth. “Good. That’s the general ethos which accompanies everything we do around here.”

  Sunday morning arrived two days later. Stephen Colefax felt like a trainee straight out of homiletics class, about to deliver his first sermon under scrutiny. He kept the hymn arrangements to popular choices most (if not all) his new congregation of nine would know: ‘Abide With Me,’ ‘Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer,’ ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd,’ and that eternal English classic ‘Jerusalem.’ Tired though his limbs may have been, a fresh excitement tingled within as the retired Anglican minister climbed a few creaky steps into the pulpit at St. Guthlac’s. He gazed out at the eager faces of his attendees. Peter and Margaret Leonard sat in one pew with their son, Timothy. Across the aisle from them, Dean, Michaela and Sarah Claridge hung on his every word. In three other assorted and separate seats, Constance Creek, Martin Bradbury and Daniel Charter had done their best to smarten up for Sunday service. This was easier said than done in the labour-intensive and often mucky environment of Deeping Drove. Stephen’s eyes darted between the teenage boy and girl. Already, fanciful dreams of one-day conducting a wedding for them here, made the old vicar smile to himself. It was a wild notion, and he knew it. But, not beyond the realm of possibility. Not if an attachment grew between the pair and God granted him enough years to see it blossom into loving commitment. Terry Emery was right about the third-world mission aspect of his new calling. Life on site was basic. It took forever to accomplish simple tasks the modern world reduced to minutes for most people. Yet Stephen Colefax loved it: the slower pace; the way the community relied on each other and worked together. It was like a window on another world. Except he was part of that world now, and it felt magnificent. Bright sunshine poured through the open porch doors of the church. A glorious day unfolded with occasional wafts of fresh air slipping in to tease and entice the occupants outside. Stephen opened his Bible and took a deep lungful of the sweet atmosphere. This was his church now. No hierarchical organisation to answer to, or insist he comply with this or that new-fangled policy or practise. He answered to God as a nominated shepherd for this flock of nine. Those nine were the only group he had to please. It was ‘church’ at its most basic: liberation and love. The words of Psalm 118:24 poured with ease from his mouth on such a morning. “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” He let the passage of scripture hang on the air before expounding further; then launched into the most joyful and energetic sermon he could remember preaching in a long while.

  * * *

  The night was still and calm, but the vicar asleep in his church seemed anything but. Somewhere in the back of Stephen Colefax’s subconscious, lay the realisation he was dreaming. But such a sensible assessment did little to quell the fears assaulting his previous tranquillity. That round head topped with wispy grey strands of hair, ripped from side to side on a small pillow. Sweat poured in rivulets across his brow. A mind accustomed to gentle thoughts, wrestled to comprehend the horrific images of fantasy presented to it: Eyes; blazing green eyes burned into his soul with malevolent fury. There were visions of some ancient monk dressed in skins, throwing back his robe to rebuke a demoniac. Misshapen beasts attacked the primitive holy man on all sides, in some deep, dark pit. Foul and twisted by diabolical forces, they swarmed upon him with bodies like a blend of human, animal and mythological creatures. Pleasant images came now and again: A well of water blessed; a village of some ancient people converted to the light of the gospel. But these were soon replaced with the clawing, tearing dead hands of faceless corpses. Tormented, howling ghouls that appeared to have crawled from the depths of hell itself. Human hands shredded some document or other. Fire burned its text. The ash fell into a chalice of well water, poured into the wide, flowing river tributary. A gentle current on the surface of the Welland slipped away towards the horizon of consciousness and a rising sun across the fens.

  Stephen sat up in bed and reached for a cup of water. Grey, early morning light filtered through the round window above. What was that all about? Did Maggie Leonard put something in the stew she served last night that disagreed with me? He wiped the last remnants of sweat from his forehead and swung both feet down to the cold stone floor. Its shocking sensation after being in a warm bed, always sharpened his wits with immediate effect. The old vicar took some time to get a fire going in the stove. It had become a daily routine now: draw water from the well for his kettle the night before, then boil it on a fresh fire first thing. The result fixed his morning cuppa and provided hot water to wash face and hands. Now in late August, work was well underway on some new cottages. Joe Hargreaves the builder reckoned Stephen could move into one around mid-October. The old vicar enjoyed sleeping in his church
, but it set some emotional distance between himself and the rest of the community. Distance he struggled to bridge. Since it was summer, evening repast often comprised salads the man could make himself. Every three or four days, one of his new parishioners invited him over for a cooked meal in their rustic, quaint hovel. But, it would be nice to have a few extra facilities of his own. Stephen hated to inconvenience or take advantage of anyone.

  Steam puffed from the arched kettle spout. The vicar poured water into a mug containing a tasty herbal tea mix created by Abigail Walters. She’s a curious one. Not afraid to speak her mind. I suspect she and Bob Mason have something going on. Doubt they’d be interested in church, but I suppose we’ll see in time.

  Stephen poured more water into a bowl for washing. Its splashing sound caused an instinctive bladder response. His pot beneath the bed already contained the previous night’s expulsions. One hand fished around beneath his nightshirt to take good aim for another release. Steam rose from the disturbed liquid, suggesting weak competition with his stove-top kettle. Even urine wasn’t wasted at Deeping Drove. Once it aged, the ammonia proved an effective laundry detergent. Another ancient process only dropped and forgotten by society in the last couple of hundred years. One of his morning round activities included adding his contribution to their communal urine storage. The vicar was thankful Maggie Leonard had taken it upon herself to include his laundry with that of her family. She and her husband were two of his stalwart flock members. Their son Tim was a nice boy; quiet, sensitive and shy, but watchful and conscientious. Stephen wondered if he’d make a good churchman himself, one day. But then that could disrupt his happy dreams of officiating at the lad’s wedding to Sarah Claridge. Unless she fancied being a vicar’s wife. Sarah was a different creature: forceful, confident and cheeky. Stephen knew she teased Tim, but that the boy didn’t mind. Her mother and father were also good people. Kyla opened up to him on more than one occasion about her former struggles and illnesses. She admitted teaching school for Sarah and Tim was helping her recover and grow resilient again. Dean was a solid man with a kind heart. He adored his wife and daughter. No question about it.

  Stephen finished peeing and stripped to wash. His mind wandered to the other parishioners.

  Dan Charter the woodworker and blacksmith evidenced a similar personality to the farmer’s boy. Were it not for the many years between them, they might have made firm friends. As it was, the pair demonstrated an uncanny connection whenever they were together. Despite Connie and Martin ‘giving church a go,’ they also showed fierce loyalty and commitment to making things work at St. Guthlac’s. Every Friday, Martin went out on the river in his boat. He always presented the vicar with a fish when he returned. Stephen cooked it on a hotplate attachment Dan Charter made to conduct heat from the potbellied stove. Connie was inventive and driven. If the minister asked her for anything, she’d find some way to make it happen. His was a life truly blessed.

  With the fire warming his hotplate, the vicar cracked two eggs into a cast-iron skillet and cut some slices of bread from a cob loaf. Connie told him that grinding their wheat into flour between two quern stones had been a laborious, hand operated chore until spring. A task every person had to perform. Also the origin of the old term: ‘the daily grind.’ Come April, she’d sourced some abandoned millstones. The site now operated them in a custom shed, thanks to the labours of Tyler and Ned the Suffolk Punch horses. This meant they could process bulk loads of flour. A real boon.

  Stephen dressed and settled down to a breakfast made of produce from Deeping Drove. Haute cuisine it wasn’t, but the satisfaction of its provenance turned a simple meal into a sumptuous, emotional feast. He sat at his desk to eat and considered their other community members. There were Joseph and Naomi Hargreaves. The builder acted nice enough, after voicing a clear disinterest in religion when they first met. Naomi was gentle, though sad. A tension existed between Joe and his wife that worried the vicar. Beaten down by events that brought the pair out onto the fens, Stephen feared Naomi was now shut out of her husband’s life. Could this be because of her representing a frustrated part of that old world? He’d seen this kind of thing before. With church members, a cup of tea and a chat started the ball rolling on a road to recovery. Unless Naomi or Joe came to him for help or began attending services, he couldn’t interfere. Only if he wanted to risk overextending his reach and worsen the tension. The minister sipped his tea. Jason Saint always said hello whenever they bumped into one another. Behind those striking good looks and watchful, light grey eyes, lurked a certain curious intelligence. He didn’t know the man’s story - though he liked his name - but suspected sainthood wasn’t high on his priority back in the thirty-something’s old life. Out here, opportunities to misbehave were few and far between. Darren Clements and Marie Craven (or ‘Dinger’ and ‘Angel’) were an odd pair. They didn’t fit the general mould of people seeking an alternative lifestyle. Darren worked hard, but had a short fuse. He liked to kick things when his temper boiled over. Stephen supposed that was better than kicking people instead. Marie spent most of her time moaning and getting into rows with Connie. She provided haircuts for anybody who wanted one. Plus she was learning basketry and weaving skills from Abigail Walters. But otherwise, her boyfriend Darren appeared to be the only thing keeping her at Deeping Drove.

  After breakfast, Stephen took a gentle turn around the churchyard for his morning devotions. It was a deceptive space which opened out to three times the size once you got around the rear of the building. He weaved in aimless circuits back and forth between the angled, crumbling headstones with their fading inscriptions. From time to time as he walked, a name and date leapt out here and there. These caused the minister to utter a quiet prayer under his breath for their eternal rest. Morning cloud gave way to a bright blue sky. Off to one side, Stephen caught a metallic glint dancing among the tombs. It flashed amidst a patch of long grass to the left of the main path from the lychgate to the porch. The man directed his steps to complete one last revolution of prayer at that spot. A broken, rotting wooden cross lay flat among the pasture of the dead. Affixed at its centre was a brass plaque screwed into the arms. The vicar crouched, stroking his chin in curiosity at the date: October 2000. Terry Emery’s account of the Celtic Christian Community came back to him. This must be the resting place marker of the child who died. I suppose after their sudden departure from the site, nobody ever came back to erect a lasting gravestone. Not even the boy’s parents. Odd. He reached down to lift the cross. It crumbled into wet shards amidst the sedge, leaving the inscribed plaque in his dripping fingers. Stephen retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the item. Next time he has a free moment, I’ll see if Daniel Charter can make a new cross to go with this. Something to re-mark the grave while we decide upon a better alternative. He rummaged around for a chunk of stone to embed in the sward. It stuck out in such a way he could locate the place again when needed. His soft but weathered hands tapped the earth in front of the spot. “Rest in peace, young man.”

  9

  Woe Waters

  “Off out fishing, or for materials?” Daniel Charter stepped from the intense heat of his forge, to cool off in the early September air. The record heatwave of summer clung on with tenacious fingers, leaving the smith to pine for the approaching chill of October.

  Martin Bradbury lifted a large scythe parallel to his body and patted it. “Unless I’ve become The Grim Reaper for fish, the latter.” He stomped a pair of high, black leather waders and attempted to twist his face into a horrific, skull-like expression. The effort was lost on his audience, because of the thatcher’s predilection for hiding his emotions and a reputation for dry humour.

  Dan wiped his brow with the back of one arm. “Need a hand? I could use a break from the temperature in there.”

  “No thanks. Not that I wouldn’t take you along, Dan. But, another body in the boat will reduce the number of bundles I can bring back in a single trip.”

  The smith sat down
on an upturned stump outside the forge. “Not to worry. What was that name you gave the water reed again?”

  “We call it fenstraw round here.” He started to move off, then hesitated and looked over his shoulder. “If you fancy a break, I’m off fishing tomorrow. Why not come along? I usually bring back something for Reverend Colefax. You could help me catch it.”

  “That sounds grand. Thanks, Martin.”

  The thatcher offered a half wave and strode off down the track.

  Martin’s boat was a classic, wooden flat-bottomed affair with a square-cut bow for shallow bodies of water. The ideal vessel for getting in close to gather water reed, where solid land proved a rare commodity. A long punt pole provided its only means of propulsion. Thatchers had operated craft like this on the fens and broads for time out of mind. For the harvesting of hard to reach thatching material, modernity offered no better solution.

  The thatcher stowed his scythe and a hand sickle on board, then pushed away from the weed-choked bank with expert poise and balance. He lifted the punt pole to steer his vessel out into a wide drainage channel that fed into the Welland tributary. The faintest hint of a breeze on the water in his direction of travel, added modest help to what appeared an effortless journey. Like any master of his art with years of experience, Martin Bradbury performed acts of considerable skill as if they were child’s play. The boat glided onto the feeder channel, a slight current increasing the vessel’s speed and lessening the pilot’s input.

  Twenty minutes later, the thatcher directed his craft into a horseshoe-shaped mud bank, encrusted on its outer rim with a patch of suitable water reeds. He tested the depth with his punt pole, like an ancient mariner taking soundings - not for the safety of his vessel, but his own life. The mud was too soft to support him without getting stuck. This was no place to mess around and take chances. Nobody would rush to the rescue if you sank and became immovable. Martin adjusted the craft’s position to come about. He steered through a broad curve to the reed side of the bank, then wedged the boat fast. The water at this spot was almost up to his knees, but the riverbed beneath compacted enough for relative safety. He lifted the scythe clear of the boat and splashed into a spot where he could swing the tool without obstruction. A keen edge from use of a whetstone earlier that morning, hissed through the fenstraw like a striking serpent. Wedges of water reed toppled with every stroke. From time to time, Martin bound the harvest together in bundles and stowed them cross-ways along the boat’s hull. For patches where there wasn’t room for the scythe, he got in close to use the hand sickle, hacking with vigour and purpose.