‘Not quite so interesting, after all,’ entered Jules, chasing his last prawn round the glass with a fork whilst thinking that he never had understood the concept of serving prawn cocktails in wine glasses. ‘Got it!’ He examined the speared prawn as though ensuring it were dead, before finally eating it. ‘Do continue, James – if you must.’
‘It was nothing to do with the “chapel-folk” as Mum put it.’ Turning to his wife, he continued. ‘This part of Devon is famous for its role in the Prayer Book Rebellion, which followed the introduction of the Book of Common Prayer in 1549. You see, the latter was in English and it replaced the four old liturgical books.’
‘Which were in Latin,’ Jules broke in with a groan.
‘Absolutely. My, I am impressed!’
‘Anything to move the story on.’ Jules made a rolling gesture with his hands. ‘All this talk of religious stuff is getting me down. We are supposed to be having fun. After all, it is Christmas!’
‘Jules, don’t.’ The warning look from his mother was enough to make him back down.
‘Alright, I’ll not spoil the bishop’s story. Do go on, brother.’ He waved his wine glass in an expansive manner before taking a mouthful.
‘Ignore his taunting, James. Do continue,’ Connie said, frowning at her younger son. ‘Jules, as you have heard the story, you can help me with the next course.’ She nudged him and rose from her seat.
Jules smiled and followed her bidding. James turned back to his wife.
‘As I was saying, the new version was introduced in 1549, some three hundred years before Hope Chapel was built. The book proved to be very unpopular amongst religious conservatives, especially in those areas of the country where there was traditionally a strong Catholic loyalty. Devon and Cornwall were two such counties – yes, please.’ He nodded to his father, who had started to replenish the wine glasses. ‘In the end, a large group of protestors marched from Sampford Courtenay to Exeter and lay siege to the city for one month or so. On the way there, about 1,300 of them died at Sampford Courtenay and another 1000 were killed at Crediton. All in all, about 4,000 protestors died as a result of the rebellion.’
‘Which side won?’
‘Oh dear, James.’ Jules’ head appeared around the frame of the kitchen door. ‘Doesn’t your good lady attend church very often?’
‘Evidently, neither do you, Jules, or you would know that the Book of Common Prayer has been superseded for some time, most unfortunately so in my view, by more modern versions of liturgy.’
‘I don’t suppose God minded very much either way. After all, I expect he speaks Latin and English. What do you think, James?’
‘Ignoring my brother, the answer to your question is that the rebels lost and the Book of Common Prayer, in English, became widely established within the Church of England.’
‘The point being, however,’ Jules responded, as he ferried in two plates of turkey and goose meat, ‘that the Devonians are a rebellious lot – something they probably inherited from the Cornish, who are all for proclaiming the “Independent Republic of Cornwall”.’ He placed the plates on the table and sat down. ‘Gosh, this entertaining lark is exhausting.’ Repositioning his napkin on his lap, he looked around the table with an air of nonchalance.
‘Does anyone want to pull my cracker?’
* * *
The evening laboured on, with the family staggering from one half-completed conversation to the next, whilst attending to all the elements of a festive dinner as demanded by both popular and family tradition. At times, nobody really knew who was talking to whom, as there was a great tendency for everyone to speak at the same time, often on completely different topics.
Finally, the acknowledgement that both Connie and Janice were struggling to stay awake brought the occasion to a close. James and Jules hung back as their parents and Janice headed for bed.
‘Thank goodness that is over.’ Jules flopped down in an armchair, propping his feet on a small stone shelf set into the fire surround.
‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. It was you who declared that a pre-Christmas gathering of the clan was an appropriate thing to do.’ James paused to pour himself a glass of port. ‘Some of those tales of yours had changed from the last time I heard them. Somewhat embellished, one could say!’
‘Just call it the VAT on a good story! The problem is, I tend to forget after a while as to which bits of the stories are true – which can be a problem if I start relating a tale to someone who was also there and knows the truth!’
‘One for you?’ James waved the decanter in Jules’ direction.
‘Yes, please – only perhaps you would be so kind to use one of those wine glasses instead of the thimbles they call port glasses. They remind me of medicinal cups. I want a drink, not a tincture.’
‘You’ll have a humdinger of a headache in the morning,’ James retorted, following his brother’s request.
‘Wrong there, old boy. Probably won’t kick in until the day after – there is still some champagne left for breakfast. Anyway, it can’t be any worse than the one I experienced this morning.’ He winced at the memory.
James placed a glass on a table next to Jules. ‘Goodness knows what your liver function is like.’
‘Well, I wasn’t yellow the last time I looked, so it can’t be doing so badly, can it?’ He picked up the glass and took a sip. ‘Hmm. Not a bad port – did you bring this down with you?’
James nodded in reply.
‘Sensible move.’ He drank again and then, ‘James, I think we ought to talk… about today… about the chapel, I mean.’
His brother looked at him for a few moments and then smiled.
‘Nothing to be said, Jules.’
‘Really? Aren’t you cross?’ Jules’ expression matched his voice in revealing his genuine surprise.
‘No, not at all. I’ve thought about it all afternoon, but I guess I am more relieved than angry.’
‘Oh, eh, good then – I guess…’
James could not help grinning. It was not often that he saw his brother genuinely nonplussed.
‘I know you were only trying to help. As it happens, you probably have, as over-hearing what I did has made my task a lot simpler.’
Jules continued to look increasingly bewildered.
‘Let me get this straight. You earwig your wife admitting that she doesn’t love you anymore and you are not cross or unhappy. Hmm. Thank God I am gay, that is all I can say. Heterosexuality is far too complex for me.’
He paused, looked at his brother, took another sip of port and, in the absence of a reply, continued with his exposition.
‘Oh, I see! Ding-dong – what an idiot I am.’ Jules theatrically slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Divorce then, is it? A parting of the waves based on mutual unhappiness, close the chapter, an opportunity for new beginnings – no, don’t tell me – free of the matrimonial shackles, the joys of the world of monasticism beckon.’
‘Good grief, no, Jules!’
‘Oh, I always thought you wanted to be a monk?’
‘No, not that. I mean, no, I could not possibly divorce Janice. It would go against everything I stand for and believe in.’
‘Well, that rules me out of further debate. Far too logical for me.’ He shook his head. ‘Let me see – man thinks he no longer loves woman; woman gives man a hard time and basically makes his life a misery; woman is heard admitting she no longer loves man; man, however, couldn’t possibly use all this as grounds for divorce because he read somewhere in a two-thousand-year-old book that one mustn’t do that. No, quite, what would God say? He wouldn’t like it at all, would he now? He would much rather you stayed miserable for the rest of your short life, than pluck some pleasure from it. Oh boy, James. Sometimes I think being clever is not good for your health. Do you know of a good psychiatrist? I sure do believe that you are in desperate need of one.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, their eyes fixed on each other’s face, until Jules spoke a
gain.
‘I’m sorry. I have probably said too much. It is really none of my business. You do what you must. It’s your life.’
‘You are beginning to sound like our father. He was saying pretty much the same this morning. However, don’t be hard on yourself. I know you are only trying to help. Yes, I heard what Janice said this morning, but I think you have done me a big favour. At least I now know where I stand – and can act accordingly.’
‘It is just that I now feel guilty for asking her such leading questions. If I hadn’t—’
‘Jules.’
He placed his right index finger on the tip of his brother’s nose, emulating Jules’ own mannerism.
‘As I said, it is my problem, not yours. Now, goodnight – unlike you, I have a long drive back tomorrow. See you in the morning.’
‘If I surface in time.’ Jules studied the almost empty wineglass of port. ‘Goodnight, James. Thanks for being understanding.’
Jules watched as his brother climbed the stairs, turning at the top in the direction of the room where Janice was no doubt already asleep. Then, standing up long enough to reach for the decanter, he poured himself another large glass and sat down to study the last embers of the fire.
‘Goodnight, James,’ he repeated, only this time to an empty room. ‘Perhaps you’re right – maybe I should stay out of it.’ He swallowed a mouthful of port, before continuing. ‘After all, what do I know about marriage – or women for that matter?’
He put his head back and closed his eyes.
‘Sometimes, my way of life seems a lot less confusing.’
20
Helliton, Lincolnshire
December
Mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086, the Parish Church of St Lawrence in Helliton was struggling to see in the next millennium.
At least that was the collective view of the members of the local diocese.
It was acknowledged that God, of course, in His infinite wisdom, might have other ideas, which He was yet to share with the elected trustees of His real estate here on earth. However, for the churchwardens, the process of overseeing the renovation of a stone building, which had been on the receiving end of over nine hundred years of use and abuse, was a persistent and very real headache.
One of the problems was the size of the parish. Essentially consisting of two very rural villages approximately six miles from Bishopsworth, the population had been in decline since 1960 and now stood at no more than 279. Most of the current electorate could not be relied upon for regular contributions to the parish coffers and, of those who did make a habitual donation, many had been retired for more than a decade, their finances decaying along with their physical health. A few months previously, one of the wardens had written a piece for the parish magazine, entitled ‘A Plea for the Voluntary Return to the Concept of Tithes’. It had brought about little in the way of response, either in financial or literary terms, apart from one elderly lady who was overheard in the village corner shop remarking that ‘the vicar is now collecting old ties for some reason’. She was not entirely sure what for, but she would ‘have a rummage and see whether I’ve still got some of my late Walter’s to give to him’.
Her remark was not only erroneous in respect to the nature of the appeal, but also deluded in her endearing belief that they were still blessed at St Lawrence’s with the provision of a vicar. Such ecumenical enrichments had long since ceased to exist and the dwindling congregation now relied on a Priest-in-Charge, shared with three other parishes.
The Reverend Jeremy Pinchbeck MA (Oxon) currently had the unenviable task of quartering himself each Sunday for the good of the faith. He greeted James as he arrived at the church door.
‘Good evening, Doctor Armstrong. Most kind of you to come. I’m sure we are going to be in for a rare treat.’
‘My pleasure, entirely, Mr Pinchbeck. I am always interested in supporting the local parishes. After all, many of the parishioners are also my patients. Besides, such a musical event is surely a unique happening locally?’
‘Indeed, Dr Armstrong, it is, one to be welcomed and supported. Without it and other forms of fundraising, we would have great difficulty covering the costs of preventing that architectural delight from collapsing.’
He indicated the embattled western tower, complete with its eight pinnacles and housing five bells, the latter features in themselves being of noteworthiness for such a small church. As he spoke, a keen wind whistled round the stone buttresses of the tower, flicking at the edges of his black cassock.
‘Not helped, of course, by the fact that it serves as home to a colony of pipistrelle bats,’ continued the priest. ‘According to the nature conservationists, they are rarer than the dwindling membership of the Church of England, although I understand that they are also up at Helliton Abbey. Seems a bit selfish keeping two colonies in the same area. I suggested that we could relocate ours to some other community where they do not have any. You know – give someone else the pleasure of nature’s darlings. However, the heritage officials became most disconcerted at the very suggestion!’
James laughed.
‘Well, let us hope that they stay put for tonight’s concert. I would prefer not to have to deal with phobia-induced histrionics in the middle of an aria!’
He turned and made his way into the church. Behind him, the Reverend Pinchbeck greeted the next concert-goer-cum-financial-patron.
‘Good evening, Mrs Bloomhurst. Most kind of you to come. I’m sure we are going to be in for a rare treat.’
James smiled to himself as he detected the same degree of enthusiasm in the priest’s voice as had been summoned for his own arrival. The Reverend Pinchbeck certainly knew how to play up to his audience.
Just within the southwestern corner of the chancel, James paused to examine the font. Evidently old, it was unusual in so much as it was square in plan and embellished with the most ornate carvings.
‘Early Norman, or at least that is what the archaeologist lads tell us. Mind you, it also says that in Pevsner, so they could be right!’
James looked round in response to the roughened bass tones of the person addressing him, grinned and extended his right hand. It was shaken by one almost twice the size and with incredibly rough skin.
‘Good to see you, Mark. All set for tonight?’
‘As set as this bunch of buskers will ever be. However, as the choir of King’s College are reportedly otherwise engaged tonight, then I have to make do with whomsoever I can lay hands on. Half of them seem incapable of reading music, but I guess they’ll hum along in the right places.’
Mark Allerton was a robust giant of a man, some twenty years James’ senior. A well-known farmer with an incorrigible sense of humour, he had become a good friend to James from his earliest days within the practice. Indeed, for a while, James had assumed that Mark’s only other interests apart from farming were fine wines and home-brewed beverages. A not unreasonable perception, albeit erroneous, as his first consultation was conducted whilst sitting on cases of Gordon’s gin in the cellar of Mark’s home. He had left somewhat more than invigorated by a large glass of excellently made sloe gin. It had come as a surprise to James to learn of Mark’s musical interests.
‘Looks like you’ve filled the church to capacity.’ James looked round at the rapidly filling pews.
‘All three hundred tickets sold. That’s better than the attendance in one year’s worth of Sundays. I told old Pinchbeck over there that he ought to sneak Holy Communion in during the interval for good measure. You know, capture a few recalcitrant souls whilst they are least expecting it.’
‘Do you know, Mark, to hear you speak, no one would believe that you harbour a hidden passion for Church music.’
‘It’s just the music, nothing else. I cannot be doing with all this mumbo-jumbo they mutter in between the sung bits. Does nothing for me at all.’
‘Perhaps the whole service ought to be set to music and then you’d take notice.’
‘May
be so. I tell you what, though. If you get yourself a dog collar like you are planning, we will vote for you to hang your frock here at St Lawrence’s. Then I will listen to you and let you know whether you have managed to move my soul. In the meantime, I can guarantee that I’m going to move yours tonight.’
James could not help laughing at the irreverent words of his friend.
‘You’ve got yourself a bargain. I will consider you my first challenge. Now, I’d better find myself a seat before I’m left standing at the back.’
‘Left-hand side, front row, end of pew. I’ve reserved it for you.’
‘That’s most kind, thank you.’
‘Not at all. Thought it would be easier for you to get up at the end and say a few words of thanks, like.’ He waved a hand at James and turned to go.
‘Mark!’ James called him back. ‘What do you mean? Nobody told me about that!’
‘Oh, didn’t they?’ The innocent expression on Mark’s face did nothing to hide the truth.
‘No, you didn’t!’
‘Never mind, I’m sure you’re up to it. Good practice for when you have a full church on Sundays. See you in the interval.’
He slapped James on the shoulder and once again turned away. For a large man, he was surprisingly agile and slipped through the incoming audience with a deftness that prevented any further protest from James. He watched him go.
‘Impossible man!’ James muttered with a look of bemusement.
Edging his way past a group of farmers who stood chatting at the top of the aisle, he walked down to the front pew on the left, as instructed. On the way, he recognised many of the faces within the rows of those already seated. His progress hence became punctuated by brief nods, smiles and a few handshakes.
‘Mrs Roseberry.’
‘Doctor.’
‘Evening, Mr Donaldson.’
‘Good evening, Dr Armstrong.’
‘Hello, Doctor Armstrong. You’re my doctor!’
James bent down and ruffled the already tousled fair hair of the five-year-old boy who stood before him.
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