Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  ‘Hello, Thomas. Have you come to sing?’

  ‘Nope. My mummy says that I’m only allowed to sing in the bath until I learn the right notes.’

  ‘Is that so, Thomas? I’m sure you’re much better than that!’

  ‘Nope, my mummy says not.’

  ‘Thomas, come here and sit down. I am sorry, Doctor. He is a little excited by it all. First time he’s been in a church.’

  ‘He’s no trouble at all, Mrs Stevenson. Perhaps, after tonight, he would like to come more often. I’m sure they would find him a place in the choir.’

  ‘Maybe so, Doctor. He does so enjoy singing.’

  ‘I suggest that you speak to Mark Allerton afterwards. He’ll point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. Have a good evening.’

  ‘You too, Mrs Stevenson.’

  He moved down to the front of the aisle and bowed to the altar. The front pew had one seat available, adjacent to the aisle, just as Mark had promised. The brass plaque announcing that it was officially the seat of the church warden had been covered over with a piece of card, on which was written:

  St Luke II

  of

  Bishopsworth

  ‘I couldn’t begin to guess the name of the person responsible for that.’

  James chuckled and extended his hand one more time.

  ‘Good evening, Sir Edward. I suspect your first guess would be correct! He’s the only person I know with the nerve to get away with it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here, James. Mark told me that I was the understudy for the vote of thanks at the end – just in case his first choice did not show. I guess that’s you?’

  ‘Yes, so I was informed five minutes ago. However, I am happy to stand aside for the High Sheriff.’

  ‘And get me into Mark’s bad books? Not likely! I know my place. Changing the subject, no Mrs Armstrong?’ Sir Edward indicated to James’ right, as though highlighting an empty seat.

  ‘No, I am afraid she couldn’t make it this evening.’

  ‘A shame. I am yet to meet her and I am sure she would have enjoyed the evening. You should not keep her hidden away so much. You must bring her to dinner at the Hall sometime soon. I will get Elizabeth to send her an invitation to one of her “At Homes”. Geraldine, how wonderful to see you. You look positively radiant.’

  Sir Edward Winsonby-Folcroft Bt. rose to greet the widow of the late Andrew McPhearson CBE DL, a former racehorse owner and one-time chairman of the Wovington Racecourse. He had been awarded the CBE for ‘services to the racing industry’, only he had taken a fatal fall whilst skiing off-piste during last year’s season in Austria and so the medal was awarded posthumously. His widow, Geraldine, herself a lady of significant wealth having inherited an estate in the heart of Lincolnshire from her father, had been accompanied by Sir Edward to Buckingham Palace for the investiture. At the time, James had assumed, reading the details in the Bishopsworth Standard, that this had simply been a gesture of goodwill on behalf of Sir Edward. The fact that Mrs Andrew McPhearson was now being shown to her seat on the other side of Sir Edward left James wondering on the whereabouts of Lady Winsonby-Folcroft. The circumstantial evidence, James thought, suggested that the invitation to dinner at Helliton Hall would not be too quick in coming, a matter that would save him either the embarrassment of having to decline or arguably the greater humiliation of actually accepting and then having Janice misbehave at the function itself.

  The distraction of Sir Edward allowed James to settle into his own seat. Looking about him, he took in the finer points of the church. Built in stone in the early English style, it consisted of a chancel, nave, aisle and south porch. A sturdy, but minimally carved, wooden screen separated the chancel from the nave. Both the pews and choir stalls were of oak and, from what he could perceive, of a substantial age. Immediately to his left was the organ: a three-manual pipe organ originally installed in 1875 by Liverpool-based firm Rushworth and Dreaper, according to a brass plate on the casement. Positioned at a slight angle adjacent to the organ, so that it was visible to most of the congregation, was the pulpit, again of oaken wood and with fine carvings set into its base. At the far east end of the chancel, within the sanctuary, was a communion table from the 17th century. Of a suitable antiquity for the rest of the church, thought James.

  The fixtures and fittings of the church, intrinsically fine though they were, had the benefit of extra adornment in the form of green swathes of holly and ivy, in deference to the festive occasion. There was no room for a tree, but James knew, from experience, that a small nativity scene would have been erected somewhere towards the west end of the nave. The incoming crowds had restricted his view earlier. However, he made a mental note to look at the end of the evening.

  Tonight, the area between the nave and chancel was crammed with metal chairs and music stands for the orchestra, or rather, a scaled-down version of that ideally required to put on the Christmas Oratorio by Johann Sebastian Bach. As James studied the scene, various members of the orchestra were already taking their seats, adjusting the music on the stands, tuning their instruments and warming up by playing short scales, arpeggios or even snatches of the Oratorio’s score. The result was a growing cacophony of discordant sound, suggesting to James the musical equivalent to the noise from a bustling market place. It all helped to create an atmosphere of pleasurable expectation.

  Behind the growing orchestra, members of the chorus were settling themselves into the choir stalls. He recognised many of the faces amongst the singers and the instrumentalists. Several belonged to other local music societies such as amateur dramatic groups, string quartets, and the Bishopsworth Town Band. A few were music professionals; mostly peripatetic teachers of their chosen instruments, moving from one school to the next according to the day of the week, supplementing the meagre wages with a few private lessons from their homes, all to enable them to pursue their main love – that of playing in bands and orchestras in the evenings and at weekend functions. Others were drawn from an eclectic mix of society – a soprano who by day worked in the Co-op, a baritone who practised as a solicitor, another who was a police inspector, and so it went on.

  One of the tenors, Mr Frederick Wilson, was the music master at Bishopsworth Secondary Modern School (formerly the Grammar School and still referred to as such by many of the older generations, despite its, much lamented, decline of standards). Mr Wilson was known to have a particularly fine voice and often sung solo parts in events such as this. James glanced at the programme notes and found that, as expected, the person in question was to sing the part of the evangelist: essentially the narrator of the story.

  He flicked through the remaining pages of the programme. The front page informed the reader that tonight’s concert was to be given in aid of the ‘St Lawrence’s Tower Restoration Fund’ by ‘kind permission of the Reverend Jeremy Pinchbeck MA (Oxon)’ and ‘under the musical directorship of St Lawrence’s Choir Master, Mark Allerton Esq.’ Pages three and four identified the various parts of the Oratorio, noting that Part IV was, in keeping with many other productions of less than three hours’ duration, to be omitted on the basis that the text does not add very much to the unfolding of the Christmas story, though James noted with satisfaction that the famous ‘echo’ aria from Part IV was to be included in the final cantata.

  On page two, however, Mark had penned a brief introduction to the oratorio. It was this that particularly caught James’ eye. He read on.

  ‘Bach’s Christmas Oratorio was written in 1734. Never intended to be performed in its entirety at one sitting, it comprises six parts, each being a cantata containing a series of recitatives (the tenor evangelist), chorales and arias. The original concept was to have each cantata performed separately over the period known as the Twelve Days of Christmas. Most of the chorales are in the form of hymns of a type traditionally found within the Lutheran Church (a major branch of Protestant Christianity, following the teachings of the 6th-century reformer
Martin Luther). The instrumental requirements vary for each cantata, thus adding complexity to a performance in one sitting. It is, however, hoped that the inflated egos of the combined musical talents of Bishopsworth & District, combined with the intimate surroundings offered by St Lawrence’s Parish Church will, when confronted with a musically challenged audience such as can be coerced here this evening, overcome any shortfalls and leave Mr Bach at peace within his grave. On the other hand, if, having heard this evening’s performance, you would give anything not to have to repeat the experience, then please send a further donation to the Reverend Pinchbeck so that we can get the tower restored without further ado.’

  James struggled to stifle a rising fit of laughter at the final sentence. Mark Allerton had no time for stuffiness. James could imagine him writing the first few lines, so serious and technical in their nature, and then, becoming thoroughly bored, speeding through to the end by saying what he really thought. James was actually surprised that a mild expletive had not preceded the word ‘tower’. No doubt, there would be some who, horrified by Mark’s perceived impertinence and regardless of the success of the fundraising, would send letters of complaint to the Parish Church Council. However, Mark would just shrug them off and go about life in his own inimitable style.

  He was just about to read the list of names of those within the choir and orchestra, when a single continuous note emitted from the organ. On cue, the entire orchestra started to play the same note, making minor alterations to their instruments as they coerced various strings and brass tubing into tune.

  The single note of A also had a mesmerising effect on the audience. They fell into an expectant hush and then broke into applause as Mark Allerton walked down the aisle and took his place on a makeshift rostrum. He turned and bowed in acknowledgement to the greeting. As he did so, a large sprig of mistletoe fell from his lapel and landed in the lap of a woman in the front row on the opposite side of the aisle to James. Miss Gertrude Darby MBE, octogenarian spinster of this parish, had no time for Mark Allerton, so much so, that their antagonism was legendary. Pretending to be nonplussed, Mark left the rostrum, retrieved the mistletoe and, prior to replacing it in his lapel, held it over her head as he planted a theatrical kiss on her cheek. To suppressed laughter from the audience and before the indignant Miss Darby could muster a response, he remounted the rostrum, raised his baton and drove his artistes into the first piece of music.

  Classical music had always had a mesmerising effect on James. He would start by listening intently to every line and phrase, picking out individual notes and subtle key changes that gave him particular pleasure. Church music was particularly pleasing in this respect. The essentially lyrical nature of such music was often written with the express intention to lift the soul of the listener and leave them spiritually enhanced. However, on this occasion, he listened to Part I, which told the story of Christmas Day, and got as far as the Angel soloist in Part II, before his concentration lapsed and his mind wandered elsewhere.

  The build-up to Christmas this year seemed to have gone on forever, he thought. It had been almost a month since the family weekend in Devon. Now it was the day prior to Christmas Eve. With Christmas Day being a Wednesday this year, the week itself was thrown out of proportion. Being out on a Monday made it feel like the weekend. Then there were the two days of holiday mid-week, so that Friday would feel like a Monday. At least it was his weekend on duty for the practice, which meant that he had a good excuse not to stay at his in-laws in Shropshire beyond Boxing Day afternoon.

  He refocused on the Oratorio as the choir contributed the part of the heavenly host in ‘Glory to God’. Bach had written the top line for sopranos. Two hundred and fifty years later, the lack of enthusiastic trebles meant that sopranos still supplied the lead in the melodies. What a striking contrast, he thought. Only four days ago, he had attended his second staff Christmas Party. This time it was held in a function room at a local pub, which meant that the surgery had the venue to themselves. For most of the evening, he had occupied himself by chatting with one or two members of staff. Sandy in particular monopolised his attention, pouring out her life’s story as though he were there to act as an agony aunt. It had been a relief to be dragged onto the dance floor by Anna, who proceeded to act out her Tina Turner impersonation to the recent hit song ‘Simply the Best’. After that performance, he could not imagine Tina Turner (or Anna, for that matter) singing the Christmas Oratorio. Compared, however, to the rather heady atmosphere of his first exposure to the surgery Christmas parties, this recent one had seemed quite tame, disappointing even. Although, to be fair, he was not quite sure what he had been expecting of it in the first place. Wasn’t that the entire problem with Christmas functions anyway? he thought as he somewhat detachedly watched Mark Allerton’s body language metaphorically squeezing devotion from the choir as they began to sing Part III’s ‘Let me love thee King supernal’. Somehow, James’ brain connected Bach’s harmony to a comparison of the harmonies within Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, though he was uncertain as to the precise relationship. Perhaps, pondered James, it was the atmosphere of being in a church, reminding him of the premature death of Queen’s Freddie Mercury one month earlier. The band’s hit single ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ had just been re-released by a commercially astute record label and, sixteen years after its first release, had gone straight back to the top of the British Christmas chart. It was another song that featured in a dominant way at the staff party and was played three times by popular request. One particular line kept replaying in his mind like a Buddhist’s mantra, until he started to question whether it was some sort of subliminal philosophical message to him about nothing mattering.

  ‘Perhaps it doesn’t anymore.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that, old fellow.’

  Sir Edward’s voice brought James out of his reverie and back to the present. All around him, people were beginning to stand, stretching stiff limbs and backs.

  ‘Old Bach has quite an effect on one, doesn’t he?’ Sir Edward continued. ‘Anyway, sorry to spoil it for you, but I thought we might join them at the back for a spot of mulled wine and one of Miss Darby’s mince pies.’

  Somewhat belatedly, the bemused James twigged that, without his realisation, they had reached the interval. Mumbling an apology, he let the High Sherriff and Mrs McPhearson out of the pew and followed them to the refreshment table set out next to the font.

  ‘Mr Wilson seems to be in frightfully good voice, don’t you think, Doctor?’

  The Reverend Pinchbeck joined James in the queue, only to be engaged in conversation by an indignant Miss Darby before James could reply. To his left, by the porch door, he saw a beckoning Mark Allerton raise two plastic cups and left the queue to join him.

  ‘Thank you, Mark.’

  He took a sip of the mulled wine and felt the invigorating mix of wine and herbs hit his stomach and brain simultaneously.

  ‘No problem, James, though I passed on the mince pies. Apparently, the mice have had a bit of a pre-interval nibble.’

  ‘So that is what is exciting Miss Darby so much.’

  ‘Afraid so. I don’t think a dog collar and Master’s degree are any defence against an irate Gertrude.’ Mark grinned and looked across to where the flustered priest was doing his best to placate an infuriated Miss Darby. ‘You see, James, when it boils down to it, all the pomp and teaching of the Church means nothing compared to the basic matters of life; in this case, nibbled pastry cases.’

  ‘That’s strange. I was thinking something along the same lines whilst you were performing.’

  ‘What’s that? You mean that my Oratorio moved you so much that you ended up fantasising about Gertie’s pastry?’

  James smiled at Mark’s mock indignation and moved on. ‘No. I was thinking that some people’s lives are possibly built on nothing more than fallacies and fantasies, and in reality, could it be that nothing really matters?’

  ‘Ah, deep and profound. In fact, a worthy
philosophy for a doctor who wishes to be a priest. It is what businessmen call “vertical integration”; don’t get too hung up on the exactitudes of one particular line of business – if it proves to have its faults, then move on and market the solution to the shortcomings of the first. In fact, why not open a funeral parlour as well? Then you would have all angles covered. The complete “cradle to the grave” service! You could make quite a killing – in a manner of speaking – out of what everyone else thinks does matter.’ As he spoke the last words, Mark gestured towards James with his plastic cup, raised his eyebrows and inclined his head to emphasise the point, before giving a broad smirk and drinking the last of the mulled wine in one gulp.

  ‘I am assuming that you do not really mean for me to take all that seriously, Mark?’ James’ right eyebrow rose quizzically as he studied the deeply furrowed expression of his mock antagonist. Mark grinned. Before replying, he perched his empty cup on a convenient shoulder-level corbel that had long lost its architectural reason for being so positioned.

  ‘Of course not. All I am saying is do not take life too seriously. You are only here once, so live it. Don’t shackle yourself with unnecessary rules and regulations; it is all just superfluous emotional baggage.’

  ‘So you do believe that nothing really matters?’

  ‘No, not quite.’ He paused to look at his watch. ‘Right now it matters that I get my wandering minstrels back onto the stage for Part V, before the mulled wine makes them completely somnambulant and musically incoherent.’ He glanced across to the aisle and caught the eye of his narrator. ‘Fred, round them up.’ He mouthed the words whilst his right index finger made a circling motion in the air before pointing at the makeshift stage. Fred seemed to get the message. ‘Otherwise, yes. I think that when you boil life down to its basics, nothing really matters very much.’ He patted James’ left shoulder and made to move away, before adding with another of his wry grins, ‘Except your vote of thanks at the end of this evening, that is. Now that matters very much indeed.’ With that, he was gone, pressing his way between the assorted mass of patrons on the way back to his rostrum.