Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Only rich Londoners wanting some arty photos. Not proper parishioners. Just people renting a place so they can claim the right to use the church.’ I’d swear that if he hadn’t been on hallowed ground he’d have spat. Actually no, not an ex-head, even one who with his gnarled hands and bent shoulders looked like a countryman straight out of Thomas Hardy. Of course he wouldn’t. ‘Let them go to a register office, that’s what I say. Or one of those wedding venues. You know, a golf club or something.’

  Theo hoped that the experience of a Christian ceremony might encourage the happy couple to explore more fully the religion they’d embraced for half an hour. Maybe some of it will rub off was his mantra. And each time he read the banns he made sure the congregation prayed for the unknown couple.

  I murmured something to that effect to George, who responded with a face that wouldn’t have disgraced a gargoyle. I could also have pointed out that St Dunstan’s needed the money as much as any golf course, but the church’s funds, or rather lack of them, was a contentious issue, dividing the Parochial Church Council and indeed the handful of parishioners who rarely – or do I mean barely? – filled the pews.

  ‘They won’t hear of the Flower Guild ladies doing their flowers – they’ve brought in some designer florist. And, mark my words, their guests will throw all that damned confetti,’ George concluded, levering himself upright with the strimmer.

  Rectors’ wives were supposed to think of tactful responses. Get over it wouldn’t quite do, would it? Since I’d spent all my working life overriding Can’t do arguments and making sure those working under me understood that they could overcome any blip, temporary or otherwise, I found it very hard not to snarl at him. But he was a volunteer, for goodness’ sake. Mowing grass wasn’t part of a warden’s job description and he was risking his health to boot, so a reassuring smile was in order. ‘I’ll get Theo to remind them to save it for the reception.’

  ‘I’m afraid people just don’t want to listen. Still, Theo does his best, which is all we can ask, I suppose,’ George conceded, switching on the strimmer to prevent any further argument.

  Perhaps I could find a leaf-blower cheap on eBay: that’d deal with any residual confetti and Theo’s conscience.

  With a smile and a wave, I went on my way, jogging now, rather than running, towards The Old Rectory – in which we did not live. It was no longer church property. It had been sold fifteen years ago, but had recently changed hands. Now it belonged to a guy who’d made even more money than I had in the City.

  Dapper and upright, and always immaculately coiffed, manicured and dressed, Ted Vesey was just crossing the green. Perhaps five years younger than George, he was the vicar’s warden to George Cox’s people’s warden, a distinction I still didn’t understand, since they both seemed to do exactly the same in church. This afternoon his Barboured dignity was somewhat diminished by his yappy little dog and a full poo-bag. ‘You’ve still got that young layabout from the sink estate working for you, I gather?’ Vesey greeted me, taking in with one dismissive glance my running gear.

  ‘Burble?’ I wasn’t criticizing Vesey’s beautifully enunciated speech: Burble was an unemployed village lad whom I’d dragooned into doing some odd jobs around the garden.

  ‘He must have a proper name! Why doesn’t he use it? Have you counted your spoons recently? That sort’ll take anything they can lay hands on. He’s probably one of the gang stealing cycles from people’s garages,’ he declared, his voice carrying in an actorly way. No one knew exactly what he’d done before he retired, and he discouraged all speculation with a suave change of subject.

  ‘He’s clearing the brambles at the end of our garden,’ I said mildly and truthfully. He was also doing it very slowly, but Mr Vesey didn’t need to know that. Despite being randomly articulate and obviously bright, Burble had been – officially still was – a NEET: a young person not in education, employment or training. Now at least he was gaining a few skills and a few legitimate pounds. Not enough to affect his dole, though I would have paid him three times over just to get some pressure off Theo, whose little spare time could be more pleasurably spent than dealing with twenty years’ worth of horticultural neglect. But breaking the law wasn’t an option for the rector’s wife, was it? Actually, just to set the matter straight, it had never been one of my options, even pre-Theo.

  The dog, which, working at the very limit of its extendable lead, was checking for messages along the neighbours’ hedges and fences, showed what he thought of Burble’s activities by cocking its leg. Vesey looked over my shoulder at his own home, Church Cottage, which was more or less the same period as The Old Rectory, only more inclined to the Gothick in style. I’d thought cottages were two-up, two down houses for the rural poor; this was a four-bedroomed gentleman’s dwelling with stables and goodness knows what else to the rear – all tastefully converted now to an exclusive holiday let. Just as the Farrow and Ball colour-wash was perfect, so the garden might have existed in a different microclimate from the rest of the village – none of the bushes seemed wind-burned, as ours did, and bulbs which had sensibly declined to emerge from most flower beds nodded graciously in his. Vesey’s slight but audible sniff told me that had a bramble appeared in his vegetable garden, it would have done so by appointment only, producing the finest, most succulent blackberries.

  ‘I’d have happily recommended the contractors who maintain my grounds,’ Vesey said kindly.

  ‘They do a really excellent job, don’t they? But once Burble’s tamed our patch, I ought to look after it myself.’ That was the sort of thing rectors’ wives were supposed to do, wasn’t it?

  He looked straight at me and blinked in what appeared to be genuine surprise. ‘You don’t, I have to say, look much like a gardener.’ He gave a courtly little bow.

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, was there?

  ‘In any case, you’re too busy running, they say.’ As I winced at what was definitely a barb, he continued, now sounding genuinely interested, ‘Do you have a preferred route?’

  ‘Up hill, down dale,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the surrounding ring of hills. ‘Forty miles a week on average.’

  ‘How very energetic. Yet I hear you’ve turned down the chance of joining the bell-ringing team,’ he said, picking up the dog and fussing it.

  ‘Time,’ I said vaguely, implying I didn’t have much to spare. He wasn’t to know how heavily it sometimes weighed on my hands when Theo was working one of his six fourteen-hour days each week; I’d illicitly polished silver that the team of cleaners had systematically missed for months, darned holey kneelers for those still able and willing to use them, and sorted the intact hymn and prayer books from those that fell apart if you opened them. ‘In any case, the team practises on Monday nights, and that’s Theo’s only night off. And don’t think I believe they should change the night to suit me, because I don’t – I’ve never rung a bell in my life, and would probably make a complete hash of it.’

  ‘And of course you and the rector always dash off somewhere on the said night off.’ Even less approval, though it came with a charming smile.

  Which I returned, wishing he was less opaque: was he simply an old gentleman with outdated notions of how to treat a woman? Or was there a lurking hostility? I replied as if I simply took his comment at face value: ‘Yes. And we stay away all Tuesday.’ We came back to the village on Wednesday morning well before nine, when Theo’s working day officially began: one parishioner made a point of phoning, or even turning up at the front door, at eight fifty-five. One day, when there was a problem on the railway, we’d taken a taxi all the way home to make sure the wretched woman didn’t report him for dereliction of duty. I added sunnily, ‘It’s the bishop’s advice for priests working in busy benefices like this.’

  Whatever his real attitude, he recognized a trump card when he heard it. ‘So it is. And in any case, the bells may not be heard for much longer.’ This time it wasn’t hard to pick up the anger in his voice; the dog cer
tainly did, producing an anxious growl.

  ‘Has one of them cracked? They sounded beautiful when they rang last Sunday.’

  ‘Beautiful! It’s a good job someone thinks they’re beautiful. Because someone else wants them silenced.’

  ‘The bells? Silenced?’ I repeated stupidly. So much for my incisive business brain.

  ‘At the behest of a newcomer, one gathers,’ he said, with a hard and suspicious stare at an undeniable newcomer, ‘who alleges that they constitute noise pollution. An official complaint has been made to the council. Environmental health.’

  Unfortunately at some point in my career I’d learned to swear, though not as prolifically as young Burble, and still hadn’t got my head round rationing expletives to hammer and thumbnail moments when no one could hear. ‘Bloody hell!’ I exploded.

  There was a genuinely shocked silence. He put the dog down; now it sniffed ominously at my feet.

  ‘I’m sorry. But who on earth objects to church bells? Apart from the victim in Nine Tailors, of course.’

  He didn’t pick up my mild quip. ‘Who indeed, when they or their predecessors have rung, at a conservative estimate, for a millennium? Apparently the bells for the morning services disturb the complainant’s slumbers,’ he snarled ironically. ‘At nine in the morning, God bless us. It isn’t as if we can find any ringers for the eight o’clock Communion.’

  I didn’t respond to the pettishness in Ted’s last sentence, but asked a question I genuinely wanted an answer to: ‘How can one complaint stop something that the whole village identifies with? Every time there’s a christening—’

  He gave a gentle smile, which felt as if it was designed to put me in my place, though he might simply have been trying to help me. ‘I think you’ll find it’s more properly referred to as a baptism, Mrs Welsh.’

  ‘Jodie. Baptism. And for every wedding. The organizers always ask for the bells.’ The dog had started to tug my laces. The more I shuffled away, the harder it tugged. Dare I kick it? Absolutely not.

  ‘This would be a time-related injunction, I should imagine. No bells before midday or something like that.’

  ‘But most chr— most baptisms take place at a nine thirty service. So to silence the bells then would be to deny parents and godparents their wish. How are we going to fight this, Ted? Do you need legal support? Some of my legal friends might take on a cause like this pro bono.’

  ‘I’m sure the Parochial Church Council will come up with a strategy,’ he said tightly. ‘It’s within their remit, after all.’

  I, however, was the one with experience of fights both clean and dirty. But it wasn’t my job to yell at a man telling the truth outside his own house, though I did draw the line at his dog trying to hump my best running shoes. ‘Good boy – why don’t you go back to Daddy?’ Turning back to Vesey, I continued without a break, ‘I’m sure they will. But Ted, I also know some people in the media you might find useful. If you – if the PCC – want me to call in a favour, just let me know. Please.’

  ‘I assure you that a church’s representatives would never fight dirty.’

  How did Theo manage to swallow down comments and smile? I’d better try myself. ‘I suspect the only ones fighting dirty are the anti-bell lobby. Environmental health indeed! Actually, I’m wondering if ridicule might be your best weapon. Yours and the PCC’s,’ I amended quickly.

  He looked at me with narrowed eyes; I swear I saw amused approval alongside comprehension. I hoped so. Theo’s job was tough enough without me deliberately creating enemies for myself. I did it accidentally easily enough.

  ‘Ridicule? Something along the lines of these people who a month ago swanned into an age-old village and then want to change the traditions of centuries?’

  ‘Yes, something along those lines.’

  There was a glimmer of a smile. ‘I shall raise the idea with the PCC – we have to arrange an emergency meeting to discuss … one or two matters.’ Which he did not propose to share with me. ‘I take it Theo is expecting George Cox and me this evening?’

  Shaking my head slowly, I said, ‘I have an idea he’s talking to some parents about their baby’s chr— baptism.’

  ‘Ah, he said he wouldn’t be available till eight thirty. So we’ll see him then.’

  ‘It’s awfully late to start a meeting,’ I said, tactlessly but truthfully.

  ‘We have something requiring immediate thought. Incidentally, Mrs Welsh, as Neighbourhood Watch representative, I have sent your husband an email about rural theft, but in case he’s too busy to read it, I’ll convey the message via your good self. It concerns cycles – which I mentioned earlier – and garden tools, some from garages and sheds which weren’t even locked or padlocked. The sort of crime disaffected youngsters commit, Mrs Welsh. Beware. Keep a very close eye on that young protégé of yours. He’ll bring, as my grandmother used to say, trouble to your door – you mark my words. Now, I’ll bid you good day.’

  I jogged back home to the dispiriting Fifties outskirts of the village and the shabby house that had replaced the Regency gem as accommodation for the rector. Although our neighbours might have envied its detached status among all the semis, it wasn’t great to live in. For one thing it was badly insulated and needed a completely new heating system, but any improvement – as I’d found to my frustration – had to be sanctioned by what was quaintly called a faculty, granted by the bishop’s office. So though I would have gladly paid three times over for a new energy-efficient boiler, an upgraded bathroom and a kitchen in which it was possible to cook, nothing could be done without permission. Of course, the house wasn’t Theo’s property but the diocese’s. I knew there had to be a system in place to stop people making foolish or unsafe changes, but the delays were achingly long.

  There was no sign of Theo apart from a hastily scribbled note comprising one big X, and Burble seemed to have called it a day. I willed myself not to go and see if the cycles were still in the garage.

  With the house to myself, I could have a long, luxurious shower, singing at the top of my voice – though it had to be said it was one that failed to meet the church choir-mistress’s standards. Unfortunately, one of Theo’s little funniosities – one, believe me, I was working on – involved keeping both the central heating and the hot water on a very strict timer, and though pressing override was the first thing I did, I knew I was doomed to sweaty coldness for at least half an hour.

  On my millionaire’s yacht there’d have been a Jacuzzi and a plunge pool.

  TWO

  I was still huddling over a fan heater when I heard more activity in the garden. Burble had returned, and was wielding the long-handled loppers with something approaching enthusiasm. For a few moments. Soon he was puffing on a roll-up, hunching his thin shoulders, and bunching scuffed knuckles around the illegal cigarette. I could see why Ted Vesey was nervous of him; it didn’t take the black eye he’d acquired from somewhere to make him vaguely menacing. His posture, knife and fork haircut, apparent reluctance to wash his person or his clothes, and a few random piercings did that.

  Donning a duvet-thick jacket, I headed out with a couple of mugs of drinking chocolate, apparently his favourite non-alcoholic tipple, since for so far unexplained reasons he didn’t touch caffeine in the form of tea, coffee or even Coke. We both pulled a face when I registered that the roll-up was in fact a spliff.

  ‘Where do you get the stuff?’ I asked, as if I might fancy some weed myself.

  ‘This guy. Grows his own.’

  ‘Even so, Burble – still illegal, still harmful. Theo could be arrested simply for letting you smoke it if one of our neighbours dobbed us in.’

  He looked helplessly for somewhere to dispose of it.

  My eyebrows shot up when his hand drifted towards the garden refuse bin. ‘The local media would just love a Rector in Drugs Row story, wouldn’t they?’ I said, with a grin severe enough to brook no argument.

  The spliff went back into his baccy tin.

  ‘Got more th
an that to worry about, ask me,’ he snarled, punctuating the utterance liberally with expletives, as he did everything he said. Many of the words began with F, since I had absolutely forbidden the C word here or anywhere else I might overhear it. Pausing, he drew on the hot chocolate as if it was nectar. It pretty well was. It might now live in an innocuous supermarket tin, but it certainly hadn’t started out in it. If he’d known its price, Theo would have worried so much about the extravagance that he might even have given up drinking it. Since it was such a harmless indulgence, I thought the tiny deceit was justified.

  ‘Such as what?’ I prompted him.

  ‘Fucking shop going and all. Shit, innit?’

  ‘The shop?’

  ‘Post office got to close,’ he explained, less tersely than that. ‘The Big Bosses say so. There’s no way old Violet’ll be able to keep the shop going without it.’ He sucked on his teeth, and might have spat, but clearly even a punkish eighteen year old had reservations about doing it on rectory land, albeit somewhere as downmarket as this. He’d have quite understood George Cox’s restraint, though George might have been surprised to see it in him.

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ I said. And dreadful was a massive understatement. If the shop went, I couldn’t see the pub surviving – it was very much down on its uppers already. If the pub went there’d be nowhere for the village’s old-stagers to nurse a pint, or the odd family to risk a cholesterol-filled but at least home-cooked meal at the weekend. There might be an impact on the playgroup, the primary school (at the age of eleven they left for schools in nearby towns) and – yes, the church. The place would in all likelihood degenerate into a mere dormitory village for Maidstone or even London.

  Predictably he swore profusely but very unimaginatively. The gist of his utterance was that the village wasn’t much cop now, and would be even worse with nowhere to buy stuff. By stuff he no doubt meant the tobacco and cheap booze that were the average village youngster’s only means of entertainment, since the funding for a once-weekly youth club had been withdrawn.