Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  Elaine, the flame-haired WI member, was looking at me shrewdly. Although she said nothing, I sensed she’d back me.

  ‘What the walkers wanted to see was the De Villiers brasses,’ I said, still not resuming my place at the table. ‘They wanted to take photos, which I didn’t feel I should allow, not without your permission. All the same they wanted to leave donations. I did search for Gift Aid envelopes to increase their value – someone ought to empty the collecting box, by the way – but couldn’t find any. And then they wanted refreshments.’

  ‘So you want drink and confectionery machines in church!’ By now Mrs Mountford had garnered several supporters, who chimed in with accusations. ‘To turn the place into a haunt of Mammon!’

  Elaine’s eyes were very bright by now. ‘Where did you send them, Jodie?’

  ‘Now the Pickled Walnut’s only opening in the evenings, I said there might be snacks in the chiller at the post office. But I felt very ashamed – for the village.’

  Our dear ex-warden was on the attack again. ‘Given your taste for consorting with low life like that so-called gardener who’s almost certainly a cycle thief, I’m surprised you didn’t shepherd the whole lot here. I’m sure they’d have loved smoked salmon!’

  I couldn’t resist a waspish reply: ‘It’s not my house to invite them into, is it, Mrs Mountford? At least, not at a time when Theo may be here counselling and praying with parishioners in need,’ I added quickly, with a touch of pathos worthy of Dickens in Little Nell mode.

  ‘I can’t help thinking,’ Elaine said slowly, ‘of all the food we WI women prepare for every meeting. Nine-tenths of it goes to waste – or at least to each other.’

  ‘Forgive me for saying so,’ Ted Vesey quite properly interrupted her with a wave of a beautifully manicured hand, ‘but that is a matter for you ladies. It is certainly not germane to the matter in hand, which is supposed to be saving the church by raising money. If you would be so good as to sit down, Mrs Welsh, and resume your secretarial duties, then we might make some progress. We had agreed to hold a sponsored parachute drop for soft toys. What other suggestions do we have?’

  To my surprise George spoke up. Indoors he looked much less rustic; it was far easier to believe he’d been a figure with considerable responsibility when he was younger. ‘If we’ve got people coming to see the brasses and willing to pay, why don’t we charge them? Not just to look, of course – but if they wanted to rub them. And I’ve seen prints of rubbings in other churches – they sell them, and at a handsome profit, I dare say. And if there’s one thing we need, it’s a handsome profit.’

  ‘That still means having someone on duty,’ Mrs Mountford objected.

  ‘Or having a regular stream of visitors,’ I said, ‘which I believe is one of the things the Church of England itself recommends. In other words, an open church.’

  Even from the corner of my eye I could see Theo’s smile, which contained as much love and encouragement as I could hope for. As he opened his mouth to respond, however, Mrs Mountford thumped the table. The crystal glasses jiggled musically.

  ‘Absolutely not. I resisted it all the time I was warden, and will do so till I die. It’s bad enough all those bicycles getting stolen – and lawnmowers now, I hear. And have you heard of the JCB raid on that post office over by Canterbury? And in Loose? What if someone stole the silver? Or the brasses? Or if they defaced the tombs? They’re not ours – they’re only ours in trust for future generations.’

  At last she’d said something I couldn’t deny.

  ‘The church insurance people would probably give advice,’ George said. ‘We’ve got to have something in this village,’ he continued. ‘No post office; no shop; no pub the way things are going; a school teetering on the brink; a village hall so cold you could store bodies in it; and a church only used for Londoners’ weddings. We need something we can call our own and be proud of.’

  I looked Theo full in the eye before replying. ‘George is right. Domino effect. If we lose the first three, we’ll lose the last three. I’m not really part of this meeting at all, I know that, and I just ask you to bear with me for a second. I’m about to suggest something you’ll possibly loathe. It’s been done with huge mutual benefits in other parishes, but it is a risk. On the plus side, it will mean someone will be in the building all the hours of the day. On the minus, you may say the world will come too much into what should be just a spiritual place.’

  I thought Mrs Mountford would have a seizure. ‘She is suggesting a drinks machine!’

  ‘Actually, I’m suggesting something much more radical than that.’

  ‘I propose we ask Mrs Welsh to leave the room this instant. I will undertake to finish the minutes.’ She stared at Ted Vesey, willing him to act.

  Before he could do more than open his mouth, however, Mrs Cox, a grey and gentle-looking lady who was probably given to crochet work, raised a hand. It might have been that she was asking permission to speak; in fact, it looked disconcertingly like an authoritative demand for quiet. ‘I understand from George that Mrs Welsh’s background is big business—’

  ‘Exactly so! So why on earth our vicar should have taken it into his poor innocent head to marry a—’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Mrs Mountford.’ Theo overrode quite a number of words I’d rather not have had directed at me. ‘More than enough,’ he added as she continued to warm to her theme.

  ‘What Theo does is his business,’ George Cox said. ‘I’m beginning to think in Jodie he’s made an excellent—’

  ‘Not if he brings the church into disrepute. Which is what I will tell the bishop.’

  There was a shocked silence. That was a very serious accusation. If she did indeed make it to the bishop, even if it was clearly in simple malice, there had to be an enquiry. Mrs Cox rode in again. If only I could remember her first name. ‘The Bible tells us that we should be using all our talents, and Jodie clearly has experience we don’t.’ She smiled encouragingly; only I could see her wink. ‘Why don’t you continue, my dear?’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t even know if it’s within your scope as PCC to approve this. But what I would suggest is that we consider offering accommodation to the post office and shop in that spare space that no one ever uses between the chancel and the bell-tower. I’ve done some preliminary sketches to show the layout and a possible glass screen to separate the secular from the spiritual.’ I passed them round. ‘You’d have to come to some arrangement about lighting and heating bills, and so on. The insurers would have to approve. But it would mean that there was someone at hand to sell the prints of the brasses that George suggested, and permits to make rubbings if people were that way inclined. Postcards; someone could write a booklet about the church – its history and architecture; maybe other spin-offs. As Mrs Mountford rightly says, we’re not dealing with any old building. We’re trying to preserve the house of God; maybe we need to use the fabric to save the fabric.’

  From the faces of some, I might have been proposing satanic rituals. Though he smiled encouragingly at me, poor Theo was probably wishing himself comfortably inside one of those ornate tombs in the Lady Chapel. There was obviously no need even to take a vote. Willing myself to show no emotion, I returned to my role as scribe. But suddenly – perhaps prayer does work – there was a minor miracle. The only person in the room under fifty was the treasurer, Jackie Simmons. Despite her responsibilities, she’d been unaccountably as quiet as a Trappist to that point. Now she produced the accounts sheets. Thank goodness for colour printers. The vivid red figures spoke for themselves. It was fortunate, because although Jackie was a qualified accountant, she spent most of the time hiding behind a curtain of beautifully straightened blonde hair.

  She must have been rehearsing her contribution in her head; it came out in a continuous paragraph: ‘Unless someone can come up quickly with an alternative solution, I suggest that we must, however reluctantly some of you will be to accept my advice, actively consider Mrs Welsh’s suggestion. Since
some of our debts are pressing, and we do not have the luxury, therefore, of further full meetings at two-monthly intervals, I would suggest a small working party to explore her proposals with the other interested parties.’

  ‘A point of information, Chair: we don’t yet know if the other parties are interested. It would have been premature of me to sound them out,’ I said, my humility probably failing to hide my satisfaction. I knew that since I wasn’t on the PCC I couldn’t join the working party unless I was co-opted, but surely there would be members with vision. A glance at Elaine and at Mrs Cox – yes! Alison Cox! I’d remembered at last – suggested there were.

  Mrs Mountford declared she would have nothing to do with such devil’s work, adding, with a venom that almost scared me, that she would never forgive me if it came to pass, but Elaine, Jackie Simmons, Alison Cox and Tim Robins, a tubby bald man in his late fifties who made Jackie Simmons look loquacious, agreed to report back within a fortnight on Violet’s views and the general viability of the idea. George Cox volunteered to contact colleagues in parishes that had already tried the same thing. Theo, his face suffused with joy, would check the C of E website for information and approach the diocesan office for their views.

  In the space of minutes he had ceased to be a poor priest deserving nothing but pity for being entrapped by a harridan, and become a man with a wife who might be useful.

  I might have been a positive angel during the next agenda item: the bells. Ted Vesey was suddenly quite effusively keen on my offer to find a lawyer friend to deal with any legal action. Alison Cox wondered if a good PR person might be worth more just now. Did I happen to know anyone …? Another of her kind, warm smiles. And another wink.

  I wasn’t so sure about friends offering pro bono publicity, but promised to consult my dear old Rolodex. ‘Actually,’ I said as if it was an afterthought, though I knew exactly who’d be forking out the cash, ‘there might be someone I know willing to match-fund any monies you raise. Teddies, whatever.’

  ‘I for one would certainly sponsor you to run a marathon,’ George Cox said.

  ‘This year, make it a half-marathon and you’re on,’ I said. ‘A marathon next, when I’m properly fit again.’

  ‘A half-marathon. And I’ll organize sponsorship forms and make sure every single one of us has a fistful to get signed,’ he added. ‘If someone’s prepared to match-fund, let’s ensure he or she has to fork out a very great deal.’

  I’d not just be running but paying myself to do it: so be it. Then Alison Cox undertook to revive the defunct flower and produce show, and an auction of promises and babysitting were added to the list.

  Theo’s closing prayer sounded very relieved.

  As the group trickled out into the hallway, talking about leaving if not actually doing so, I kept Jackie Simmons back for a minute to pass her an envelope. No one was meant to see. But very little escaped Theo – a hangover from his teaching days, he’d said.

  He cornered me as I washed the glasses.

  ‘And you gave Jackie …?’ The interrogation might have been loving, but it was clear he was troubled.

  ‘A contribution to funds. Confidential, before you ask, between her and me. And I asked her to Gift Aid it – and find that supply of envelopes for the church.’

  He kissed me. ‘And did you eke this contribution from your parsimonious housekeeping budget?’

  ‘Eke. What a lovely archaic term! As is parsimonious. But a good one for a clergyman. Alas, there’s nothing left to eke so I put a few things on eBay. My Louboutins, for a start.’

  ‘But you loved those with a passion!’ He looked – probably felt – deeply guilty.

  I shook my head. ‘Not since I left that one in the aisle grating. And to be honest, my knees and back are much better off without them. The Mulberry bags were far too heavy: my shoulders won’t need so much physio now. It’s just a case of matching common sense to the church’s need.’ I took his hand. ‘We both know that, if you asked, I could fly in like a cross between Superwoman and a fairy godmother and fix everything. I could simply write a cheque and pay for every last repair to be done. Oh, Theo – please!’

  ‘That would just be a short-term gain. Bringing the shop into the church – that would be such a blessing. For everyone. Churchgoers and non-churchgoers alike. What better way to bring God’s love into the community? As for this match-funding – I suppose I’d better not ask who’ll be doing it. Thank you.’ His eyes said more than his words.

  We embraced. But then I realized I was almost holding him up; it had been another dreadfully long day for him.

  ‘Look, I kept back enough smoked salmon for you to have a decent supper, and there’s still a bottle of the Chablis in the fridge – let’s go and raise a glass to poor Rupert. Did he go gently?’

  ‘So gently we hardly knew he’d left us.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘It was an honour to be there, to assist a lovely man whose life had revolved round the church to a good Christian death. He’s gone home.’ At last he managed a smile. ‘But we must also drink to something I’m sure he’d have supported: the open church project.’

  FOUR

  No horse’s head appeared in our bed overnight, but two decapitated pheasants appeared on the back doorstep early next morning. I knew I’d annoyed people the previous evening, but hadn’t expected quite such a vivid response. Hurtling to the downstairs loo, I bade farewell to my breakfast. I didn’t want to see the corpses again, but I’d made it a rule never to ask other people to do things I couldn’t do myself, not unless I paid them handsomely for the privilege. So, donning rubber gloves, I was ready to carry the bodies – at arm’s length – to the bin. But Theo arrived just in time to do the deed himself. Except that he didn’t. He seized on them with glee.

  ‘How lovely! I wonder who left those for us.’

  ‘A fox with razor-sharp teeth?’ I shuddered.

  ‘I take it you won’t be dressing them?’

  ‘Or more to the point, undressing them! Or taking their insides out!’

  He shook his head as if trying not to laugh at me. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘You can do it in decent privacy, thank you very much. I don’t even have any recipes for pheasant,’ I added mutinously.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find one in Merry’s old files.’

  I hoped he wouldn’t notice my half-swallowed gasp. According to Mrs Mountford, Merry had been a perfect vicar’s wife and helpmeet. In addition to those regularly left by Theo, there were always fresh flowers on her grave. More expensive ones than Theo’s. I wished he’d talk about her, so I could get a clear idea of her as a woman; all I could deduce from his silence was that he still found it too painful to talk about a perfect woman. Much as he loved me – and I didn’t doubt that – he must see me as an inferior replacement model. The longer I spent in her depressing kitchen the surer I was that I was a pretty poor substitute.

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ I said. He didn’t understand how painful it was for me to go through her beautifully annotated ring-binders full of recipes clipped from magazines or newspapers or carefully transcribed in lovely clear handwriting.

  Before I could do so, however, Burble hove into view. ‘Road kill,’ he said, as if that explained everything. To a country person au fait with game laws, it probably did.

  ‘That’s very kind – thanks!’ Theo enthused, in a tone suggesting he’d been afraid they might have come from someone’s private estate.

  ‘Owe you one for Violet – right?’

  Heavens! Jungle drums or what?

  ‘Sending the rubberneckers to the shop. Made a few bob. Ta, Jode.’

  So it was nothing to do with my proposals. What would he bring if that little deal came about? A whole ostrich from Port Lympne Zoo?

  ‘Lock your garage last night?’ he asked. ‘Shed? Look, just ’cause you’re the vicar don’t mean your gear’s – what do they call it? – sacred?’

  ‘Sacrosanct?’ Theo prompted.

  A grin disturbed
Burble’s piercings. ‘Nice word, that, innit?’ He rolled it round his mouth a couple of times. Suddenly, dropping the machete I’d found in the shed in question, and some leather gloves and goggles I’d bought him (’Elf and Safety, after all), he said, ‘Know what you need,’ and disappeared. For the rest of the day, as it happened.

  So did another couple of lawnmowers, this time from the estate the rectory backed on to – people who’d assumed that living in a village meant they didn’t need to lock their sheds. At one point, before my arrival, it had meant you didn’t even need to lock your front door. Now, as I discovered when I went for my next run, dotted all around the village were vans from burglar alarm companies, including the one Ted Vesey used and which he had no doubt recommended.

  Until the dust from the PCC meeting had settled, I changed my route, avoiding the more picturesque part of the village which included Mrs Mountford’s domain. Instead I ran through the small area of social housing, right on the edge of the village. Some houses were obviously in private hands, with owners making what Mrs Mountford would probably call An Effort. Others were less well maintained, but I’d seen far worse estates in London, and it hardly qualified for Ted Vesey’s description of it as a sink estate. As I ran I made sure I greeted everyone I could, even the bunch of disaffected youths lounging near a car without a tax disc. One or two – Burble’s mates, perhaps – returned my wave and smile. One actually detached himself from the group and stopped me to ask about my Porsche. He was sorry I didn’t have it any more.

  ‘Come on, they’re already nicking bikes and mowers,’ I said. ‘Someone might fancy a Porsche!’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Only to key it, like.’ He fished one hand out of his hoodie pouch to mime vandalizing paintwork with a sharp object. ‘Some people don’t like fancy motors. Best with what you’ve got, maybe.’