by Hugh Canham
‘We’d better go and talk to the vicar, I suppose,’ said Hector. ‘But I can’t see us getting far with this one!’
The night had not been too bad. Spring was coming, but it was still cold. Lucasta had had a stone hot water bottle in her bed and Mrs Jenkins had lent her a very warm nightie. She wished she didn’t keep having dreams about Duncan kissing a very small and pretty Chinese girl. In the morning, gritting her teeth, she resolved that she must forget all about him. Other men seemed to like her. She thought of Grimes and Derek and Melvin. But that was not really the sort of thing she wanted. Anyhow, she would force herself to be cheerful!
Hector had been given a disposable razor to shave with and there had been, amazingly, plenty of hot water, given that the plumbing looked as though it dated from the nineteenth century.
The new vicarage that housed the present vicar was in a nearby village called Dimmer, the original vicarage near the church having been sold off by the Church Commissioners to a stockbroker.
Although they’d been given directions to it by Jenkins, it proved difficult to locate. Hector had been looking for at least a substantial house, but it turned out to be a small bungalow with an overgrown front garden. But it was definitely the vicarage, because it said so on a notice on the front gate.
The door was opened slowly by a young man in jeans and a pullover. He was bare-footed and was holding a guitar.
‘I suppose you know it’s my day off,’ he said by way of a welcome.
‘Well, I’m sorry, no, we didn’t. My name’s Hector Elroy – and you are the vicar, I presume? The communion table has been stolen from the church near my mother’s house.’
‘Oh yes – I see why you’re here now. Well, you’d better both come in. Have a seat.’
He twanged a chord on his guitar and reluctantly propped it against the wall.
‘My mother, as you know, is elderly, and has asked me to help her. May I ask you a few questions?’
‘Fire away. My name’s Jim, by the way. Smoke? No? Very wise.’
Jim lit a cigarette and dropped the match nonchalantly into the already full ashtray beside his armchair.
‘Well, first, have the police been informed?’ asked Hector.
‘Yes.’
‘Are they doing anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There’s been a spate of thefts from churches in the area. That’s why I keep all mine locked – that is, apart from the one near your mother, which she seems to regard as her own private chapel. She gets her manservant to open it every day. I never bother to bring my own key when I take services there.’
‘I see!’ said Hector, glancing knowingly at Lucasta. ‘Have the church authorities been told about the theft?’
‘I left a message for the rural dean, but he hasn’t called back yet. You see, we’re all desperately overworked. I’ve got six churches to look after. It’s impossible!!’
‘Is the communion table insured, do you know?’
‘Couldn’t really tell you at the moment. Probably not.’
‘It used to be fixed to the wall, I believe. Being freestanding facilitated its removal.’
‘Yes. My predecessor moved it so he could face the congregation, and then he left about six months ago. Nobody stays here very long.’
‘Well, my mother says – and it seems to me quite rightly – that one can’t have a church, at least not an Anglican church, without an altar. What are you going to do?’
‘Oh, I expect we’ll rig something up temporarily. There are some old trestle tables in the parish room here. We could use one of those – cover it with a piece of cloth.’
‘Will you be able to do that by tomorrow?’
‘Shouldn’t think so – at least, not unless somebody else organises it!’ said Jim, drawing heavily on his cigarette. ‘As I said, it’s my day off.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t mind if we organised it? A communion service is scheduled for eight tomorrow morning, I believe.’
‘Yes, I think that’s right. Let me look at my list.’
Jim languidly rummaged among a pile of papers on a low coffee table beside his chair.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said, passing the list to Hector, who found it incomprehensible as it contained service times for six churches for a whole month, as well as the names of who was to read and who was to take the collection; several names had been scored out in various colours of ink and there were sundry arrows indicating the swapping of services, churches and readers.
‘I see,’ said Hector. ‘Well, I’ll try and arrange it, but I expect the trestles are rather big to go in my car. Is there any other way of taking one to Long Wensum from here?’
‘You could try the farmer in Longie, as I call it; he’s been a church warden in the past and he must have a tractor and trailer. Your mother must know his number. Ah, no! Now I remember, they’re not speaking. Fell out over something!’
‘Got any other farmers who might be helpful?’
‘Don’t know. They’re a miserable and unhelpful lot, farmers in general, as you probably know.’
‘Er . . . yes. I’ll ask Jenkins, he may be able to help – but I suppose one could use any table from my mother’s house, suitably draped?’
‘Sure. I’ll leave it to you. Ring me if you can’t organise something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on with my guitar practice.’
This thought seemed to animate him considerably as he showed them out.
‘There’s a nice side table in the drawing room which I’m sure would work a treat,’ said Lucasta, ‘with a white sheet shoved over it.’
‘Um, I suppose so. You vicars’ daughters are very matter-of-fact about this sort of thing, aren’t you?’
‘I didn’t know you were at all religious.’
‘I’m not really – but I do think things should be done properly in church. Anyhow, it would appear we cannot rely on any help at the moment from either the church or the police. Mother will go mad when I tell her! What on earth can I do? She’ll go on and on and on and on and on. You’ve seen and heard her!’
‘Let me think,’ said Lucasta. ‘But first could we please drive to the nearest town so we can buy a few things?’
‘That table over there draped with a white sheet! I never heard the like – it’s disgraceful! You say this was Lucasta’s idea?’
‘Yes, Mother. Her father’s a vicar you see.’
‘Missionaries in the jungle and places like that have to make do with anything, I’ve been told,’ responded Lucasta boldly, recalling her father’s very boring reminiscences about when he’d been a young missionary.
‘Well, our vicar’s not a missionary and we’re not in the jungle!’ retorted Mrs Elroy. ‘I refuse to take part in such a charade. You’ll have to tell the vicar to cancel our service and we’ll come to the one they have at nine o’clock in Spelling. You can drive me in your car, Hector. I’ll get Jenkins to phone the others who usually come to my church. Get on the phone to the vicar at once, Hector, and tell him.’
Hector did as commanded, but no one at the vicarage answered the phone.
‘I suppose I could go and see him again to make sure it all goes ahead. He’s obviously not answering his phone as it’s his day off,’ he said to Lucasta.
‘I shouldn’t bother. He couldn’t be bothered with us. He’s probably finished his guitar practice and gone out somewhere. Anyhow, I have premonitions of a fiasco.’
‘If anything goes wrong, Mother’s sure to blame me.’
‘No she won’t, because you won’t be here. I’m going to go out now and telephone you from the call box in the village, disguising my voice for Jenkins’ benefit as he takes all the calls. I shall tell you that you must come back to the office at once as something urgent has occurred. That way you’ll miss the likely shambles over tomorrow’s service and you won’t have to listen to your mother complaining about it. It will also give you Sunday to catch up with all those pressing legal problems you say you have. Then on Monday
I suggest you start hunting for another communion table as soon as possible.’
‘But how on earth do I do that?’
‘There must be several dealers who specialise in church furnishing. They’ll be in a book called The Antique Dealers of England or something – there’s sure to be a copy in your club library. Ring round, visit a few – use your initiative! I cannot see anything other than an exact replacement satisfying your mamma. When you get it here, we must have it fixed to the wall very securely, in spite of any protests from the vicar.’
Hector listened to Lucasta with growing amazement.
‘Of course you’re absolutely right. How very clever. But it seems a bit of a tall order to get another communion table exactly like the old one. Anyhow, I’ll try. And what are you going to be doing while I’m using my initiative, as you call it?’
‘I shall stay with your mother and keep her calm, otherwise she’ll keep phoning you and you’ll never get anything done or any peace!’
‘Good Lord! Will you, Lucasta? How on earth will you deal with her?’
‘You’ll see!’
It was the following Thursday when Hector telephoned Lucasta with encouraging news.
‘Look, are you alone? Yes, good – well you won’t believe this, but I’ve found the very thing! I took the measurements from the feet marks on the carpet, as you suggested before I left, and these match almost exactly. And as for the table itself, well, it looks very similar, as far as I remember the original. Never took much notice in fact.’
‘Very good indeed! Where did you find it?’
‘I’ve been all over London during the past few days and I went to see a dealer this morning in one of those antique centres who said he thought he might have something suitable. However, when I saw it, it was no good at all, like all the others I’d seen. I was wandering out of the centre when I saw this table standing outside one of the shops. It had obviously just been delivered. So I approached the owner, a rather shady sort of chap in jeans and a leather jacket – hadn’t shaved for several days. To cut a long story short, he said the price was four hundred pounds. “Genuine oak and Elizabethan probably, look at the lovely carving.” Anyhow, I beat him down to three hundred and fifty pounds, cash . . . had to go to the bank to get it, of course, out of my office account. So, the communion table’s on its way and should be delivered tomorrow, Friday afternoon. I hope Mother will be pleased. How have you been getting on, by the way?’
‘Splendidly!’
‘Good Lord! Really?’
‘Really, yes.’
‘Can you organise someone to fasten this new table to the east wall?’
‘I think Jenkins will be able to do it.’
‘Excellent. I’ll be down myself, then, tomorrow afternoon in the car.’
By chance, Hector arrived at the same time as the table was being delivered. Jenkins was standing in the chancel with a green apron on instead of his grey coat, fiddling with an electric drill in anticipation. Lucasta was giving the removal men directions.
‘Jenkins is very excited about it all, as you can see,’ she said to Hector. He’s even found the original angle brackets which held the old table to the wall. They were in a box of oddments in the vestry.’
‘I’m still a bit worried about the young vicar not liking the altar being fixed back against the wall!’ Hector admitted.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about him, after last Sunday.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you later. That’s right – against the wall . . . Thank you. Are you going to be able to move it away enough to fix the brackets, Mr Jenkins?’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage, miss, seeing that there will be three of us. But if the men could leave the back legs away a bit this side so I can line up the brackets, I’d be grateful . . . I must say, Mr Hector, it’s a wonderful match. You’d almost think it was the same table. Miss Lucasta said you bought it from a dealer.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Hector. ‘I’m glad you think it’s a good match. We’ll let you get on with your bracket fixing. Just call us when you want us, won’t you?’
Hector steered Lucasta out of the sanctuary into the front row of pews.
‘Tell me what happened about the service last Sunday,’ he said.
‘Well, of course, the vicar was knocking on the front door at ten minutes to eight asking why the church wasn’t open . . .’
‘Excuse me, Mr Hector, but could you please come and look at something?’ Jenkins seemed bewildered. ‘The legs of this table, sir, have got some old hole marks where obviously some brackets have been placed before. I’ve lined up our old brackets against them and they match exactly, and what’s more, the brackets match exactly with the holes in the wall. In other words, sir, I think the table is such a wonderful match to the old one because – it’s the same table!’
Hector spent some time on his hands and knees looking at the holes and the brackets and asked Lucasta to look as well. There was no doubt about it.
‘Good gracious!’ said Hector, remembering he was in a church.
‘I suppose you’ll be able to get your money back, sir, as the goods were stolen.’
‘Mmm, I hope so. But he was a shady-looking fellow and I paid cash! There’s no need for you to giggle, Lucasta.’
‘Hector, you’ve been more brilliant than ever before! Listen, Mr Jenkins, Mrs Elroy only knows that Hector was bringing a table back. Now we must tell her he amazingly traced the old one to a shady antique dealer. Let’s not any of us mention money changing hands.’
‘Never realised you were so clever before!’ said Mrs Elroy when she was told about the communion table having been recovered.
Hector looked modestly at his feet.
‘You and Lucasta must of course stay until after Sunday lunch and we must all go to the eight o’clock communion service in thanksgiving!’
‘Yes, very well, Mother,’ said Hector.
‘I suggest we go for a drive, lunch at a pub, and a walk by the river tomorrow,’ said Hector to Lucasta after they’d withdrawn from Mrs Elroy’s presence. ‘I want to discuss one or two things with you quietly . . .’
‘First, how on earth did you manage to control my mother? She’s in the best mood I’ve ever seen her in.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be surprised. You said you had a hunch about it, remember? And it just so happens that in the same way that some people are good with small children, I’m good with old people. I get them to talk about the past. Your mother showed me lots of old photos and she told me a great number of interesting things about you as a boy! Oh, and I played backgammon with her in the evenings and let her win most of the time. She loved that!’
‘I see. I hope she didn’t say too many bad things about me.’
‘Oh no! She likes you much more than you think.’
‘I see! Second question: why did you say I must have had a nanny?’
‘Because you’re so remote emotionally and spend such a great deal of time at your club! Next question.’
‘What on earth happened last Sunday about the service?’ Hector then asked.
‘Well, as I said, the idiot vicar Jim was knocking on the front door at ten to eight asking why the church was locked. When he was told by Jenkins that we hadn’t been able to rig up an altar and were all going to Spelling at nine, he looked a bit perturbed, I thought, but I couldn’t quite understand why. When we all arrived at Spelling – Jenkins, Mrs Jenkins and me and your mum in Jenkins’ car, and about twenty other parishioners in various other cars – we understood why, and I realised why he had been practising the guitar so assiduously. Instead of the Book of Common Prayer Communion Service, we were greeted by what appeared to be a rock group headed by the vicar singing Praise The Lord songs – all amplified greatly. I will say this – there were about thirty young people, presumably from Spelling and the neighbouring countryside, who seemed to be enjoying it immensely, but of course no one was there even of my age group, apart from po
ssibly the vicar. Well, you can probably imagine the reaction of your mother and the others. I won’t attempt to describe it. Anyhow, we were away from Spelling pronto. Your mother sat down and wrote letters of complaint to everyone she could think of, from the Bishop down through the Archdeacon to the vicar of the next group of parishes!’
‘Phew! Pity I missed it! I take it your father doesn’t go in for that sort of thing ever?’
‘No. Hardly! Your mother eventually spoke on the phone to the Bishop himself. I think she’d rung him about twenty times by then and I suppose he thought the best way to get rid of her was to speak to her. What she said to him I don’t know, but I doubt if our friend Jim got a very good write-up! But I can’t see him risking making matters worse by objecting to the altar being fixed against the wall so that it’s more difficult to steal.’
On Sunday at five minutes to eight the party from the house made its way across the lawn and through the wicket gate into the churchyard. It was led by Mrs Elroy, who was escorted by Hector on one side holding one arm and Jenkins on the other side holding the other, with Mrs Jenkins and Lucasta in attendance at the rear. But something seemed amiss when they entered the church. The new communion table looked very splendid back against the east wall with the cross and candlesticks on it, but the candles had not been lit and the congregation, instead of sitting or kneeling in the pews, were gathered near the pulpit, and there was a buzz of conversation like a swarm of angry bees.
‘I think there’s some sort of a problem,’ remarked Hector.
An elderly man, presumably one of the church wardens, came rushing down the aisle breathlessly, brandishing a piece of paper.
‘Ah, Mrs Elroy, please read this. We found it on the altar when we came in this morning!’
‘I can’t read it without my glasses on. Whatever is it? You read it, Hector. Out loud if it’s important.’
Hector took the note, gazed at it and smiled. The paper was headed: From the Rev. Jim Wilson, The Rectory, Dimmer. It read: I’ve had enough. I’ve resigned from the parish and the Church and I am going back to antique dealing. I leave you to sort yourselves out, and the best of luck . . . Jim. Hector read it out.