by Amy Cross
The cross before me now is made of stone, with ragged edges and a simple decoration of two lines that cross in the center. Evidently the maker of this cross felt no compunction to dress it up with elaborate designs, and for that I am thankful. This cross is welcoming me here into the church, and finally I get down and kneel, bowing my head and closing my eyes so as to show that I am the humble servant of this beautiful place. I remain in contemplative silence for a moment, while taking slow and measured breaths, and then I open my eyes and get to my feet. I make the sign of the cross against my chest, and then I turn and head back toward my suitcase.
I must get to work immediately.
***
My home here at Briarwych Church is to be this small room at the rear of the building. There is no rectory in the village, and I turned down the offer to be given rooms with a local family. I wish to be here on the church grounds as much as possible, to live and breathe my life here, and so I am more than happy to make do with this small, stone-walled room with just its single window overlooking the cemetery.
Taking another set of folded shirts from my suitcase, I carefully place the garments into the dresser drawer. There is something very calming and relaxing about performing such a simple task, and I am rather glad at this juncture that I do not have a housekeeper or some other type of woman to assist me with these matters.
It is good for a man to be self-sufficient.
Hearing a rustling sound at the window, I look over and see that ivy is trailing down and has begun to blow against the glass. I step over and examine the situation more closely, and I see that the ivy has indeed become very overgrown out there. Peering up toward the top of the window, I realize that I am going to have to acquire a ladder from somewhere, and that the task of improving the church's outward appearance is going to take a lot longer than a single afternoon. Somebody really should have been assigned to look after the place, but I suppose one must deal with matters as they are.
Just as I am about to return to my suitcase, however, I spot a series of scratches in the stonework at the base of the window.
Taking a closer look, I see that the stonework has been gouged away at the very edge of the glass, and some of the gouges have been stained with a dark brownish, slightly red substance. I reach out and run a fingertip against the marks, and I quickly find that they are rather shallow. Still, it is as if something was at one point clawing at the stonework in this spot, and I can only assume that the damage was caused by some over-vigorous cleaner. It is a shame to see such slovenly work, but I suppose that there is no reason to become agitated by matters that are in the past.
And then, as I stand at the window, a light rain begins to fall outside, tapping gently but insistently at the glass. After a moment, the rain becomes a little stronger, then stronger still, until finally there is a downpour. I suppose that some people might take this to be a bad omen, or might find the bad weather rather gloomy.
Not me.
No, I am already certain that Briarwych shall be conducive to peace, good work and, above all, a calm and ordered mind.
Chapter Five
Sheltering under the tree next to the gate, I take a moment to set the notice in place and then I swing the noticeboard's glass door shut. Despite the rain, and despite the generally disorganized appearance of the church, I felt it prudent to brave the bad weather and come out to post a note of my first service, so that the people of this fine village have time to anticipate the reopening of the church. Thus, I have kept the note simply and to the point:
A warm welcome
is offered to parishioners
for a service with hymns
this Sunday the 18th
at 10 o'clock in the morning.
Evening service at 6 o'clock.
Spots of rain are already falling on the glass, but I have no doubt whatsoever that by Sunday the weather will be bright and sunny. And even if it is not, I doubt very much that the people of this fine village will let anything keep them away.
“A service with hymns?” a voice says suddenly.
Startled, I turn and see that I have been joined by a rather scruffy-looking gentleman. With rain hitting the canopy of leaves above, it is no great surprise that he came up behind me without my having noticed.
“Lionel Loveford,” I say with a smile, stepping toward him and reaching out to shake his head. “As you might have heard by now, I have been sent to reopen this fine church. I'm sure you'll agree that it was closed for far too long.”
“Hmm,” the man replies, shaking my hand but conspicuously not offering his name. Instead, he glances past me and looks toward the church's open front door. “Been in there already, have you?”
“I certainly have. And most beautiful it is in there, too.”
“Find anything, did you?”
“Find anything?” I pause, rather stumped by the question, but then I suppose this man is merely making pleasant conversation. “The church is indeed very welcoming,” I continue. “I have not as yet had a chance to admire the windows in detail, but I have taken a very close look at the altar and I must say that the cross in particular is absolutely magnificent.”
“Hmm.”
He continues to look past me, furrowing his brow slightly as he peers at the open door.
“I must confess, however,” I add, “that there is some cleaning work to be done. I don't suppose that you know, do you, of a little lady who might offer such services in the village?”
“You want a cleaner?” Turning to me again, he takes a moment to clear his throat. “Looks to me like you're more in need of a gardener.”
“I am not afraid of hard work,” I advise him. “Do you know who used to clean the church, before it was shuttered? Perhaps the same person might be available again?”
“I highly doubt that,” the man says, before turning as a young lady cycles past.
Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, the girl glances briefly at the man and then at me, but she keeps going on her way and quickly disappears around a bench in the road. I watch her go, and I must confess that for a moment I was rather struck by her striking, piercing eyes. She looked at me in a rather direct manner.
“I can do the grass for you, if you want,” the man says.
I turn back to him, having momentarily forgotten that he was here at all.
“I've got a good Atco Standard model that'll make light work of the place,” he continues. “I could bring it round in the morning and get started, shouldn't take more than a day. I'll bring a lad to help, too.” He looks toward the church once more. “I'd have done it these past months, but it'll be much easier now that the place has been opened up. And you really didn't find anything in there?”
“Find anything?”
“Well, you know...” He turns to me again. “The place was empty, was it?”
“There's some furniture,” I tell him, “and a few old sheets, things like that. I rather get the impression that my predecessor left in a hurry.”
“In a hurry?” He raises his eyebrows. “That's one way of putting it, I suppose. Obviously it's all fine in there now, though, so I suppose we don't need to worry so much. I mean, if...”
His voice trails off, and he stares for a moment longer at the church, as if he's lost in thought. Then, just as suddenly, he manages a smile and takes a step back, and then he slips his hands into his pockets.
“Best not be stuck out here in the rain for too long, eh?” he says. “I know my wife for one'll be furious with me if I get my best coat wet. I'll be around tomorrow with the mower, and I'm sure everything'll be just fine then, won't it? Looks like things are properly getting back to normal around here.”
“I'm sure,” I reply, watching as he walks away, although I cannot understand what might be worrying him in the first place. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that he seemed fearful when he looked at the church, and nervous of getting too close.
Of course, that cannot be the case.
Briarwych Church i
s quite clearly such a beautiful, idyllic location, and no man in his right mind could possibly feel – when in the vicinity of the place – a shred of anything buy joy in his heart.
I double-check that the poster for the weekend's service is still in place, and then I head back toward the church. Rain is falling faster than ever now and the sky is darkening, and there is much that I still need to get done before tonight's black-out begins.
Chapter Six
Thunder rumbles high above, but there is no lightning. As I sit at a desk in my makeshift room at the rear of the church, I glance out the window and see that sunset is well and truly upon us. I do not wish to cause trouble with the local ARP gentleman on my very first night in the village, so with a heavy heart I set my pen down and then I lean over to snuff out my solitary candle.
Immediately, the room is plunged into darkness.
In some parts of the country, churches are exempted from the blackout, but not here. With a top secret RAF base just a few miles away, Briarwych is regarded as a prime German target, so even here in the church we are required to have lights out at night. I was informed, before I came, that money might be found to permit blackout curtains to be put up, but I turned down that opportunity. I'm sure the money can be better spent elsewhere and, besides, I find the darkness to be rather pleasing and conducive to contemplation.
Then again, there are times with a torch might come in handy.
Looking down at my diary, I squint as I try to make out the words, but the task is hopeless. One must simply accept in these times that light is gone at night. Peering out the window, I see that rain is still crashing down, and at that moment I see lights being put out in a few nearby windows. Sure enough, the people of Briarwych are heeding the warning that we must all go dark. Certainly, nobody wants to risk aiding and abetting the German planes that even now are probably flying this way.
I get to my feet.
Thunder rumbles again.
Turning, I feel my way across this unfamiliar room. Away from the window, I can see nothing at all, although when I get to the doorway I look along the corridor and I am just about able to make out a faint patch of light at the far end, shining through one of the main windows near the door. I am rather grateful for that light, for it allows me to fumble along the corridor in the direction of the kitchen, from where I hope to fetch a glass of water. I should perhaps have taken more care earlier to learn the layout of these back rooms, since now in the darkness I am rather adrift.
Stopping suddenly, I listen to the sound of rain and wind outside, and then I turn and look back along the corridor as I realize I can hear a faint, persistent tapping sound coming from somewhere inside the church.
A leak.
Sighing, I begin to make my way toward the direction of the sound, into the darker and colder parts of the building. Here I am truly lost, and I have to run my hands against the icy stone walls in order to keep from walking straight into an obstruction. I can still hear the dripping sound in the distance, and I am certain that I am moving in the right direction. When I reach the end of the corridor, however, I have to stop for a moment and attempt to ascertain which way to go next.
The dripping sound is a little closer, but – as I turn around in the dark – I cannot quite determine the correct direction.
Thunder rumbles again.
A moment later, I hear a very faint humming sound in the distance. For a moment, I cannot imagine what this might be, but then I look up as I realize that the sound is passing overhead.
Bombers.
Perhaps ours, heading out to France.
Perhaps German planes, coming to bomb targets in England.
I suppose there are those who can recognize the plans by the noise they make, but all I hear is a drone that is already receding into the distance. I wait, listening intently, until silence returns, and then – as a mark of respect – I remain standing completely still.
And then, quite suddenly, I feel something brush against me. Not something solid, exactly; more something made of air, something that rushes past in the darkness, heading in the opposite direction. The sensation is quite strange and most certainly abrupt, and can only be explained by a sudden draft of air.
I know I should simply go back to bed and investigate the water leak in the morning, but I worry that long-term damage could already have begun to take place. This church is old, and I fear for its structural integrity if water has been getting into the foundations. At the same time, I also know that I could end up spending the entire night wandering around in the dark without ever managing to find the leak, and that I would be better off getting some sleep and then looking for a wet patch in the morning. After all, the church has been empty for a couple of years now, and it is highly unlikely that this one storm will bring the roof crashing down.
With that in mind, then, I turn and start feeling my way back toward the bedroom, even as rain crashes down outside with more force than ever.
Chapter Seven
Morning sunlight catches the wet grass, but at least the rain has stopped as I start picking up chunks of fallen masonry from around the church's door. Night is barely over, but in these troubled times I am always up with the lark and relieved that the darkness is gone. Perhaps there is something childish in that sentiment, but I believe it is a feeling shared by many others. Those oppressive nights, when bombs could fall upon us from German plans at any moment, are never pleasant.
Suddenly hearing a creaking sound, I turn just in time to see that a young lady has entered the cemetery. I get to my feet, still cradling the pieces of masonry, and I am about to greet the lady when I realize that she is the same blonde-haired woman who cycled past yesterday.
“Good morning,” she says politely, perhaps a little nervously, as she stops a few feet from me. “I'm sorry to bother you, but... I heard you might be looking for a cleaner.”
***
“And here again,” I explain to Lizzy, as I lead her into the kitchen area, “there seems to have been no work done for quite some time. So I'm afraid that the initial clean will have to be rather thorough. Somebody had even left a bicycle in here, so I don't think the place was really being used much as a kitchen back in the day.”
I turn, only to see that she is still out in the corridor, as if she's reluctant to come too far into the building. She's looking around, and I can't help wondering whether she's been paying any attention at all.
“Is everything alright?” I continue.
She turns to me, startled.
“Oh, of course,” she says, and now she hurries through and joins me. “Forgive me, I suppose I'm just surprised to be in here. I never thought...”
She hesitates.
“You never thought what?” I ask.
“Well, that I'd ever come in here again,” she continues. “After Father Perkins left, and considering the circumstances, I rather thought that perhaps the church would remain locked forever.”
“It's a lovely old church from, I believe, the twelfth century,” I reply. “The central part, at least. The north chapel came about a hundred years later, and the south chapel another hundred years after that. It's really a very striking example of a good old Norman church, and I think it'd be a terrible shame for it to be abandoned. Don't you agree?
“Absolutely, but...”
She hesitates again, before turning and looking out toward the corridor. Something is clearly on her mind, and I am about to ask what when, suddenly, she turns to me again.
“What was it like when you came inside yesterday?” she asks.
“What was it like?” I furrow my brow. “Well, it was cold, I must admit.”
“But there was nobody here?”
“In the church?”
I wait, but now she is simply staring at me.
“No,” I continue finally, “of course not. Why should there have been? The place has been empty and unused since Father Perkins departed.”
“Well, yes,” she replies, “that's what they sa
y, but...”
Again I wait, and again she seems loathe to tell me exactly what is on her mind.
“You are not the first person to get that look on their face while talking to me,” I say. “Is there something about Briarwych Church that I should know?”
She looks toward the corridor for a moment longer, and then she turns to me again.
“Was she really not here?” she asks.
“She?” I pause for a moment. “Who is she?”
She stares at me as if she can't quite believe my answer.
“There is only one key to this church,” I continue, “and I can assure you that it is in my possession, and that it was given to me just a few days ago in London.”
“Oh, I'm sure that's true,” she replies. “It's just that we all know what Father Perkins did when he left here a couple of years ago. Everyone knows. I mean, he...” Again, she pauses. “He locked her inside.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That was two years ago,” she continues. “Several people saw the moment when he left, when he pulled the door shut and turned the key, locking Miss Prendergast inside.”
I cannot help but furrow my brow.
“Miss Prendergast,” she says again. “That's when she was locked in.”
“I'm terribly sorry,” I reply, “but you're going to have to explain this to me. Who is this Miss Prendergast woman, and why in the name of all that's holy would anybody lock her inside a church?”
“You really don't know?”
“Know what?”
“They sent you here without telling you?”
“Evidently this is the case,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I am finding this all rather tedious. “I've never heard of a Miss Prendergast in my life.”
She hesitates, before turning and taking a few steps away. She seems awkward, perhaps troubled, and it takes a moment before she turns back to me. There is, I think, a hint of fear in her eyes.