Marton on the Mound - part 3

The Priest

James Hickman had only recently been appointed to the position of Priest in Charge of the Parishes of Marton on the Mound, Bassingham and Fulford, and was still trying to get to grips with each of the villages that constituted what he called his “beat”.  He had taken Holy Orders late in life, having served as a policeman and reached the giddy rank of Chief Inspector before retiring on a full pension at the age of 55.  He was married with two children.  His daughter was married to a young man she had met in University who had landed a well paid job in a consultancy in London, and his son had qualified as a nurse and emigrated to New Zealand.  His wife still worked at the local hospital as a Radiographer.

James felt that he brought to the position a worldliness that in his opinion the previous incumbent, an unmarried career priest, lacked.  He was aware that the church in his parishes was loved more as a monument than a place of worship and felt it incumbent upon him by whatever means available to make God and the Church more accessible.  To this end he decided that he was to become more accessible himself.  He reasoned that to make God and the Church more accessible, then he too must become more accessible; he must attend as many of the village institutions that he could, and attend them as a man and not necessarily as a priest.  Whenever he was in one of the villages on his beat, he would visit the post office, or call on the local primary school.  He always attended any social function that he was invited to and in this way met a good many of the cognoscente of the villages.  Although these too were his flock, and few enough attended his services regularly, he realised that if he were to bring the people to God, he would need to cast his net wider than the genteel functions that he already attended.

Perhaps he had been too long in the rarefied air of senior ranks in the Police to remember dealing with “the public”.  After all, he had been fast tracked as a graduate entrant, and had seen little action on the streets before moving rapidly through the ranks and patrolling a desk at head office.  Quite frankly, he was somewhat afraid of meeting those of his parishioners that were, shall we say, outside his social class.  He knew it had to be done, but somehow he had never got round to doing it.

The solution was forced upon him when he visited the widow of a recently deceased parishioner whose funeral service he was due to perform at All Saints Church in Marton the following weekend.  The widow (a rather fearsome creature who, he rather reluctantly admitted to himself, reminded him of Nora Batty), while civil enough, seemed uninterested in the pastoral care he wished to impart.  Indeed she gave the impression that the sooner she could put her late husband in the ground, the better for all concerned.  James, wishing to make as positive an impression as possible in this his first funeral, asked the usual questions about her husband’s life and habits in order that he could better perform an oration at the funeral.  The response took him aback somewhat.

“You’d best be visiting t’pub for that sort of information.  He were always there.  Every night like clockwork.  Six o’clock and he were gone.  Go and talk to t’lads at pub in early doors.  They’ll tell you what you need to know.”

And so it was that with some trepidation he found himself outside the Red Deer at six o’clock, steeling himself to interview the early doors crew. 

He had spent some time earlier that day deciding what to wear for the encounter, quickly deciding against the full robes, debating about full casual, and finally opting for the dog-collar and black suit.

His plan was to slip quietly up to the bar order a pint and ask the landlord who would be best suited to tell him a little about the deceased.  So much for best laid plans!  He entered the pub and everything else seemed to happen in a blur.  As he walked in he could see a circle of men in raucous good humour laughing and joking and then suddenly one of their number was hurtling through the gathering showering beer over everything and (most particularly) over his suit and cursing as he came. 

Once the fracas had died down and he had mopped himself off, he walked over and sat down on the vacant stool in the corner between the bar and the fire.  This action seemed to gain the attention of all those assembled.  He ordered a pint of bitter from the barman, which was promptly delivered.  One of the lads discreetly paid for it.  He expressed his regrets at having to pass the bad news that William Hutchinson (“Old Bill” said one of the crew) had passed on, and told the gathered congregation (for so he had now imagined them) that the funeral was on Sunday coming and he had come to find out about Bill for the oration.

There was silence for a while, and then one of the crew said, “We’ll be there and speak for him”.  James was delighted with this and said so.  The man that had offered his services at the funeral said “Aye.  Well that’s that then.  We’d best get back to supping.  Terry.” He stuck out his hand.  James was a bit taken aback by the brusqueness of the delivery but realised that Terry had just introduced himself.  “James” he said “I’m Priest in Charge of Marton, amongst others”

“You’re the vicar then”

“Yes, I suppose I am”

“Well, welcome to the Red Deer”

The atmosphere relaxed, and the banter started again, this time talking mainly about Bill and his life and the tales he used to tell.