Marton on the Mound part 4

The Funeral

St Peter’s church commanded a fine position high on the Mound after which Morton was named, and was accessed by a steeply sloping path leading to the West door.  James Hickman had often stood proudly at the door of this his favourite church and gazed fondly over the surrounding countryside.  Today was different.  It would be only fair to say that, this being James’ first funeral at which he had officiated as sole priest, he was not a little nervous.  Nor would it be an exaggeration to say that his decision to allow Terry from the early doors crew to make the tribute to the departed was filling him with utter dread.

On reflection, James had to admit that it was his treatment at the hands of the widow that had led him to agree to this course of action; that and perhaps a pint or two too many and the warm feeling of at last belonging in that part of his flock that had so far eluded him.  Now in the sober light of day, standing at the door of one of his churches ready to officiate at his first funeral, that decision summoned nightmarish visions of letters of complaint written to the Rural Dean, Archdeacon and perhaps even the Bishop; of “requests” to attend the Bishop’s Palace to “discuss” the issue; these discussions finally resulting in the ignominy of being busted down to curate while his parishes are taken over by a more competent priest.

It was in this mood that James now stood at the West door with about twenty minutes to go before the service was about to start.  The funeral directors together with the coffin and bearers had arrived at the lych gate and paused before attempting the steep and difficult path up to the church.  Behind them spread across the road were the black massed ranks of the widow and her entourage.  James noticed that the widow had lost none of her sour and forbidding demeanour, and made an assumption that the similarly sour women with her were friends or relations on her side.  As the top hatted and tailed funeral director led the puffing bearers past him into the church James tried to greet the mourners who followed.  The women swept past James as if he were the doorman rather than the officiating priest.  They were followed by what seemed to James to be a never ending stream of the same dour sour faced women and following these, a pace or two behind, cowed quiet men.  None returned James’ greeting and none spoke.

They took their places in the pews on the right hand side arrayed as if drilled in the rules of funeral etiquette.  Still none spoke and all stared ahead at the backs of the heads of those in front; all that is except the widow, sitting alone in the front right hand pew, who stared malevolently at the coffin in which lay her late husband.

With only 5 minutes to go before the time appointed for the start of the service, James took a look inside the church.  The front right pews were taken up by the widow’s entourage, and a few of the rear pews were taken, by non-aligned mourners, but the front left pews were ominously empty and the atmosphere felt more like a condemnation rather than a celebration of the deceased’s life.

Briefly James saw the absence of the early doors crew as a benefit until he realised that in their absence he would have to make the tribute to Bill himself in front of the forbidding and frankly scary widow’s entourage.  He hurried outside to see if there were any more mourners coming up the slope to the church, and seeing none retreated into the church closing the big heavy doors behind him.

“’I am the resurrection and the life’ says the Lord. ‘ Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die’

“We meet in the name of Jesus Christ, who died and was raised to the glory of God the Father.   Grace and mercy be with you.

We have come here today to remember before God our bro........!

At this point James was interrupted by the West Doors of the church being thrown open with a crash, and a group of 12 men making their way up the aisle led by Terry.

“Sorry we’re late Vicar.  We started the wake a bit early”

Even from where he was standing in front of the rood screen, James could smell the beer on the breath of the crew as they made their rather unsteady way up the nave still puffing from the hurried climb up the slope to the church.  This was not what James had expected when he had invited the crew to attend the funeral.  He had envisaged a congregation, not of the “Great and Good”, but of the “ordinary” people of the village.  He reflected now that he had imagined a scene from Lark Rise to Candleford with a church full of good honest working folk all worshipping the Lord with due deference.  What he now had was one side of the church filled with harridans and the nave filled with drunks.

Terry made his way if not unsteadily then with a bit of a swagger to the front of the church.  As he drew alongside the widow’s pew he looked over and winked, then without pausing to see her reaction he slid into the pew opposite.  Prior to the wink, the widow’s face bore a look of scorn that could have killed at 20 paces, and after the wink – well after the wink the most surprising transformation came over this fierce and unbending visage.  For the briefest of moments it softened and flushed before once more becoming a mask of contempt.

The rest of the crew took their places in the pews behind Terry, and once they had settled, James felt it was appropriate to resume the service from where they had left off.  On the spur of the moment, James decided to move the tribute from the beginning of the service after the introduction to the end, just before the commendation.  This, he reasoned, would give Terry a little more time to sober up.

The rest of the service went according to plan with the sole exception of a loud snoring from one of the crew made during James’ brief sermon.  The snorer was silenced periodically by the application of an elbow to the ribs, but in spite of this, never appeared to regain consciousness until the final hymn just before Terry was due to make the tribute.

As the last grumbles and squeaks that passed for notes died away, James stepped up in front of the screen and announced that Bill’s long term friend Terry would pay tribute to the Bill’s memory.  Looking somewhat more sober than when he came in, although definitely uncomfortable in his suit, Terry moved to where James stood in front of the screen.  “Here we go” thought James as he moved back behind the screen to sit in his choir pew. 

From behind the safety of the screen he surveyed the congregation with interest.  On his left the Widow and her harridans were still scowling, no more or no less than before as far as James could see, and on his right, the crew were beginning to sit up and take notice.  Even the snorer had woken fully and was paying attention.  James’ attention was drawn back to Terry who stood in front of the screen without notes of any kind, and apparently without nerves.

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.

Marton on the Mound - part 2

Bill doesn’t arrive

Winter in the Red Deer was a cheery place.  The pub was blessed with an open fire just by the bar, which was always lit well in advance of the pub opening so that the bar was nice and warm and the fire roaring and inviting.  As each new entrant of the early doors crew arrived he would position himself (for it was almost invariably a he) in front of the fire with his hands behind his back to soak up the warmth, and would order his drink by calling to the landlord from the fireplace.  As the next person arrived, he would take up a position in front of the fire and its previous occupant would move to the side.  Thus the circle gradually moved round in a clockwise direction to allow all posteriors to be warmed but not roasted.

This circle was somewhat intimidating to other pub users who were not part of the crew, as it dominated the bar area and forced newcomers to walk around it to reach the bar, and, in addition, completely blocked the fireplace.  This was not a deliberate strategy by the crew; it was just the way it worked.  Anyone who came into the pub that was not part of the crew was ignored simply because they did not belong.  To belong you had to become adopted by the crew by virtue of a chance remark thrown your way and responded to, or, in rare cases, by virtue of an interesting and arresting observation or joke.

Bill was of course the exception to the rule.  When he came into the pub he made his way straight to his stool by the bar and to the side of the fire.  In this position he could command the view of the pub, drink his beer without lifting his elbow and (very importantly during winter months) get the benefit of the fire without roasting his backside.  The circle would always break in front of Bill’s seat so that Bill, remaining seated, was part of it.

The first day that Bill did not turn up and sit in his seat, it was assumed that he was a bit late and then as time went on, it was assumed that “She” had called him away for some reason.  By the second day the news of Bill’s death had reached the crew and as is the way when part of the team is suddenly removed, his life and his influence on the crew was widely discussed by them.  There was no unseemly wailing or gnashing of teeth, for this would not have been appropriate in this community, but respect was shown in the way in which each man contemplated his beer and glanced at the empty corner seat before telling his own personal reminiscences of the great man.

The circle gyrated in its usual fashion, still not blocking the view that Bill would have had if he had been seated in his usual place, but the crew was subdued that day and broke up at about 8 o’clock when Bill would have left.

The next day the crew assembled as usual, and, apart from the odd comment about how strange it was not to have Bill in their midst, the banter went on pretty much as usual.  Still no one sat in Bill’s seat. 

Terry was telling a joke he had heard that morning from one of his colleagues on the building site.  He had his back to the door and was holding forth in his usual fashion, acting out each part, gesticulating and peppering the narrative with vulgar descriptive words that made the crew laugh.

It is amazing the effect a dog-collar can have on an early doors crew in a pub when they are in full flow.  It was John that saw the priest first.  It was his turn at the fire and he was standing with his eyes closed, revelling in the warmth flowing from his backside up his hands and into his aching shoulders.  He opened his eyes and the sight of a priest walking into the pub made him step backwards into the hearth, catching the heel of his workboot on the grate and causing a shower of sparks to leap up his trouser leg.  With a compound curse of considerable inventiveness and no less descriptive impossibility, he leapt away from the fire and burst through the circle spilling a great deal of his own and others’ beers as he did so.  He came to land in a sitting position rubbing his singed legs at the feet of an astonished priest who had incidentally become the recipient of much of the spilled beer.

Thus, the strange scene in the pub comprises a broken circle of lads, some nursing half empty beer glasses, but all facing an embarrassed, wet and discomfited priest of, as yet, unknown denomination, with the bulky form of John the roofer sitting at his feet to all the world in the pose of supplicant. 

Who knows what went through the minds of the gathered crew at this time, but none spoke, or, for those that had preserved any, supped their ale.

The priest, realising that he must speak to break the silence, and acting as if this was the most normal of situations, said, “I understand you gentlemen are friends of William Hutchinson”.  This too did not have the desired effect.  Instead of a chorus of affirmation, the crew looked at him with a unified look of puzzlement.  “William Hutchinson” the priest repeated, “known as Bill?”  Gradually the faces became less puzzled and realisation came upon them. 

“Ah” said John, “you must mean Old Bill”.  He spoke from the floor and involuntarily glanced at the empty stool in the corner.  The priest held out his hand to help him to his feet and, taking the glance at the stool as an invitation to sit down, walked through the circle and sat in Bill’s stool.  He found himself gazing at the semicircle of men paying rapt attention to his every word; a position, incidentally, that he had rarely enjoyed during a sermon in the village church.

Marton on the Mound

I wrote this piece a year or so ago as an idea for a sort of soap opera about a country village in the north of England (those familiar with the world's longest running radio soap, the Archers, may see similarities but they are not intended). I'm not quite sure whether it worked, but it comes in 6 parts or chapters which I will post in fairly rapid succession. Here's the first chapter.

Bill

Bill’s seat in the Red Deer was positioned in the corner where the bar met the retaining wall. To his left was the fireplace and under his right elbow was the bar. This was a strategic position in the pub as it allowed Bill to join in with any conversation being conducted in front of the bar without having to turn to find his drink. This drink was always positioned at the end of his right arm, the elbow of which was positioned in exactly the right place to act as a fulcrum in the act of placing the pint pot to his lips.

The seating position also provided support as the evening developed, such that Bill could drink copious amounts of beer without any outwardly visible effects until, that is, it came time to leave (or on the few occasions when Bill needed to “make room”), when Bill would lever himself out of his seat using both the bar and the adjacent mantelpiece for support.

Regulars would vacate the seat when Bill came in; indeed although coveted by all the regulars, the seat would almost invariably remain empty until Bill came in. Occasionally, a stranger would take that seat for exactly the reasons that Bill did, as it seemed to command the best view of the proceedings, and allow for easy discourse amongst the gathered habitués. If the seat was still occupied when Bill came in, nothing was ever said, but Bill would look uncomfortable and the homely banter would become stilted until, in the way that can only work in village pubs, the stranger, realising that for some unknown reason he was no longer welcome, drank up and vacated the seat.

From his position in this seat, Bill took in all that was going on around him. It was reckoned that Bill knew more about what was happening in the village than any other resident, but curiously, never divulged any of it. He was happy to discuss past residents of the village, and in particular past landlords of the Red Deer, ten of which he calculated he had seen off in his time in that seat, but never joined in with current gossip. He was not the sort of man to foist his stories on the gathering, but was always ready with a new anecdote, usually about a previous landlord.

Bill would arrive at the pub at precisely 6.00, rain or shine. As he left at about 8 o’clock, he would announce to the assembled congregation that he would see them the next day, or, on those very few occasions when his absence was unavoidable, he would announce that “she” had arranged something for that day so he wouldn’t be in. “She” was the woman he had shared his life with for as long as anyone could remember, and presumably the woman who cooked his meals and kept house for him. It was always assumed that Bill had it all under control and that “she” did as she was told and had his pipe and slippers ready for him when he staggered back home. She never came to the pub with him, and until that one night, as far as anyone could tell, was never seen outside the house she shared with Bill.

It was one of those nights when the early doors crew were particularly lively and the jokes were flying thick and fast. The laughter was loud and infectious and many of the crew had stayed for that extra pint or two to make the evening last a little longer. Bill, far from being exempt from this, was in fine form as the evening stretched on. The crew were arrayed in a semicircle around him with their backs to the door as he held forth on some particularly humorous incident perpetrated by a previous landlord. He was about to reach the final dénouement of the story when he stopped abruptly, levered himself out of his seat and made his way unsteadily towards the door. The stunned crew separated like the Red Sea to allow Bill through, and as they turned to watch him make for the door, they saw a tall, upright woman silhouetted against the light of the doorway, standing silently with arms crossed. She took one step to the side as Bill approached and then followed him silently out of the pub.

Chastened by the vicarious experience of being fetched from the pub, the crew began to make their excuses and wend their ways back to their wives and girlfriends. No one ever mentioned the incident to Bill, and certainly Bill never spoke of it, but although Bill’s seat remained his, and he still held court in front of the early doors crew, he never again stayed later than 8 o’clock.

More stories

I feel I ought to write something, just to keep this blog alive, and, while I have more stories and narrative poems, I think they need a bit more work before I put them on here. At least this blog has kind of forced me to write more, so I am putting more effort into finishing stories I have started or starting stories I must finish. Some of my stories are so old that they are definitely past their sell by date and should really be scrapped, but I can't bring myself to do that in case they might one day come in useful. It's a bit like never being able to throw a book away; I may never read them again, but it feels like sacrilege to bin them. I used to be unable to even lend a book without knowing that it would come back to me, but now I think I might be able to allow the books out of my sight so long as I believe them to have gone to a good home.

Anyway, this will have to do as an interim blog until I have written another story.

Blind Date - John's Story

OK then, here's the sequel.  I guess if you haven't read Tracey's story then you need to go back and read that before you read this.  I've never tried it, but I suspect they don't read the wrong way round.  You could try it and let me know.

I did wonder if I could write some more Tracey stories and might give that a go.  Anyway here's Blind Date - John's story

Blind Date

John

The truth is that I had managed to double book myself for that night.  I’d got a call asking me to pop in after work.  Well I thought I could manage a quicky before I went to meet Tracey, so I agreed.

I had originally planned to just pop in for a cup of coffee, but she insisted on me staying in spite of my protestations that I had to leave.  She said she had already prepared a meal for the two of us.  I was in a complete dilemma.  I was enjoying myself, but wanted to meet this Tracey; her photo had looked really nice and we had chatted well on line.  I decided to stay for the meal and made an excuse to sneak out and make a quick call to Tracey to tell her I was running late. 

The meal was wonderful, and the invitation was definitely there to stay a bit longer, but I still reckoned I could make it to see Tracey if I hurried – that is if I really wanted to.

In the end I considered that it wouldn’t be right to just leave Tracey in the lurch like that, so I made up my mind to make an excuse to leave and get to Tracey as soon as possible.  In any case, if it turned out that Tracey wasn’t my cup of tea after all, I knew that if I handled things right here, I would still get a warm welcome if I chose to come back later.

By the time I managed to get away, bidding fond and loving farewells, I was even later for my meeting with Tracey.  I wasn’t going to tell her that I’d already had dinner with someone else, so I told her that I had been held up in traffic and would be about half an hour.  I suggested that she went round to the pub around the corner from the restaurant we were to meet at and get herself a drink.  Better that than hanging around on a street corner waiting for me to turn up. 

It was then I realised that I had left my wallet behind.  I had no choice but to turn round and head back the way I had come.  I dashed in saying that I had forgotten something, retrieved my wallet and, avoiding all entreaties to stay, leapt back into my car.  Back on the phone as I tried to make up time, I told Tracey that I had been caught up in a diversion set up by the police to avoid an accident on the M4 and was now sat at temporary traffic lights near Hungerford.    I could hear the sounds of the pub in the background, so I guessed she had taken my advice and was having a drink while waiting.

I was beginning to make up a bit of time now, but still very late when, would you believe it, I was caught up in a diversion set up by the police to avoid an accident on the M4.  I couldn’t tell her that I was held up in another diversion, particularly as I was supposed to be somewhere near Hungerford at some temporary lights, so I told her that I was about 15 minutes away and would join her in the restaurant.  15 minutes later I said that I was still looking for a parking place and would be with her soon.  I could hear noises in the background that sounded like a restaurant, but she sounded a bit weird, almost like she was drunk.  I remember hoping that I hadn’t taken all this trouble to meet a lush.

I finally managed to make it into the restaurant and was being shown to Tracey’s table when the most amazing fracas erupted.  I have no idea how it all started.  All I remember is that someone (who turned out to be Tracey) seems to have slipped as she got up from the table and reached for a waiter for support.  The waiter then poured soup over a lady seated at a nearby table and she in turn stood up in a hurry and upset the table she was sat at, thus showering her partner with the contents of the table, which included a full pint of beer.  Understandably, he shifted backwards to avoid the mess and bumped into the chap behind.  I couldn’t see exactly what happened next except that this chap rose from his chair roaring like King Kong and started laying about him with rather large fists.  I remember noting that he must have been part of some kind of fancy dress party because his face was made up with some kind of brown make up plastered all over it and he was wearing what looked like a cherry on his nose.  Anyway one of his fists must have made contact with the chap in front of me who collapsed like a felled tree.  I tripped over him, and in an attempt to steady myself reached out with both hands and found myself clutching the top half of a lady’s dress, much of which followed me down as I fell.  I stumbled and started to get back to my feet to apologise to the lady, when she aimed a very painful kick at my groin which doubled me up again. 

So there I am crouched on the ground clutching my nether regions and the chap who had tripped me lying spark out on the floor in front of me and all about us bedlam is raging.  The girl whose dress I had inadvertently ripped and who had revenged herself so painfully on me was clutching her dress with one hand and laying about her with a half full bottle of wine in the other.  Wine was slopping about and people were slipping and sliding on the floor in an attempt to reach her and disarm her.  The big man with the face mask was still thrashing about him and I could see people trying to get out of the door onto the street.  I felt that the safest place at this moment was away from the main action, so, still in a near foetal position, I crawled under a nearby table.  From my position of relative safety I could see the kitchen staff coming into the restaurant led by a large and corpulent man in dirty chef’s whites bearing a kitchen knife of huge proportions.   In his wake came the rest of the kitchen and waiting staff bearing whatever weapons they could lay their hands on. 

The chef (as I took him to be) had obviously set himself the task of subduing the man in the mask and was striding determinedly towards him head and knife held high.  Unfortunately the downed man was directly in his path.  Inevitably the chef tripped over him, crashing to the floor still clutching the knife which embedded itself in the floor together with the hem of the dress that I had already torn.  So close were the kitchen and waiting staff to the chef, that they followed his tumble with much clattering of saucepans and rolling pins and created a pile of bodies and kitchen utensils.

The aching from between my legs having abated, I crawled out from beneath my table and began somewhat tentatively to get to my feet.  As I emerged from my place of safety, I came face to face with the girl who had assaulted me.  She and I recognised each other immediately, and I moved towards her to greet her in a formal manner, she, on the other hand screamed “YOU” in a very loud and strident tone, swung her wine bottle in a wide arc and stepped towards me.  In so doing, her dress, trapped as it was by the chef’s knife, was ripped from her grasp and fell to the floor leaving her naked apart from a pair of skimpy panties.  Unencumbered now and obviously undeterred, she launched herself at me with renewed vigour.  I responded in the way that any sane man would who had already suffered potentially permanent damage to his reproductive equipment.  I ran.

I guess the sight of this young lady in naught but her panties waving a bottle of wine and chasing me out of the restaurant must have had a calming effect on the rest of the battle scene, as it seemed to me as I fled that everyone had stopped what they were doing and were concentrating on the pair of us.  I made it through the restaurant door just as a police van pulled up to the kerb and a number of helmeted policemen leapt out of the back.  They apprehended Tracey and took her away in the van and kept the rest of us back for questioning.

It was late by the time I was released without charge and I was pleased that I had taken my mum up on her offer of dinner before meeting up with Tracey.  Isn’t it strange how mums are always right?  She had said earlier in the evening that even though she had never met the girl, she felt there was something not quite right with Tracey and that she hoped that she was wrong, but that she was sure the girl was trouble. 

Perhaps I should pay more attention to her in future.