The Dragon (and George)

As today is St. George's day, I thought it appropriate that I post this ditty that I wrote this time last year to celebrate the self same day.  Don't be put off by the fact that it is in rhyme (Shakespeare managed a few of those too), just enjoy the story.  I will say that the story is fundamentally that of the legend of St. George and the dragon, but with one or two embellishments - not least of which is the fact that it is told by the dragon.

The Dragon (and George)

The story of St George is of a brave and noble Knight,

Who saves a Princess in distress by offering to fight

A dragon, armed with nothing but a horse, a shield and spear,

And then, with God upon his side, and therefore naught to fear

He overcomes the beast at last, returns the Maid unhurt

And for these deeds takes this reward: to preach, maybe convert

The town to Christianity, and having thus his say,

He girds himself in red crossed cloak and softly rides away

Well that’s what legend’s telling us about his little brawl.
That’s the story, here’s the truth, from one who saw it all.

George was just a little boy when he came to Honah-Lee.
I was lying in my cave when he first encountered me.
There aren’t so many visit, so I was quite surprised
To be presented with a child so ripe to terrorise.
I started with a little smoke (that often makes them quake)
But this lad kept on coming; not a tremor or a shake.
Next I tried a flash of flame to really make him think
He didn’t even falter once, nor did he even blink
But came and hugged my horny head and scratched behind my ear,
And told me he would be my friend for ever and a year
Well so it was.  We stayed good friends and always kept in touch.
When he was far away from me I missed him very much.
He’d come into my cave at nights; we’d chat until the dawn.
I’d tell him of the hundred years that passed since I was born
He’d tell me of the places he had been since last we met,
And talk of things he dreamed about that hadn’t happened yet.

One day he told about a king with wealth beyond compare,
Whose daughter was a beauteous maid with golden flowing hair.
He warmed his hands upon my breath and then before me laid
A cunning plan to part this king from riches and from maid.
We would arrive at dead of night when all were fast asleep,
And I would roar and be quite fierce and eat up all the sheep.
“OK so far”, I said, “but wait, there’s one thing’s got it beat.
“In spite of what they say you know, us dragons don’t eat meat”
“We’ll hide the sheep” said George at last “and let them think it’s you
“Perception is reality.  To them it will be true.
“Then you declare a comely maid of royal blood’s your taste,
“And if you don’t get one right soon you’ll lay the land to waste.
“Along I come and tell the king that I’m the man to rid
“His kingdom of the nasty worm, and then I’ll make my bid
“For half his wealth, his daughter’s hand and named as his sole heir
And we will live in luxury without a single care.”
“Hold on,” says I “Am I the worm referred to in this plan?
“You know that as we’re firmest friends I’ll help you if I can,
“But do I have to be a worm?  It seems to denigrate.
“My pref’rence would be ‘dragon’ when you two negotiate
“The terms of my demise and then the dowry for your bride,
“And hopefully, for me, a little something on the side.”

The planning done and terms agreed we flew away anon,
Arriving in the dead of night when all the folk had gone.
We rounded up the sheep and put them in a lonely byre,
And then I landed on a hill and roared and breathed out fire,
Demanding princesses for lunch and threatening the worst
And trying to assure the King that all his land was cursed.
Our George meanwhile gained audience and followed up his plan:
Convincing of his Majesty that he’s the only man
That can defeat this dreadful worm (He really did mean me),
And happy to achieve this feat for one quite modest fee.
These terms set out in simple words, he waited for assent,
But got instead a swift repost and major ego dent.
The King it seemed was not so green as he had seemed to be
And called the bluff of our brave George, and by extension me.
He staked his pretty maiden girl upon a far off hill,
And sent a challenge back to me to do just what I will.
Well I have no more appetite for maidens than for sheep,
So I slunk off a mile or so to sooth myself in sleep.
When I woke up I found that George was standing by my side,
And with him was the Princess that he wanted as his bride.
He said he needed help again to make his dream come true,
And while I listened carefully he told me what we’d do.
He tied a rope around my neck and led me into town,
I walked as if I was subdued, my head was hanging down.
The Princess held his hand so tight and looked at him with eyes
That brimmed with adoration for the man who’d cut her ties.
The three of us took up our place in front of City Hall,
The crowds were gathered in the square and George addressed them all
“You people see what I have done that your fine King denied.
“I have subdued this fierce beast and maybe could have died,
“Your beauteous Princess I have saved from dragon’s tooth and claws,
“The Lord thy God was on my side and He alone ensures
“That you will live in peace and love and never want a thing,
“He only gives He does not take unlike your greedy King.
“And as a sign of His good faith to show His love is deep
“He has performed a miracle and has returned your sheep”.
At this the crowd all bowed down low and praised our God on high,
And even I (who knew the truth), a tear came in my eye.

We flew away that afternoon.  The sky was blue and clear,
We made good time with chasing wind.  Of course we had no fear
Volcano dust would bring us down or interrupt our flight.
We just flew back and soared away at dragon cruising height.

When Honah-Lee came into view I felt a twinge of joy,
Adventuring is very well if you’re a headstrong boy
With confidence and fighting talk and actions of the brave,
But dragons like their comforts too: a warm and cosy cave.

I never went with George again. He still roamed far and wide
Righting wrongs and telling folk to keep God on their side.
I heard he’d died in foreign lands when fighting in some wars
That some smart politician was convinced was in God’s cause.

That was many years ago but still I can recall
How one man and a dragon tried their best to fool them all.
It’s true that even though the plan was daring and was bold
We didn’t come back laden down with rubies and with gold
And nor did George win fair maid’s hand (she didn’t want to leave)
But I know it was all worthwhile for what we did achieve:
My George was made a saint and came a champion of the poor,
And I have made a fortune from this well-paid lecture tour.

Hong Kong Pontoons

I wrote this fragment fairly recently and may still develop it into a full blown story. It has a hanging ending and although I am pretty certain what the characters are likely to do next, I am not absolutely sure (and by next I mean in the medium term future, not the immediate future - that would be too obvious). Anyway, if any of you have any ideas, let me know.

“What do you mean you don’t know my name?”

She rolled off the bed away from him. She felt a bit woozy and could feel the beginnings of a headache. The man (or really just a boy she thought to herself) just lay there propped on one arm watching her.

“So you’ve forgotten my name already, is that what you’re telling me?” she said

“No, I’m afraid you never introduced yourself last night”

"Of course I did! You just weren’t paying attention.” (Is that true? Did I drag this boy back here without introductions?).

“You had had quite a lot to drink.”

“And you hadn’t?”

“Well no. I was driving so I was only on soft drinks”

“What were you doing in that pub then?”

“I’d just popped in for directions”

“You’ve got to be kidding me”

“No really. I’d just bought myself a little camper van and was trying to get out to Hampstead Heath to spend the night, and had lost my way. I went into the pub to ask directions. While I was there I bought myself a ginger beer and was sitting at the bar minding my own business and quietly drinking it when you flounced over.”

“Flounced! I’ve never flounced in my life!”

“Well whatever you want to call it, you rushed up to the bar and plonked yourself on the bar stool next to mine”

The manboy, seeming to sense her unease, pauses in his narrative and stares at the ceiling again.

“Perhaps I was a bit drunk. I’m usually very careful when I’m out with people from the office. There was this guy John West who has been trying to get me into bed. I was just wondering if he spiked my drink.”

She lay down beside him apparently unaware of the irony of the fact that she was now in bed with a strange man, and stared at the ceiling with him. He turned his head towards her.

“I thought he looked a bit fishy” he said, trying to break the tension of the last few moments.

“ha ha” she said with a voice loaded with irony “I was afraid you didn’t do jokes – and I think I was right”

“I imagine that with a name like that he’s heard it plenty of times before” he leaned up on his elbow and looked down on her. “How are you feeling now?”

“No better than I deserve to” she said. “I’m sorry I got grumpy with you. Some of last night is coming back to me now. I probably did flounce”. She smiled a wry smile.

“Whatever.” he said “Do you want me to fill in any other bits?”

“Oh OK then, but I reserve the right to shut you up if I don’t like the way it’s going”

“Of course. That sounds very fair”. He looked away.

“Are you taking the piss?

“Me?”

“Yes you” she said and pushed him onto his back.

He lay down with his head close to hers and they both stared up at the ceiling.

“Well, as I said, you flounced up to me at the bar” she aimed a dig at his ribs with her elbow “Ow. I turned to look at you. You caught me looking and asked me somewhat aggressively if I found anything interesting. I remember that, because I wanted to say that I found you very interesting, but felt that perhaps it wouldn’t have gone down particularly well under the circumstances.”

“It would have been a bit corny”she said “but.....” she let the words trail off.

“Anyway, the barman intervened and said that I had come in looking for directions to Hampstead Heath. He was from Albania or somewhere and didn’t know London very well. You said that if I got you out of the pub you’d show me the way, and that in a nutshell was what happened”.

He paused and she continued to look at the ceiling. Her sick feeling had subsided somewhat but she still had a headache.

“That doesn’t quite explain how I managed to get to my flat if I was directing you to Hampstead Heath.”

“OK then. Firstly it turned out that you had no idea how to get to Hampstead Heath...“

“I didn’t think I did” she interjected

“...and that you just wanted an excuse to get out of the pub. Then you said that I could drive you home and we could look it up on the map. You told me to head for signs to The Angel and then promptly passed out. I had to wake you a few time before we got here.”

It was beginning to come back to her now. She couldn’t remember the journey at all, but she did remember arriving outside her door and him helping her up the steps to her flat.

“OK that explains how you got here, but it doesn’t explain how you and I ended up lying naked in my bed.”

He looked over to her.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I guess not. Just tell me, is there anything I need to be embarrassed about?”

“I will tell you that once you had got undressed, you scrambled under the covers next to me, hugged the pillow and fell fast asleep. I’m not sure if you need to be embarrassed about that”

“What did you do?”

“I lay awake for a bit watching you sleep then went to sleep myself.”

They lay on their backs for some time in companionable silence gazing at the ceiling immersed in their own thoughts.

“In Hong Kong they have these pontoons moored in the bay. You can swim out to them and sunbathe. I have this fantasy of swimming out during a typhoon and lashing myself to the pontoon as the wind and rain beat around me”. She continued to stare at the ceiling as she said this, almost as if she were imagining the scene. “Of course I’ll never do it, but that’s the way with fantasies isn’t it, you never achieve them; if you did they wouldn’t be fantasies any more”.

“What makes you think you can’t achieve your fantasies?” The manboy (Oh God what was his name?) leaned forward slightly as he spoke. “After all what’s stopping you?”

“Oh you know, nothing much, my job, my rent, my other debts. You wait, it’ll come to you soon enough and you’ll look back on this moment and remember”

The manboy rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“I was planning to take a bit of time before I got a job and wander around the Med in my camper van. Would you like to come?”

“How long’s a bit of time? I have some holiday due, but I can only take 2 weeks at a time” she said

“No, no I mean take as long as it takes, a year, maybe more, maybe less”

“And my job, rent, debts? Who takes care of those?”

“Dunno” he said “If you didn’t live here maybe you wouldn’t need a job.”

(Bloody hell was I ever this simplistic when I was his age)

“So how would I eat? Where would I sleep? How would we get about?

“I’d look after you”

He was still lying naked on the bed and staring at the ceiling. (He’s very beautiful, lean, not over muscled, but fit. Long legs nice face, soft and gentle voice). He turned over onto his side again and reached out for her as she lay next to him. He stroked her hair gently and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Hey you, just because we’re lying here in bed naked doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me you know” she smiled.

“The thought never crossed my mind” he said “I’m serious about the offer though. I would like the company and there’s room enough for two in the van”

She wasn’t sure if she should be offended by the lack of romance in the offer.

“It’s nice of you to invite me but I really don’t think I can” (Why not? Think about it. Why not?)

“OK. I just thought....you know...it might be nice just to travel together”

“You have absolutely no idea what I would have to give up to do that”

She turned away from him

“Do you have no responsibilities? No don’t answer that. You obviously don’t. I have a responsible job in a position that I have worked hard to achieve and I am firmly on the ladder to success. This job was exactly what I had planned in my 5 year plan and I have no intention of giving it up just on a whim”

The manboy just lay there leaning on his elbow while she delivered this tirade, the few inches between them now a gulf.

(Why am I so mad at him? I know why I’m mad at him. It’s because in its senselessness, going away with him makes so much sense. I’m being ridiculous. Or maybe I’m mad because he just wants me for company.)

As if in answer to her thoughts he said

“So those were your colleagues from your job that you were drinking with last night”

She looked over her shoulder at him

“Yes. Why?”

“Just...well...they seemed a bit dull”

“It’s a firm of accountants! What did you expect, jugglers and an impromptu high wire act?”

He flinched a bit at this rebuke, but stretched out his hand and touched her hair.

“Do you enjoy it there?”

“What’s not to enjoy? I’m senior secretary to the senior partners. I make appointments for them with clients, book flights and hotels for their foreign business trips, type letters to some of the captains of industry. I live my exciting life vicariously through them”. This last was said ironically as if with a sudden realisation of what she had outlined.

He said nothing. She turned back to face him and lay on his outstretched arm.

“I can’t leave all this behind”she explained “It’s taken me a long time to reach this position and I’m earning good money and have a good life. I go out when I want and where I want, I run my own car and have this nice little flat in the middle of Stoke Newington (OMG why is Stoke Newington so important). It would take years to get it back. I can see places when I take my holidays. I get an extra day’s holiday every year I stay at the company.....” She let the words trail away, realising that she was justifying this life to herself not to him.

The manboy rolled over onto his back, reached out for her and pulled her to him. She felt like crying but snuggled her head into the warm hollow between his shoulder and his neck.

They lay this way for some time before he spoke.

“If you don’t like working there, then what’s the point of it all? It takes up most of your time and you try to make the most of what little time is left. I’m just suggesting that you might leave it for a while and enjoy yourself a little more.”

"But I do like working there”. (No I don’t) she protested

“No you don’t”. 

It was a flat statement from him, and she knew that any further protestations would be pointless.

“But that doesn’t mean I can just leave and go galavanting around wherever with you.”

"I think you should consider it a little more. We wouldn’t have to leave immediately. You’d have time to get your things in order.”

She found herself wondering if it was really possible. Could she really just hand in her notice for the job and the flat and disappear? Maybe she could after all.

“I’ll think about it”

“OK let’s make a decision by next Friday”

“OK” she said feeling sleepy in the comfort of his arms around her.

“But right now” he said “What is your name?”

Being Katherine

From time to time I write fragments of stories and see if they lead me anywhere.  Often they do, but just as often they don't.  If they don't seem to want to go anywhere, I will either just bin it, or if I like what I have written, I will keep it for later in the hope that I can use it for another story or see if another shot at it will move it on a bit. 

I discovered this fragment when I changed computers a few years ago.  It is quite fun, but it does contain a couple of "F" words, so if you are likely to be offended, don't read it.

“Oh yes” Rory said out loud.  “That’s how I got into this situation”.

He swung his legs down off the bed where he had been lying naked but for some attractive underwear of Katherine’s, took the wig from his head and tucked it away in a box on top of the wardrobe where Byron and Danuta would not see it, and pulled his trousers on over the lacy thong.  Katherine didn’t wear bras much.  She was one of those women that knew they had a great figure, so let it all show.  Rory pulled on a T shirt.  He reflected that it was fortunate that he was so slim or Katherine’s underwear would not have indicated the sex kitten that he had told Byron about.  The shoes had still been a problem.  In spite of having relatively small feet for a man of 5ft 10ins, size 8 ladies shoes had been a problem.  It hadn’t just been a question of finding a shop that stocked the sort of elegant shoes that Katherine wore - on reflection that had been the easy bit - it was finding enough shops to buy all the shoes that Katherine wore without anyone thinking that he was some kind of cross dresser.

When Byron had said he would love to meet Katherine, he, Rory, had, before he had even considered what he was saying, said “Yes you must”

“Do you mean you could arrange it for me, mate” asked Byron with a bit of a faraway look in his eyes.

“Yes, I don’t see why not.” said Rory, frantically trying to think of a way out.  “I’m never quite sure when she is going to be in though” he said “she is Jenny’s friend after all.”

That started them on a conversation about how Jenny felt about Katherine, particularly as Katherine was known to ‘swing both ways’.

“She’s cool about it” said Rory “in fact she wanted to know all the detail, but made me go out of the room before Katherine told her”

“Doesn’t that make you feel...” Byron paused here to find the right word, “...threatened” he said at last

Rory was convinced that Byron had wanted to say “horny”, but had stopped himself in time.

“No mate.  I told you, the old lady’s cool”

In fact, thought Byron, the old lady was far from cool.  She had discovered him wearing one of Katherine’s very short mini skirts, a really pretty white blouse, and some high heeled sling backs, and had not been amused.

“What the fuck’s going on” she demanded.

Jenny rarely swore, and to use the F word was very rare indeed.

“They’re not mine” said Rory “they’re Katherine Walker’s”

“And who the fuck is Katherine Walker”

“She’s your best friend”

“The fuck she is”

Rory reflected that this conversation was not going the way he wanted it to.  For a girl who rarely used the F word to use it three times in three sentences indicated a seriously bad mood.

It took him some time, but he managed to calm Jenny down enough to tell her what had happened and explain how Katherine Walker had come about and why he felt that it was necessary to “live” as Katherine to make the subterfuge more realistic.

Jenny had not been entirely convinced

“Are you sure that’s the only reason you dress up in women’s clothes?” she asked

“Do you think I enjoy it?” Exclaimed Rory

“It had crossed my mind” she said “and anyway, if you’re going to wear a skirt that short, for God’s sake shave your legs.” And with that she walked out of the room.

She had not been entirely supportive when he had outlined his plan to allow Byron to meet with Katherine Walker.

“Why don’t you just tell him that Katherine is a fiction, and that we had become fed up with him and that cow of a girlfriend” she had said.

Rory wondered why women never understood the relationship that comes from real male bonding.

“I couldn’t say that to him, he’s my oldest and dearest friend”

“I’ll tell him then”

“That would be even worse.  What would he think of me?”

“What do you think he’s going to think of you if he discovers it’s you dressed up as Katherine Walker”

“Well he won’t will he; not if we keep to the plan”



Not going to University

When I was a mere strippling, less than a third of my age now, I left school with insufficient 'A' levels to get me into university.  I also left school with absolutely no idea what to do with my life and so decided that the best thing for me was to stick my thumb out and go travelling.

As with the rest of my life before and probably since, I had no plan as to where I should go, or how long I should be away.  There was a timing constraint in that I had to be back for my sister's wedding some 12 months hence, but otherwise I was free to be away for as long as I liked.  Of course money was a factor, but I had managed to save £100 from a holiday job and considered that this would be sufficient for my needs at least until I could find some other way of earning a living.

Thus it was that on Sunday 23rd August 1970 I headed off to who knows where.  During my time away I kept a diary.  At the time I assumed that this diary would be read by parents and others that I had left behind, so I wasn't as honest as I might have been, and many scurrilous and otherwise interesting incidents have been left out.  These will and do appear in some of my stories, but as I find it very difficult to write about myself, they will be difficult to identify.

Anyway, if anyone wants to read the diary of a young man's travels in the 1970s, follow this link and download the pdf file
https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0ByPccdeYJLKRZjA0MTZjYTItYjg5Ni00MDMzLTljMGUtOTI0OWYwNzkwMjVk&hl=en

Marton on the Mound - the final part

The Tribute

“I knew Bill for many years” Terry started.  (“Good beginning” thought James rather facetiously).  “That is, I drank with him in the Deer for many years and he entertained us with a lot of stories and jokes over that time, and no one knew where he got them all from.  But I don’t suppose I really knew him, not like his Missus would have”.  At this he inclined his head towards the Widow who gave a curt nod in acknowledgement.  “In fact I asked around the lads from the Deer, and none of them had ever had any – how would the vicar put it – social interaction with Bill outside the pub.  If we planned to go on a trip, like when we went to Scarborough that time, Bill would always say ‘thanks for asking, but I can’t that weekend’.  After a while we stopped asking because the answer would always be the same.

“I suppose then that I’m only going to provide a tribute to Bill’s life as we saw it from drinking with him at the Deer, and from what we learned about his life from his stories.  I’ve discussed this with the lads and we reckon we can draw some conclusions about Bill’s life outside the pub, so if his Missus doesn’t mind I might just stick a bit of our opinion in as well”  Again Terry inclined his head towards the Widow, who again gave a curt nod.

“Bill and his missus never had any kids.  I don’t know whether they couldn’t or they just didn’t, but either way, I think Bill would have liked to have had kids.  He would get sort of wistful sometimes when he was talking about other peoples’ kids.  I remember once when he had told the story of a lad from the village (no names no pack drill) who had been caught in a wheat field not just with his pants down with a girl from Bassingham, but stark naked.  The combine driver had said he completely lost his line when he saw these two leap up in front of him clutching their clothes and running as fast as they could between the stalks.  Bill had said that those wheat heads must have stung him where he least wanted it, but fair play to him he had said.  He then said ‘I’d have liked that to have been my lad’.

“I’d never heard Bill talk like that.  You know how you read that someone had a faraway look in his eye; well Bill had just that when he said that.  He was always telling stories; I don’t know where he got them all from, but they just kept coming.  Usually they were about people we knew or perhaps had just heard of; never malicious, just funny like the lad in the wheat field (that lad got bought a lot of drinks after that story got around).  Somehow he could take a story that someone else had told him, often about themselves, and then just enhance it somehow so that we were all howling with laughter.  He’d love it when that happened.  It was as if that was what it was all about, making folk laugh.”

Terry looked across to the crew who were paying rapt attention to him.

“Do you remember when he told us about Mick and the deckchair?  I can’t do the story justice, but basically it seems that Mick had come back from his holiday in Cornwall with both hands bound up and it turned out that it was from an accident with a deckchair.  The way Bill told it had Mick trapping his hands in this deckchair after it collapsed when he had sat on it and then the trouble he had getting the deckchair off, then driving himself to the hospital not being able to grip the wheel, then when he had waited in Casualty with his hands stuck out like a puppet’s, the doc had seen him and before Mick could say anything had said ‘Deckchair?’.  It was just the way Bill could tell the story that made it funny, and that punchline ‘Deckchair?’ just had us in fits.  I swear I nearly wet myself.”

Terry suddenly remembered where he was and turned guiltily to James.

“Sorry Vicar” and to the Widow “Sorry Missus, it’s just the way he was.  He made us laugh so much”

The Widow’s looks had softened somewhat and what looked suspiciously like the beginnings of a smile played across her face.  James was impressed.  The crew were still smiling from the memory of the way Bill had told the deckchair story, and some were openly laughing and giggling.  “Well” thought James “this is a turn up.  I never expected this.”

Terry addressed the congregation again.

“Bill could keep us entertained for as long as he was there.  I think it’s fair that many of us only went to the pub because Bill was there.  I’m not saying that we didn’t and don’t enjoy each other’s company, it’s just that if Bill was there it was always a good session.  It’s not been the same without him.” 

Looking at the Widow, Terry said “He was really fond of you.  He would talk about you as I guess all of us men talk about our wives and girlfriends; as if we were totally in charge of our households and woe betide any woman who gets in the way of a man’s drinking.  But when Bill said it there was a fondness in his voice.  Oh yes, he would moan that “she” had decided that they were going shopping on such and such a day, so he wouldn’t be able to get up to the Deer, or that “she” had made him do some gardening, or something about the house, but somehow we knew that he accepted that this was his lot and he was very content with it.  In fact in this too he was a role model to us.  We all talked big about our women, but mostly when it came down to it we knew which way the land lay.  So missus, I think you need to know that he loved you and that all of us miss him and are proud to have been counted as his friends.  I for one will not forget him and will try as hard as I can to remember the stories he told and the way he told them, and I intend to tell anyone who will listen what a great feller he was and that I am proud to have known him.”

With that Terry walked over to the Widow’s pew and took her hand.  She moved along the bench and he sat beside her.  Tears were coursing down her face and she looked ten years younger.

James continued the service until the time came for the coffin to be taken out of the church and loaded back on the hearse to be taken to the cemetery on the outskirts of the village.  The Widow invited Terry into her car and they stood together at the interment and committal. 

The Wake

After the service, Terry and the Widow walked back into the village together talking.  She told him that she had been very moved by his tribute and that she was pleased that her Bill had been held in such high esteem by his friends at the pub.  He told her that the landlord and the crew had put together a bit of a buffet and some money behind the bar by way of a wake to see Bill out, and would she like to join them.  At first she was a bit reluctant, but then she seemed to suddenly change her mind.  “All right” she said “it’s about time I learned what you scallywags talked about every night for the last God knows how many years”. 

By the time they reached the pub, most of the crew who had not attended the interment had already gathered in their usual circle with their pints in hand.  When Terry and the Widow walked in there was a sudden hushing of the chatter as the crew turned to watch them arrive, then without a single word from anyone, the circle opened and Terry led the Widow to Bill’s seat in the corner.

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.