Regret to Inform You... (4 page)

‘Mornin' Rev'rend. Jump aboard. Glad ye 'ave an umbrella. As yer can see, I couldn't get a proper cover for me cart.' Arthur clambered aboard with his umbrella still up, noticing that the main part of the cart was full of logs for a later delivery. He held the black umbrella to give as much protection as possible to the two of them, but was glad of his black waterproof cape. The road near the pond was awash and there was a deeply-pitted stretch as they went past Fred Jackson's farm. Fred had told Arthur that whatever bricks and rubble he placed in the holes, they seemed to be swallowed up, but along Manor Lane the road improved a little.

Apart from the occasional curse from Sparky, toned down for the sake of his ecclesiastical passenger, few words were exchanged. The rain, fortunately now more gentle, was a strong deterrent to conversation and even as it grew lighter, the sky promised no real improvement. The journey to the station in Steepleton, a town of some 6,000, was four miles. Apart from passing an unrecognisable figure with a sack held over his head, they saw no one on this thirty-minute journey; much care was needed by Sparky as he kept the cart wheels clear of the deepest, water-filled ruts. Reaching the station forecourt, Arthur felt in his coat pocket and pulled out some coins.

‘Nay. Nay, Your Rev'rend. You do plenty for nothing for us in the village, so you keep that. Safe journey.' With profuse thanks from Arthur and a slightly embarrassed acknowledgement from Sparky the two went their own ways, to very different activities.

Five minutes until the train was due; a local one which would carry him to Canchester. In spite of its interesting historic buildings, not least the cathedral and its adjacent buildings, Arthur rarely visited the city with just occasional shopping trips with Eleanor, mainly pre-Christmas, and
infrequent
attendance at concerts in the cathedral. His duties in the parish took up much time, quietly supporting parishioners and trying to improve life for those in Rusfield, although he would never have given claim to either.

Whilst he appeared unaware of the apparently contrasting sides of his personality, Eleanor knew all too well that many villagers saw him first as rather an austere parish priest, but ultimately a kind, generous and caring man. He remained strict to his interpretation of the Bible and how priests were expected to act, but was loving and generous in his understanding of people. It was the latter that had drawn this seemingly different couple together, when Arthur had all but given up hope of ever finding someone to share his life again, after the appalling death of Florence, his first wife. He never ceased to thank God for his beloved Eleanor, kind and beautiful in looks and spirit. He knew that it was her smile, her good sense and love that gave him strength. Her faith was much simpler than his, fine-tuning her life to the Sermon on the Mount. Not for her the ancient utterances of the Old Testament, often advocating revenge. Christ's simple words were the tenets of her Christianity; her vision of God was not easily compatible with ornate cathedrals, academic debates of complicated church teachings and church artefacts, but of Jesus on a hillside speaking to poor people from nearby villages. Arthur understood this driving force behind his wife's life, albeit that his own faith was built more on the Ten Commandments and canon law as much as Christ's teachings. But these differences in belief mattered little, indeed somehow they seemed to bring them closer together, for their love for each other, both spiritual and physical, was never in doubt. Both rejoiced in their deeply intimate relationship.

Passing through to the up-train platform, he was surprised to see one of his parishioners, one of around a dozen travellers waiting. Susannah Jones, a pleasant if rather careworn middle-aged woman, was doing her best to shake the rain off her
umbrella.
Arthur went to her, raised his hat and asked if she, too, was going to Canchester.

‘Nay Reverend, just to Branton,' naming the small town two stops before his own.

‘You must have been very proud when the schoolmaster spoke so well of the school team, I know Albert was an important player in that team. Where's he working now?' Arthur asked.

‘Pity is he's now working at Bifields in Branton.' Arthur recalled that it was at the same brewery where Sidney, Susannah's husband, had met with his accident two years previously.

It seemed rather a trite question to ask how Sidney Jones was, but ask he must.

‘Well, he can't work: getting a job when you've had your arm cut off makes that impossible. That's why I'm off to the brewery now, to see the buggers.'

Arthur gave a slight smile of what he hoped was encouragement and in no way an admonishment of her vocabulary. Indeed, the thought flashed through his mind that whilst he didn't approve of such words, Eleanor would have smiled and said, ‘Well, she used the word because it was probably right.'

At that moment the train pulled in and it was natural that both should get into the same compartment. ‘I've had this latest letter from them,' continued Susannah, ‘saying that they're not prepared to give anything.'

‘Why, what did you ask for?'

‘Well, Albert, young though he be, spoke with the union man at Bifields, but a fat lot of good that was as the brewery does its best to keep the union quiet. Albert was even warned that if he made any more enquiries, his work might be found to be wanting and as there are lots of people looking for jobs, he might join them. I spoke to the schoolmaster and he kindly wrote a letter which I carefully copied out. It said it was the
company's
fault for not looking after their machines properly and they should give Sidney some money for losing his arm. Now, yesterday, I got this letter saying they had looked at things very thoroughly and it was all Sidney's fault; even going so far as to say that he might well have been drinking. Well, Reverend, as you may know, my Sidney hasn't touched a drop for years. Why, he even joined one of them temperance groups, as did Albert.'

‘So, what are you going to do now?'

‘I'm going straight in to Branton, go up to brewery and make sure I see the boss.' She passed the letter, which she'd been tightly clutching, to Arthur. He read the terse letter and passed it back.

‘Well, Mrs Jones, do let me know how you get on, maybe I can do something to help.'

She smiled her thanks. For the rest of the journey they talked of village matters: street lighting, the state of roads and one or two family matters. Susannah Jones found herself able to talk very easily with her vicar, in a way that few others, apart from her very closest friends, encouraged. By now they were drawing in to Branton and Susannah Jones stood, brushed back a lock of her dark hair, thanked Arthur and left the carriage.

Arthur reflected on their conversation, regretting that he had not offered help before and making a mental note to call on the family in the next few days. He had been glad of their conversation, it had taken his mind off the impending meeting with the bishop and he found the rest of the journey much more worrying, although he criticised himself for his introspective thinking.

F
IVE

Morning, Thursday, 28 March

The way up from Canchester station to the cathedral was steep, the twelfth-century planners had chosen the highest point to create a building to the glory of God. Arthur knew the short cut off to the left; a street, indeed rather more a wide alley that he loved. The cobbles edged with moss seemed ageless as did the centuries-old walls on either side, richly varying in reds and greys, chipped near ground level with signs of hand-pushed vehicles knocking against the sharper corners. To Arthur every stone breathed its great age.

Rounding the final corner his gaze fell upon the 800-year-old cathedral, a wonderful mixture of Norman, Perpendicular and late-Gothic styles, remodelled over the centuries by a succession of bishops as if each had vied with his predecessors to create an even more glorious structure. It soared into a compelling statement of God's might, revealing the wonders of architecture and man's power. Arthur had always loved such fine buildings, yet he wondered how many workmen had toiled and died in its construction.

Although he had not seen a great deal of his father in his own formative years, his father soldiering overseas and his own years at boarding school preventing a very close attachment, they shared certain passions. From his love for
fine
cathedrals and his experience in a modest rural church, Arthur sometimes confronted a dilemma: he found himself torn between serving the people in his own small village and a wish to be part of the priesthood in this great monument to God.

He approached the bishop's palace along a cobbled pathway. A truly illustrious house, built in the fifteenth century, it had been the home of many bishops; those who had extreme wealth from their large land-ownership to more humble men who had been servants of their people and cared little for earthly treasure. It had stood, and would continue to stand, whatever frailties or strengths bishops might demonstrate. He knew that the blue door, part hidden in the angles of two wings to the house, was his way in, remembering how he had first anxiously entered through that door in the autumn of 1891 when appointed to Rusfield. Only slightly less anxious this time, he again entered, into a surprisingly well-lit hall; late nineteenth-century windows had replaced much smaller ones. He was greeted by a priest, clearly a humble part of the hierarchy leading to the bishop.

‘I am the Reverend Arthur Windle and have been summoned by the bishop. I have an appointment with My Lord the Bishop at eleven o'clock.'

The older man rose slowly to his feet, greeting Arthur with a kindly smile. ‘Welcome. Please follow me,' leading him along a narrow corridor, wood-panelled and with a floor that was well worn yet which caught the eye with its rich glow. The clerk pushed open a large, heavily decorated door and signed for Arthur to enter. ‘Please wait here, sir.'

Arthur looked around the room. The windows on one side which looked out on to a small courtyard were clearly of a relatively recent age, perhaps early last century. Arthur, thinking it best to remain standing, called the bishop to mind. A pleasant, rotund figure with well-kept beard came into his mind. Seeing a set of some dozen prints on the wall opposite
to
the window, he moved across the room for a closer look, but before he got there, the door opened and in walked a cleric whom he did not know: a man with sharp features, balding head and richly robed.

‘Let me introduce myself. I am the Very Reverend Edgar Hartley Williamson, recently appointed dean of the cathedral.' Arthur smiled a greeting, and whilst he knew that a new dean had come to the cathedral, wondered about his presence now; was the matter of his own future of such importance that it warranted dean and bishop?

‘His Lord, the Bishop, sends his regrets, but has started a severe cold which rules him out from seeing you. Please sit down.' He waved Arthur to one of the several chairs and settled himself at a distance which Arthur felt a little unnecessary. ‘We haven't met previously. Please tell me a little about your background: your training for the church and appointment.'

Arthur felt rather as if he was being interviewed for a position in the church; maybe that was the intention of this meeting. ‘Well, I went to Wycliffe Hall in Oxford which, as you know, provides an excellent training for the ministry. I qualified in 1891 and was first appointed as a curate to Rusfield, but as vicar when the Reverend Charles Gulland died two years later; I took his place and that is where I am now.'

‘And, of course, it's really an accident of church history that you are vicar of a sole parish. Tell me, how many live in Rusfield?'

‘Together with the many surrounding small farms and cottages I think,' replied Arthur, ‘that at the last count there were just a few short of nine hundred. Thirty years ago there were, I believe, rather more, but since fewer men are now needed on the land, a number of families have moved to Steepleton or Canchester for work.' He could see that the dean was itching to move on.

‘But let's get on. Tell me, how are things with you in Rusfield: the congregation, your church officers, your
own
well-being? Please speak freely.' The dean's tone was businesslike, something less than warm or inviting.

‘Things are well at St Mary's. Many people need considerable help and most families are supportive to the church, although that support, as I'm sure you must know, is lacking in worldly wealth. Many families find it hard enough to feed adequately, as the villagers have long depended upon agricultural work. A number rely on the little that their womenfolk bring in by straw-plaiting, although the calls for that are much less now that the factory in Lupington imports most plait from abroad at cheaper prices.'

‘Yes, yes. But do they attend Divine Worship? Do you have many communicants and young people undergoing the training to become members of our blessed church?' Somehow, it appeared to Arthur, that whilst the dean demanded much activity in Rusfield, he hardly expected positive answers from such a rural parish.

‘The number of communicants,' replied Arthur, ‘remains fairly constant and the number on major feast days is encouraging. What is really encouraging is the way in which families support one another during these hard times. You ask about church officers. We rejoice in the ones who faithfully fulfil such duties. I realise that all but the older members work long hours and have limited time or energy to expend on such duties.'

‘You have told me enough of your parish for me to be able to write my report for My Lord the Bishop. Let us turn to you more personally.' Arthur noted the emphasis on his final word.

‘I have now been parish priest for nineteen years and rejoice in having the good fortune to be at Rusfield. I am also fortunate in keeping good health.'

Arthur was about to elaborate a little, but raising his hand enough to suggest he had heard sufficient about Arthur himself, the Very Reverend Edgar Hartley Williamson interjected: ‘And
your
wife, I believe you are married – and family. You have, I understand, a very desirable residence.'