Notwithstanding: Stories From an English Village

  ‘Wasn’t there?’ repeated Brian.

  ‘She had someone on her arm, as if she was supporting him, and she kept talking to him, but he wasn’t there. When she noticed me looking, she said, “This is my husband.” Well, I didn’t know what to do. I wondered if I ought to pretend to shake his hand. Then the old lady said, “We’ve just been visiting his grave.” It was quite bizarre.’

  ‘That’s Mrs Mac,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s a spiritualist. She lives with her sister and the ghost of her husband. He’s called Mac. She even goes on the bus with him and tries to pay two fares.’

  ‘How very entertaining,’ said Piers, and then he frowned. The tone of his voice changed, and he looked at Jenny. ‘I’d like to know if you know the K number of Mozart’s oboe concerto in C major.’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Then why did you expect me to know the K number of the bassoon concerto?’

  ‘We didn’t know it, anyway,’ said Brian cheerfully. ‘You could have said anything you liked.’

  ‘Do you drive a Morris Minor, by any chance?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘No, I’ve got an old Minx. Why?’

  ‘We have eligibility criteria.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Jenny.

  ‘You have to bring offerings of tail feathers from pheasants,’ said Brian.

  After the bassoonist had gone home in his Minx to his difficult wife, Jenny and Brian went out into the garden. The children clambered up Brian and draped themselves from him like human flags. ‘Oh God,’ he said, as he toppled over.

  Peter relaxed the throttle lever on the mower and stopped making his stripes. ‘I just thought I’d tell you, darling,’ said Jenny, ‘the bassoonist is coming to Sunday lunch tomorrow. I’m sure there’ll be enough for all of us. There just won’t be any leftovers for warm-up. And he’s bringing his wife. And his bassoon.’

  Peter sighed and pursed his lips. He put on a funereal Scottish accent and said, ‘We are doomed, Captain Mainwaring, doomed.’ Then he throttled up the mower and resumed his work.

  As Jenny said goodbye to Brian, she remarked, ‘Talking of pheasant feathers, I wonder how you clean out a bassoon.’

  ‘Alsatians’ tails,’ said Brian.

  ‘Not very practical. I don’t think you’d get one round the bends.’

  ‘You hardly ever find a dead one,’ said Brian, ‘and it’s a bit cruel cutting them off when they’re still alive. When they come round from the anaesthetic, they’re all off balance for a while.’

  ‘We just need a flautist, now,’ said Jenny. ‘One that plays in tune, and breathes at the right times, and isn’t mad.’

  Brian shook his head. ‘There’s probably more chance of finding an Alsatian’s tail sticking out of a hedge.’

  FOOTPRINT IN THE SNOW

  BACK THEN EVERY parish of the Anglican Church still had its own vicar or rector, and many of them still lived with modest gentility in substantial houses inherited from more prosperous and faithful days, when God was indisputably in His heaven, and all was right with the world. These were the times when one was not respectable unless seen in church, at least at Christmas and Easter. For teenagers it was a chance to eye up the prospects, and for middle-aged and elderly women it was a chance to remark upon who wasn’t there, and to deplore each other’s hats.

  The Reverend Godfrey Freemantle, together with his wife, three pretty daughters, a yellow Labrador and two tabby cats, occupied a substantial rectory at the foot of the hill below St Peter’s Church. It had fifteen rooms and was supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a pregnant serving maid who had been found dead under suspicious circumstances in 1879, shortly after the Tay Bridge Disaster. It was said that her wraith wafted about the attic rooms of the former servants’ quarters, wringing its hands and looking for Epsom salts in the cupboards. No one had ever seen it, but the Reverend Godfrey Freemantle often liked to suppose that from time to time he detected a chilling of the air when he was up there at the skylight, observing the moon through his telescope. Occasionally he had thought of performing an exorcism, but he felt a little embarrassed about the idea of approaching the Bishop for permission, and he was too trepidatious to go ahead and do it without.

  It was mid-morning, shortly before that Christmas that would always be remembered as the last in the village when it actually snowed on Christmas Day, and the Reverend Freemantle was in his study with a Handel flute sonata crackling and clicking on the record player, as he flicked somewhat despairingly through his collections of sermons for one that he might plagiarise for the family service. The composition of sermons was a weekly torment to him, as he was conscious of never having in all his life as a minister come up with something fresh or original. He was tired of repeating himself, but lacked the nerve to go to the pulpit unprepared. The Church of England was not an extemporising institution. What made it worse was that he often found God a difficult customer to deal with, and at this time was fresh from wondering what God could possibly have been up to when He let poor pretty Mrs Rendall die horribly of cancer while she was still so young. He wondered if God realised how difficult it was for him to keep making excuses on His behalf.

  As he browsed a sermon on the True Meaning of Christmas, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not for some weeks seen Sir Edward at Holy Communion. The thought alarmed him.

  Sir Edward Rawcutt (pronounced Rawt), fifth baronet, was not the squire of the village, although he performed that function to some extent, simply by being the only resident who was a baronet. The manor itself was occupied by an eminent musicologist, who was rumoured to drink tea and write about baroque music all day, emerging only in the evening, with his chamber pot perilously brimming. Few people had ever seen him, but his only daughter caused some comment by being dark-haired, passionate, black-eyed, beautiful, and always dressed in romantic white dresses, even for her forays to the village shop to buy mentholated Du Maurier cigarettes. The musicologist was to come into his own quite suddenly at the time of the great hurricane, when it transpired that it was the duty of the manor house to keep the pathways of the common land clear. He and his son took on the monumental task with amazing alacrity and efficiency, and thereafter the son never lost his interest in it.

  Sir Edward Rawcutt occupied a late-Victorian Surrey farmhouse. It was substantial and imposing, with numerous low sag-roofed annexes attached to it at the back in a somewhat arbitrary fashion. Its croquet lawns were kept in immaculate condition by young Robert from the council houses, who often mowed with his pet rook resolutely perched upon his shoulder. He was paid five pounds a time, plus unlimited peanut butter sandwiches. The marvellous rose beds were tended by Lady Gemma Rawcutt herself, who was never without a pair of secateurs secreted somewhere about her person. She was a notoriously nimble-fingered and furtive snipper of cuttings from all the great gardens of southern England, from Great Dixter and Bateman’s to the Royal Horticultural Gardens at Wisley. There were many in the gardening club who dreaded her yearly visits to their own homes when it was their turn to act the host. So adept was her pilfering that she had never actually been caught, even though everyone knew that it was she who was responsible for their mutilated shrubs and bushes. She was, despite this almost unforgivable personality defect, well loved on account of her graceful figure, her crisp accent and her charmingly spontaneous peals of laughter. She was a regular member of the team of ladies who arranged flowers in the church by rota, and this also was taken into consideration as an extenuating circumstance.

  Sir Edward himself was an affable and energetic gentleman approaching his middle sixties. His energetic and reckless youth had been followed by a raffish and adulterous middle age, and this in turn had recently been succeeded by the unexpected return of the simple piety that had been his most remarkable trait before the onset of adolescence. Conscious, no doubt, of the beat of death’s drum, he had taken to attending every possible communion in the village church, and was fond of comparing the relative merits o
f various sung Eucharists which he had attended in cathedrals as far apart as Wells and Peterborough. There were those who considered this preoccupation a harmless eccentricity, and others who felt a warm glow in their hearts at the thought of such a prodigal’s wholehearted return.

  The Reverend Freemantle himself was unconcerned as to why Sir Edward had returned to the fold; if God moved in mysterious ways, it was clear that many others did also. What concerned the Rector was that he had not seen Sir Edward for some time, and the latter had not yet responded to his note asking him if he would read one of the lessons in a forthcoming service. He had a feeling that something must be wrong.

  He was on the point of picking up the telephone when he was startled by an urgent knocking at the door. One of his predecessors had installed an enormous brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, and he had never ceased to be shocked when its percussions suddenly reverberated through the house.

  He heard someone go to the door, and shortly afterwards his oldest daughter appeared, and said, ‘Daddy, there’s an old lady here to see you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Daddy, she didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh well, you’d better send her in, then.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to come in, she says she’s in a hurry. She’s waiting at the door.’

  ‘Oh hell’s bells.’

  ‘Not a very godly attitude, Daddy.’

  ‘Oh drat, I suppose I’d better come out. Tell her I’m coming straight away.’

  ‘She’s a bit strange.’

  ‘Is she? Oh lor’; as if I didn’t have enough to worry about.’

  The Rector put down his address book, stood up and stretched. He came out into the hallway and went to the front door, where he beheld an elderly woman dressed in black, who was anxiously rubbing her hands together and biting her lip. The Rector thought that she looked very familiar, but he was quite unable to put a name to her. His forgetfulness was one of the problems that he still had with this parish even though he had been there for nearly twenty years, and it caused him little pangs of shame from time to time. He always dreaded having to make introductions, and even had some difficulty with recollecting the names of some of the more mousy ladies of his Bible Study Group on Tuesdays, who were grimly but steadfastly reading their way right through the entire New English Bible, from the first word of Genesis to the last word of Revelation. They were at present reading with some horror of the numerous divinely inspired atrocities in the Book of Judges.

  ‘Do come in,’ he said, ‘it’s really quite cold out there. I think we might be in for some snow.’

  ‘I prefer to stay where I am,’ said the old lady, ‘if you don’t mind. I have something of great urgency to tell you, and I will require only a moment of your time.’ She spoke with precision, and some hauteur.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the Rector, ‘has something dreadful happened?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but I have to tell you that Sir Edward is very seriously ill and is in need of communion. You know how much comfort he derives from it. I must ask you to come as soon as you possibly can. He’s not long for this world, I am sorry to say.’

  The Rector felt a pang in his heart; he was really very fond of Sir Edward, and the thought of him being at death’s door, or even very ill, was particularly painful. ‘Tell him I’ll come right away,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the old lady, ‘it will be very much appreciated by all of us, I do assure you.’

  After she had gone, the Reverend Freemantle set about rummaging for all the things he would need for a private Eucharist. He would have to pick up some of it from the church vestry. He found his little leather case with its chalice, paten and cruet of wine, and then sat down at his desk and scrawled a list – Abbreviated order, Bible, prayer book, oil? Two small candles, matches, small crucifix, little table? White linen cloth? Purificator, chalice, host, water jug, stole.

  He underlined the things that they would surely have at Sir Edward’s house, and decided that he would take his cassock and surplice, as the dying man was quite High Church by inclination. His daughter came in, and said, ‘Strange, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Strange? Who?’

  ‘That woman. She looked as if she dressed in stuff from a play. That lacy white collar thing, it was almost a ruff. And her hair all tied up like that, it must take hours. And that funny little hat with the silver-mounted claw. She actually had hatpins.’

  ‘She was all in black, wasn’t she? I thought she was just an old widow.’

  ‘Widows don’t wear black any more, Daddy. Honestly, where have you been all these years?’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘No, Daddy, they don’t.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, as you often like to point out, I am just an old fossil, aren’t I? I don’t really notice what people are wearing these days anyway. You get Polly Wantage in plus fours, and sometimes when you call in on the General, he’s not wearing anything at all, and you wear skirts hardly wider than a belt. Anyway, tell your mother I’ve had to go out. Sir Edward’s ill, and apparently it’s very bad.’

  ‘Oh how awful,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth.

  After an anxious search for his car keys that eventually involved the entire population of the house, he finally got into his maroon Singer Gazelle and drove up the hill to the church. He parked next to the disused lime kiln, retrieved the great key from the tomb of Piers de Mandeville, let himself into the church and raided the vestry. He realised that he was panting from the exertion of all this hurrying and worrying, and he started to sweat about the head. He crammed all he needed into a carpet bag, and strode back out to his car, harmlessly forgetting that he had left the key in the door of the church, where he would find it upon his return.

  He drove back down the hill, tooting his horn as was customary at the bend, and turned right along Notwithstanding Road, past the pound and the Glebe House where the legendary Girt Pike had been caught by young Robert. He drove by the hedging and ditching man, who was contemplating a small blue-and-white enamelled saucepan that he had just unearthed from the ditch, and headed towards the golf course. Miss Agatha Feakes hurtled by in a pink cloche hat, waving cheerily, with a piebald billy goat gazing out lugubriously from the back seat of her 1927 Swift convertible. Many of the houses had Christmas-tree lights twinkling in their windows, and the Rector felt a twinge of sadness at the idea that anyone should be about to die at Christmas.

  He turned into the driveway of the Rawcutts’ house, parked on the gravel sweep before the front door, gathered up his paraphernalia and knocked anxiously. There was a frantic barking and then the door was opened by Sir Edward himself.

  ‘Edward!’ exclaimed the priest.

  ‘Godfrey, what a pleasant surprise! Are you coming in? Is it too early for the holy ones to drink sherry? I’ve just poured one for Gemma.’

  The Reverend Freemantle was thunderstruck and embarrassed.

  ‘What’s the matter, Godfrey? Anyone’d think you’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘You’re all right then?’

  ‘All right? Of course I’m all right. As you see. In the pink.’

  ‘I was told you were dying!’

  ‘Dying, Godfrey? I just played two sets of squash with my eldest. Damn near beat him too.’

  ‘Well, I’m so pleased. I was informed that you were dying and asking for communion!’

  ‘Really? A prankster? You should have telephoned and saved yourself the trouble of coming up.’

  ‘It was an old lady. She came and asked me to get here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘An old lady? Really? Which one?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, Edward, I can’t remember her name. I know I’ve seen her before.’

  ‘Not in the congregation?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think so. Edward, I’m so pleased you’re all right. I was going to phone you anyway because I hadn’t seen you at communion for a couple of weeks. I was beginning to get worried.’

/>   ‘Nice of you to be concerned, but I thought it would be fun to go to one in Chiddingfold, and the week after I tried out Peasmarsh.’

  ‘Fun? Really, Edward, the Eucharist is supposed to be a very solemn thing. You can’t go round doing it for fun.’

  ‘Isn’t it supposed to be fun?’ asked Sir Edward. ‘I’ve always enjoyed it tremendously. It’s such an improbable joy to have a God who actually enjoins the drinking of wine. It’s so wonderfully reasonable. Such a pity that communion wine seems to be made of treacle. Still, one can always go home and have the profane stuff for lunch.’

  The two men looked at each other, and then Sir Edward said, ‘Well, as you’ve come all this way to give me communion, why don’t you give it to me anyway?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, why not? I’ll try not to enjoy it. I will be most solemn, Godfrey, quite fantastically solemn, I promise.’

  ‘I’ve done Communion for the Sick in someone’s house before, but not an ordinary one.’

  ‘First time for everything! Go on, Godfrey, be a sport. We can do it in the study, and then Gemma will give you crumpets dripping with butter.’

  ‘Anything for Gemma’s crumpets,’ said the Rector.

  ‘Let’s not do the whole caboodle, though,’ said Sir Edward. ‘I know the Ten Commandments already. We’ll do the prayer for the Queen, and the creed, of course, and you can do one or two sentences, if that’s in order, and then the exhortation, and then you can do the business.’

  The Rector was amused. ‘What, no general confession?’

  ‘No point, old boy. Haven’t done anything worth confessing for ages. Awfully dull. Don’t want to waste the Lord’s time listening to anything pointless, do we?’

  ‘Sorry, Edward, I think you’ll have to confess. We’re not allowed to miss that out, I’m afraid.’

  The two men went into Sir Edward’s study. He cleared his desk, and the Rector unpacked his carpet bag and laid everything out on it, covering it first with the clean white linen cloth. He looked around at all the leather-bound books in their glass-fronted cabinets, and wondered whether Sir Edward had read many of them. He suspected that they had all belonged to Sir Edward’s father. Sir Edward dropped a cushion on to the floor by the desk, and knelt upon it. He clasped his hands together, closed his eyes and bowed his head. The priest watched him praying, his lips moving silently, and not for the last time was a little ashamed at the fact that so many of his flock really did seem to have a stronger, simpler and purer faith than he did himself. Sir Edward opened his eyes, blinked and said, ‘Righto, Godfrey, let’s do the prayer for the Queen.’