CONTENTS
Title
One - Ash Wednesday 1946
Two - St. Francis' Church 1929
Three - Police Station
Four - Pot Of Tea At Potts'
Five - A Favor From Scotland Yard
Six - An Inquisition Begins
Seven - The Flying Blizzard
Eight - Soured Milk
Nine - A Spinster's Sorrows
Ten - Cracks in the Wall
Eleven - The Confessional Gallows
Twelve - Surgical Precision
Thirteen - Fishers of Men
Fourteen - Spilled Milk
Fifteen - Missing Pieces
Sixteen - Bankers' Hours
Seventeen - A Turn Towards Truth
Eighteen - A Hard Blizzard Falls
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THE PRIEST AT PUDDLE'S END
Jason Blacker
Copyright © 2016 Jason Blacker
PUBLISHED BY: Lemon Tree Publishing
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All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Editing: Andrea Anesi
ISBN-13: 9781927623626
For the children. May you live with unfettered joy and curiosity.
ONE
Ash Wednesday 1946
“THE ashes represent the frailty and finality of our lives. And though we wear them as a sign of our faith, brothers and sisters, the overarching theme today is one of humility. And rebirth. For we know that leading up to Easter Sunday we learn how Jesus died for our sins but that he rose again so that we might be forgiven for our venial nature. Of course, my brothers and sisters, this does not condone our sinful natures, but rather it gives us hope that we might do better, that we might live a life that our savior Jesus Christ urges us to do.
“And in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus gives us just such a direction for how we might go about living a more authentic and a more humble life. He entreats us not to sound trumpets when we give alms, not to practice our piety before others so that we might be seen as good and pious people. No, my brothers and sisters, humility is the theme by which we ought to practice our faith. Do not give in to pride for pride is anathema to the practice of our faith. Indeed, it is one of the cardinal sins.
“So as we continue the practice of our faith over this period of Lent, let us remain vigilant to the practice of humility. And as we fast from meat over Lent let us not carry dismal countenances that show our great sacrifice. For our sacrifices during this Lenten period are nothing compared to the ultimate sacrifice of the Son of God and our savior Lord Jesus Christ…”
It was close to spring in 1946. Lady Marmalade was visiting her dearest friend Florence Hudnall in Puddle’s End. Lady Marmalade had not attended mass regularly for many years. In fact, it had probably only been a handful of times since Eric had died in 1939. Except for the year after when she had tried to reconcile her faith with her loss. That had been difficult.
Then there was the war, and before that the Great War. Over one hundred million dead between the two wars. Almost five percent of the world’s population. Frances found it difficult to conciliate a loving God with such tragedy. Though sitting in mass as she was, there was comfort in the rhythm and the routines of the church. And that brought her some peace. It had been Flo’s idea to come to Ash Wednesday afternoon service. It was in Latin of course but it was not the first Ash Wednesday service of the day and as such, not the longest.
Frances had been invited up for what was turning out to be some much needed respite and relaxation. The war had been grueling and difficult. And she had needed a change now that it was over. There was much rebuilding to be done. London had been pummeled back at least a couple of decades and it would take several years to build it back to the vibrant center of business and leadership it was renowned for.
But out here in the country you’d be hard pressed to remember there had been a war at all. The flowers had started to bloom, making the meadows verdant and fragrant in their bursting rebirth. The hills and dales were somnolent and lazy. She had arrived the Sunday before and already the stress of the years past had started to melt off her like the snow had done some weeks ago here in Puddle’s End.
Frances got up and followed Florence to receive ashes. She wasn’t sure how long she’d stay. Flo had beseeched her to stay until summer at least. And she might. She just might. She’d stay at least a month, that was certain, perhaps even into summer. There was no pressing need to hurry back. Alfred and Ginny were holding down the fort in London at Marmalade Park. Frances had thought of summering at Avalon at Ambleside, but perhaps she’d pop in there after her visit here at Puddle’s End. Not that she was needed at Avalon, her staff were quite capable. Still she had found it a comforting place to rest.
“Meménto, homo, quia pulvis es, et in púlverem revertéris.”
Father Kane Fannon dipped his thumb into the vessel of ashes and rubbed them on Lady Marmalade’s forehead. She returned to her seat and sat back down next to her dear friend.
Mass was almost over but her mind had been racing all over the place. The war was the most pressing concern. They had won of course. Though there were moments when she had doubted it. And it wasn’t without the help of the Americans. But not out of the kindness of their own hearts. No. They had helped because it had been in their best interests to help. They had been bombed on their own soil after all. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that this war had marked a real branch in the journey of world leadership. Britain would take years to recover. America would no doubt rise now as the superpower. Perhaps that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Everyone’s time comes and goes and Britain had had her fair share.
Still, it was a pity that it was war that was needed to change it all. Nevertheless, it seemed that the economies didn’t mind. Employment was higher now than it had been in decades, especially since the difficult twenties. Yet it bothered her. And upon deeper reflection, as the priest bid them farewell in peace, it dawned on Frances that perhaps what was the burr at all this discomfort was the death. It had always upset her. Ever since she’d seen, as a young girl, the dead bird outside her bedroom window after it had crashed into it.
So much of death seemed so unnecessary. Most of it really. At least the deaths she’d been involved in. And that’s why she had gotten into sleuthing. If only to try and right the wrongs. And yet it was a Sisyphean task. But one hundred million lives lost in the space of three decades. That seemed like a tragedy insurmountable. She shook her head and got up out of the bench. She genuflected towards the altar and lead her friend outside, crossing herself with holy water at the exit.
“You must be new to the parish. Welcome,” said Father Fannon, shaking her hand.
He was outside greeting the parishioners as they exited. He was a man of average height but quite portly, even through his purple vestments. He had a ruddy and round face with bushy white eyebrows and thinning white hair combed backwards. Frances would put him in his seventies. He was friendly and his thick hands were warm.
“I’m just here visiting my friend Florence,” said Frances, turning to look at Florence.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Hudnall, you didn’t tell me you had a sister?” said Father Fannon, his eyes glinting mischievously as he shook her hand.
No one would have mistaken the two of them for sisters. Fl
orence was almost a foot taller than Frances and although they both wore little makeup, Florence usually none, Frances was clearly the prettier of the two.
“We get that a lot,” said Florence, trying to be accommodating.
Father Fannon looked back at Frances.
“I hope we’ll see you more often whilst you’re here. How long are you planning to stay in our bucolic hamlet?”
“Nothing firm, but I should think I’ll be here at least until the end of the month.”
“Marvelous, we will see more of you then, won’t we?”
Father Fannon looked from Frances to Florence and back again.
“That would certainly be my intention, Father,” said Florence.
They walked down the path and out of the church’s gate. It was a small church and the only Catholic Church in Puddle’s End. It was an old stone building and one of the more modest churches that Frances had known. The interior was simple and plain as was the altar, but the high stained glass windows were impressively artistic.
Florence’s home was a leisurely twenty minute walk from the church and they took to the lane to walk home. It was a wonderful and brisk ten degrees and Frances kept her woolen coat open as they walked in the cool air and bright sunshine which was playing hide and seek from one cotton wool cloud to the next.
“Do you attend mass often, Flo?” asked Frances.
“Good Lord no,” said Florence, smiling at her friend as they walked in lockstep down the country lane. “I’m afraid my faith lost me some years ago. Nevertheless, one is wont to keep an oar in the water so to speak, isn’t one?”
Frances nodded.
“Yes, it is comforting I suppose, the routines and rhythms of the service. Father Fannon seems like a jolly priest.”
Florence nodded.
“He does, though I’m not quite sure. He’s always quite pleasant. And yet…”
“And yet what?”
Florence shook her head.
“I’m not sure. Just something seems not quite right about him. I can’t put a finger on it. Perhaps I’m just being unkind.”
They walked in silence for a while. After some time they stopped and backed off the lane a bit as a farmer with a flock of sheep walked lazily by. He tipped his Ascot at them.
They were close to home, turning onto the lane that led to Florence’s home when Florence spoke again.
“Father Fannon has been with this parish as long as I’ve been here. And I’ve heard he was here some time before that.”
“You’ve been in Puddle’s End since thirty-two or thirty-three, isn’t it?” asked Frances.
“It was the spring of 1935,” said Florence. “Father Fannon’s been here at least since twenty-five I should think, if I’ve heard properly.”
“So at least twenty years?”
Florence nodded.
“I should think at least that long.”
She opened the gate and let her friend in, she closed it behind them and led Frances up the path and into her home. It was warm and smelled of scones. She had baked some that morning to go with the marmalade that Frances brought up with her from London as a gift.
They took their coats off and entered the cozy cottage. It was a single level bungalow with two bedrooms. Florence in the one and Frances in the guest room. They retired into the kitchen.
“How about a cuppa?” asked Florence.
“You’re a saint,” said Frances.
“To the Philistines if you ask some,” she said, smiling.
Frances raised her eyebrow.
“I jest. Well mostly I jest, some of the old spinsters are always curious about a young woman like me not married and yet not quite as pious as they’d like to see.” Florence laughed. “Young indeed. Though you know I’ve never really had much time for men. I’m not, shall we say, as attractive to them as other women are.”
“You’re being modest,” said Frances.
Though she knew, or at least she felt she knew, what might be the real reason for Florence’s single ways. His name was Reginald. Reggie to his friends and his fiancé. Frances had known him. A noble man with a confident sense of purpose. It had been that purpose that had gotten him killed at the Battle of Verdun, more aptly called the Mincing Machine of Verdun. It was a devastating battle in the Great War. Took place in late February of sixteen if Frances remembered correctly. A French battle and German offensive, but Britain had some men fighting alongside the French, and one of those men was Reginald Burrows.
“Not modest at all, Fran,” said Florence. “The boys have always had an eye for you.”
She looked over at her friend. Frances didn’t say anything. It was true. She had been a looker in her day.
“I won’t deny it, but you can’t deny you never had a male companion either,” she said.
Florence put the kettle on the stove and lit the burner with a match. She turned back to face her friend.
“That is true. Nevertheless, one only needs one love to have a fulfilling life, doesn’t one?”
Frances nodded. She took out some plates and teacups and saucers. Florence took out a serving trays and cutlery. They put everything on the tray including the scones and butter and marmalade and clotted cream.
“You miss him still, don’t you?” asked Frances.
Florence thought about asking who Frances meant, but she knew who. She nodded. She scooped out tea from a tin with a silver spoon and put it in the teapot. It was a lovely teapot that was part of the set that the teacups were from. It was dotted with clumps of pink and purple roses just the same as the teacups, the creamer and the sugar bowl. Made of bone china it always impressed her guests.
Florence looked at her friend.
“It’s odd, isn’t it? Over thirty years now and I still feel that hole in my heart.”
Florence’s eyes misted over but she held back the tears.
“Almost seven years since I lost Eric,” said Frances, “and it still hurts. Especially in the quiet moments. Those empty spaces when the world just rushes by and you’re left holding nothing but the memories.”
“I understand, Fran. Believe me I do.”
“I know you do, Flo, and that’s why it is not surprising to me that you choose to remain happily single.”
Frances smiled at her friend as the kettle whistled. She took it off the stove for a moment before pouring the hot water into the teapot. They gathered everything onto two trays and took it through into the small living room. This was one of Frances’ favorite spots in Florence’s home. It overlooked the relatively large back garden which was green and lush and thick with bursting colors from a variety of flowers.
They sat down and let the tea simmer for a few minutes more.
“You planned to marry that spring of 1916, didn’t you?” asked Frances.
She knew all of this of course. But talking of these things from the past was therapeutic. It was for her. It gave new life to the loves and lives lost. Brought them back into the moment and let them breathe, if only for a brief time.
“Yes, Fran. We were to marry on the vernal equinox. Twentieth of March it was in that year.”
Frances nodded.
“I remember. I had never been happier for you, and I was honored to serve as your maid of honor.”
On the side table where Florence sat, on top of the lace cloth was a black and white photograph of a man in his British Army uniform. It was roughly five by seven inches. He was a nice looking man with a pleasant face. Clean shaven with bright eyes. He had his hands clasped behind his back and he was looking off past the right shoulder of the photographer.
“He was a handsome man, Flo,” said Frances.
Florence nodded. She picked up the teapot with both her hands.
“Are you having cream?”
Frances nodded. Florence poured a cup for her and handed it to her. They sat next to each other with a larger coffee table in front of them both. Frances added her sugar and cream. Florence poured herself a cup and added the same.
/> “You’ve ruined my tea,” said Florence, smiling at her friend, “getting me to put cream instead of milk in it.”
“But isn’t it that much better?”
Florence nodded.
“Absolutely. But getting back to Reginald. He was more than a handsome man, Fran. He was a brave and honorable man. But you know that.”
“I do. Eric liked him a lot. They got on very well together. Regaled each other with tales of the Boer War. They both served there as you know.”
Frances paused for a moment.
“It affected him badly you know,” she said to Florence. “That Boer War. Never really spoke to me about it much. And yet he had no problem talking to Reginald about it.”
Florence nodded.
“I know. One of the many mysteries of men.”
They sipped tea in silence for a while. Outside the grass was green and still damp from last night’s rain. The sky was still blue. Mostly. The sun was playing peek-a-boo with yet more clouds. By late afternoon it would likely be mostly cloudy rather than mostly sunny.
“I don’t think any war affects us well,” said Florence. She looked over at Frances. “You know how you said the Boer War affected Eric poorly. I don’t think any war is any different. Full of strife and suffering. There are no winners.”
Frances nodded.
“I’d agree with that,” she said. “We’ve apparently just won one, haven’t we? At least that’s what the newspapers say. You wouldn’t know it though, would you, from looking around?”
Florence shook her head as she held her teacup to have a sip of tea. Frances had put hers down and was tearing open a scone that she could feel was still warm inside. She put a slather of butter on each side followed by marmalade and then followed by clotted cream.
“That does look good,” said Florence. “Though if I can be indelicate, shouldn’t it rather be strawberry jam with the clotted cream? I do have some.”
Frances smiled at her friend.
“I think this will be quite lovely. Thanks though. Isn’t it funny how we cling to rituals as if they’re the laws of the land? That’s how I came to put cream in my tea instead of milk.”
The Priest at Puddle's End Page 1
