Crusaders

by Richard T. Kelly

  Funnily enough, last Sunday one of those London couples approached me, two glum twin boys in tow, and asked if they could make a donation to funds? Typical moneyed behaviour. He had the look of a grazing stockbroker – pink shirt, white collar, sleeves rolled. I tried to gauge what he was after in return. My guess was: a slightly more ‘contemporary’ mode of preaching.

  For the moment I am lodging with a peppery old lady who prepares the church newsletter. She is a hard one, but the black pudding she serves is a joy. The townie way, I’m told, is to turn vegetarian as soon as one sees just how cows called Daisy and pigs called Jemima get turned into meat. But not I. My conscience is bad when I consider the ill use of God’s creatures. But I have to tell you, that pudding is godly stuff.

  Yours in faith & friendship,

  John

  12 October 1995

  Dear Sue,

  I’m sure one letter a month from me is more than ample, so forgive me for taxing your patience. It’s just that I fear I’ll go spare here. The darkness after nightfall is unfathomable. The baying of livestock sends me up the bedroom wall. My old landlady regards me with barely veiled contempt. I should stop before tears of merriment stain your cheeks.

  There are pluses. Good fresh produce from the farmers’ markets. Then again, this you will love, ten minutes by car gets you to a vast Tesco, its car park full of Land Rovers, Londoners after their preferred bread and cheese.

  Most days I’m given to understand that the village has already gone to hell in a handcart, everything under threat or already lost, from the bus service to the sub post office. Rumour has it the train line survives only so as to serve the leader of the Lib Dems, who has a place locally. Politicians, you should know, are not much admired here. So, please, come visit, and bring your Pallister, hard as I’m sure it would be for him to wrench himself from his duties to Scotswood and Hoxheath. I hope he takes no more of your time than is necessary, since you did the hard graft and got him elected. How can he afford you? Whatever do you and he talk about? You can’t have read any of the same books. I have a list I can send you, should you ever find yourself stuck for chat in ‘Old Labour’ circles.

  All piss-taking aside, you have my honest admiration for having started up on your own. I raise my glass to SEG Solutions Ltd. What really impresses me – I mean it – is that you are taking the lessons you have learned and moving forward. A much bolder thing than I am capable of.

  Per your last letter, understand that I am unperturbed by your jibes at the persistence of my long romantic drought. Lodging with Mrs Danvers is hardly an ideal arrangement, a cramp on the style of a gay blade such as I. But you are quite correct to assume that there is ‘no one special’, has not been for some time, and there is no prospect of that changing. Okay?

  Love,

  Jonno

  9 November 1995

  Dear Dad,

  I have of late rediscovered some of my old fondness for pen and paper. It comes easier, seems to me more friendly, than the phone. I do apologise, though, for not calling so frequently. To be honest, I have so little news. Not much changes here, though the entrenched locals will tell you different. Some of them I daresay you would get on with.

  The graveyard is a testament to the old families of the village, and I sometimes think most of the faithful are already interred. My pastoral duties are not extensive in the week, bar the more or less predictable incidence of birth, marriage and death (and sadly not enough of the first two). These and the visiting, from which I shrink, since my small talk is fitful. I imagine you had similar problems back when you were tootling all over Durham for the old gadgies.

  One man I’ve met whom I’m sure you would have time for is a dairy-cattle farmer called Roy Jeavons. He appeared steadfastly at each service, then one day he lingered afterward and we fell to chatting. Now we will have the odd pint of bitter. He is a keen reader, recognises the citations when I preach – even those from heathen literary sources. His farm is called Long Meadow, he’s been there for twenty-five years, effectively solo since his dad’s death ten years ago. His wife died not long after, very sadly – cancer. He has a daughter just twenty, Cath, and she helps him out. It’s very evident she has stayed for him rather than strike out for college and a career, as most others seem to. He does his business on a computer that puzzles him somewhat, though Cath is a dab hand. But he is always being told to change his way of doing business. I can see the argument. It’s harder to apply, though – would be hard for anyone.

  His profits have halved in the last couple of years. I gather – though it’s a sore point – that it’s much to do with the fallout of the BSE business. The worst of it is in the past now, but he clearly took a hit. I know you wax sceptical about farmers, but really his margins are tough. I was stunned to hear his milk production is running at an actual loss!? He likes to cite a biblical reference beloved of my boss Trevelyan, ‘The husbandman that laboureth must be first partaker of the fruits.’ It occurs within a complex passage in Paul’s epistle to Timothy. But its meaning is quite clear to some among us here.

  I hope whatever you’re getting up to is giving you satisfaction, and look forward to seeing you at Christmas.

  With love and best wishes,

  John

  7 December 1995

  Dear Sue,

  Okay then – I’m a Tory now. You be vice and I’ll be versa.

  Not really. But still. There are Tory virtues afoot out here, I am among a conservative community. The farmers, for instance, are remarkably hostile to Europe. It seems to have a lot to do with pig crates. I find my voice fails me on the topic. In truth I feel myself going native just a bit – ‘acting it’, as is my wont – a ‘poser’ as Dad would say – fitting in, rather than preaching brave and lonely on a rock and taking a hail of stones for my pains.

  As for your and my Party – I am not so sure there isn’t a Christian revival going on. The old Christian Socialism, even. One saw it somewhat during the dour Scots ascendancy, Smith and Brown. But Blair, too, was clearly God-struck at some key stage. He speaks without apology about ‘sin’, ‘right and wrong’. But it’s not a bad place for Labour to be. Especially if, as Blair seems to wish, you’re standing on a law-and-order platform. I admit he was good after the Bulger boy was killed in Liverpool. He sort of reminded people how bad it is to live on those estates where the norms have broken down. Clearly that is why you get this abysmal behaviour. I truly believe you can’t do such things if you grew up being loved, feeling safe, and indebted for the same. But there’s no point imagining everybody else is just like us.

  Now: will it shock you then to learn that I have made a good friend of a real woman? Her name is Jessica Bradbeer, though she prefers ‘Jessie’. I think it’s a stab at informality, as her origins are quite posh. She moved to Rodley with her twin boys and husband, a moody stockbroker who fancied a go at farming organic veg. It seems he soon wearied of that rubbish and deserted her, drove back to London, his old job, and some new blonde. Jessie has kept the house and the boys, who are, alas, the image of their moron father. I suspect persevering here is a way of fighting the humiliation.

  She has loaned me a hand with Sunday School and coffee mornings, though these are desultory. She’s cooked for me a few times too – I sit in her cosy kitchen and she tries to teach me about wine. I know people pair off in life, and I daresay she sees something in me. The more fool her, you say. But it’s not like there’s anybody else around. If there were, she’d surely be more mindful I’m a son of the Grim North.

  The trouble is that there is something particular about my circumstance here that forbids a response to her. I belong to the community, for better or worse. And, I suppose the truth of it is, I’m not really attracted to her.

  Ministry here is not dynamic, so I’m writing a long article about metaphors of renewal for a theological journal. I will send it to you on completion, and you are, of course, welcome to kindle your hearth with it.

  Love,

  Jo
nno

  1 February 1996

  Dear Gordon,

  Just a line to report some success, if you’ll forgive a short blast of euphoria. I gave a Plough Sunday service two weeks ago, very gratifying work. Star of the show, I concede, was a cherished old wooden plough borne into the church on stout backs, and there it sat throughout the service, until finally it was blessed and borne back out. It was also a fine touch of Trevelyan’s to have the lessons read by farmers – no natural performers, but then the words can derive a new power from being quite flatly intoned. I gave a sermon on the metaphor of the plough – the promise of spring, new season’s light, green shoots, the shearing of the rag-tag tatter and overgrown darkness of winter. I tried, of course, to offer the analogy of personal transformation. The audience seemed to prefer the first part, but I felt nonetheless like I’d finally made my mark.

  I was sure to have a pint in the pub and there received a few compliments, though a few more seemed adamant about telling me where I might have improved. One hilarious little fellow – not drunk, just dogged – kept insisting how important it was that Adam was a farmer. ‘It’s in your book. The first man tended the earth.’ Perhaps rashly I pointed out that it is Cain whom Genesis singles out as the tiller of the ground, Abel as the keeper of sheep. But this man was fixed. ‘Who give ’em that land, eh? Them sheep?’ Apostolic succession seems a small claim by comparison. It didn’t spoil my day, though, and shows all the more, perhaps, what we are up against.

  Yours in faith & friendship,

  John

  2 April 1996

  Dear Dad,

  I’m sorry for my silence, things have just gotten parlous here. Really since the government came out with the stuff about BSE in humans, a kind of dread has descended. The rapidity and reach of it is quite frightening. Locally there’s some talk about bad pesticides, but it seems the emerging consensus is on this hideous business of ‘cannibal cows’. A ghastly notion. Maybe worse to think of the spines and heads mauled and clawed by hooks so as to make sausages and rotten old thing-burgers.

  It has got especially dire in the case of my friend Roy. BSE is old news for him, and he always told me things couldn’t have gotten any worse than they were four or five years ago. But seemingly his herd is on the old side, and there is more and more talk of a selective cull. This on top of Europe’s noises about a ban on British beef. A man from Exeter came down to inspect the herd last week, and Roy was worried about one of the cows he said was ‘shy-headed’, continually kicking for no reason.

  A ‘restriction notice’ would be a bad blow to him. I am not certain of the extent of his debt but he’s scarcely able to pay his bills at the moment so you have to worry. I saw him subsequent to a meeting at the bank and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so morose. Cath has been looking for other work, related to the tourism, but they are just as blighted. I suggested he apply to the Benevolent Fund, but I don’t really think he appreciated the suggestion. There is a bitterness there, and only natural.

  In the general low mood I find it hard to be effective in my duties. I am lucky to have a good friend in Jessie Bradbeer, though she has been quite strict with me too. I told her I believed I might function as a sort of ‘stress counsellor’ but she insisted the government needs to sort it out, with money, not warm words. Fair comment, perhaps, though leaving me dispiritingly short of other ideas.

  With love and best wishes,

  John

  7 July 1996

  Dear Gordon,

  Thank you for answering last night and for being so understanding, as ever. I suspect I wasn’t coherent. You appreciate I was very unnerved, and though the aftermath is calmer I now find matters profoundly depressing.

  Roy has for some time been in the forcible position of selling off his herd for slaughter. That those cows are truly sick, I’m not sure I can believe, but that’s the view from Exeter, and there seems no way to arrest the decline. I suppose I should have better understood the nature of depression, said more to him and sooner, however banal, if only to fill the airspace, assure him he had a friend in me.

  But I got this frantic call from Cath and cycled like mad to Long Meadow. He was stumbling over his land, shotgun in hand, several of the animals already dead. I thought long and hard about trying to snatch that gun from him, but those weapons are frightening at close hand, and I couldn’t say for sure what was his state of mind. Not that I think he would harm me, just that one can imagine the thing discharging accidentally. There was a moment, as Cath and I pleaded with him, that the barrel swung my way. Anyhow, together, we managed to get him back to his farmhouse.

  The worst of it, in a sense, is that I have lost my voice in the services. There is a deep ill feeling among the congregation. On Sunday I was accused of trying to gloss over the crisis. This old fellow quoted Deuteronomy at me, ‘Thine ox shall be slain before thin eyes but thou shalt not eat thereof.’ People talk of God withdrawing his blessings. I frankly hate this Old Testament view. But I am required to take it seriously.

  Yours in faith & friendship.

  John

  3 September 1996

  Dear Sue,

  I know this is not a part of life where you have ever had help or reassurance from me, but I would value your counsel, for things have got very fraught between Jessica Bradbeer and I. I admit it was late in the day that I told her of my intentions with respect to the Newcastle job – though in fairness I kept it from everyone, other than those who absolutely had to know. And I had raised the possibility with her, but she only laughed, seemed to think it ludicrous that one might choose the Grim North over Dorset – strange, since she’s hardly had the happiest time here herself. She had been shaking her head over the stuff in the papers about the murder of that vicar from St Margaret’s in Liverpool. But that was a very tough place.

  So I finally told her all last week, just after she had made me a kind birthday present of a wristwatch. And I did expect her to be a bit vexed, when we have been such friends and she has few others in the parish. In fact she said nothing at first, just smiled rather crookedly. Then she told me she had a lot to be getting on with, and made as if to get on with it. I dallied for a few more pleasantries and at that point she became quite short with me.

  Then on Saturday night Trevelyan and the parish council threw a little send-off for me in the hall. A nice number showed up. I must have made some impact. Trevelyan was possibly glad to see the back of me. But Jessica pitched up late with her twins, clearly agitated. So I knew something was coming, though I thought it ill-timed of her. Sure enough, the moment I went to a trestle to load my plate she was at my side. ‘So you’re leaving us’, and so forth. ‘Fresh conquests.’ Everything that came out of her mouth had some barb to it. I didn’t have the heart to argue, just told her I had responsibilities, and she laughed. I roused myself sufficiently to ask what on earth had got into her, but she fairly bit back, called me ‘a rotten sod’, loud enough for others to hear. Then there were some remarks imputing selfishness, and she made her exit, kids in tow. The parishioners studied their shoes for a bit. I suppose I’ve made a hash of matters. I know I’m someone who keeps his cards close to his chest. And I do regret it, but it’s hard to change. Honestly – what do you think?

  Love,

  Jonno

  10 September 1996

  Dear Gordon

  Forgive me that this is written in haste. I’ve never felt so downhearted.

  I admit that through all my preparations I haven’t felt the uplift I hoped for, but I was not at all prepared for this morning’s news. I had been doing nothing but staring at the wall, how long I don’t know, when I got the awful call from Cath, beside herself, saying they had found Roy in the woods near here. Absolutely dreadful. I have lost family before, but not a friend.

  I will not be able to stay on and officiate at the funeral. I am moving, that is just how it is. It is just unfortunate. I don’t know in any case what words I could have found. And I’m not sure my closeness to the
congregation was such that they consider me the best or most fitting eulogist. It is possible, in any case, that I never really knew Roy at all. That anyone could be in such a slough as to do that, I don’t know that I can fully comprehend.

  Excuse me for stating it so baldly, Gordon, but from the outset I have sensed your disapproval of my moving on. You perhaps would rather not say it, but I suspect it’s your view that I ought to stay my course here. And maybe that is so. I just cannot help but believe the Newcastle mission is what I am ‘meant’ to be doing, the work intended me. The notion itself has surprised me, never mind the vehemence with which I feel it. And yet in this moment I seem to feel the reason I was called – why I came to Grey. I don’t wish to sound unhinged on this. It’s just that I am morally certain in Newcastle I can uncover what my ministry is for. Have you no sense of the same, not even remotely?

  Obviously I’d far, far rather have your support. But I will say, Gordon, that I don’t object if it is withheld in this case. I will respect your view, hope you will mine, and, while respectfully differing, I remain,