by Chrys Cymri
Chapter Eighteen
The spare bed at Peter’s house was very comfortable, and I woke up with only a slight hangover. I took a couple of ibuprofen with my morning coffee, and tucked into a Boxing Day fry up. Alf was the cook, crisping bacon and black pudding to perfection. Afterwards, at Mags’ request, I presided over a Eucharist for St Stephen’s Day, using a slice of bread and the remnants of a bottle of wine.
Peter helped me to carry my bag, the presents, and Clyde’s tank to the car. Mags gave me a hug goodbye. ‘I haven’t seen Peter so happy in years,’ she whispered into my ear. ‘Thank you.’
When I turned into my street, I saw that a yellow BMW Z3 gleaming on the vicarage drive. My own car could be called vintage, but for all the wrong reasons. The licence plate ended in JAW, my brother’s initials. James must finally have found something on which to spend his so called ‘blood money.’
I carried Clyde to the study, again placing heavy books on the lid of the tank. Then I took the bags of presents to the lounge, dumped my bag in the hall, and went through to the kitchen.
Morey was sitting on the table, cleaning his claws. James was finishing a piece of toast, coffee steaming from a mug at his elbow. I helped myself to the remains in the coffee pot, then I took a seat nearby. A sense of satisfaction was wrapped around both of them. ‘I take it we all had a good Christmas?’ I asked.
‘Taryn brought down an emu,’ Morey said proudly. ‘A great chase and a clean kill. We’re going after moose on New Year’s Eve.’
James grinned. ‘And I’ve met someone.’
‘Really?’ I took a sip of coffee. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Zarah. Or Sarah.’ He shrugged. ‘It was loud in the nightclub. But I’ve got her phone number. We’re going to meet up for New Year’s. It’s time my luck turned.’
‘What are your intentions towards this unidentified female?’ Morey asked.
‘What do you think?’ James leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh, I forgot. You can’t have it off with Taryn, can you? You’ve taken vows of celibacy, right?’
‘I took a vow of chastity, not celibacy,’ Morey said. ‘There is a difference. Chastity means no sexual relations outside the sanctity of marriage. What did they teach you at school?’
‘My sex education was mostly about putting condoms on bananas,’ James replied. ‘So, how does this chastity thing work, then?’
Morey cocked his head. ‘Well, you see, when two bananas really, really love each other, they get married and then there’s no need for condoms.’
James swallowed a mouthful of coffee too quickly, and he spluttered for a moment before asking, ‘Ever?’
‘Never,’ Morey said firmly. ‘Every sex act must be open to the transmission of life.’
Not when it’s my brother, I thought. I’m not ready to be an aunt. Aloud, I said, ‘Morey has rather conservative opinions. The Church of England accepted the use of birth control many years ago.’
‘But only in a committed marital relationship,’ Morey pointed out. ‘Fortunately, unlike James, I don’t try to bed every female I meet.’
‘Hey,’ James said, ‘thanks for the compliment.’
‘I said try.’ Morey fluffed his feathers. ‘From what I’ve seen of your attempts to “have it off” with the opposite sex, I estimate your success rate at less than seven percent.’
James opened and shut his mouth several times before admitting, ‘Okay, well, I’ve had a bit of a bad streak lately. But I’m back in the game now.’
‘And how was your own Christmas, Black?’ Morey asked me.
‘Yeah, you stayed overnight.’ James gave me a wink. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Peter’s parents were there,’ I said steadily. ‘They had Peter’s room, I had the guest bedroom, and he slept on the sofa.’
‘No sneaking past mum and dad in the night?’ James asked.
‘None,’ I said, and hoped that he hadn’t picked up on the quaver of regret in my voice.
‘Inspector Peter Jarvis is a gentleman,’ Morey declared, ‘who respects Penny’s own Christian commitment to chastity. I admire him for that.’
I decide to leave the room before I said something very unChristian in response. Part of me, after all, had been disappointed that Peter’s parents were spending the night. But surely they couldn’t be planning a return trip within the next week? I picked up my phone and dialled Peter’s number.
‘Taryn’s looking very happy,’ he told me after the obligatory asking after each other’s wellbeing. ‘How’s Morey?’
‘Educating James about bananas. I’ll explain later.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I was just wondering what you’re doing for New Year’s.’
‘Working,’ he said glumly.
‘Working?’
‘It’s always busy in London for New Year’s,’ he explained.
‘The fireworks on the Thames?’
‘Well, sort of. Extra people cross over from Lloegyr. They like to see the celebrations. The vampires are okay, of course, they can just blend in. But we get gryphons, dwarves, weres, and even a few unicorns. We usually manage to corral them in special areas, but some of them like to misbehave. Particularly the dragons.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Play dodge ‘em with the spinners and Roman candles.’ There was a pause, then he added, ‘I’m really sorry, Penny. I volunteered months ago. Before we met.’
‘That’s okay,’ I lied. ‘We’ll get together when you’re back.’
‘Yes, let’s do that. We need to re-watch the Doctor Who Christmas special. I’m not certain I caught all of the references.’
I hung up and wandered back to the kitchen. James had disappeared, but Morey was still sitting on the kitchen table. The coffee pot was dry, so I ground up beans for another cup. ‘I need to talk to you about Clyde,’ I told Morey.
His tail lashed. ‘Why?’
‘He’s found out how to get out of his tank.’ I started the coffee machine and took a seat. ‘But he’s going to be too big for it soon anyways. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Take him back to Lloegyr?’
‘I have a duty of care,’ I intoned, before remembering that it was highly unlikely that Morey had watched any Peter Capaldi episodes of Doctor Who. ‘He’s an orphan, after all.’
‘Just set him free?’
‘So he can grow up to eat the neighbourhood cats? Or worse?’ I shuddered at the thought of Clyde snacking on a human baby.
‘You let him outside to hunt.’
‘He can’t get over the fence. I’ve seen him fail.’ I winced. ‘At least, he hasn’t been able to. Maybe when he gets bigger he can get out. Should I build him a kennel?’
But Morey was studying me. ‘A duty of care. That’s how you feel about James as well, isn’t it?’
‘They’re both orphans,’ I said slowly, wondering where the gryphon was going with this.
‘And both of them are fully capable of looking after themselves. Maybe it’s time you let them.’ He extended his wings and flew from the kitchen to the study.
‘That’s the last time I ask you for any help,’ I called after him.
‘You know it isn’t!’ he shouted back.
<><><><><><>
A wedding rehearsal that evening helped to distract me from thoughts of snail sharks and lonely New Year’s celebrations. The next day, Sunday morning, featured just a few hardy regulars in church. Then the wedding, on the Monday, went as well could be expected when brides and bridesmaids wear revealing dresses in the middle of winter. The bride’s mother did complain to me that I hadn’t arranged for fresh snow for the big day. I responded as I always did to any request to control the weather. ‘I’m sorry, I’m in sales, not management.’
Snow did fall on December 29th, putting down a two inch layer of white on the long grass and the small patio. Clyde bounced around in his terrarium until I let him out, although I worried whether he would find it too cold. He came in after an hour, and I put a fleece covered hot wate
r bottle into the tank for him curl up on. It was only later in the day, when I went upstairs to fetch some candles from the storage room, that I saw the intricate patterns traced across the patio.
‘Morey?’ The gryphon flew to the small bedroom and landed on the windowsill. I pointed. ‘Look at that.’
The snow had melted somewhat, blurring the lines. But the swirls were still obvious. ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘Looks like a Mandelbrot set. Wonder who did that?’
‘Clyde. He was outside earlier.’
Morey laughed. ‘Clyde? He’s a snail shark, Black. He hunts, he sleeps, he defecates. And repeat.’
‘He attacked a harpy for your sake.’
‘So he’s loyal. Doesn’t mean he’s bright.’ And he hummed a piece of music. ‘Don’t you just love Bach?’
‘Bach?’ I repeated, confused by the shift in subject. ‘Why are we talking about Bach?’
‘He used fractal geometry in his compositions, you know.’
‘I know a song about fractals,’ I said proudly. And then I sang the verse which included the phrase, ‘frozen fractals.’
‘What exactly is that?’
It was too late to call the words back. ‘It’s from a modern composer.’
‘In standard 4/4 time? Try again.’
I felt the heat rising on my cheeks. ‘From the song “Let It Go.” The film Frozen.’
Morey sniffed. ‘I suggest Bach, you come back with Disney. I’m off to visit a snail shark for some intelligent conversation.’ And he left the room.
The snow was continuing to melt, degrading the pattern further. I quickly pulled out my iPhone and took a photo. ‘Let it go,’ I muttered to myself as I turned away.
<><><><><>
The short winter days ticked away slowly and relentlessly towards New Year’s Eve. Grey weather, the signs of other people still enjoying a post-Christmas break, and constant reminders on TV of the joys others would have on the 31st of December put me in a bad mood. So it was just as well that the Diocesan Giving Officer had decided that December 30th was a good day to call out and see me.
I made the required noises of welcome as Richard stepped into my house. The sight of him checking the house temperature, and deciding to keep his jacket on, gave me grim delight. Morey had decided to have a few days off, and in his absence I had turned the central heating down. An under heated home was the reality of a vicar trying to live within her low income.
Richard wrapped his long hands around a mug of tea as he sat down at my kitchen table. Christmas gifts from my church members had been the usual mixture of single malt whisky and boxes of chocolates. I shoved one of the latter in Richard’s direction.
We exchanged the pleasantries required by the British code of conduct. Both our faith and the Christmas season gave added pressure to pretend that we were just having a polite chat, whereas we both knew that he was visiting me regarding the topic most distasteful to any citizen of our island. The one matter which must never be aired in public, not under any circumstances. And yet, it was his role to raise it, no matter how uncomfortable it would make both of us. The British would rather talk about sex, politics, or religion than about money.
Finally, after exhausting the usual safe topics of the weather and holidays in France, Richard leaned back in his chair and put on his best smile. On his thin face, this made him look even more like a hawk watching a mouse. ‘Bishop Nigel has asked me to visit clergy like you, Penny. We want to know how we can help you and your congregation to consider the importance of stewardship.’
In other words, the fact that Saint Wulfram’s hadn’t paid full parish share for several years had rung alarm bells in the diocesan offices. The best way to handle diocesan officers was to offer no resistance. Experience had taught me that they didn’t know how to handle capitulation. ‘We’d be really grateful for any help you could offer us. What do you suggest?’
I could see that Richard had come expecting me to be defensive. He had to take a moment to review what had been, no doubt, a carefully prepared script. ‘We’re concerned about the financial pressures your church must be under.’
‘So are we,’ I agreed. ‘What can you offer?’
‘The diocese has various schemes to encourage stewardship,’ Richard said cautiously. ‘I’d be very happy to go through some of them with you.’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’m certain the congregation is tired of hearing me preaching about the need for them to give generously to the church. So you’ll come on several Sundays and tell them as well?’
‘My role is more to encourage you and your PCC to raise these matters with the congregation.’
‘Oh.’ I put on my best disappointed look. ‘It’s just that we write a letter every autumn asking members to look at the level of their giving. And I preach about it every other month. I was hoping you could offer something more.’
‘Whatever you’re saying hasn’t been enough.’ He had the grace to sound apologetic. ‘Saint Wulfram’s is only covering a third of the cost of a half time vicar. You know that Bishop Nigel believes that villages should only get what they pay for. And your church is falling short.’
‘It’s been a problem for awhile,’ I agreed.
‘I’m very happy to meet with you and your PCC to talk about schemes to increase giving. And to even address the congregation on a Sunday.’
‘That'd be great,’ I said brightly. ‘We have just over twenty people coming on a Sunday, and they’d only have to give £1000 each and the parish share would be paid. I'm certain they'd be glad to hear that from you.’
‘It’s the widow’s mite,’ Richard continued. He was sounding more confident, which I assumed meant that he had returned to his script. ‘Never mind all the rich people giving just a percentage of their earnings to the Temple. Jesus praised the poor widow who gave all that she had.’
That was one step too far. ‘Actually, that Gospel story has been misinterpreted. Jesus wasn't praising the widow. Let’s face it, if she's given all that she has, then she's going to bed hungry that night. No, Jesus was actually condemning the rich, who gave so grudgingly to charity, which meant that widows end up starving.’
‘Many in our congregations could give more,’ Richard insisted.
‘Just let me know which Sunday you want to come.’ Let him see for himself that the average age in my congregation was long past retirement. Let him find the courage to tell people living on small pensions that they should contribute to a church which spent money employing people like him.
I immediately repented of my last thought and promised God to apologise in full to him later. Richard was only doing his job, after all.
‘I’ll email you some dates. And some website links to giving schemes.’ He stood. The advantage of running a cold house is that it encourages short meetings. ‘Have a good New Year's. Doing anything special? The wife and I plan to go to Birmingham to see the fireworks.’
I glanced at the wedding ring glinting on his left hand, and for a moment I felt a flash of envy. Alan and I had always made a point of going out to celebrate the start of another year. ‘Of course. Something special. And spontaneous.’
‘Oh, the advantages of being single.’
For a moment I simply stared at him, wondering if he truly didn't know my personal history. But why should he? People died. As the Doctor had said, it wasn’t the day you lost someone that was the worst. You had things to do to keep you busy. It was all the days which followed, when that person stayed dead. The world carried on regardless, paying no attention to your grief. ‘I guess so.’
And I managed to shut the door behind Richard before I had to wipe several tears from my eyes.
Chapter Nineteen
New Year’s Eve, early afternoon, and I was spending it searching online for metal outdoor aviaries. Clyde was zipping around the study, climbing up and down bookshelves with growing ease. It was only a matter of time before he learned to scale garden fences. The idea of him roaming free in my neighbourhood made
my stomach churn. Placing him into a large cage, however, raised the issue of how to ensure that he was fed. Maybe I’d have to start raising rabbits. The thought made me feel even more queasy. I already felt guilt about the rabbit which Peter had set loose on Christmas Day.
The sound of munching made me abandon computer and look for Clyde. He was happily testing my bookshelves with his teeth. Fortunately, snails come with built in handles. I lifted him away and placed him on my desk. ‘No chewing the furniture,’ I told him firmly. And I pointed at a pile of sticks waiting near his tank. ‘Those. Chew those.’
‘Boring.’
‘And my bookshelves aren’t?’
‘Less boring.’
‘What am I to do with you?’ I asked, not really expecting an answer. ‘Buy you toys, train you to go for a walk on a leash, teach you how to play fetch? You didn't come with an instruction manual.’
‘Teletubbies?’
And so, like many a parent before me, I gave in and let him watch television. What did snail sharks do in the wild? I wondered. Had anyone in Lloegyr ever taken time to research their behaviour? Did that world have an equivalent of Sir David Attenborough and wildlife programmes? For a moment, I enjoyed the idea of Attenborough’s cultured voice narrating a snail shark documentary. ‘And now we see how the snail creeps up on its prey. The rabbit is calmly eating the dandelion leaf, unaware that death creeps forward, razor sharp teeth borne on a trail of slime.’ I winced. Then again, maybe that would not be a TV ratings winner.
A loud thump drew my attention to the back garden. Raven was straightening from his landing. His green-black head turned towards me, and he lifted his wings and struck a pose. I’d met many dragons, but none of them had the sleek lines of this search dragon. Once again, his beauty made my breath catch in my throat.
Clyde yelped as I grabbed his shell and placed him into the terrarium. I wheeled it in front of the computer and weighed the top down with books. A glance at the weather made me grab my jacket. My wellingtons were by the back door, so I changed from slippers into boots before squelching through the wet garden to meet Raven.
