by Alan Beechey
Oliver had long suspected that his school friend would find a vocation in the church, ever since Pauly’s whispered confession as a twelve-year-old that he thought he might look good in a cassock.(Ah, that’s the difference!) But this church? In the sixth form, Piltdown had been addicted to High-Church Anglicanism, and when Oliver had last seen him, seven years earlier, he’d been heading off to Cambridge with ambitions for a bishopric, an almost gymnastic addiction to genuflecting, and a best blazer that always smelled faintly of incense. Yet instead of the surplices and stoles he had coveted as a teenager, Piltdown’s only religious attire this evening was a white clerical collar, worn with a rumpled navy-blue suit that sat awkwardly on his hefty, rugby-player’s body.
His surroundings were similarly unadorned. Above the dark oak wainscoting, the only ornamentation on the sallow walls was a row of dimly glowing electric heaters, which were doing little to lift the temperature on that damp December evening. Since there was no altar, Piltdown had conducted most of the simple service from behind a sturdy wooden table, set firmly on the lowest level of a carpeted platform. This platform, which stretched almost the full width of the building, rose a couple of levels behind the minister, presumably for a choir, but instead of an elaborate reredos or dazzling stained glass window, Piltdown’s backdrop was the pipe array of a sizeable organ, painted an ugly battleship gray. (The hymns, however, had been accompanied by a young woman who played an upright piano, on the floor to the left of the platform.) The space struck Oliver as more like a theater than a church.
Piltdown had only left his station to deliver the sermon, when he had climbed the steps to a high pulpit, rising out of the right-hand side of the stage like a submarine’s conning tower. The one touch of color in the church was a garish, appliqué banner pinned to this pulpit, proclaiming JESUS IS LORD in childish lettering.
“As we draw close to Christmas,” the minister was saying, unconsciously patting his thatch of thick, wild hair, “our thoughts naturally turn to that well-known story of our Savior’s birth. Perhaps we first learned it from Nativity pageants performed by children, just like the one our own Sunday School will be performing during our Christmas Eve carol service. I myself can remember playing a king one year, wearing a splendid cardboard crown covered with silver foil and my new dressing gown with the gold piping as a robe…”
Piltdown glanced across to the younger people, seeking a smile or nod that would accompany a similar reminiscence, but they remained unmoved. Most were staring dully at their hands while he spoke, avoiding his eyes. They had shown little enthusiasm during the earlier parts of the service, rising wearily to mouth the three or four hymns and bending over so deeply in the pews during the long prayers that they practically disappeared. Perhaps they were playing baccarat?
“And what do we find when we actually study the Christmas story in the scriptures?” Piltdown went on. “Do we find a harsh innkeeper turning Mary and Joseph from the door of the crowded inn, with his tender-hearted wife running after the couple to offer accommodation in their stable? No. Do we find an ox and an ass? No. Nor do we find a stable, for that matter. Or three kings, whom tradition has named for us.”
“If I could get up to that balcony,” Ben whispered, perching beside Oliver as he reloaded his camera again, “I could do a great overhead shot pointing down on the pews. But the door’s locked.”
Oliver swiveled to look up at the shallow balcony behind and above them, but from the low angle he could only make out more high-backed pews in the darkness. Lowering his gaze, he met the stern eyes of a middle-aged woman in the rear pew. She winked at him. He smiled weakly and turned around again, wondering what he was missing on television at that moment.
Paul Piltdown had been speaking now for fifteen minutes on the need for Christians to promulgate the biblical facts of the Nativity story without the accretions of tradition and myth. He paused suddenly, and although he did not utter a blessing, it was clear the sermon was over. Piltdown beamed around the church, coughed, and glanced down at his notes.
“Now before our final hymn,” he continued, “I’m going to ask our good friend Nigel Tapster to share his musical witness.”
Piltdown sat down in the pulpit, sinking from sight, and a man sitting among the teenagers rose to his feet and sidled out of his pew. He was tall and rangy, with a balding head and a sparse, straggling beard that had been fussily shaped to his chin. His gray suit seemed a size too small. He stooped to pick up a large twelve-string guitar, which had been lying in a case beside the piano, and passed its leather strap over his head and one arm. The teenagers all seemed suddenly far more animated, and smiled and whispered to each other as Tapster reached the platform.
He paused, his head down, as if listening intently to words whispered urgently into his ears. Ben’s camera clicked several times. Then Tapster lifted his gaze, looking around the church with dark, intense eyes.
“Friends, dear friends,” he said, his voice reedy and nasal. “The Reverend Piltdown has just told us what the world believes when it shouldn’t. I’d prefer to sing about what the world doesn’t believe when it should.” He strummed the guitar strings, wincing momentarily.
“It’s no good, I’ll have to send it back to the shop to be tuned,” he said apologetically, stepping off the platform and rummaging in the guitar case. One of the boys in the group let out a short, loud laugh. It echoed sharply off the bare walls of the church, as if the building was swatting away the unfamiliar sound. Tapster blew softly into a pitch pipe, fiddled with the tuning heads, and returned to the platform. “You know, not many people play the twelve-string guitar,” he muttered, “because it takes a lot of pluck.”
The joke was old and weak, but perhaps it was new to the young people, because they all laughed heartily for as long as it took Tapster to finish tuning the instrument. He played an E major chord, nodded with satisfaction, and began to strum in a different key. It was hardly an infectious rhythm, but within two bars, the young people were already swaying in time with the music. Tapster began to sing, very badly.
The song seemed to consist of little more than three chords and the word “Alleluia,” but the youngsters were clearly enjoying it more than anything else in the service. Two or three of them began to clap, and the woman who had been playing the piano earlier now started to shake a tambourine in an arrogant fashion.
The performance ended, and Tapster stepped down from the platform, reverently replacing the guitar in its case. Oliver noticed that the young people mostly had their eyes closed now, with half-smiles on their faces, and one was raising a hand to the ceiling, as if asking God for a bathroom break. The old man in front of Oliver grunted.
Piltdown rose in the pulpit and announced the final hymn. The tambourine player stepped over to the piano and played the introduction to “As With Gladness, Men of Old.” Oliver wondered if Tapster would return the earlier compliment and accompany her on the maracas.
After a final blessing and a moment of silent prayer, Piltdown came down from the pulpit and stalked along the aisle on the right-hand side of the church. His flock meanwhile began to gather personal belongings and fidget in their pews. The young people were the first to escape, shuffling up the left aisle and through a heavy velvet curtain that hung below the balcony and separated the sanctuary from the narthex beyond. Tapster stayed behind, collecting his guitar. The pianist waited for him. Oliver passed his hymn book to a young girl of around thirteen, who was already steadying a teetering pile with her chin. She grinned and hurried away.
In the pew in front, the older couple stood as if on cue and turned simultaneously. Though they were both clearly in their seventies, Time had so far treated them with uncharacteristic decency. The woman was tall and straight-backed, with milky skin and a braid of thick white hair. Her husband was stocky-framed, and his hair, while fine and thinning, still covered his scalp and was largely dark. The way he fixed Oliver with a critical gaze from h
is small, brown eyes indicated he had no need of spectacles.
“Cedric Potiphar,” he announced solemnly, with a noticeable Cornish accent and a volume level that showed Time could still be a bastard. Oliver shook the large, dry hand and managed to introduce himself without mispronouncing his name. Potiphar took in this new information. “My wife, Elsie,” he added eventually, as if unsure of the propriety of exposing her to a writer. Mrs. Potiphar rewarded Oliver with a nervous smile, but didn’t speak. The couple then repeated the entire exercise with Ben.
“May I welcome you both to the Lord’s tabernacle on this Sabbath day?” Potiphar intoned loudly.
“Thank you very much,” said Oliver.
“We outstretch the hand of fellowship to all,” Potiphar conceded. “No matter how unworthy,” he added more quietly, with a sidelong glance at Tapster and the pianist, who were ambling past the pew. He fell silent. The girl with the pile of hymn books paused and watched Tapster until he disappeared through the curtain at the back of the church.
“I suppose the guitar-playing is a way to involve the younger folks,” said Ben quickly, correctly guessing that the fishlike expression on Oliver’s face masked a fruitless and increasingly desperate attempt to think of any conversational comment to make to the Potiphars. Although Oliver was the most polite individual he knew, Ben was also aware that his friend was utterly inept when it came to sustaining small talk.
Potiphar glared at the photographer as if he’d offered to take a set of boudoir shots of his wife. He tapped on the leather cover of his well-worn Bible. “There’s nothing in God’s word about preaching through entertainment,” he grumbled.
“Nothing about hearing aids either, cocky, more’s the pity,” muttered his wife under her breath. Potiphar appeared not to notice.
They had edged their way to the aisle and joined a queue of people slowly passing through the curtain. The Potiphars seemed content to let Oliver and Ben precede them, and as the two men slipped through into the church’s entrance hall, they saw the reason for the hold-up. A one-man receiving line, Paul Piltdown was now greeting each congregant in turn as he or she headed for the front door and the chilly night air of north London.
Ahead of them, Tapster and the woman had collected their outdoor wear—a worn anorak for him, a buttonless crimson overcoat for her—and were now speaking to Piltdown simultaneously in low, urgent voices. The genial expression had left the minister’s face.
“Good evening, Cedric,” said a middle-aged man, who had just collected an overcoat from a peg on the narthex wall. Not waiting for Potiphar to attempt an introduction, the man turned briskly to Oliver and Ben.
“Sam Quarterboy, deacon and church secretary,” he announced crisply, as Oliver found his hand being drawn into a hearty and skillful handshake through some hypnotic force he couldn’t explain. Quarterboy was clearly practiced in the presentation of a public self, from his shiny brogues to his tight, glossy bald pate. He was of medium height and build, but his stiff bearing and florid face implied that he had ordered his skin one size too small and a much fleshier man was pressing out the wrinkles from the inside.
“I trust you’re going to give us a good write-up, Mr. Swithin,” he stated. It was not intended as a question, and Oliver was relieved that he wasn’t expected to answer. “It’s about time people realized that the United Diaconalist Church is very much part of the English landscape. There are a couple of hundred thousand of us around the country. Nothing odd here, as you can see. Just hymns, prayers, sermons. None of this New Age mumbo-jumbo or hysterical charismatic nonsense. Very solid foundation, this church. Very solid.”
Quarterboy tapped his foot on the tiled floor and grinned humorlessly, showing more straight white teeth than Oliver imagined could fit in just one set of jaws. Oliver recalled that his dictionary of religion had described the Diaconalists as “nonconformist separatist protestant dissenters”—four words that said what they were against, but not what they were for. But he was saved from thinking of something to say to Quarterboy by the conversation between Piltdown, Tapster, and the woman, which was no longer being conducted in whispers.
“It’s the youngsters I’m thinking of,” Tapster was saying urgently as he pulled on his anorak. “There are already so many conflicting messages in the world. I’m surprised to hear free-thinking from the pulpit.”
“From the pulpit,” the woman echoed, as if Tapster hadn’t just used the words.
“Nigel, nobody cares for the children more than I,” Piltdown protested. “I truly think you’re overreacting.”
“We’ll see.” Tapster picked up his hard guitar case and stared into Piltdown’s face. “You know I’m saying these things out of Christian love, Paul. God has plans for Plumley. He has told me.”
Piltdown smiled uncomfortably. Tapster opened the narthex door for the woman and followed her through it in a noisy rustle of nylon and Velcro. The pair joined the gaggle of waiting teenagers and drifted away into the darkness.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sneezed!” Oliver called to Piltdown’s back. There was a slight pause, then Piltdown turned with a broad smirk and grasped Oliver’s hand as if it were a lifeline. Oliver introduced Ben, and they stood to one side while Piltdown ceremonially bade farewell to the remaining congregants.
“Go in and make yourself at home,” Piltdown was saying as Cedric and Elsie Potiphar cautiously made their way down the frosty church steps. “I hold an open house at the Manse after the service,” he explained to Oliver. “Sandwiches and tea and a little fellowship. If you’re not rushing away, perhaps you’d care to join us?”
“A cup of tea, Vicar?” said Oliver, silently checking for Ben’s assent. “That would be lovely.”
“Jolly good, but for the sake of your article, remember that I’m a minister, not a vicar,” Piltdown said genially. “It makes a difference. I’m a servant of this congregation, not the representative of a higher authority.”
He stepped through the narthex doors, crossed a shallow vestibule, and tugged the church’s main door closed, making sure the catch had clicked into place.
“Does that mean your members are free to challenge your sermons?” asked Oliver as Piltdown came back into the narthex. “Sorry, we couldn’t help overhearing the tail end of your conversation with the—for want of a better word—musicians.”
Piltdown led them through the darkened church, turning off the heaters as he passed. “That was Nigel Tapster and his wife, Heather. She’s filling in as the pianist for our services. Well, yes, authority in the United Diaconalist Church is not central, as in the Church of England. We don’t have bishops or cardinals or anything like that. Each congregation is independent, supervised by its elders—deacons, hence the name ‘Diaconalist.’ As their minister, I’m only a sort of full-time professional super-deacon, with more responsibilities, including leading the worship, but no greater authority. And anyone in the congregation can be a ‘prayer minister,’ if the Spirit moves them.”
“And this Nigel Tapster’s one of your deacons?” Ben asked.
“Actually, no. Nigel’s fairly new to the church, but he has a marvelous way with the young people—he’s attracted quite a few new members in the months he’s been with us. They’re good people, he and his wife.” Piltdown made the comment as if it was a reminder to himself. “We’re having our annual church meeting this Friday, when we elect deacons for the coming year. I believe Nigel will be standing for election. If you want to find out more about the church, Ollie, you’re welcome to come and observe.”
“I’d like to but I have to see my uncle’s Bottom,” Oliver claimed with a snigger. Ben sighed. They had passed through a doorway beside the pulpit and were now standing at one end of a dim, musty-smelling corridor that ran the full width of the building.
“Ah yes, your uncle, the Scotland Yard detective,” said Piltdown, without a pause. “I remember that he was fond of amateur dram
atics. At school, we used to envy you enormously for having an uncle who was Chief Inspector Mallard and a Shakespearian actor, to boot. I presume from your comment that he’s performing in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
He broke off as Ben burst in sudden peals of laughter and thumped Oliver soundly on the back.
“Did I say something funny?” Piltdown asked apprehensively, noticing Oliver’s crestfallen expression.
“Not intentionally, Paul,” Ben spluttered, attempting to recover his breath. “It’s just that Oliver’s been going round for weeks bleating ‘I’m going to see my uncle’s Bottom’ and hoping that somebody would fall for it.”
“Oh, sorry, Ollie,” said Piltdown contritely. “Would it help if I roared and split my sides now?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Oliver muttered.
“How is your uncle, by the way? Still a detective?”
“Yes. He’s a superintendent now.”
“Promoted to glory. Well, not in the biblical sense,” Piltdown added hastily. “Not that the expression has a biblical origin, of course, it’s just…” He let the remark trail off and tilted his head on one side. In the silence, they could hear sounds from the far end of the corridor—coins and glassware clinking, not necessarily in the same room. Nobody was in sight, but light shone through a couple of transoms.
“I don’t want to lock anybody in,” Piltdown mused, toying with a bunch of keys.
“Who would still be here?” Oliver asked, privately amazed that the dank, cheerless building could keep anybody from a warm home now that the service was over.
“I imagine one of the deacons is counting the offering, and there could be someone in the kitchen wrapping up the church flowers.” Piltdown gestured to a door beside them “Look, why don’t you two go next door to the Manse and make yourselves at home? I’ll be along shortly.”
