by McNeir, Leo
“Talking of libraries,” said Paul. “Did you know this area’s in the papers today? There’s an article in the Independent about the last battles of the Civil War. Some papers have been found in the library at Winton Hall. Apparently some of the very last actions took place hereabouts. Mopping up after Naseby. Some units surrendered just up the road.”
“We never seem to get away from it,” said Marnie. “They’ll still be talking about the four hundredth anniversary and the five hundredth after that.”
“Just like the battles in Northern Ireland,” said Beth
“You seem very concerned about those problems,” Ralph observed. “Do you have family connections in Ireland, perhaps?”
“No,” said Beth, “but we were just down the road from a van that blew up on the motorway a short while ago and it brought it all home to us.”
“Well, you’d better not read the papers today, then,” said Paul. “The front page leads with reports of more violence.”
“I know,” said Marnie. “Let’s call a truce for today. No more talk of violence, bombings and killings. We can have all that at home!”
*
“It really does look mediaeval,” said Ralph. The group of them stopped at the gate to the village field to buy their tickets.
“This is my treat,” said Marnie in a definite tone.
“Admission is one pound each,” said the woman at the desk over the top of half-moon specs.
“Is that all?” said Marnie.
“That’s right. The pork has been provided by George Stubbs and Albert Fletcher as well as salads and jacket potatoes. All free of charge. The entry fee is just a contribution to church funds.” They took their tickets and walked into the field to the accompaniment of folk music playing over loudspeakers.
It was still bright in the early evening, but a faint twilight was already advancing as clouds in the west obscured the sun. The effect was to cast a theatrical glow over the scene in front of them, an impression made greater by the torches burning along the perimeter of the playing field, separating the festivities from the roped-off cricket square. Coloured lights shone in the trees and on the opposite side swirls of smoke could be seen where the pig was roasting on a spit, drops of fat splashing down onto the hot coals. A small crowd stood round and watched George Stubbs in boater, striped apron and rolled up shirtsleeves, basting the carcass. Nearby a steam traction engine was warming up, emitting a plume of smoke from its chimney and occasional shrill calls from its whistle. The warm smell of the toasting pig-meat wafted across the field. Ralph moved closer to Anne and bent his head.
“Does this disturb you?” he said under his breath, nodding in the direction of the barbecue.
“No, it’s all right, thanks. Provided I don’t get too close it won’t bother me. Actually, I was wondering if this was your sort of thing. I couldn’t have imagined you being here.”
“That’s true,” said Ralph. “Although I was thinking of suggesting to the Master that we might organise one of these events in the Fellows Garden at All Saints.” Anne laughed and Marnie, who had overheard part of the conversation joined in.
“No doubt Ralph would run the home-made jam stall for the W.I.,” she said. “It’s an important part of any village fete.”
“I must say,” said Ralph, “I half expected it to be a ‘fete’ worse than death, but this is impressive.”
They made their way from stall to stall and became a focus of interest for the locals. Everyone seemed to have heard of the new ‘young woman from London’ who had moved into the ruins and was doing amazing things. Several of the stall-holders wanted to know if she really was living on a ‘barge’ and Marnie suspected that they had built her up to be some kind of eccentric. The sight of the group comprising her family and friends seemed to reassure village opinion that she was quite ‘normal’. At the Tombola the woman running the stall enticed them all to have a go, including Marnie’s ‘gentleman-friend’. Ralph said afterwards that it made him feel like a cross between a travelling salesman and a bookie’s runner. He was attracting a good deal of attention, cutting an elegant figure in navy blue silk shirt and cream slacks, compared with the jeans that most people were wearing.
Gradually clouds covered the sky, bringing a premature dusk that made the scene more colourful. The smell of the roast was now everywhere and George Stubbs was wielding his carving knife, cutting slices of juicy flesh from the carcass and laying them in a neat pile on a huge platter beside the spit. The music stopped and a voice came over the loudspeakers inviting everyone to come and be served with pork generously provided by Mr Stubbs and Mr Fletcher. There was a ragged salvo of applause and a general movement towards the fire. When the music began again it had changed to the tones of a fairground steam organ and, in tune with the holiday atmosphere, the traction engine gave out a long low call.
The queue was efficiently served by the helpers from the W.I. and soon there were clusters of villagers sitting on hay bales or sprawling on the grass. The few vegetarians, including Anne, were delighted with the huge potatoes baked crisp in their jackets, oozing butter and covered with a mound of grated cheddar and home-made chutney. Mr Stubbs and Mr Fletcher continued carving meat in the warm glow of public good will and burning coals. A lull came over the field as eating precluded most forms of conversation, apart from the occasional grunt of satisfaction.
Ralph picked his way across the obstacle course of reclining bodies, carrying a tray of chilled lager from the beer stall. Looking up as he reached their group, Marnie noticed a bustling movement at the far edge of the field by the entrance gate and thought she recognised a familiar shape hurrying towards the grill. It was Molly Appleton, arriving much delayed from London. In her hand she clutched an envelope and gave every impression of being seriously agitated.
“George!” she called out. The man’s smile of recognition gave way to a frown as he saw the expression on her face. Breathless, she came to a halt beside the revolving carcass and put a hand to her chest. She thrust the envelope forward.
“What is it, Molly?” Everyone now fixed their gaze on what she was carrying.
“It’s from the Bishop,” she gasped. “It came to me as clerk of the PCC, but I think you should really have it as Chairman of the Parish Council.”
Mr Stubbs shook his head, revealing hands that were greasy from carving the pork. “Can’t it wait, Molly? Come and have some of this pork. It’s best middle white.”
“It’s important, George. It affects the whole village. You should have had it before, but I was away.” She held it up and he saw the emblem of the Bishop’s Palace.
“If it’s that important, perhaps you’d better read it out.” He placed the carving knife on the bench and wiped his hands on his apron front. Molly pulled out the letter and began to read in a voice still unsteady from her exertions. The fairground music came to an abrupt stop. From where they were sitting, Marnie’s group could hear every word.
“… and consequently I have acted as quickly as possible to appoint a successor. I am pleased to be able to confirm that your new vicar will be available with immediate effect, so that the parish will not be left untended. It is a great joy to me to name the Reverend Toni Petrie as the new vicar of Knightly St John.” A murmur of polite interest passed around the assembled villagers, only a few of whom noticed the informal use of the abbreviated Christian name. It was unsurprising; even Bishops were casual these days. “Toni will be moving to her new post in the next few days and I know you will make her welcome. She is currently curate at …” Molly’s voice died away and she looked up to see the bewildered expressions of those around her. There was a silence lasting several seconds as the news sank in. Mr Stubbs became pensive, the perspiration on his bald head shining in the light from the coals. Beside him, Albert Fletcher looked as if a great pain had wracked his body. He stared at Molly, his face reddened by the fire, like a martyr burning at the stake. His head shook as if words were struggling to escape from his mouth.
21
Sunday 2 July
“I thought Sally Ann had turned into the Mary Celeste.” To the sound of church bells carrying down from the village, Ralph stood in the doorway of the barn. “Coffee pot still warm in the galley, washing pegged out on the line, but no crew in sight.”
Marnie looked up from her desk. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Long forgotten. I see I’m not the only one who starts work early, even on Sundays.”
“Just tidying up some loose ends, nearly finished. Will you join us for lunch, Ralph?”
“Thank you, but no. I have other plans. I intend to go to the Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons near Oxford.” He paused to watch Marnie’s reaction. “However – do you think it’s only academics who begin sentences with however? – well, anyway, to get there I shall need a chauffeur and also a navigator. I’ve come to interview candidates for both jobs.”
Marnie laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“But you’ll never get a table, surely, at such short notice?”
“I booked last week but forgot to mention it.” Seeing Marnie’s doubting expression, Ralph added: “I’ve known the owner since he first opened back in the seventies. Say you’ll join me?”
“An offer no-one could refuse. Thank you on behalf of both candidates.”
At that moment Anne breezed in carrying an armful of newspapers and a carrier bag. “Thank goodness you didn’t want the Sunday Times as well as the Observer. I’d have needed a wheelbarrow!”
“Do you have any dresses or smart skirts in your cupboard, Anne?”
The girl stopped in her tracks. “I’ve got the things you bought me in Oxford Street.”
“Good. I think you’re going to need them. How good is your French?”
“We’ll know the answer to that question on the twentieth of August.”
“I’m taking you both to lunch, or rather you’re taking me,” said Ralph, relieving her of the papers.
“Great!” The church bells stopped and Anne turned her head towards the door. “Do you know those bells have been ringing for over an hour? And there are loads of people swarming around the church.”
“The new vicar,” said Marnie. “The bush telegraph.”
*
Every eye was on Toni Petrie as she crossed the nave and mounted the steps to the pulpit. She paused briefly, looking down on the congregation before speaking. The parishioners saw a woman in her early thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair and a fresh clean complexion. Her enthusiasm was almost tangible, bordering on exultation.
“Ladies and gentlemen. It must be strange for you to hear me address you like that. I would rather begin by calling you ‘my friends’, but I would not presume to do that when we don’t yet know each other. Like most of you I am a country person and I believe it takes time to build a friendship.” A faint murmur of approval. “I was born and brought up in the Cotswolds, near Cirencester, though I’ve spent much of my life working in community groups in deprived areas in the Midlands. Let me say this to you. Whatever problems and misunderstandings there may have been in the past, my only wish is that we should work together to create a renewed sense of community, of sharing our lives together in the service of God, here in this beautiful village.” A lump came to her throat as she saw heads nodding all round the church. She wanted to rush down and embrace the people, her people, to seize them in her arms and tell them it would be all right. Pausing to take a deep breath, she went on. “No fire and brimstone. I have not come to tell you that you’ll fry in the flames of Hell.” Subdued laughter. “I hope, ladies and gentlemen, that you will come to accept me so that we can work together. But I must not personalise things. The church is not about me, or any individual. It’s about service. It’s about worship. It’s about the glory of God and His creation. I give you my promise that I will do everything in my power to make this a ministry of joy.”
She looked out from the pulpit over the packed ranks of her flock. Every face was upturned. It was a new beginning, a chance to put aside centuries of strife and antagonism. Almost every seat in the church was taken. Almost. Only in the second row was there a gap. The seat behind George Stubbs was unoccupied for the first time in living memory.
*
“I wonder how the new vicar’s getting on,” said Ralph. He opened the parasol on the deck of Sally Ann and set out three safari chairs. Anne came up the steps from the cabin carrying a tray while Marnie unfolded the table.
“I’ve just thought of something!” said Anne. “The voice I heard singing in the church the other day, perhaps that was the vicar. It was a woman.”
“… and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate … ” Ralph quoted.
“Sounds possible,” said Marnie. “Mind you, I thought Shakespeare was writing about a different kind of joy.”
“But the same sense of excitement,” said Ralph.
“That was beautiful,” said Anne. “It was just like that. If I’d had my wishes granted I’d feel like singing at heaven’s gate. Well, I … I do.” She fell silent and reached forward to pour coffee into the cups.
“So do I,” said Ralph, taking a cup and passing it to Marnie. “I think that was your new vicar all right.”
They settled back with coffee and the newspapers to enjoy the warm Sunday morning. For once, Ralph did not take himself off to work on his book; Marnie did not settle down at her desk; Anne’s list of tasks was nowhere in sight. Ralph read the political commentaries, every now and then drawing in breath and shaking his head. Marnie studied the main news pages, apparently engrossed in the same article for some time. Anne read the colour magazine. A boat went by and all three looked up to acknowledge the crew as they passed. They returned to the indolent pleasure of a lazy Sunday morning and Marnie tried not to study Ralph over the top of her paper. It was true, what Beth had said. Ralph was distinguished. She had admitted as much to Beth when they found themselves walking alone together at the pig-roast the previous evening.
“I’d say he was quite a catch,” Beth had said pointedly. “And he’s very keen on you.” Marnie had merely smiled indulgently at her sister. But Beth was not one to be put off so easily. “You’re keen on him too, aren’t you?” Marnie had shrugged. “Okay, okay, so it’s none of my business. I can take a hint.” The pause lasted nearly three seconds. “But you are keen. I can tell, Marnie. I can read you like a book.”
“Then you don’t need to ask me so many questions, do you?”
“I’m concerned to see you happy. Ralph could …” Marnie walked away, round the handmade pottery stall, picking up the odd item. Beth followed and, just as she was thinking the conversation was at an end, Marnie looked up.
“This is more complicated than just any relationship,” she said. “And we hardly know each other.”
“But I’ve seen the way Ralph looks at you. You don’t even seem to notice.”
Marnie sighed. “I don’t want Ralph to feel he has to be nice to me.”
Beth looked puzzled. “Why should he?” Marnie bit her lip. Beth knew nothing of his attempted suicide.
“Look, Ralph is a very special sort of person. He’s very eminent in his
field. I’m not in his league. I know nothing of his world. I’m not sure I’m the right sort of person for someone like him.” Beth made a sound mid-way between a snort and a snigger. “Also, to be quite frank, I don’t feel ready for a relationship –”
“Are you serious? After nearly three years!” Her voice was getting louder. “Are you planning to turn Glebe Farm into a private nunnery?” Beth swallowed hard as the woman running the pottery stall jerked her head up at the pair of them.
“Why not make an announcement over the tannoy?” said Marnie under her breath. Smiling light-heartedly in the direction of the stallholder, she pulled Beth to one side. “And I’m not in the market for a casual lover. I’ve had all that sort of thing and it’s not for me.”
“Or for Ralph, I would’ve thought,” said Beth. “I bet you could have him eating out of your hand.”
“I wouldn’t want him eating out of my hand.”
“It’s only a manner of speaking. You see? You’re already getting pedantic like an academic yourself.”
“Let’s say no more about it,” said Marnie. “Not a single word. Agreed?”
“Okay. Agreed.”
“Good,” said Marnie. “That’s good.” She picked up a small vase.
“Sounds to me that you’re just the sort of person he needs,” said Beth. This time the snort had come from Marnie.
“I said there’s some hope of things improving in Ulster.” It was Ralph speaking, looking over the top of his paper. Marnie quickly composed her thoughts.
“Oh, sorry. I was concentrating, yes. Does it? There’s nothing in the main news section.”
“It’s in the business review. The banks are feeling more optimistic about the future and some industrialists are talking about increasing investment in the province.” He looked thoughtful.
“Do you think that’s significant?” said Marnie. “It’s all bombs and bullets on the front page.” Ralph stared for a few seconds into the middle distance.
