“I had to stop myself quickly from saying, ‘Miss Stevenson’, as a young man had never asked me my Christian name before. ‘My name is Amelia,’ I said, ‘I am the Rector’s daughter’. We talked about the first time we met and my singing of ‘Widdecombe Fair’. He said it was the first time that he had heard it sung by someone that wasn’t from the West Country, being extremely careful to be polite about my voice. He said he would love to teach me how to sing it as it is sung in the West Country.
“Conversation was so easy with him I did not realise how long we had been sitting talking and how late in the afternoon it was until I heard the sound of the bell for Evensong. We met regularly, if somewhat secretly in the churchyard as my parents would have frowned on my being friendly with a working-class man He quite understood this and chose to ignore it. At first he told me little of his background, apart from the fact that he was born and spent his childhood in a town called Tisbury in the West Country. I asked Arthur whether it was his ambition to become an organ builder. He said he had come upon this job by sheer chance. Having come from Tisbury, without any real idea of what he wanted to do in life, he decided to look for some form of temporary work. Looking through the local newspapers’ positions vacant column, he saw a small advertisement: ‘Wanted. Young man to assist organ tuner, experience not necessary but must have some knowledge of music.’ On telephoning he said he was surprised that the job was offered instantly but on the understanding that he could start work the following day, he said he was a little apprehensive as he had no experience of organs and his only knowledge of music was from playing the clarinet. He said Mr. Frampton was a man of few words but friendly to him.
“He said he had asked him what happened to his predecessor, he was told it was not a happy association and that he’d had to dismiss him because of gross dishonesty, evidently he had been left alone in a church where they had been working, the church was empty, he was sitting up at the organ consul and observed an elderly lady entering the church. Just as she was leaving, she placed a five pound note in the collection box marked ‘Vicars Stipend’ but leaving the edge of the bank note protruding from the box. Seeing the bank note, the temptation was too much for him, feeling aggrieved by his own lack of money he took the bank note. What he did not know was that he had been observed by the Sexton who reported the matter immediately.
“He had a singular ability to keep off the subject of religion. I had never seen him attend a service at the church and assumed that he must be of the other faith, a Catholic. We had never so much as touched each other; I had never even held his hand.
“I came alive that summer sitting on the wooden bench under the old yew tree in the churchyard with Arthur reading the romantic poetry of Keats and Shelley to me. I found it so easy to fall in love. One day, he gathered lavender from the bushes and gave it to me and when I got home, I placed the lavender between the pages of my Bible and every time I open my Bible and smell the lavender, Arthur is with me.
“The first time that he touched me, it could either have been by accident or design. It did not matter as it was not unwelcome on my part. I was arranging flowers on the altar when I accidentally dropped one to the floor. At that moment, Arthur appeared next to me, bending down. We were both on our knees, collecting the fallen flower; it seemed the most natural thing in the world as we both instantly moved closer to each other. My heart was pounding and then, as gently as a butterfly’s wings, our lips briefly touched.
“He gently helped me to my feet saying ‘Amelia please forgive me. I feel so ashamed, I’ve shamed us both’. My mind could hardly comprehend his words. Shamed, ashamed of what? My mind started to work quickly searching the Bible. The word ‘shame’ jumped straight out of the Bible at me. Was this the shame of the original sin of Eve? Or that of the fallen woman. My mind was full of disquiet. I told Arthur that I felt no shame, nor should he. There can be no shame in being kissed by the man you love. He had difficulty in finding his words and said, ‘It is not the kiss, Amelia it is the place, we are standing before this altar, where your father worships his God, to us it is a beautiful first kiss, to your father, blasphemy’.
“As you can well imagine, that loving first kiss was not the last kiss of that long summer. We would walk hand in hand through Lovers Walk on Wimbledon common in the early evenings and lay innocently together in the long grass to be serenaded by an exaltation of larks high in the sky above us, with Arthur reading to me Shelley’s ‘Ode to a Skylark’. I can still hear Arthur in my mind with the soft beauty of his voice added to Shelley’s words, it was so moving and memorable.” She then started to recite the opening lines of the poem:
“Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert
That from Heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of
unpremeditated art”
As she finished speaking she looked pale and thoughtful and then quietly said, “I have tried so many times to read that particular poem in my times of loneliness but I only found cold comfort in the words without Arthur to read them to me. When possible, we would spend whole days together travelling into London, visiting art galleries. I was often delighted by his knowledge of art and artists. We would stand before paintings by the great masters and he would explain in great detail the inner meanings. He saw imagery in paintings that I had been totally unaware of, even though I had looked at the paintings many times before. On one occasion we went to Hampstead to visit Wentworth Place, the home of the poet Keats. It had just been opened to the public; our visit coincided with an exhibition of paintings chronicling his life and that of his fellow poets and their lovers. One painting that we were both instantly drawn to was of Shelley and Mary Godwin seated together with her prayer book by her side in the old St. Pancras Churchyard titled, The Lovers Seat by William Powell Frith, an eminent Victorian artist. Arthur said that it was a painting that reminded him so much of us sitting on the bench under the old yew tree in St Mary’s churchyard. Arthur kindly purchased a postcard copy of the painting for me and he wrote on the back of the postcard:
‘Remembering a lovely day together, another bench in another place. Love Arthur.’
“It was extremely unnerving to have a secret love that you cannot tell anyone of, or show them tokens of that love that meant so much to one. I had to take great care in conversation, especially with my father, as I could easily in an unguarded moment say something that would lead to questions that I could not answer truthfully. It would be so natural for me to tell to him of the painting and my visit to Wentworth Place. The love of art and the written word was something that I had shared with my father since my early childhood. I concealed the postcard between the pages of my prayer book, cutting off the edges so that it would fit unseen in my prayer book. The need I felt to conceal it from view troubled me greatly. Always meeting on platform five at Wimbledon Station, not wishing to be observed together. This was another sense of dishonesty that was alien to me.
“I felt guilty and ashamed that I could not feel secure in my mind that my parents would accept Arthur. I was convinced I could survive the argument that he was a working-class man, as our Lord had worked with his hands but not his lack of religion. It seemed quite natural in my mind to believe that Arthur was a Christian; even his work seemed to confirm it. I remember the day I discovered the truth. When we met Arthur seemed very ill at ease, on asking him if anything wrong he said, ‘Yes, I’ve kept something that is very important from you, I should have told you when we first met’. I felt a cold shiver go right through me, what could be in his mind, but before I could speculate on what the problem might be he just quietly said, ‘I’m an atheist’!
“I had initially believed that Arthur was a Roman Catholic, though this would be an enormous hurdle to overcome with my father, keeping company with an atheist would be total anathema to him. I felt in time my father’s deep Christian faith would prevail, I kept thinking of the words my father spoke each da
y when saying grace, ‘We must be mindful of others less fortunate than ourselves’.
“I was relying on this philosophy, encompassing those that have not had the benefit of Christ’s teachings. Arthur’s initial reluctance to talk about religion changed when we agreed we would not judge each other on the right or wrong of our individual beliefs. I was not sure in my mind whether he would ever believe in my God, as he had once said to me with a slight smile that he would only be convinced there was a God in heaven if a man landed in a spaceship from another world, bearing a copy of the first Common Book of Prayer dated 1549, but he did accept from me my autographed copy of The Life of Christ by the Reverend Frederick Farrar, promising me that he would read it. I told him the book had been a constant companion and that I had turned to it many times for guidance.
“Through reading it, he would understand my faith and he should especially read my grandfather’s guidance written on the flyleaf. Arthur slowly read out the words my grandfather had written there so many years ago, words that had been given to him by his father, who was also a man of the cloth.
‘I would advise a worldly minded person to read Ecclesiastics to learn the vanity of the creation - a lover of Christ to Solomon’s song. An afflicted person to the books of Job & Jeremiah. A preacher to Timonty & Titus - a doubter in faith to the Hebrews. A moralist to the book of Proverbs. Self justifier to the Romans & Galations. A libertine to James and Jude - a soldier to Joshua & Judges. A person that would study God’s providence to the book Esther. Those who go about great undertakings for church or state to Nehemiah and the devoted in heart to God to the book of Psalms’.
“He read aloud my grandfather’s words in his beautiful soft West Country accent; there was no sense of mockery in his voice. As he closed the book, he said he understood completely my belief and could see how natural it must be for me to have such a deep commitment to religion.
“He said his grandfather had been an agricultural labourer and had worn an agricultural smock, whereas your grandfather wore the ecclesiastical black of high church. He said neither his grandfather nor his father would have felt comfortable praying in such a high church as St. Mary’s as theirs was a much simpler religion, a religion of country people. He said he had an abiding memory of his father in times of trouble, dropping his cap on the floor placing one knee on it and praying. Arthur said his father would often say he had no need to go to a church; his hearth was church enough for him.
“Work on the organ was finally completed, my initial fear that he would move to another town with the organ tuner was unfounded, as Arthur had decided to stay in Wimbledon and seek work locally. He said the nature of the work did not concern him; his only concern was that he should be near me.
“With the organ now rebuilt to its former glory, my father kept his promise to hold a performance of The Crucifixion. The legacy left for work on the organ had been more than sufficient for the renovation work, leaving sufficient funds to employ professional soloists for the main parts with the hymns being sung by our choir and the congregation.
“On the day of the performance, I could not have been happier, as, earlier that afternoon sitting under the old yew tree, Arthur had declared his love for me and asked me to be his wife. Although I’d only known him for a short time, I accepted his proposal. I did not believe it was possible to be so happy. He said he would seek my father’s approval and it was at that moment the reality of the situation hit me hard.
“I had known for some time that we could not go on as we were. I felt I was losing my resolve to control my feelings, and was coming to understand the true meaning of impure thoughts; meeting temptation every day would, I knew, inevitably lead us into a situation which we might regret. But life could not have been better, even the rumours of impending war with Germany seemed to be unimportant. My life was just full of love, hope and happiness.
“I was so involved with the rehearsals for the performance of The Crucifixion that time seemed to stand still. I did not normally sing in the choir but Mr. Noon had asked me to join the choir as every voice was needed. On the night of the performance everyone was nervous. Someone had started a rumour that the sopranos in the choir would not be wearing the traditional black dress when singing The Crucifixion but would be wearing scarlet dresses as a statement against the possibility of war with Germany.
“Mr. Noon was somewhat agitated and did not take well to the rumour, telling my father that he would not be party to such blasphemy and if they appeared inappropriately dressed, they would be singing without the accompaniment of the organ. The rumour proved to be totally false.
“I said to Arthur that it would be a day to remember, and he replied in a strangely quiet voice, ‘Yes, of that I’m sure’. On the night of the oratorio the church was filled to capacity, all the front pews being taken up by the local dignitaries. The singing was sublimely beautiful and deeply moving. When we sang those immortal words ‘My God and my friend’, the words also brought the writings of Dame Julian of Norwich in her Divine Revelations to my mind: ‘that all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well’.
“I resolved to speak to my father the next day. I felt that with those words in my mind, all would be well! The following day, I tapped nervously on my father’s study door. He was sitting at his desk writing, looking deeply troubled. As approached, he raised his eyes from his writing and said Mr. Noon had just left the house in a great state of agitation, after pressing me to accept his immediate resignation as organist. He said he could no longer, in good conscience, accompany oratorio at the church. He had been uncertain prior to last night’s service whether to withdraw after rumours that some of the ladies of the choir were going to demonstrate against the impending war with Germany but had accepted my assurance that no such demonstration would take place. However, he said, ‘That applause for a sacred work! – in all of my years as organist at St. Mary’s I have never experienced such disrespect’. I had to agree with him. With everyone still standing after singing the final hymn and applauding, I heard someone say, ‘They are receiving a standing ovation’. I should be writing letters of thanks to the soloists for giving such a magnificent rendition of The Crucifixion but instead I feel obliged to write an apology to them. They sang with such deeply moving religious commitment to the liturgy, obviously believing they were singing for the glory of God, in church with a congregation, not an audience!
“My father said the ensuing applause at the end of the oratorio was completely out of place in the House of God, Steiner’s sublime Passion of Christ has now been turned into an entertainment.
“I would have liked to have taken issue with him on his condemnation of applause following a sacred work and to have suggested that, regardless of how the work was received, the message was there in the Passion for all who wanted to receive it but I decided this was not the moment for such a discussion and, not to my credit, I agreed with him, even surprising myself by saying that such behavior had no place at St. Mary’s. He smiled gently and said, ‘it is reassuring to know that we are as one on such gross behaviour’.
“I felt perhaps I had chosen entirely the wrong moment to speak to my father but I knew my deceit could not go on, I had to speak to him. I asked him if he would have time to speak with me. I’m sure he must have noticed the nervousness in my voice as he was quickly out of his chair and indicating for me to sit next to him on the old leather sofa. I said that I needed his advice, and his response was to ask what he could possibly help with.
“I then told him that I had been keeping company with a young man I had come to know at our church but that he was not a member of the congregation. My father’s face broadened with a smile, ‘I told Mother there was something, or even possibly someone, new in your life. We had both noticed that you spent more and more time out of the house or at the church. I will not need three guesses to name the young man’.
“This came as a total surprise to me, I was absolutely sure my father was completely ig
norant of my relationship with Arthur. I remember thinking how I have misjudged him. It was evident the problems of class was in my mind and not his. He stood up, crossed the study and picked up from the corner of his desk a large double handled Pewter Tankard. I knew this tankard well. He was so proud of it; it had been presented to him by Selwyn College Cambridge, in 1895. Selwyn being the college where he’d gained his Doctorate of Divinity. He had been a member of the trial eights boat crew at the university. The crew names and even the weight of his fellow crew members were engraved on it. He started to read the names out one by one of those fallen in the First World War which had cruelly taken half the boat, as he named them he remembered them as individuals. I knew that the First World War and the terrible loss of life had made my father question his faith. He would often quote Wilfred Owens poem, ‘The Parable of the Old Man and the Young’:
‘But the old man, would not so, but slew his son, and half the seed of Europe, one by one’.
“Miss Stevenson paused in her narrative to ask me if I knew that the inspiration for Wilfred Owens’ poem came from Genesis, Chapter 22. acknowledged that I was so aware. She said that her father would always say they were not just names on a war memorial, they were his true friends. She said she did not feel it was right to interrupt him, but could not understand where this was leading, until he read one particular name, ‘Wilson’ who won the Military Cross; a brave man, killed leading his men.
“My father said, ‘who would have ever thought it could be possible, my daughter and the son of Wilson our Stroke’. Wilson was the father of his young curate at St. Mary’s. He had been killed in France just before the Armistice leaving a young wife and infant son. I still did not think it was right to interrupt him. He finally came to the last name, ‘Brown our Cox seven stone thirteen ounces’. Father said that George Brown, like him, was a youngest son and destined for the church but that he had hurt his family desperately when he decided to turn his back on a life in the church, leaving England to become a tea planter in Ceylon. This misunderstanding was the last thing I had imagined.
A Child of the Cloth Page 2
