by Andy Jarvis
Before that final statement it seemed there had been some dissent among the other councillors. Ephraim Bannock had spoken out, saying that the child was an innocent and would be perceived as such under God, and that they should all pray for forgiveness for the evil they had done and straying from the path of light. ‘It’s not too late,’ he’d declared strongly.
Whoever was recording the minutes now wrote that John Cannon stood upright from his seat glaring at the rest of the council stating that it was ‘far too late’ and that because of their involvement their souls now belonged to someone else, ‘someone whom God has no jurisdiction over.’
“Shit, Ed,” Baz whispered, “maybe that thing you said about a coven was right. What’s he mean about their souls belonging to someone else?”
“I don’t know, Baz. Maybe he meant they wouldn’t be forgiven for voting to excommunicate her. How should I know? I think I’ve seen enough anyway.”
Baz ignored my hint to leave and read on. The mayor, William Jason had then replied that it was their very own council decision earlier that had resulted in the child’s death, and that the witch Rankin might throw spells and hexes their way in revenge.
It was recorded that Reverend Cannon had laughed aloud at the suggestion.
In the end, by whatever influence he possessed, John Cannon had got them all to sign the decree.
“So they starved a little child as well,” Baz mumbled.
“We can only assume that’s what happened, I guess. He must have had some real powers of persuasion.”
“Sick isn’t it?” said Baz. “How could they?”
“Pass. It was another time, Baz. Who knows what they thought.”
We flicked through pages randomly but there was just too much to sift through and we could find no further reference to Isabel or the child of witch Rankin. I was becoming edgy as the effects of the booze wore off.
“There’s got to be something,” said Baz at last. “This could have been in RJ’s time even. It’s either his dad or granddad. How old do you think he is?”
“Probably older than he looks I think, but I wouldn’t bother asking him, about that or what we’ve found here. Let’s just consider ourselves privileged to have stumbled on something interesting.”
“I just don’t get it Ed, this isn’t that long ago. How could they do that to someone? Surely they can’t have believed in witches such a short time ago. This was the twentieth century; look at that boiler we ripped out; a feat of early engineering.”
“Sure, I agree, it’s a fine piece, like something Isambard Kingdom Brunel himself would be proud of. But look around you Baz, this is the middle of nowhere. The folk around here are kindly enough, but most of them have lived here since the Middle Ages. I’m surprised there isn’t a pentangle above the fireplace at the Bell. Let’s call it a night, Baz. We still have a job to do come morning and I’m tired.”
We humped the volumes back into the cabinet making sure they were in chronological order and slanting the same way as found. I replaced everything else we might have disturbed and located the chunk of broken wood, while Baz sneaked out to the van for the adhesive.
Being alone in the dark doesn’t bother me. Not one bit. Not believing in spooks helps. You see, when you’re dead you’re gone, right? Kaput. Nothing left, that’s what I believe. And for all the respect I have for Reverend John and all his good work and intentions, I think he’s on a hiding to nothing.
Now up our way in the city it’s different. Being alone in the dark is definitely something to worry about, what with all the muggers, gang feuds, prozzies and pimps about the place.
But hanging around in a church way out in the sticks with a skin full of ale, I was bullet proof. That is until Baz decided to sneak up behind me. It wasn’t so much the loud “Boo!” that made me jump, but the tube of Bostick he rammed into the small of my back. The word ‘muggers’ sprang back to mind, followed closely by bastard, asshole and dickhead. These were also spoken. Loudly.
“Man did I make you jump or what?” laughed Baz. “You sprang like a whippet from trap five! Talk about a leap in the dark!”
“What the hell are you playing at? You trying to wake the whole neighbourhood or what?”
“Alright, alright, but it’s you that squealed like a little girl. Just like you’d shaken hands with the bone baby again.”
“Just give me the glue.”
“Here then, stick ‘em up,” he laughed, pointing the tube like a gun. “Get it? Never mind.”
Applying the adhesive I carefully replaced the piece of wood, wiping off the excess and buffing the surface to a clean matching sheen. In the gloom it looked okay. I just prayed the glue set before Reverend John tried opening it.
Clicking the vestry door shut, we tip-toed round the altar and groped our way along the aisle counting the pews to the door still beyond us in the dark. Not too soon. Dawn was approaching, and the church felt oddly warm for a building in winter with no heating.
And a ghost.
4.
A vicarage is one of the perks of the job that comes with vicaring. But Reverend John didn’t live in his. Instead of in the lap of luxury, he lived in a modest rented cottage some ways out past the Bell on the one main road that runs into the village centre. This left the vicarage free as a community meeting house where folk could come and go as they pleased, as long as it was to do with fund raising events or charity. He lived modestly, and when not doing charitable work himself, allowed his place to be used for it.
Now, according to Reverend John, this was something of a bone of contention with his bosses. Not in keeping with the image of a spiritual leader, they thought. But Reverend John, true to his beliefs insisted upon the humble lifestyle and threw back at them the one point they couldn’t possibly argue with without looking like a bunch of hypocrites: It was the way Jesus himself had lived. However gruff he was in his manner, he truly believed it was better to give than to receive.
The following day he wasn’t just charitable, he was downright pleased. So pleased he’d invited us for tea.
Outside the French windows of Reverend John’s small but beautiful lounge, the last remnants of day glowed on the low horizon. Over a blazing log fire, a portrait of Christ of the Sacred Heart stared down at us, and a feast fit for royalty.
The problem now was staying awake after a sleepless night and a day’s graft. Baz seemed unfazed. His eyes lit up at the tempting spread upon the table before us. Pies, quiche, salads, homemade pickles and freshly baked bread and biscuits beckoned, all bedecked around a lavish fruit bowl, the like of which wouldn’t look amiss at a harvest festival.
Reverend John sat at the head, his back to the fireplace pouring tea. He spoke softly, in a manner totally opposite to how he would conduct a sermon. “Well done,” he said.
“Sorry?” said Baz, rubbing his eyes.
“You seem to have made good progress today, I can tell, considering the delays and such. You must be very tired.”
It was all the prompting I needed. I let out a big yawn and stretched my arms. “Pardon me Reverend.”
“That’s quite alright. How are they treating you up at the Bell? Is the food up to standard? Do you sleep soundly on unfamiliar beds?”
“Oh, it’s not too bad at all,” said Baz. “Mind you, I think they face some stiff competition in the food department next to your table, Reverend.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so,” said Reverend John. “There is a very lovely bakery in the village where I get my pies, and Mrs. Cass, the church organist, has been making pickles for as long as I can remember. But, before we all indulge, I must ask at what stage are we now? Am I being over optimistic in hoping for completion of the contract before the winter is out?”
“Well, we have the channels dug at last, for the supply,” I said. “Piping and all the other bits and pieces we brought down with us in the van, and we have the boiler stripped. All we need now is for Chorley in the low loader to pick up and scrap it and deliver th
e new one along with the radiators.”
“Chorley? Who’s Chorley?” asked Reverend John.
“Chorley Cake,” I said. “Charlie Eccles is his real name. McBright’s truck driver, only we call him Chorley because he’s from the other county, see?”
Reverend John looked blank.
“He lives in Chorley, Lancashire,” said Baz. “Which is not far from Eccles, which is where the cakes come from.”
Still blank.
“Charlie – Chorley, Eccles – cake. Chorley Cake, which is another type of Eccles cake, which comes from Chorley, which is near to Eccles. In fact, I think it’s the same damn cake. Flies graveyards we call them up our way.”
“Well not quite,” I said. “I think Eccles cakes are a bit fatter, and the raisins are a bit more mixed in.”
“Yeah, alright clever sod,” said Baz. “You’ll be telling the Reverend how to boil an egg next.”
“Oh, I see!” exclaimed Reverend John. “That’s very clever, very good. Chorley Cake. I like that. Doesn’t he mind you calling him that then?”
“Not at all,” said Baz. “You should hear what he calls me and Ed. Especially Ed.” Baz smiled and winked at me, then grimaced silently as he caught my boot.
“Or maybe you shouldn’t,” I said. “It’s a bit coarse, if you know what I mean, shop floor humour and all that.”
“I see,” said Reverend John. “And he’s coming with the low loader? That’s some sort of truck, I assume.”
“Low loader; self explanatory, really. Lower to the ground than most trucks, easier to load heavy plants and goods. He’s coming Wednesday morning to get the scrap. Then we’ll be back on Monday to meet him and collect the goods.”
“Heavy plants?” said Reverend John.
“That’s machinery,” explained Baz. “You know, like diggers and earth movers, or cast iron boilers, not the sort of plants that grow.”
“And by goods, you must mean the new heater.” Reverend John beamed. “Not a moment too soon. It will be nice to have a dependable heater for a change, especially for next Christmas.”
“Along with the pump, thermostat and everything,” I said. “It comes as a kit with floor mountings, wiring diagram – not that we need that, Baz can do electrics blindfolded.”
“And that presents us with a small problem,” added Baz, eyeing the food hungrily.
“Oh?” said Reverend John, passing the plates.
“Even stripped and cut up, some of those pieces of the old system are big and heavy. Not compact and efficient, like the one we’re fitting. I’m not sure even me and Ed can get them out of the church. I can’t imagine how the original engineers got the old system inside.”
“I believe part of the wall around the vestry door was demolished and rebuilt after the installation,” said Reverend John. “But you needn’t worry about having to do anything that drastic. Just take it all out through the fire exit.”
“Fire exit?” I asked. “Where?”
“It’s behind the big tapestry of St. Mark, on the rear wall of the vestry. A double door was put there in the fifties due to modern fire regulations and everything. Yes, I know nothing should be obscuring an escape route, but I’ve really no other space to put it. It’s very valuable, you know. It could be damaged by over folding, and we do display it in the church or parade it at certain festivals.”
“We never realised,” said Baz. “We just assumed it was stone wall behind, and me and Ed never went near it. Like you say, it looks too valuable to be disturbed. Me and Ed wouldn’t touch nothing we aren’t supposed to.”
“Nevertheless, if you are very careful you can roll it up and unfurl it on the poles in the church,” said Reverend John. “I’ll help you of course. Speaking of value, the next job on my list is an alarm system, especially on the fire exits. Even in a quiet community like Candlewell you never know who’s going to break in. Well tuck in lads, don’t wait for me,” he added, passing the cups of tea.
Baz began piling his plate and was about to take a bite from a huge slice of pork pie when he suddenly stopped and said, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Reverend?”
“What would that be then?”
“Aren’t you supposed to say grace or something? You know, give thanks to God for the lovely grub.”
“You’re absolutely right. Well spotted! I must admit that I usually just say a few words silently to myself; I don’t have too many guests and I don’t insist that they have to follow suit. Perhaps you would like to say a few words of your own?”
Baz looked totally embarrassed, his face beginning to flush. “I…I don’t really know any prayers,” he stuttered.
“It matters not. The good Lord is very receptive to our words. The format is irrelevant. Go on, have a crack, whatever is in your heart.”
Baz looked pleadingly at me, eyes wide, searching for something to say. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. I gestured with a finger to my head that Baz was still wearing his woolly hat. He frowned, momentarily puzzled, and then pulled it off.
“Sorry,” he said.
Reverend John smiled and nodded, then clasped his hands together bowing his head in anticipation of Baz’s words.
“Thanks, God,” Baz began, “for all this great food, which we probably don’t deserve. And please bless Reverend John for all his kindness…and for putting up with rough ars…I mean roughhouses like me and Ed…and forgiving them when they do bad stuff and things. Amen.”
I was certain by the quivering smile on his face that Reverend John had a quiet giggle to himself. “Very good,” was all he said as he passed around the dishes of food and we helped ourselves, Baz continuing his piling and scoffing at the same time.
“I’m puzzled, Reverend,” I said, partway through the meal.
“Yes?”
“Well, me and Baz know a little bit about your sermons, you know, with all the reference to eternal fire and all that.”
“What of it?”
“How come, then, you don’t insist on folk giving thanks before a meal? Wouldn’t God be really angry about that, you know, for us being ungrateful and all?”
Reverend John placed his knife and fork down, leaned back in his chair and looked up towards the ceiling. Or maybe it was Heaven? “Look around my church, and what do you see?” he said softly.
“A beautiful piece of architecture,” I said. “Some lovely wall tapestries and engravings…lots of stuff.”
“How does that compare with some of the other premises you’ve attended?”
“Quite favourably. In fact, this is the smartest church of all; well maintained.”
“Exactly!” Reverend John exclaimed, rocking forward and striking the table top with the palm of his hand. “And who do you think paid for all that?”
“The parishioners?” I suggested.
“Yes, but not all of them. There isn’t enough money in this tiny community to pay for the maintenance of a building such as St. Mark’s. But people come from all over. Have you seen one of my congregations? Standing room only some days! I even get write ups in Christian Weekly and other magazines. Folk get to hear about the lambasting Reverend. They come to listen, and I give them what they want – a lesson in the kindness and love of Jesus Christ, and the consequences of turning our backs on the teachings of our Lord. People need guidance. They need to be told when something is right or wrong. There’s far too much freedom these days with folk shouting about their rights, but never a word uttered about responsibilities. Take drugs, for example. People scream about it being their right to live the way they want. They all talk about rights. They forget about the effect on others, those who are drawn unwittingly into a lifestyle that ultimately destroys them in mind, body and soul – not to mention the effects on family and friends. It’s utter selfishness. It’s all about me, me and me these days. It isn’t the work of the devil. Man creates the world we live in through his own greed. For one man's heaven made through greed, a hundred more have to endure the consequences. In life ever
ything is a trade off. If only man would take what he needs, the world would be as God intended. Some folk realise – with a little help from my sermons – that the world is changing for the worse; turning evil as a result of their own self-centredness, and they look for guidance. I give it to them. Then they go away, contemplate their own sins, their shortcomings, and come back again a little less selfish than they were and money pours into the collection plates.
“You see,” he leaned forward, whispering, “some folk try to buy their salvation, back into God’s favour. Most of it goes to charitable causes of course, in the community and abroad, but some stays here to maintain the church. That way they keep coming back. Who wants to come to a shabby run down church? This is, after all, a temple to the glory of God. It should shine as such!”
“Who paid for the window?” Baz piped.
“Window? What window?”
“Um…the newish one, near the altar, south side. Me and Ed noticed there was no Adam like and was wondering…”
Baz’s words trailed off as he spoke them. The intensity of Reverend John’s glare unnerved both of us. Change the subject.
“It is new, yes,” I jumped in. “I couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. Like everything else in St. Mark’s, quality top to bottom. Take the marble flooring around the altarpiece for example. You just don’t get it like that nowadays. Dark stone, cream swirls in forty centimetre slabs, three inch thick I’ll bet that is – imported, usually reserved for Saudi palaces and the like.”
“Good stuff to have in the kitchen,” added Baz. “Spill cheese and mayonnaise on it and no one can tell the difference, even if you’ve stepped in it.”
Reverend John sat silent for an uncomfortably long time, lightly drumming his fingers on the tabletop. His face wouldn’t betray whether the subject was changed or not, but when he reached forward and picked up an apple, holding it out in the palm of his hand, I knew that a sermon was coming.
