A Vicarage Family

by Noel Streatfeild

  For the last three years Victoria and John had been a high spot of the Boxing Day entertainment. At the Penny Reading last Boxing Day John, dressed as a showman, had exhibited Victoria as a waxwork doll who, when wound up, could take off various well-known parish workers. Victoria loved an audience, it satisfied the exhibitionist side of her nature; she also loved performing with John, they had rehearsed endlessly and gave as a result an excellent performance.

  John was delighted.

  ‘Oh good, I’ve often thought about us doing that and worked out some more we might have done – it always seemed a waste to do it only once.’ They were getting near the vicarage. ‘You do swear you won’t tell anyone, even Isobel, what I’ve told you?’

  Victoria flashed round at him.

  ‘Idiot! When have I ever told your things?’

  ‘Never. Only this is so terribly important. Dad mustn’t know one thing until I’m leaving Oxford.’

  The vicar had not been able to get away to meet John at the station but he was in the hall when John and Victoria reached home. He spoke with extra warmth to make John forget he was not part of the family.

  ‘My dear old man! How good to have you home. Vicky has told you all the news I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Jim.’

  The vicar hesitated.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from your father, he had wanted you to have some boxing coaching these holidays. I think he feels you are doing so well with your work you may not be giving sufficient time to sport.’

  John nodded.

  ‘That’s it. He was a bit of an all-rounder, wasn’t he?’

  The vicar looked sympathetically at his nephew.

  ‘They all were. I was the only dunce at games in the family, the only thing I was any good at was running. We had a family cricket eleven, you know, made up of us and various cousins, we used to play other Kent teams. Your father was the prize organizer, I was the family disgrace. I seldom made any runs and I was sent to field well out where no catch was likely to come my way. Still, we don’t want to repeat my poor performance. Perhaps part of next holidays I can arrange some boxing.’

  John was fond of his uncle.

  ‘I can only hope you can’t arrange it.’

  The vicar laughed.

  ‘Shameless boy!’ Then he laid a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘I hope you have a splendid holiday, but I’m sure you will with Granny and Grandfather for it’s the perfect place to spend it. I only wish I could join you.’

  John, walking up the stairs to find Isobel, thought in an affectionate, puzzled way of what his uncle had said.

  ‘I wonder what it was about their home that they found so wonderful. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Dad or Uncle Jim or one of the other uncles, their eyes positively swim when they think of the dear old home. If only they didn’t want us to feel the same way about our homes.’

  6

  Goodbye

  The goodbye party, though for their father and in a lesser degree for their mother it was an emotional occasion, was for the children fun. Even Dick was in high spirits for Alexander’s travelling arrangements were now satisfactorily arranged, and his mother was seeing to the removal of his plants. Moreover there was a half promise made by his father of another family dog.

  Three years before, against his better judgment, the children’s father had allowed them to have a fox terrier puppy; he was christened Adrian. The reason why their father had up to then set his face against a family dog was the danger of his getting run over. There was a path from the front gate to the back gate which was used unlawfully by errand boys as a right of way. The vicar had never had the heart to take action for the path saved a good ten minutes for those on their way to the streets that lay behind the vicarage back gate. But errand boys scurrying guiltily through had no time to be careful about closing gates, thus the fear of having a dog. Adrian had been enormously loved by all the family, especially Dick, but, doglike, he had chosen for himself to whom to give his heart – the children’s father. Because of this he tried to go wherever the vicar went, suitable or unsuitable.

  According to the children’s mother he could always be seen, looking reverent, walking behind the vicar when he was carrying his portable altar to someone who was ill. He also went daily to early service, waiting – still more reverent – in the porch for the vicar to come out. These things had made the children’s mother call Adrian, rather bitterly, ‘That high church dog!’ Two and a half years after he had become a member of the family a policeman had come to the door carrying his collar – Adrian had been killed by a bus.

  ‘And that,’ the children’s father had said, ‘settles that. No more dogs, it isn’t safe.’

  But the new vicarage with its big garden and a field was different.

  ‘I’ll look out for another fox terrier puppy the moment we are settled,’ he had promised Dick.

  ‘I hope he’s low church this time,’ their mother said to the children.

  Perhaps, if the children had been forced to watch their home ceasing to be their home, they would not have been so cheerful when the time came to go. But because they were leaving the day after the goodbye party to stay with their grandparents, they were not to see their home become an empty shell, with only marks made yearly on the dining room door to show how much each child had grown, and a few other such landmarks to indicate that the Strangeway family had lived there.

  The goodbye party was preceded by the operation on Nebuchadnezzar. A small square was cut out of his stomach large enough for a hand and arm to go through.

  ‘But,’ the children’s father said before he started the operation, ‘no matter what comes out of him there are to be no recriminations. I’m afraid you have all been guilty at some time or another of putting things that did not belong to you into Nebuchadnezzar, but this is a case of bygones being bygones, it’s too late now to say who are the culprits.’

  What had come out of Nebuchadnezzar was truly astonishing: unimportant jewellery; a watch that wouldn’t go; clothes which had been made for Jackie; Miss Herbert’s purple stone from Derbyshire over which she darned; some fishing flies dating from a period when an uncle had tried to teach John to tie them; dozens of needles and pins; several needlebooks and a pincushion; fourteen pens and pencils; some of Isobel’s paintings; eleven handkerchiefs – most of which belonged to Miss Herbert; two pocket knives; a palm cross; a broken Christmas tree ornament; an assortment of smashed china which had clearly been hidden in Nebuchadnezzar to avoid confessing to an accident, and, amongst other miscellaneous oddments, forty-eight buttons. As most of the objects appeared they were claimed by somebody.

  ‘My dear old darning stone!’

  ‘Look at my flies! Who on earth hid those?’

  Isobel snatched up her paintings.

  ‘I put those in him because I was so ashamed of them, but really they aren’t bad seeing I was only a baby.’

  Victoria fell on the watch.

  ‘This is mine. It never went, and I got so sick of taking it to the jewellers – which you said I must, Daddy, because it was given me by a parishioner – so I gave it to Nebuchadnezzar.’

  The children’s mother fingered the Christmas tree ornament.

  ‘This was that angel I was so fond of. I wonder which bad child broke that – I always wondered where it had got to.’

  ‘Fancy all these handkerchiefs! I was sad when they disappeared because my sister had brought them home from Madeira. Vicky, I’m afraid hiding these looks like your doing.’

  The children’s father lifted a finger.

  ‘We did agree there would be no recriminations, Miss Herbert.’ He picked up a handful of buttons. ‘It’s extraordinary how many of these seem to have a clerical look.’

  The children’s mother held up a tiny blue velvet coat.

  ‘Look, Jackie’s best coat.’

  Louise took it from her.

  ‘I knew it was there, thank you. I put it in myself.’

  ‘But why, darling?’ h
er father asked.

  ‘Well, you know how you are about things made by parishioners, but I didn’t like Jackie in that coat so I posted it in Nebuchadnezzar.’

  Dick was enchanted to find the penknives.

  ‘I had those two Christmases ago and I’ve been looking for them ever since.’

  ‘Someone was very mean to hide those,’ said Louise. She looked in a meaning way at Victoria. ‘I wonder who it could have been? I seem to remember on that Christmas, Vicky, that you were very angry with Dick because accidentally he made a hole in the tube of that trick thing you had that made plates jump up and down.’

  Victoria flushed.

  ‘It’s extraordinary the way some people forget what was said. Poor Daddy, how often have you got to say “no recriminations”?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ her father agreed.

  Their mother looked at what was still on the floor.

  ‘Moving is a time to get rid of rubbish, not to accumulate more, so, unless it’s something good like Miss Herbert’s stone or Dick’s knives, please throw all this mess away.’ She pounced on something she had not before seen. ‘My silver thimble!’

  Isobel had a look.

  ‘Someone’s trodden on it, it’s quite flat.’

  ‘I can see it is, darling,’ her mother agreed. ‘But it was given me as a prize for needlework when I was seven, so I’ve always treasured it.’

  John laughed.

  ‘Don’t let us forget that moving is a time for getting rid of rubbish.’

  The goodbye party was organized by the parish workers. It took the form of a sausage roll and buns meal with tea out of an urn to drink, followed by a concert. Although the concert was supposedly given by parishioners, the high spots would be the performances of the children.

  Ever since they were very small, the children had sung or acted at the afternoon party given by their parents to church workers during the week of the patronal festival, a turn by the children was a ‘must’ on all important parish occasions. In the early days they had sung together some song certain to amuse; one of the most popular had in the verses a list of childish faults and a refrain which went: ‘But didn’t you – didn’t you – didn’t you – didn’t you do the same?’ On each ‘you’ the children had stretched out an arm to point at some well-known parish figure.

  But as they grew older and passed the stage where the audience said ‘Aren’t they sweet!’ no suitable songs could be found for a group of which two could not sing at all. So when John was home they acted something. Not that Isobel, Louise or Dick were much good at acting, but in those days duologues or one-act plays were part of most amateur entertainments, so there were dozens of suitable ones to choose from. For the goodbye party, apart from John’s and Victoria’s Boxing Night sketch, Isobel and Dick were to act a mother and son duologue and Louise was to play the piano, which she could do loudly and accurately but with no musicality whatsoever. The evening was to finish with a presentation to the vicar.

  How easily pleased people were in those days! A soprano song, a ballad of the sort enormously popular at that time in which invariably the key changed in the last verse from major to minor to add point to the sentimental, sad ending, which was sure to bring tears to the eyes of half the women in the audience. A man sang comic songs, he was probably appalling but he brought down the house. A baritone roared out a song about the sea with one about oaken hearts as an encore. A group of male singers sang Sweet and Low. A local music teacher gave a violin solo.

  Then came the children. Their mother, oddly enough, had some sense of showmanship so she put the worst on first and the best last, to wind up the evening well. Isobel and Dick must have been as wooden as peg dolls, for their only idea of acting was to say the words correctly and to get off the stage as soon as possible. And Isobel was hard to hear because of her breathlessness. But the audience were charmed, for they took the will for the deed: this was dear Isobel whom they had known since she was a little thing, and Dick was a great favourite because, when he was not away, they saw him every Sunday singing in the choir.

  The girls were wearing their second-best party frocks, the pink nun’s-veiling with the large lace collars. Isobel and Victoria had to change for their performance but Louise, of course, did not. As she sat confidently down on the piano stool, first placing Jackie on the top of the piano, there were the purrs of pleasure to which she was used. ‘I think Louise gets prettier every day.’ ‘What a little dear she looks!’

  John and Victoria were greeted with tremendous applause as soon as they appeared for they were the accepted star turn. Victoria might be a tiresome girl and a thorn in the poor vicar’s flesh, but she was a real little actress. As for John, he got better looking every holiday, he would be a heartbreaker some day. It was a shame his father and mother were so far away, but still, no one could have a better deputy father than the dear vicar. Lit up by the occasion, John and Victoria were even better than they had been on Boxing Night, and Victoria looked almost pretty as a waxwork doll dressed as a milkmaid, in a pink frock with a fichu and white apron, which Isobel had worn at a fancy dress party. Their performance was greeted with stamps and cheers.

  Then the two churchwardens came on to the stage followed by the committee, which was made up of what the children’s father had once described as ‘the cream of his church workers’. He had regretted afterwards that he had said this in front of the children because they had adopted the expression. ‘Who was there?’ somebody would ask, to be answered with grins by ‘Just the cream’.

  It was Mr Sedman, as the vicar’s warden, who made the opening speech. He had, as had all his parishioners, a profound admiration as well as a deep affection for his vicar. So it was with emotion that he said goodbye. They would, he said, be extraordinarily lucky if they met so fine a man again. For, not only was the vicar a most sincere Christian – one who would be proud to lay down his life for his faith – but he was also a born leader and a fine organizer.

  His voice, much to the children’s embarrassment, cracked as he said: ‘This saying goodbye is going to hit many of us hard, but don’t think, Vicar, you’ve seen the last of us. Eastbourne is not so far away and there are many of us who will find excuses to come over and, though we can no longer call you Vicar, you will still be our friend and, like friends should, we shall want to see how you’re getting on.’

  This speech was followed by a short one from one of the lady church workers. This embarrassed the children even more for tears streamed down her cheeks as she talked. She spoke of the dreadful gap that the vicar’s leaving would mean in many lives. (She did not need to say hers, for one.) It would only be when he was gone that they would realize exactly what he had meant to St Peter’s. So godly a man who had served them so selflessly, life would be bleak without him.

  Then the people’s warden got to his feet.

  ‘It’s my privilege, Vicar, to present to you a little token given to you by all who attend your services and many who do not. You’d be surprised how many people whom you would least expect came up with a subscription saying they never went inside your church but they looked on you as a friend, so would like to give a subscription.’

  A twitch of amusement crossed his face.

  ‘One who has given those of us who serve on the bench a lot of trouble,’ he went on, ‘said even if you were a clergyman you were a real gentleman, and he was proud to add his little something to the fund. Would you come up here, Vicar?’ He paused to give the children’s father time to climb the few steps to the platform. Then, suddenly formal, he said: ‘It is my proud pleasure to present to you this piece of silver, inscribed with your name and crest, and this envelope in which is a cheque to help with your move to your new vicarage.’

  In those days it was customary to honour an occasion with a piece of silver. It never seemed to cross anyone’s mind that a poor clergyman with a large vicarage and limited means, so without a well-trained staff – for well-trained servants, of course, cost more – did not want ext
ra silver which took time to clean. They believed the larger the presentation piece of silver the more it showed in what esteem the receiver of the gift was held. So what the children’s father was holding was a vast silver salver engraved with his crest, under which was: Presented to the Reverend Strangeway as a mark of affection and esteem from his parishioners. Then, below that, the name of the parish and the date. In the envelope was a cheque for £100.

  All their lives the children were to remember their father that night, as he stood there in his best, but nevertheless worn, clerical suit struggling without breaking down to say what was in his heart. He succeeded for he spoke as he preached – well and easily. His was not a great brain, but his love for his people rang out in his opening words.

  ‘My very dear people …’ He went on to explain how much he had learnt since he came to St Peter’s, his first big parish. He thanked them all for their kindness to him and to his family. Nobody, he said, knew how heavy sometimes was the burden on a parish priest, but he had been helped and supported by their prayers.

  At this point Victoria gave John a kick and said out of the corner of her mouth:

  ‘Can you see Mr Sedman praying for Daddy?’

  John, looking amused, shook his head.

  The children’s father turned to his presents. It was, he said, wonderfully generous of them to have given him such splendid gifts. He was not going to pretend the money would not be useful but money was transitory, whereas the salver would be with him until he died; it would be placed where he could see it daily and whenever he looked at it he would think of them.

  A hundred pounds in those days was worth at least five hundred today. So it represented more spending than the children’s father thought seemly for a clergyman. He tried tactfully to suggest this.

  ‘My wife and I will put our heads together to decide what is most desperately needed in the new vicarage, and such things will be bought out of your present to us. But don’t expect to see us living in a luxuriously fitted home. Ostentation is always unbecoming but particularly so in a vicarage. So your gift will be spent frugally on simple, necessary things.’