A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

‘Or just a person who gets the job done.’

  Peter paused. Arguing with self-justifying attitudes led nowhere.

  ‘He doesn’t spill charisma, I grant you, but neither does he spill despair. I think he has a job he believes in, which is rather nice.’

  ‘And you think he has something for us?’

  It was a leading question, accompanied by hawk-like stare from Tamsin.

  ‘Oh, definitely. He’s getting back to me when he knows more. But he knows quite a lot already.’

  ‘And what did you talk about?’

  ‘Beach huts.’

  ‘Beach huts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Glad to hear you weren’t wasting your time.’

  The put-down was short and sharp but Abbot Peter could only smile.

  Tamsin continued: ‘You can now make up for lost time by telling me what on earth you do at church fayres. This is my first.’

  ‘The brief is fairly simple,’ said Peter, as they walked together through the wonderful smell of frying fish and chips towards St Michael’s. ‘You buy one thing you want and two things you don’t. You bump into as many people as possible in a cheery fashion. You comment on the good turnout, even if there’s only three of you. You have a cup of tea, say something nice about the cakes and take your gracious leave.’

  ‘Sounds more your bag than mine.’

  ‘You’ll make it your bag, Tamsin, I know you will. There’s room for all sorts at a Fayre and you’ll bring your own particular genius. Indeed, I suspect you’ll do so well they’ll want you back next year.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  But Peter’s prediction proved true. Once there, Tamsin found she could play this game remarkably well, able to charm stall holders quite as well as she crushed junior officers.

  ‘You have some lovely stones and shells here, Betty!’ she said, after a brief perusal of Betty’s ‘Shingle and Shore’ table.

  The altered circumstances of their present meeting to their last did not appear to strike Betty as odd. Indeed, Betty seemed in particularly high spirits.

  ‘Well, I didn’t find them all myself,’ she said, ‘I did have help but they’re all local. Well, nearly all. Would you like to buy one?’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Betty, staring straight into her eyes.

  ‘It’s such a wonderful event,’ said Tamsin, not ready to be pinned down. ‘Let me first take a look round and then come back and make my choice. I do like the starfish.’

  ‘The starfish isn’t from Stormhaven,’ said Betty.

  ‘But still beautiful.’

  ‘It’s from the Greek island of Kalymnos.’

  ‘Have you been?’

  ‘No. I’ve been to Watford.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I had an uncle there.’

  ‘It’s a lovely place.’

  ‘I didn’t fancy it much.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m happy in Stormhaven.’

  ‘And so say all of us!’

  How did Tamsin manage to sound so convincing?

  ‘Or rather I was happy in Stormhaven.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What changed?’

  Momentarily, the social and the professional coincided but Betty would not be drawn.

  ‘This is the seventy-fifth Christmas Fayre I’ve attended,’ she said.

  ‘Loyalty. You’re an example to us all.’

  ‘Not always. Sometimes I do quite bad things.’

  Like standing on the table to clean the ceiling, thought Tamsin.

  Tamsin said: ‘I simply don’t believe you!’ as another customer distracted the stall holder and she made her escape.

  Meanwhile Abbot Peter was at Jennifer’s teddy bear stall.

  ‘It’s an annual thing,’ she explained, as she continued with the pricing. ‘I ask parents to bring to school any teddies currently out of favour at home. I occasionally have an angry child, claiming kidnap and demanding their teddy back. But it always proves popular. Well, a lot of them are good as new. And for those who find children’s toys expensive, it can be a bit of a godsend.’

  ‘I’m almost tempted!’ said the Abbot, looking at the array of cuddly friends in an uninterested fashion.

  ‘I’m sure we could find a nice one for you, Abbot. A teddy-less Sandy View doesn’t bear thinking about!’

  ‘I’m coping somehow,’ said Peter.

  ‘If it’s a girl, we’d call her Pebbles.’

  ‘And if a boy, Cliff.’

  Abbot Peter was looking to move on and eyeing the second-hand bookstall with inappropriate lust when an arm was placed on his shoulder.

  ‘And you must be the Abbot,’ said an older woman, appearing at his side.

  ‘Indeed I am. A former Abbot at least.’

  ‘I suppose you never lose the habit!’

  It was not the first time he’d heard this quip.

  ‘I was a real Abbot in the desert,’ he explained.

  ‘And you’re still a real Abbot here, whatever the Bishop thinks,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been persuaded to buy a teddy?’ said the older woman.

  ‘I’ve resisted the temptation so far, but there’s only so much a man can take.’

  ‘Well, don’t let her throw sand in your eyes,’ said the woman, looking at Jennifer. ‘She could sell a donkey to Eskimos.’

  ‘Welcome to my mother!’ said Jennifer, before turning to another customer.

  ‘Are you visiting?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I live in Lewes, so it’s only a fifteen minute drive.’

  ‘You must be very proud of your daughter.’

  ‘She’ll do. She was the youngest head in the county when appointed. Though it’s strange to see her quite so happy behind a teddy bear stall.’

  ‘They do grow up quickly, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t that, Abbot’ she said, ‘Not that at all, it’s quite comical really...’ and she was expanding on the comical when the raffle draw was announced. The Bishop and the mayor duly came forward to do the honours.

  ‘I hope we can trust these suspicious looking characters,’ said Sally into the microphone, as they took up their positions either side of her.

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘Never trust a Bishop!’ said Bishop Stephen, excited by attention.

  Everyone laughed again.

  The best raffle prize was Clare’s offer of one day’s van rental, free of charge, on a day of your choice in the coming year. Now that Clare was dead, there was some doubt as to whether the offer still stood, but the parish had decided to go ahead with it anyway. Other top presents included a large bottle of champagne given to Sally by one of her wealthy admirers and a £50 voucher from the local supermarket. After that, the prizes were less thrilling but acceptable. There was shampoo, bubble bath, unwanted dessert bowls and the best of the teddies offered to Jennifer. There was also a can of tinned pears, though no one knew who had given it.

  ***

  The mayor and Bishop formed a surprisingly good double act. The Bishop made jokes about the lavatory chain around her neck and the mayor said she’d use it to flush away his sermons. The mutual hostility brightened everyone’s day until finally, even the tin of pears had found a disappointed owner and the Christmas music resumed over the speakers.

  It was darkening outside, but bright inside with Christmas sparkle as people moved towards the refreshments and made final decisions about buying. The homemade jam and pickle stall, a surprising new venture by an entrepreneurial teenager had sold out completely, something which could not be said of the bookstall where Malcolm was reducing everything to ten pence. He had no desire to be bagging them up later, to be kep
t in black plastic bags for next year. He also displayed his triptych, the one removed from the church by Anton and, gratifyingly, he received many favourable comments about it.

  ‘Why is it not in the church?’ said Mrs Jones, a regular nonattender, who somehow still imagined a claim over church affairs.

  ‘Anton didn’t like it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead -.’

  ‘Don’t hold back on my account,’ said Malcolm. ‘Nothing good can be built on evasion.’

  Mrs Jones found this a little shocking.

  ‘Well, anyway, I think it’s a marvellous painting. Definitely should be somewhere.’

  But despite the praise, Malcolm found himself glancing towards the prayer chapel and thinking of Clare. He would like to have married her, though she was cold like his mother and it wouldn’t have worked. Certainly it had not been a good ending between them but then again, what had she been doing in the church at that time?

  ***

  ‘Good to see Ginger so engaged,’ said Jennifer to Sally as they passed briefly by the tea urn.

  The church youth worker was holding an informal ‘punch the palm’ competition.

  ‘He’s a natural with young people,’ said Sally admiringly.

  ‘But hardly a regular at church events!’

  ‘He comes when he can.’

  ‘It’s so sweet to see you on the defensive, Sally, covering his back for him.’

  ‘I’m not on the defensive! And I’m not covering his back.’

  Jennifer’s surprise was shared by others, for Ginger did not usually attend these things. What he didn’t lead, he didn’t touch. And anyway, from his perspective, he was paid to be with the kids not the adults. Today, however, he was the life and soul of the party. Big, strong and gregarious, his palm was taking a good battering from eager young boys and one or two feisty girls.

  ‘Hardest punch is the winner.’

  ‘Who’s the judge?’

  ‘I am, stupid. After all, it’s my palm so I should know who’s hit it the hardest! And believe me, the winner so far is a girl.’

  A verbal gender war broke out between the under twelves - ‘weakling boys, weakling boys!’ - as children quickly re-joined the queue for the chance of another punch.

  Meanwhile, the Bishop moved among his flock with a cheery smile until becoming becalmed by the books. When the hands of the Bishop and Abbot touched, reaching for the same tome, they had to talk. Peter was aware their last meeting had been in Stormhaven police station.

  ‘I hear your Christmas tree is struggling,’ said the Bishop.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m told the lights on your tree at home are following your lead and abstaining!’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be back, Bishop, in their own time. They don’t crave the attention that some do.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘So how’s Jennifer?’ said the Bishop.

  ‘Jennifer? Well enough, I think, Stephen. She tried to sell me a teddy but apart from that small moral lapse, behaving impeccably.’

  ‘I met her mother just now.’

  ‘Yes, I saw.’

  ‘Tremendous woman, absolutely tremendous woman.’

  ‘She obviously made a deep impression on you... in the 60 seconds you spoke with each other.’

  ‘So where Jennifer gets that unpleasant streak from, I have no idea.’

  ‘A blueberry muffin, Bishop?’ asked Abbot Peter as a tray of the sweet-smelling beauties passed them.

  And then shortly afterwards, Anton started talking. The former vicar of St Michael’s, recently crucified, was suddenly speaking loud and clear. He’d always fancied himself as a DJ and after a number of seasonal tracks, including ‘O Come All ye Faithful’ and ‘Winter Wonderland ‘, he was suddenly addressing the Christmas Fayre:

  ‘And that beautiful piece of music was “The Shepherds’ Farewell” by Berlioz,’ he said. ‘A bit slow but what can you do? And before that - my goodness, an intruder in the studio!’

  There was background noise of a door opening and someone entering the room.

  ‘Sorry listeners, but the Naked DJ is surprised by a visitor! Didn’t expect to see you here quite so soon! I was just making a CD of Christmas music for the Fayre but it’s not anything which can’t wait obviously. And for those listening, our mystery visitor in the studio is quite lost for words! Well, there’s a first time for every -.’

  The church sound system went dead, cutting off Anton in full flow. There was stunned silence in the building. Anton had never been short of a word but few had expected him to offer one this afternoon. And no one moved.

  It was Abbot Peter who reacted first, knowing what needed to be done. As quickly and calmly as possible, he made his way from the opposite side of the church to the vestry from where the CD was being played.

  ‘Let me through, please,’ he said, as he shouldered his way past people still stupid with shock.

  ‘Was that really the vicar?’ said someone as he pushed past them.

  He was there in around ninety seconds. The vestry door was open, but the room empty, as was the CD tray in the machine. Someone had got there before him and he believed he might know who that someone was. It was a strange certainty and one rejected instantly.

  ‘Certainty blinds more than it reveals,’ as he used to say in the desert. ‘When you are certain of something you stop looking. And when you stop looking, you die.’ So as he stood in the vestry, just seconds away from the murderer’s hurried steps, he noted certainty’s arrival and then allowed it to leave, just as Tamsin appeared at the door, holding a starfish.

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘CD or murderer?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Someone must have seen something.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Peter sat down on the desk while Tamsin checked outside. With no vicar hanging on the cross now, an air of normality had crept back into the room. He noted the service register sitting beside him and the Sunday school rota on the wall. The shocking nailing had occurred on Tuesday, but it was Saturday now, four days later and the tide of time had done its work, the need to continue, the need to hope, the need to carry on, erasing scars, returning scenery to the untouched tranquillity of former times. But Tamsin saw no tranquillity in Peter’s eyes.

  ‘Father Anthony,’ he said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Strange man.’

  ‘Most of your friends are.’

  ‘No, he’s been dead awhile.’

  ‘I refer you to my previous answer.’

  ‘In the fourth century AD, he left his home in Middle Egypt to live as a solitary in the desert for twenty years.’

  ‘Another half-crazed, unwashed religious escapist?’

  ‘Far from it: he entered the desert not to escape the darkness but to face it.’

  ‘How about we stay with Stormhaven? It seems more relevant.’

  ‘Oh, we’re very much in Stormhaven. For as Father Anthony said, ‘We do not flee from danger, we advance to meet it.’

  Fifty Six

  The phone was ringing as he walked through the door. Bishop Stephen picked up the phone and discovered Martin Channing on the other end.

  ‘Christmas greetings, Stephen!’

  ‘And greetings to you too, Martin - though technically we’re still in the season of Advent. We mustn’t get to Christmas before Mary and Joseph!’

  ‘God forbid,’ said Martin, who had never made it to Christmas.

  The Bishop felt beguiled to hear the charming voice of Martin Channing. What could he want? He was wary, of course. But if Channing wanted to play hard ball, the Bishop knew a thing or two about the journalistic game.

 
; ‘I’m just back from the Christmas Fayre at St Michael’s, as it happens,’ he said.

  ‘Where I hear you were a storming success, Bishop.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘‘An inspiring man of God among his people in their time of need,’ was how one person described it to me.’

  ‘News travels fast!’

  ‘Well, news is my business,’ said Martin. ‘If I’m not keeping up then we really are in a mess.’

  ‘It was certainly a splendid event, community at its most inspiring, the faithful making the best of difficult times - and certainly a good news story if it’s a good news story you want.’

  ‘You know me, Bishop - I’d cross the desert for a good news story.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should cross the desert a little more often! After all, the Silt isn’t exactly famous for pages devoted to happy outcomes, appearing more interested in - how shall we say? - bottom-of-the-barrel journalism.’

  ‘A little harsh, Bishop.’

  ‘There’s more to life than a few celebrities and the latest ghastly crime.’

  Martin Channing chuckled.

  ‘You’re right of course, Stephen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Painfully so.’

  The Bishop could hardly believe his ears as Channing continued:

  ‘And it’s a weakness in the Silt which I want you to change.’

  ‘Which you want me to change? I would have thought that was the editor’s job.’

  ‘Good point well made. You hit the nail on the head as ever. I wish some of my journalists had your perspicacity.’

  ‘Well, I like to think I wasn’t born yesterday in such matters.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you should be writing a column for the Silt.’

  ‘A column in the Silt? You mean a regular feature in the paper?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. A weekly feature.’

  ‘Weekly?’

  ‘We need the voice of God, Stephen, the voice of hope, a clarion call to our readership in difficult times. I knew it already but your performance today at St Michael’s just confirmed it.’

  ‘Well, if you think I can be of help,’ said Bishop Stephen humbly. ‘I hope I speak the plain and simple truth.’