On one occasion, there was a fight outside a dance hall and I found myself having to sort out something which had all the appearances of an unprovoked attack upon a young man.
The assailant was a powerful farmer called Jack MacKay and he had a pretty daughter of seventeen. She was called Rebecca and she had attended a dance in Elsinby village hall. Jack had driven her to the hall at eight o’clock and had said he would return at 11.45 p.m. to collect her. I was on duty outside the hall, as was my normal practice on dance nights, when I heard a commotion. It was just after 11.45 p.m. and the dancers were leaving, many of them in pairs. Some had been established as couples long before the dance started but other pairings had been formed only that evening. New romances were blossoming, I felt; this was not surprising, of course, because village dances were one of the places where the young people of Aidensfield and district met and fell in love.
My attention was drawn to the fracas by a lot of shouting and cursing; it was in the car park beside the hall and as I turned to investigate the disturbance, somebody shouted, ‘Mr Rhea, there’s a fight near the gate!’
I ran across the car park in the darkness to find two men scuffling and shouting; the younger one was clearly on the defensive and his older, larger assailant was shouting abuse before a curious gathering of friends who tried to separate them. I waded in, shouting ‘Police’, and managed to seize the collar of one assailant. I hauled him backwards, the tightness of his collar restricting his breathing and so forcing him to break his hold on the other.
I found I’d got in my grip a man in his early forties, not a youth in his teens as I might have expected. I recognized him as Jack MacKay, a farmer from Elsinby. The other fighter was much younger, probably in his late teens or early twenties. He was Gerry O’Connell, the son of an electricity board worker from Aidensfield.
‘Now just calm down, the pair of you,’ I shouted.
‘He just came for me,’ the younger man was straightening his clothes and tidying his hair. ‘I never said a word . . . the man’s crazy . . . he just lashed out!’
And it was only then that I saw Rebecca in the background, biting her lip as she suddenly found herself a reluctant focus of attention in this strange affair.
‘What’s all this about, Jack?’ I asked the older man.
‘I’m having no Papist courting my lass,’ he said in a strong
Scots accent. ‘I want no Romish offspring near me, no Papist trash in my family . . .’
‘I’m a Papist,’ I said quietly. ‘But I’m sure that young man isn’t trash. Catholic, yes, trash no.’
‘He called me that,’ said the youngster, licking his lips where Jack’s first blow had landed. ‘I don’t know what’s got to him.’
Jack belonged to a fiery Scots religion, one of the so-called Wee Frees, and I’d long known of his religious intolerance. He was a very charming man otherwise, a good farmer and a successful businessman, but his deep religious bias could surface at the most awkward moments. And when he’d seen his daughter kissing a Catholic ‘good night’ outside the dance hall, he’d been unable to restrain himself. ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself was not a commandment which was accepted by members of his church; they hated Catholics and made no secret of it, in spite of calling themselves Christians.
‘Jack, calm down or you’ll be arrested,’ I bellowed at him to rouse him from his fanatical stupor.
My voice so very close to his ear seemed to do the trick and he suddenly relaxed, as if all his anger had evaporated.
‘Sorry, Nick,’ quite suddenly he was as calm and rational as ever. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that . . . it’s just that . . .’
‘Jack, you’ve got to learn to control this dislike of Catholics. I’m a Catholic but I don’t go around clouting members of the Scottish Free Churches . . . and I don’t go around arresting them without good cause.’
‘He was kissing my daughter.’
‘Is that a crime? Would Christ have reacted like you did? For most of the time, you live a good Christian life, Jack, I know that — no alcohol, prayers on Sundays, no swearing . . . yet you blow up like this!’
‘It’s those Papists . . .’
‘Look, I suggest you shake hands with young Gerry and then we can forget this. I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to prosecute you for assaulting him, the press would have a field day with this story, you know — religious strife in Elsinby!’
‘I can never shake hands with a Papist,’ he said.
‘If I was St Peter, would you shake hands with me?’
‘Aye, of course, Peter was a good man.’
‘He was the first Pope,’ I said. ‘That’s not religious dogma, it’s part of world history. And he was appointed to the job by Christ himself, even your Bible will tell you that! Thou are Peter and upon this rock I will build my church . . . you’ve heard the words, surely?’
‘You’re playing with words, Mr Rhea.’
‘And you’re playing with fire, Jack. Hell fire, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
At this point, Rebecca came forward and took her father’s arm. ‘Come along, dad, take me home.’
He looked at Rebecca, then at me, then at the crowd which had gathered and nodded, ‘Aye, right,’ was all he said. He did not apologize for his actions and I decided to let him go rather than inflame the situation any further. There was absolutely no point in arresting him or bringing about a prosecution — it would serve no useful purpose at all. As I made my decision, he turned his back on Gerry O’Connell and walked away without a word. Rebecca trotted after him.
‘You’ll not press charges, Mr Rhea?’ said Gerry as he came over to me, still nursing his jaw with his hand.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But next time you fancy the daughter of one of the Wee Frees of Scotland, make sure her dad’s not around to see you in action!’
‘I’ve been seeing her a while,’ said the lad. ‘She never said anything about her dad being likely to blow up like that.’
‘She knows you’re a Catholic?’ I asked.
‘Yes, we often have talks about religion, she’s very interested in my church, she says her mum wanted to leave Scotland to get away from the influence of the Wee Frees, to gain a wider perspective, she said. But her dad won’t give up.’
‘Give him time,’ I said. ‘If he was brought up in that mould, he’ll never shake off the shackles. It’s up to you to show the Jack MacKays of this world that Catholics haven’t got forked tails, that the Pope isn’t an Antichrist, and that we are all human beings with a love of God.’
‘It’s not easy, coping with a man like that,’ he said. ‘I’ll be scared even to let him see me with Rebecca, he might turn violent again.’
‘Just don’t give him chance, and don’t react the same way as him,’ I advised. ‘Keep calm — in fact, you made a very good start tonight. You could have flattened him, I’d guess.’
‘If you hadn’t turned up, I reckon I could have floored him,’ grinned Gerry. ‘I was my school boxing champion, I can use my fists.’
And so the drama was over. Gerry walked home without his girlfriend, while Rebecca drove her father back to his farm. Later, I saw Gerry and Rebecca going for walks together on the moors or visiting Strensford or the coastal villages, but whenever I met them I never referred to that incident.
Several years later, Rebecca did marry Gerry; they married in Elsinby Catholic church before a happy gathering of friends and family. The only man missing was Jack MacKay. He died three weeks before the wedding; some said his death was an act of God. I wondered if it was from a broken heart.
* * *
I think a lot of people are interested in religion, probably out of curiosity; many who never go near a church or attend a service frequently express their views on religion in a manner which shows they often think about it. I knew a man who claimed to be an atheist; he had no belief whatsoever in God or divinity, and yet he peppered his conversation with phrases like, ‘God willing’, ‘God only knows’ and ‘God hel
p me’.
Another such character was Geoffrey Ditchburn, a retired chemical worker. He found religion something of a puzzle and often tried to rationalize his thoughts in conversations with those who attended church.
He’d worked all his life in the chemical industry on Teesside, being an expert on man-made fibres, and he retired to a life of rural bliss in Aidensfield. During my patrols I would often see him out for a brisk walk with his two labradors, Bill and Ben. Geoffrey, a rounded, cheerful-looking man with a bald head and tiny ears, walked swiftly with the aid of a walking stick. He spent hours roaming the moors and woods looking for unusual insects. Whenever he saw me, however, he would stop for a chat and he did have a tremendously wide knowledge of politics and world affairs; he also had a wonderful sense of humour. It was due to the arrival of the Reverend Lord that, one day when he met me on the village green, his topic of conversation was the church. After the usual pleasantries, he asked if I had met the new vicar.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Several times,’ and I followed by expressing a favourable opinion of Christian Lord.
‘I never go to church,’ he said solemnly. ‘I can say my prayers whenever and wherever I want; I don’t need pews and walls and incense and colourful robes to help me meet God.’
‘You believe in God?’ I asked.
‘Yes, although not necessarily in the form of a bad-tempered old man sitting on a throne and delegating responsibility to St Peter. We all know St Peter finished up as nothing more than a heavenly bouncer, deciding who comes into heaven and who doesn’t. What a job — it must be worse than being a bouncer at a night-club, having to make all those decisions. And he won’t get paid either. Imagine being faced with villains — Hitler or Stalin or Henry VIII — would you have let any of that lot into heaven? Remember, once they’re in, you can’t turf them out again; it’s worse than a night-club, at least at a night-club you can get rid of unwanted guests. And suppose Peter refused to let somebody in, and God said he was wrong? I mean, Peter might not have admitted Martin Luther but God might have thought he was a decent chap. There again, Peter might have admitted William the Conqueror but God might not have wanted him even though he was a Catholic who built lots of churches and abbeys; God might have been frightened he would try to take over the entire kingdom of heaven and besides, not everybody likes Norman architecture. Then there was Hannibal and all his elephants to look after; do you reckon St Peter wanted him in heaven with all those elephants? I mean, you can’t just assume that whatever Peter wanted God would agree to, and nobody wants their boss altering their decisions . . .’
‘I’d never looked at it like that,’ I had to admit. ‘Do you always see religion like this?’
‘I think I see it logically,’ he smiled. ‘I often believe there were politicians in the universe long before God created the world.’
‘How on earth do you come to that conclusion?’ I asked.
‘Well, the Old Testament says God created the world out of chaos, and politicians always cause chaos!’ he grinned.
I chuckled at this view, but he went on, ‘So what about Noah’s Ark?’
‘What about it?’ I responded.
‘Well, with all those animals on board in such a small place, and on wooden boards. If animals pee or crap on wood, it raises one hell of a stink. So what about that stink? You can’t wash it away, it lingers for months with just one dropping, so can you imagine what it would be like after months of droppings from every one of those animals and birds! God, the thought is appalling! There were no air fresheners in those days, you know, and posies of violets wouldn’t be much of a help. You imagine having all those wild creatures on board, all needing to be fed and watered and mucked out. Who did all that? I can’t believe that yarn about Noah and the Ark, nobody could tolerate that stink all that time! There’s no wonder the bloody dove left, is there?’
I had to chuckle at the picture his words produced in my mind, then he went on.
‘I often think of the church as a football team,’ he said. ‘Every church I mean, not just the Catholics or the Protestants or Aidensfield church.’
‘A football team?’ I was puzzled.
‘Yes. Think of a football as containing all the sins of the world. Now God doesn’t want it in heaven, does he? He doesn’t want all those sins being kicked about in heaven, so the goal is heaven.’
‘And the devil’s the striker?’
‘Yes, the devil is the other side — he’s trying to get sin into heaven. God wants to stop him.’
‘So you see God as the goalkeeper?’ I asked.
‘Got it in one!’ he beamed. ‘God is there trying to keep sin out of heaven, but it’s a tough job, so he needs help. That’s who the other team members are. The Pope is the centre forward and the others in the front line are the outside left and outside right, and inside left and inside right, depending on the opinions of the cardinals. Left wingers and right wingers.’
‘So the halfbacks?’ I asked. ‘Centre half?’
‘The Orthodox churches,’ he said. ‘Greek Orthodox, Eastern Orthodox and Russian Orthodox. Centre half, left half and right half.’
‘And the backs? Left and right full backs?’
‘Church of England on the right, other Protestants on the left. They’re there in case all else fails. And when they’re in play, they all kick the ball to one another; all the churches are trying to pass the blame for sin to one another, aren’t they? If sin gets past any of them, then it’s up to God to become the goalie and stop it from reaching heaven.’
‘But in a real football match a lot of goals are scored,’ I put to him.
‘And I reckon the devil gets a lot of sinful folks into heaven,’ he grinned. ‘Including a lot of churchmen and women.’
‘So where does the ref come into your scheme of things?’ I asked.
‘St Peter,’ he said. ‘He’s the ref and the apostles are linesmen, all working to reach decisions about what’s fair and what isn’t, what’s sinful and what isn’t. I mean, a lot of fouls are committed in the name of religion.’
‘And some goals are not counted due to the off-side rule,’ I added.
‘Some things which are not sins now might have been sins in the past, like sex before marriage,’ he said.
‘I suppose, in your scheme of things, countries who fight battles in the name of religion also commit fouls?’ I said.
‘Got it,’ he grinned. ‘So you see, Nick, I can’t really take religion seriously. Every time I hear a priest or vicar preaching I think he’s a commentator at a football match. I finish up wondering which side will win.’
‘I wonder if God does the football pools?’ I asked him.
‘The thing that worries me,’ he grinned, ‘are the spectators. I often wonder which team they want to win!’
* * *
One of the innovations from the new vicar was the venue of the harvest festival.
He decided to hold it in the pub instead of the parish church, one reason being that all members of the community, irrespective of their religious persuasion, could attend.
He had a word with the Catholic priest, Father Adrian, who felt it was a superb idea, although the Methodist minister, Pastor Smith, felt that the alcohol being served might detract from the solemnity of the occasion. Anything more than a glass of dry sherry was, in the views of some of his parishioners, rather sinful, even if the fruit of the vine did feature strongly in many church services. In spite of his reservations, however, he did agree to participate after Father Adrian reminded him that Christ was born in an inn and that he later produced some very good wine for the wedding at Cana, his very first miracle. Clearly, added the Reverend Lord, Jesus was not against a moderate tipple.
The inn’s harvest festival was probably the first truly ecumenical service in the district. It raised one question though — if this was to be a joint service, should the Catholics and Methodists go ahead with their own normal services, or should this be the Aidensfield harvest festival rather than
the Anglican parish harvest festival? Decisions would have to be made, in parochial church council of course.
Meanwhile George Ward, the landlord, was delighted and readily gave his consent. He even said he would not charge a fee for the use of his premises. A large attendance was expected, so the service would have to be held in the bar because there was no other suitable room at the inn. The only consideration that George requested was that the regulars were not barred from their own pews in the bar.
Christian Lord said, ‘That’s the whole idea, George. We want everybody there, pub faithful and church regulars. This will be one way of getting people to a church service who would never normally venture through my doors.’
‘Like Claude Jeremiah Greengrass?’ smiled George.
‘And others, like you,’ beamed the genial vicar. ‘Now, as you know, the congregation always bring samples of their produce for display in church during the harvest festival — vegetables, fruit, cereals, potatoes and so forth, and when the festival is over, we donate those offerings to charity.’
‘Yes, a very nice idea,’ George agreed.
‘Well, in my view,’ said the vicar, ‘few charities need fruit and vegetables these days. They’re more in need of funds. They need money for furniture, premises, equipment, maintenance and so forth, so on this occasion, I propose holding an auction of the produce after the service. In your pub, I might add. I believe we shall raise a lot of money which we can donate to a worthwhile charity or charities.’
‘It sounds a great idea,’ enthused George. And so the vicar’s plans were put into action. In due course he selected his date, in October, and the announcement was made. Notices were printed and distributed around the village and they asked for the faithful to bring their fruit and vegetables to decorate the pub instead of the church. In the meantime, the Catholics and the Methodists decided not to hold their own harvest festivals this year. Instead, they would all join the village harvest festival in the pub. There were some objections, as all the clergymen had expected, but it was hoped that the objectors would reconsider their decisions for next year.
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 18
