Part Two: Draco Movens

VIII: September 12th

‘God bless them, poor souls,’ murmured the Rural Dean of Templeton. ‘I don’t suppose they have any firm idea as to the death toll yet?’

Georgios Anagnosides shook his head. ‘No, I’ve heard the figure of 5,000 bandied around, but it’s really a very rough estimate. Given the sheer number and variety of the businesses and offices housed within the World Trade Centre - more than seventy nationalities, I gather - it’s possible we may never know the exact figure.’

‘I must admit, I’d never heard of this “Al-Qaeda” until yesterday,’ said Canon Harris reflectively. ‘Or Osama bin Laden. Foreign affairs was never my strong suit.’

‘I’m afraid I knew a fair bit about them,’ observed Georgios. ‘In my curacy, I was on very good terms with our local iman. He was very much aware of bin Laden, and regarded him as a highly dangerous individual, whom the West ignored at their peril. The bombing of the US embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi three years ago first brought Al-Qaeda to America’s attention. Two hundred lives were lost then, following much the same modus operandi as they employed yesterday - almost simultaneous attacks on multiple targets. Clearly, the danger bin Laden posed wasn’t taken seriously enough. Well, that’s changed now. “A day of infamy”–that’s how Roosevelt described Pearl Harbour. It’s almost sixty years later: and here we are again.’

‘You know, we had dared to think that this new millennium would be different. What happened to all the talk of a “peace dividend”, with the collapse of Communism, the Fall of the Berlin Wall, and the West victorious; even, it was said, the “end of history”?’

The younger man smiled, and said: ‘Francis Fukuyama, who coined that phrase a decade ago, may well live to regret it. I rather prefer the Chinese saying: “Better to be a dog in times of tranquillity than a human in times of chaos.” My fear is that the relative tranquillity of the last ten years is over now.’

‘Well, I fervently hope that as far as Templeton with Morrington with Llanfihangel Gilfach are concerned, the reverse is true, and the times of chaos have now passed. I must confess to being relieved now we’ve finally met. You’re not quite what I was expecting. Don’t take this the wrong way, my boy - but I’m glad my worst fears don’t appear to have been realised. More tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’m delighted to have confounded your expectations, Vernon; and I hope I won’t give you cause to re-evaluate them again. So what do you think the greatest challenge will be for me, as the newly-arrived incumbent, in these three parishes?’

‘The countryside is going through a terrible time of it right now, Georgios. This Foot and Mouth disease: I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It’s been far worse than the 1967 outbreak. Rural footpaths closed for months, millions of cattle slaughtered, livelihoods ruined. The crisis seems to be easing, at last, but you’ll still get your fair share of suicidal farmers to deal with, I’m sure. And then, of course, there’s the particular challenge of ministering to a parish that is still grieving the loss of a beloved priest.’ The Rural Dean put down his teacup, and folded his hands together, as if in an attitude of prayer, and rested his lips on them in contemplation. After a few moments, he lowered them, and said simply: ‘Know thy enemy, Georgios - that’s the simplest advice I can give, and a reminder of the greatest challenge you will face. I’m afraid you will find a veritable spider’s web of intrigue in the Templeton group. Remember, many of the individuals you’ll be dealing with belong to families that have been around in these parts for generations. We may just have passed into the 21st century - but you’re going to be ministering in a part of the world that barely feels as if it’s left the Victorian Age behind.’

‘Yes, Benedict said much the same when I saw him on Monday.’

‘Ah, you’ve already met your curate, then. What did you make of him?’

There was something about the way that Canon Harris posed that question that put Georgios on his guard. He’s clearly fishing, a bit too obviously: a fairly anodyne response is required, I think. ‘Pleasant enough. Liturgically, he’s clearly “higher up the candle” than myself: but theologically, I think we’re close enough. I’ll certainly appreciate his support. There are two Lay Readers within the ministry team I gather, yes?’

Vernon Harris nodded. ‘Jack Copeland - who I’m sure you’ll get along with - and Harry Barrington-Smythe.’ He paused. ‘You will undoubtedly find him more tricky.’

‘I’ve spoken to him on the telephone. Long enough to realise he’ll be difficult.’

‘Hmm. Well, both of the Readers are based in Morrington, though available for deployment across the group. Which is more than we can say for Fr Benedict.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m afraid quite a number of the parishioners of Morrington and Gilfach objected to the Bishop giving a licence to Benedict Wishart, when the new parish grouping was formed last year. On account of his living arrangements. St Matthew’s especially has become a bit of an evangelical hot-bed over the past decade, thanks to that idiot Huw Davies-Jones. The chief instigator of the trouble, you probably won’t be surprised to hear, was Barrington-Smythe. He threatened to resign as a Reader, and his wife as People’s Warden. The Bishop was adamant he wasn’t going to licence Fr Benedict to only part of the group - it was all or nothing. Eventually, Edgar Dyson came up with a compromise: a kind of self-denying ordinance on Benedict’s part. He’s licenced de jure to the whole group, but he only ministers de facto at Templeton. All this despite the fact, of course, that he lives in Morrington. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but it seems to work. Edgar was good like that. Pragmatic.’ Harris sighed deeply. ‘I will never understand what possessed him to take his own life. I’ve lost a reliable colleague; and a good friend.’

‘I know I’ll certainly have some big shoes to fill. After all, he was in the parish quite a bit longer than any of his predecessors in living memory - including our Bishop. I must say,’ said Georgios, carefully, ‘I was surprised to see the name Mervyn Mortlake on the Roll of Vicars. Given he never mentioned it to me at my interview.’

If Georgios was looking for a veiled reaction from the Rural Dean, he received none. ‘That is surprising. Perhaps it slipped his mind - no, that’s nonsense. Nothing much slips Bishop Mervyn’s mind. I’ve no idea as to why he would have neglected to mention that little detail. Still, he most certainly has other things to contemplate at present.’

‘So the Sacred Synod is going ahead on Friday?’ queried Georgios.

‘Hmm, I did wonder if they might postpone it. But no: full steam ahead. And the Diocesan Conference will proceed as planned on Saturday, too. You don’t need to attend, Georgios, in case you were wondering - make the most of not yet belonging to the Diocese, officially speaking!’ The Rural Dean chuckled. ‘I think it could be a contentious gathering. I’ve heard rumours that the Bishop is going to use his presidential address to unveil a Diocesan Review. Structures, deployments, maybe even church closures - that kind of thing. The Archdeacon has denied it most vehemently: which almost certainly means it’s true.’

‘Church closures? Will that affect us in the Deanery?’

‘Given the glacial speed at which the Church of Wales moves, I doubt it. Quite a few of the smaller churches in the Deanery really are overdue for closure, mind. Llanfihangel Gilfach, with you, for example. As you’ll soon discover, a congregation of four people and a sheepdog isn’t particularly inspiring.’

‘Ah, but isn't that one of the famed Llanfihangel churches,’ countered Georgios, ‘that must be kept open at all costs?’

‘You mean the Darkwoode legend?’ Vernon Harris frowned. ‘Who’s been filling your head with that nonsense? Bernard Meeks? He loves to spin yarns, that old rascal. Oh - that reminds me - do please be aware there’s ill-feeling between Delilah Meeks, Bernard’s wife, and Belinda Buxton, the People’s Warden in Templeton. She’s a formidable woman, Belinda. Be very careful to keep on the right side of her, as best you can. She’s not very happy with me, I’m afraid, right now. Blames me, I think, for the fact your induction service will be held in Morrington, not Templeton. But that’s entirely down to the Bishop - nothing to do with me.’

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs Mary Harris - short, mousy and demure - appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt,’ she began, ‘but I do think we need to be getting ready for the Farmers’ Club Dinner, darling.’

‘Oh, goodness me, is that the time?’ exclaimed Harris. He jumped up, agitated. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry, Georgios - but I think we’re going to have to cut short our discussion. Is there anything else you need to know urgently?’

The reason my predecessor killed himself, thought Georgios. There’s some real, dark mystery underlying that, I’m certain of it; and that’s what I really want - no, need - to discover.

‘Nothing comes to mind,’ he lied. ‘I’ll call you if I think of anything. I hope the Conference goes well on Saturday - do let me know if the Bishop decides to make all three of my churches redundant!’ Despite Julie Johnson’s warning, Georgios had found himself warming to the slightly crusty but nevertheless well-meaning Rural Dean.

Harris chuckled. ‘Will do, my boy.’

Georgios turned to Mrs Harris, still hovering anxiously in the doorway of Vernon’s study. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Harris. I hope you have a pleasant evening at the Farmers’ Club Dinner.’ He shook her hand.

‘Well, we’re just pleased there’s a Dinner at all, after this terrible year,’ she replied sadly. ‘The Foot and Mouth epidemic has been absolutely devastating. Those poor farmers! Still, there have only been a few outbreaks reported this month so far - and none at all in Wales. Let us hope it’s almost over.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Georgios gravely. He picked up his diary, and held out his hand to the Rural Dean of Templeton. ‘See you next week - Monday, didn’t we say? - to discuss the induction service. With the Archdeacon.’

‘Yes. All the best with the rest of the unpacking. It’s good to have you in our midst, my boy. Very good indeed.’

IX: September 13th (St Cyprian, Bishop, Doctor & Martyr)

Not for the first time, Councillor Donald Motte wondered if he had made a serious mistake in joining the Temple and Morrington Town Council. Yet he still optimistically believed that he had stood for election in 1999 out of an earnest desire to improve the lot and well-being of the people of Templeton. He had no tribal loyalty to a political party, and had stood as an Independent candidate - a true independent, not like most of his fellow councillors, who pusillanimously hid behind that banner of convenience rather than present themselves with honesty as the Conservatives they really were.

Motte looked around the room at the faces about him: the rogues, the chancers and the time-wasters sat there alongside the vainglorious, the self-important and the power-hungry. There were a few whom he believed to be genuinely motivated by a desire for public service - ones who had not become as jaded as he had, in a surprisingly short stretch of time. But only a few.

The current Mayor of Templeton, sat at the head of the long polished council table, was Cllr Keith Lewis. Lewis was a wily, ambitious politician; a smooth operator who was now serving his fourth stint as Mayor. He was a relative newcomer to Templeton, having moved to the town from South Wales some twenty years or so ago. A former County Councillor, he had narrowly lost that contest two years ago to one of his local rivals, Raymond Liddle. Lewis stood out from the other councillors in a number of ways. Firstly, he was a member of the Liberal Democratic Party. Liberalism wasn’t quite as strong in this part of mid-Wales as it had been half a century ago, but it still had a greater local following than the Labour Party. Secondly, Lewis was a faithful member of All Saints, Templeton, where his daughter Antonia also sang in the choir. Thirdly, he was married to a beautiful Spanish lady named Gabriela. Her exotic, dusky features were particularly notable in a remote Welsh town that was not renowned for ethnic diversity. Lastly, he was a proud Welsh language speaker: again, rather unusual for an Anglo-Welsh border settlement. All in all, Keith Lewis offered a marked contrast to his fellow councillors; and consequently was viewed with great suspicion by most of them. Motte didn’t trust him one little bit.

Immediately to Lewis’ left sat the Deputy Mayor, Cllr Terry Uckbridge. Uckbridge was one of the few unqualified ‘good guys’ on the Council, in Donald Motte’s book. Like Motte himself, he was Templeton ‘born and bred’, and his great love for the town and its people was without question. Self-effacing, with a self-deprecating sense of humour, he was a quiet but attentive man. He was also a lifelong member of the Labour Party. Strangely, whilst the local membership of the party, never great, had waned over the past two decades - failing to revive even during these recent years of good fortune for the national party, with Blair’s landslide victories in 1997 and now just a few months ago - Uckbridge’s personal popularity had seemed to flourish. He was now the third-longest serving member of the Council, but all attempts to persuade him to stand as Mayor had been in vain; he would simply shake his head, and say: ‘No, that’s not for me.’ Rather like one time Labour leader Hugh Gaitskell - often lauded as ‘one of the best Prime Ministers we never had’ - there were many in Templeton who pondered, wistfully, how things might be different with a man of such clear integrity and humanity as their Mayor. His trenchant atheism also meant that his one significant opponent on the Council was the current Mayor. Their uneasy personal relationship made for a somewhat difficult professional one.

Next to Uckbridge sat Cllr Grant Halliday, the local Funeral Director. A morose man who rarely smiled, he was certainly perfectly suited to his chosen vocation. It was a fairly open secret that he was a member of the local Masonic Lodge; less well-known was the fact that he was the Lodge’s current Master. His son Elliott was one of the boys who had found the unfortunate Sarah Dyson last Halloween besides her deceased husband in Templeton churchyard. By all accounts the boy had been badly shaken by the experience: surprisingly so, thought Motte, given the nature of his father’s profession. Still, not necessarily the case of ‘like father, like son.’

The next two seats around the table were vacant. One of them belonged to Wilfrid Sowerby, a local farmer who was barely literate, barely intelligible on the rare occasions he spoke in council meetings, and, in truth, barely ever present through the autumn months. Chances are he’ll reappear come the November meeting, once harvest-tide was finally past. Not that we’ll notice the difference. The other belonged to Cllr Byron Prothero, the town’s dentist, who was currently laid up in Templeton Hospital with a fractured pelvis, and who had already tendered his apologies. It was a great shame. Other than Terry Uckbridge, Prothero was the only one of his fellows that Motte really rated. He had only once served as Mayor - ‘never again’ was his repeated mantra. Not words one will ever hear, in that context, from the next man around the table…

This next seat was occupied by the oldest and longest-serving member of the Town Council, Cllr Joseph Jeffries, commonly known as ‘J J’ - or, less kindly, as ‘J J Magoo’, on account of his chronic shortsightedness. Cllr Jeffries had been a member of Temple and Morrington Council since its formation in 1974, and before that had been a member of its predecessor body, the Templeton Urban District Council, for twelve further years. He had served as Mayor on seven separate occasions - more than any other Councillor except his old political rival, and Templeton’s first Mayor, Kai Morgan. Kai had been Mayor a record eight times, and had died just six weeks before the end of his final year of office, back in 1994. Jeffries was determined to serve one last year as Mayor - a complete year, unlike his old opponent - all so he could claim, with some justification, to have been ‘Templeton’s longest-serving Mayor’. Nothing would please him more than to be elected Mayor one final time next spring, as he celebrated his 40th anniversary since his first election to the former Templeton Urban District Council in 1962. Unfortunately for Jeffries, he had made many enemies on the Council over the years, all of whom were determined to thwart his most fervent desire. There were plenty in the wider community who were tired of the curmudgeonly 85-year-old fossil too, and who were equally convinced that seven years of ‘Mayor Magoo’ was more than enough.

If Jefferies represented the very worst of ‘old’ Templeton, then Motte feared the naked ambition of the woman who was in the seat to his left: the Council’s newest member, Cllr Mrs Valerie Faraday. ‘Faraday from Far Away’, as she was nicknamed, had stirred up considerable controversy in the eighteen months since she had arrived as Templeton Hotel’s latest owner. The Hotel hadn’t been a going concern since the Seventies, really: but the misfortunes of one owner after another did not give Valerie Faraday any cause for concern. As she was fond of saying to any who would listen to her, she wasn’t going to be daunted by the pygmies who had preceded her: she was going to shake up this sleepy town, and its complacent Council - just you wait and see! The moment a casual vacancy had appeared back in May, she had sensed her opportunity. This was only her fourth full council meeting, and one would think that ensuring the Hotel weathered the storm after a calamitous tourist season, thanks to Foot and Mouth, would be her greatest priority. Nevertheless, it was already clear that she was eyeing the big prize. Forget J J’s fanciful pipe-dreams: come next year, it was perfectly apparent that she was the one who intended to be chairing this Council ‘of woeful inadequacy’ (her words) as Templeton’s first ever female Mayor.

Unless, of course, the individual sitting to her left had any say in the matter. Cllr Martin Bracket, like Keith Lewis, had served four times previously as Mayor, and was second only to Joseph Jeffries in terms of year given to the Council in service. For all that, he wasn’t particularly interested in chasing the records of J J or Kai Morgan - but next year was different. 2002 would be the year of Her Majesty The Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Bracket dearly wanted to be the Mayor during that special year. He had been chairing the Council’s special Jubilee Committee for the past twelve months, and as far as he was concerned, there was no other Councillor more eminently qualified to become Mayor against the backdrop of what promised to be a year of tremendous excitement and celebration. As well - he hoped - the opportunity to meet Her Majesty herself.

The next round the table, County Cllr Raymond Liddle, was an unusual individual. Motte half-admired him for his willingness to nail his colours firmly to the mast: for Liddle was a true-blue Tory, unabashed and unrepentant. And as mad as a box of frogs. In an already crowded field, he too had declared an interest in standing for the Mayorship next year - only to have his arch-rival Keith Lewis declare that it was ‘inappropriate’ for someone to be both Mayor and County Councillor at the same time. ‘You managed to do it once yourself, didn’t you?’ Liddle had retorted.

‘Ah yes,’ Lewis had replied, sadly. ‘That is why I know it to be an ill-advised venture. I know from experience it’s all too much. I would strongly oppose anyone else attempting to do the same.’

The next seat was taken by Motte himself. Then, on his left, sat Cllr Tom Giddings. With Sowerly and Pothero, Giddings was one of three Councillors from the Morrington Ward. Giddings’ father had been the leader of the old Morrington Rural District Council, which had been united with Templeton as part of the local government reorganisation of 1974. Old Zechariah Giddings had fought tooth and nail against the changes. Better to be a big fish in a small pond, son, he would often say. Motte knew that Tom held his father in contempt. ‘I made up my mind, a long time ago, that my father was wrong,’ he had told Motte on several occasions. ‘Better still to be a big fish in a big pond.’ Tom Giddings was now the largest landowner in the district, owned the petrol station in Morrington and was a three-times former Mayor. He, like Grant Halliday, was a member of the Templeton Masonic Lodge. He was clearly ambitious, yet in a far less transparent way than the likes of Faraday, Lewis or Liddle. Motte had been in the same year at Templeton High School as Tom Giddings, and knew him better than anyone else on the Council. He had once regarded him, in their youth, as a good friend. But now Motte sensed that he was the most dangerous man around that table; and, potentially, the most ruthless.

Eleven men, good and true (well, ten men and one woman, on the rare occasions they were all present). The twelfth seat, the one on the Mayor’s right hand, was occupied by the youngest person in the room: the Town Clerk, Mandy Whitaker. She was in her late twenties, and had only been clerking the Council for the past twelve months: but despite her youth, she had proved herself competent. Clearly capable of dealing with older men, thought Donald Motte approvingly.

The public gallery had just three people present that night. As usual, there was Mrs Hilary Fossington, one of those strange creatures who took a peculiar and far from benign interest in every planning application that the Council would consider. Then there was Ernie Hutton, taking notes as usual on proceedings for the Llanmadoc Wells Courier. A former Town councillor himself (until he had some big bust-up with Kai Morgan during his final year as Mayor), now Hutton was ‘poacher-turned-gamekeeper’, political reporter rather than politician. Hutton’s editor must despair of him, so detailed and abstruse are his reports, mused Motte. I can only assume Hutton is paid by the word, and has secretly amassed a considerable fortune, which he has left in his will to the Owl Preservation Society.

The final ‘visitor’ was a surprising one. Donald Motte couldn’t recall ever having seen the Rural Dean of Templeton at a Council meeting before. It was especially odd, given that Templeton wasn’t one of his parishes. No, wait - isn’t he in charge, technically, until the new priest, Ed Dyson’s replacement, is installed or confirmed, or whatever-it-is Anglicans call it? Still doesn’t explain what he’s doing here…

The Town Mayor raised his gavel and brought it down twice, with a resounding thud. Immediately, the room fell silent - well, almost silent. Jeffries was muttering away to himself, no doubt in his increasingly distracted mind reliving some historic battle of wits with the old enemy Kai Morgan. Lewis gave him a sharp stare, and looked as if he was about to say something withering, but then evidently thought better of it. Instead he cleared his throat self-importantly, before continuing:

‘Before we begin tonight’s meeting, I thought that given the appalling events in New York and Washington two days ago, we should observe a minute’s silence. We are the democratically-elected representatives of the people of Templeton and Morrington, and it’s only right we should take a moment to reflect on the terrible threat to democracy the world over that these atrocities represent. As you know, All Saints Church in Templeton - your pardon, Cllr Giddings, St Matthew’s Church in Morrington, and St Michael’s Gilfach too - those three churches are about to welcome the new Archbishop of Wales, to lead an induction service for their new Vicar.’ (Ah, thought Motte, that’s it. Vicars get induced.) ‘Canon Vernon Harris, however, has cared for the parishes very ably over the past almost twelve months, and provided considerable guidance, I must say, to our whole community - a community that was deeply shocked by the manner of the former Vicar’s death, and has additionally struggled, as all in our countryside have struggled, with the scourge of disease this year. I have invited him to be with us tonight, both as a courtesy, but also at a time of global uncertainty, asking to lead us in the act of silence, and then to end with a short prayer.’

There was surprised murmuring from several councillors; then Cllr Faraday raised her hand, and said: ‘Point of order, Mr Mayor: if I may speak, this is most irregular. The standing orders for a Council meeting are quite clear…’

‘And do not apply, Councillor,’ replied Lewis testily. ‘As the Town Council meeting has not, as yet, commenced.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Cllr Bracket, glaring at Valarie Faraday as he did so. ‘These are extraordinary times, and I for one think the Mayor has acted quite appropriately.’

Canon Harris stood up and raised his hand, and the room fell silent. He noted Ernie Hutton, scribbling away furiously in the corner, and smiled: Doubtless the editor of the Courier will receive a particularly vivid account of this month’s Temple and Morrington Council Meeting.

‘My friends, members of Council,’ he began courteously, ‘I really wouldn’t want my presence here in any way to be a distraction, or a cause for dissension. I’m sure we all agree there is far too much of that in the world as it is. If any Councillor truly feels that the Mayor has acted inappropriately, then I will, of course, withdraw. My presence here is merely a community gesture, nothing more. In no way am I expecting the Council to take a religious stance. Isn’t that so, Keith–um, Cllr Lewis?’

You’re a cunning one, thought Motte. You’d make a good politician.

‘Quite so,’ replied the Mayor - feeling as if, somehow, the Rural Dean’s comments had slightly upstaged him. ‘Does anyone have an objection?’

Silence. Cllr Faraday sat very still, her lips pursed in disapproval, but said nothing. Cllr Uckbridge suppressed a smile, covering his mouth discreetly with his hand. Ernie Hutton stopped writing for a moment and lowered his notepad. The only noise was a sudden sharp whine from Cllr Jefferies’ hearing aid. ‘Confounded thing,’ he muttered, as he took it out and started fiddling with it.

‘Very well,’ said Lewis. He nodded at the Rural Dean. ‘Over to you Canon Harris.’

‘Thank you.’ The priest clasped his hands together, in a gesture of prayer. ‘Shall we all stand?’

X: September 14th (Holy Cross Day)

NOT SO SACRED SYNOD CONFIRMS NEW ARCHBISHOP

There was consternation and controversy today at the meeting of the Sacred Synod of the Church of Wales in the parish church of Llanmadoc Wells, mid-Wales. Ever since the disestablishment of the Church of Wales by William Gladstone in 1873, this modest-sized church - the nearest to the geographical centre-point of the Principality - has been where the House of Bishops of the Church of Wales has met whenever required to confirm the appointment of a new Archbishop.

The election itself takes place some weeks before, at a meeting of the Electoral Conclave, a representative body of lay people, clergy and bishops who take counsel together in closed session. The deliberations of the Conclave are conducted under oaths of strict secrecy, with no publicly-announced candidates for the archiepiscopacy (though from time to time rumours about the ‘runners and riders’ at a particular Conclave meeting may leak). Certainly this was the case at this year’s Electoral Conclave, which met in July following the tragic death of the last Archbishop, the Most Revd Geraint Morgan, in a car accident. It is rumoured that the eventual appointee of the Conclave, Bishop Mervyn Mortlake, the Bishop of Pengwen, was a ‘compromise candidate’ between representatives of the evangelical and traditionalist wings of the Church, Bishop Rhydian Howells, the Bishop of Llandewi, and Bishop Connor Jennings, the Bishop of Casnewydd.

Under the Constitution of the Church of Wales, the Sacred Synod serves merely to confirm the result of the Electoral Conclave, and has no power in and of itself to change the result. However, today’s meeting of the Synod was remarkable for two reasons. The first was the absence of the Right Revd Bryson Maxwell-Lewis, the Bishop of Abertawe, who is known to be suffering from cancer (Bishop Maxwell-Lewis’ retirement comes into effect at the end of September, leaving a second vacancy in the House of Bishops, additional to the late Archbishop Gerraint’s episcopal see of Segontium). The second reason was the extraordinary decision of Bishop Howells to denounce the outcome of the Electoral Conclave. In his address before the astonished Synod, Bishop Howells made veiled references to undue influence being placed on some of the electors, and suggested that the appointment of Bishop Mortlake had been ‘preordained by a poisonous cabal within the highest echelons of the Church of Wales.’ Bishop Howells then left the Church, refusing to make any further comment to the gathered media representatives. The confirmation of the Electoral Conclave’s decision was made in the customary manner, and the Most Revd Mervyn Mortlake was declared Archbishop of Wales, the 13th prelate to hold that office since disestablishment in 1873.

Shortly thereafter, the Secretary-General of the Church of Wales, Sir Donald Brodie, issued the following brief statement:

‘The Bishops of Caerdydd, Casnewydd and Wrecsam unequivocally today affirmed the decision of the Electoral Conclave of the Church of Wales, announced on July 25th of this year, the Feast of St James the Apostle, that the Right Revd Mervyn Mortlake, Bishop of Pengwen, should serve as the next Archbishop of Wales. I have spoken by telephone just a few minutes ago to the Bishop of Abertawe, who was prevented by ill-health from being at today’s Synod in person, and he has confirmed his support for the decision of the Conclave. We send him our thoughts and prayers at this challenging time for him. On behalf of the Church of Wales, as its Secretary-General, I must condemn the behaviour of Bishop Rhydian Howells in the strongest possible terms. Once the enthronement of the Archbishop has taken place, the House of Bishops will consider whether a Disciplinary Tribunal should be summoned to investigate Bishop Howells’ actions today. Archbishop Mortlake has a busy weekend, with a pre-arranged meeting of the Pengwen Diocesan Conference tomorrow, and a full schedule of services the Sunday thereafter. Consequently, he will not be giving any interviews at this time.’

It has been speculated that Bishop Howells comments today were motivated by disappointment at the outcome of the Conclave, given the reports that he himself was a strong contender for the post of Archbishop himself. We have been unable to contact him for any further comment. Thus ends an extraordinary day in the history of the Church of Wales.

BBC WALES NEWS - SPECIAL REPORT

***

Archbishop Mervyn Mortlake did not look like a man revelling in success. His clerical shirt was unbuttoned, and his pectoral cross had been tossed carelessly upon his desk. His face was almost as purple as his shirt, and his eyebrows stood out fiercely, as if possessing a pugnacious life of their own. There was no subtlety in the tone of his voice as he spoke into the telephone; only undisguised contempt and unbridled menace.

‘Let me make myself abundantly clear, Rhydian. Tomorrow morning, by ten o’clock at the latest, you will issue the statement - word for word - that was emailed to you earlier this evening. That statement contains a full retraction and apology for your despicable comments in Llanmadoc Wells today. It also contains your admission that you have struggled with various mental health issues, alcoholism and family problems, all of which have caused you considerable stress. It contains a declaration of your willingness to take an immediate and indefinite leave of absence from your Diocesan duties, while you seek medical help and counselling for your various afflictions. The administrative duties, at least, will be exercised in your absence by Archdeacon Denise. She will, of course, thereby offer an exemplary example of why women in senior positions of leadership should be applauded, not denigrated - a fitting testimony to my late predecessor’s views on women bishops, in preparation for our meeting of the Provincial Synod in November. We might as well try and salvage something useful from this shitshow. In return for your cooperation, I will see to it that the House of Bishops drops the threat of a Disciplinary Tribunal. So - is all that agreed?’

Mervyn paused for a moment, listening to the pleading voice from the other end. After just a few seconds, he cut the hapless Rhydian Howells short.

‘Clearly, I need to explain all this more succinctly. You will do as you’re fucking well told - I don’t care if your wife objects to the reference to ‘family problems’ - because if you don’t release that statement, exactly as written, you will soon have some pretty damned enormous family problems to contend with. The kind that I would expect to follow on, directly in consequence of certain photographs appearing in the gutter press. Photographs showing you in a variety of compromising positions with - what was her name? - ah, yes. Miss Mandy Whitaker. I commend your athleticism. Not at all bad for a man in his late fifties. But I don’t think dear Angela is likely to see it like that, is she? Dear me, no. Nor your Diocese. Nor your precious Welsh Evangelical Alliance. So think it over, Rhydian. Very carefully indeed. Oh - blessings of this Holy Cross Day to you.’

Mervyn slammed the phone down. ‘What a grade-A arsehole,’ he growled. ‘Holy Cross Day - You’ve ended up crucifying yourself today, you twat. How appropriate!’ Still - as he had intimated to his fellow-bishop - maybe some things could be retrieved from this bloody awful day.

He drained his wine glass, and almost poured himself another, but then restrained himself. He needed to remain sober whilst he reread his presidential address for tomorrow’s conference. There might be some alterations he needed to make in the light of today’s events. He’d already made several changes in the past couple of days as a result of the earth-shattering events in America that week. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Was it all worth it?

Nonsense. This was destiny: destiny and revenge. Both writ large more than thirty years ago as a direct result of what had happened whilst he had been Vicar of Templeton.

This business with Rhydian was a minor irritation, no more. Like a fart in a wind, it would soon pass.

He looked down at his script, and read the page before him carefully once more.

The Church has traditionally seen itself as a guiding light in times of darkness, and a strong, steadying anchor when people feel themselves assailed by the storms of life. And yet - is it really true that people turn to us in times of need, in the way they once did?

This spring and summer our British countryside has faced one of the greatest calamities it has faced in decades. Foot and Mouth disease has devastated our farms, and has led to the closing down of much of our countryside, and the slaughter of millions of livestock. Yet did we see, in our country parishes, a swelling in our congregations? Did our farmers turn to God in prayer en masse? They required all those visiting them to bathe their boots in specially treated troughs of water placed at the entrance to their farms; but did they themselves feel compelled to turn to God, to ask him to wash away their sins? ‘Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.’ Thus says the psalmist. But did we witness those words in action, across our Diocese, in this time of crisis for our countryside? No, we did not. And - judging by the conversations I had with my brother bishops across Wales, and across the border in England - neither did they. Now that the pestilence has almost passed, one would imagine that all those who live and work in the countryside would turn to God with thankful hearts. Well, we wait to see - with baited breath - whether or not our harvest services in the next few weeks will be better supported this year, or not.

From the countryside, to the city. The terrible events we have witnessed in Manhattan this past week - they have shaken us to the very core of our being. How does one respond to unreasoning hate? In many places, of course, people have turned to the Church. They have come to light candles, to bring flowers, to fill books of condolence, to offer prayers. All very moving, I’m sure. But how long before these impulses have passed? How long before the customary rhythm of life returns? Will the tumultuous events in the United States this past week bring people back to the Church in any lasting, meaningful way? Be honest with yourselves, my friends. You all know that the answer is: No.

The challenges we face in the Church today will not be resolved by some unlooked for revival, in consequence of some calamity, like the Foot and Mouth crisis, or this event that already people are referring to simply as ‘9/11’. We have to be pragmatic. We need to wisely steward our resources. We cannot overextend ourselves on an ill-thought-out mission today that yields little result, when we need to be mindful of the need for us to facilitate the ‘missio Dei’ tomorrow. We cannot exhaust our resources now. And that will involve a realistic rationalisation of both our clerical deployment, and our historic plant - our church buildings.

That is why we need this Comprehensive Review that I have announced. Chaired by Archdeacon Graeham, it will leave no stone unturned. It will report back to me on October 18th - the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist - in a little less than five weeks time. Why the urgency, you ask? Because urgency is required. Like the watchman in Ezekiel, we cannot be complacent. Will some churches close? Yes. Will others be renewed? Undoubtedly so. Will we emerge from this Review leaner? Without a doubt. But stronger, too.

I hope that my brother bishops will follow my example in ordering similar reviews within their Dioceses…

Mervyn paused. He knew, already, what Rhydian would do. He had no choice. This was the point where a new paragraph would be needed, to reflect the extraordinary events at the Sacred Synod, and the statement from the Bishop of Llandewi that would follow tomorrow morning. Mervyn picked up his fountain pen, and wrote at the bottom of the page:

In particular, I am delighted that Archdeacon Denise has already agreed to implement a much-needed Review in the Diocese of Llandewi where, I regret to say, Bishop Rhydian has been very slow indeed to institute necessary reforms during his episcopacy. Of course, it goes without saying that we wish Bishop Rhydian well during his leave of absence, which he announced earlier today, and we hope he receives all the help he needs whilst he recuperates.

Mervyn put down his pen, and smiled.

There. That will leave them in no doubt whatsoever who is in charge. The only person left with sufficient respect across the Church of Wales, and with the moral stature to stand in my way, is Bryson. But his retirement is imminent; and, in any case, he’s not long for this world now. Fuck you, Rhydian Howells - you’ve well and truly shot your bolt. And when I’m quite ready - then and only then - you and Miss Mandy will still get your fifteen minutes of fame. Alas - I think the fallout from that will last for rather longer. Shame.

XI: September 15th

Georgios had spent the morning reading through the large file that Belinda Buxton had deposited on his doorstep the previous day. It contained the past five years worth of minutes of meetings of Templeton Parochial Church Council, together with statements of account, and other miscellaneous reports. It was all very depressing stuff. Even from a cursory reading it was clear that the PCC was faction-riven and quarrelsome. Edgar Dyson had clearly had his work cut getting them to agree on anything. The amalgamation of the parish with Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach had been especially bitterly opposed, it would seem. As for the parish’s finances: they were dire. The Diocesan Assessment had not been met during four of the five past years: the arrears had doubled in the last twelve months alone.

Georgios sighed. Brooding about the challenges facing him would achieve nothing. He looked out of the window. It was a bright sunny day, and the distant hills looked inviting. A walk would lift his spirits, and he knew that the public footpaths, closed for much of the year due to Foot and Mouth, were open once more. At least he had completed his unpacking, more or less. There was one box he hadn’t opened yet. It contained a miscellany of items associated with Caroline; books, photographs, a few letters, and a painting of him that she had presented on his last birthday. He had been deeply moved at the time: she wasn’t a bad amateur artist. But right now, he couldn’t bear to think about it, or any of the other objects within the box. He would put it into the attic, later. But first: that walk…

***

With the help of an OS map, Georgios had found the quickest route to the footpath that ran alongside the local remains of Offa’s Dyke. Although not as well-preserved as some of the sections of the Dyke to the north and south, the stretch near Templeton was impressive enough. He had been walking for about an hour when he came to a viewpoint that offered a spectacular prospect of the town below, nestled between three hills in the valley of the river Lud. Situated on one of the two high points of the town - the other occupied by the sparse remains of the 12th century Norman motte and bailey castle - the church of All Saints stood out, tall and proud compared to all around it. Its Decorated Gothic style - only minimally altered by the Victorians, thankfully - made it a jewel of the county. Even the great architectural historian Pevsner was impressed by it (even if he was a little sniffy about the Douglas frescoes).

There was a helpfully placed bench at the viewpoint, and Georgios sat down, pulling a Thermos flask of coffee from his rucksack. As he took in the panorama, he quite forgot the quiet despair of the morning.

‘It’s a breathtaking s-sight, isn't it?’

Georgios turned his head, and looked towards where the voice had come from. A dumpy man, wrapped up with a heavy overcoat, mittens and a long scarf wound several times around his neck, was standing about twenty feet away, on the rise. It wasn’t an especially cold day, and the man looked ridiculously overdressed.

‘Yes, it is,’ said the priest. ‘It makes me really appreciate that this will be a spectacular part of the world in which to live.’

The other man ambled down the slope towards him, grinning as he came. ‘Too right. Though behind the b-beauty, there’s plenty of devilry afoot. Like Christian divined in Pilgrim’s Progress: Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven. You’re newly arrived here, then?’ He held out his hand. ‘The name’s Bennett. Alexander B-Bennett.’

How unfortunate to have a stammer that prevents you from saying your own name without difficulty, thought Georgios. He shook the newcomer’s hand. ‘My name is Georgios Anagnosides.’

Bennett’s eyes widened with recognition. ‘The new m-minister at Templeton Church? Praise God!’

‘That’s right. And for Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach too.’

‘I’m the pastor at Overhill Baptist Chapel. It’s just a small place, Overhill - halfway between Templeton and Cwmpentre.’

Ah, a pastor: that explains the Bunyan quote. Georgios had noticed the chapel as he had driven through Overhill the previous Sunday on his way to St David’s. He nodded.

‘Yes, I passed that way recently. It’s good to meet you.’

‘We need a m-man of faith and courage, at All Saints, let me tell you. How I’ve prayed for it,’ said the pastor fervently. ‘Fifteen years I’ve laboured here, amongst the godless. This is where the Darkwoode lies, close by: here in the hills of the Marches. And you and I b-both know that the high places were where the false gods were worshipped in Biblical days. By the likes of the apostate King Ahaz. And he sacrificed and burnt incense in the high places, and on the hills, and under every green tree: 2 Kings chapter 16, verse 4.’

Georgios smiled politely, but said nothing.

‘These are the Last Days, d-don’t you agree?’ persisted Pastor Bennett. ‘The events this week in America confirm it.’

Georgios shook his head. He didn’t really want to offend the pastor or get into an argument, but–

‘No,’ he said quietly but firmly. ‘I don’t believe that at all. I’m sorry, Pastor Bennett, but I have to disagree with you most decidedly on that matter.’

‘But the Book of Revelation says–’

‘Many things that had been misunderstood, misinterpreted and misapplied,’ interrupted Georgios: ‘Indeed, so much so that I sometimes think it would have been better if it had never been accepted in the canon of Scripture in the first place. Which it very nearly wasn’t.’

Alexander Bennett looked shocked. After a moment’s silence, he said: ‘I see my faith is being s-sorely tested once again. Get behind me, Satan!’ With a curt nod, he turned his back on the priest and hurried away at surprising speed. In a trice he had disappeared from view.

The sky had darkened, and there was a rumble of thunder from afar.

Doubtless, he would think that a sign, thought Georgios ruefully. Poor deluded fool: but I really should have handled that better. Blast, this coat isn’t very waterproof. I wonder if I can make it back home before I get drenched?

He didn’t.

XII: September 16th (Battle of Britain Sunday)

Keith Lewis adjusted his Mayoral chain of office in the mirror, and called out to his wife: ‘Qué hora es?’

A few moments later, she appeared in the mirror behind him. Resting her head on his shoulder, she placed her arms around his waist, and said: ‘Quarter past ten, darling. Has Harrisons not mended your watch yet?’

He frowned. ‘No. They say they’ve hard difficulty getting the parts. It is an antique piece, admitted. Perhaps I should have taken it into Llanmadoc, but honestly, I’ve had no time this past week! Clive has assured me that he’ll have parts in on–’

‘Let me guess. On Monday?’

Lewis groaned, and rolled his eyes. It was a local joke that whenever Clive Harrison, who ran the town’s ironmongers and general supplies store, had difficulty getting hold of something, his standard response would be: I’ll have it in for you next Monday.

‘You really should have a spare watch,’ chided Gabriela. ‘Would you like to borrow mine?’

‘No, no, thank you,’ Lewis replied, as he combed his hair. ‘It would look a bit too gaudy on my wrist.’

‘Gaudy? What is “gaudy”?’

‘Hmm.’ Even after thirty-three years of living in Britain, Gabriela’s English still had some surprising gaps. ‘Showy, flamboyant, too bright and sparkly.’

‘Llamativo. Bah.’ She turned him round, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You are so grosero. Remind me again why I married you.’

Before he could reply, their daughter Antonia appeared in the doorway. The Church Choir would have to manage without her morning. Instead, she was wearing her Band uniform, and holding her trumpet case. ‘Shouldn’t you have left by now, dad?’ she said.

And shouldn’t you have moved out of home by now? thought Lewis. He looked at Antonia crossly, but decided to ignore her comment. ‘Your jacket looks a bit creased,’ he noted. ‘Do you want a lift? It’ll be heavy carrying that trumpet all the way to the Hall.’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll make my own way there.’ She opened the front door, then turned back, looked down at her father, and said: ‘Never mind my jacket. Your fly’s undone. Bye, mum.’

***

Harry Barrington-Smythe stood impatiently by the war memorial, opposite the Templeton Hotel, as the various parties milled around. This was the first time he’d been asked to lead the Battle of Britain Service, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes. He himself had only been called up in 1946, after the main conflicts in Europe and East Asia had ended, but he was still nevertheless a proud bearer of the General Service Medal awarded for his service in Palestine. He had pinned it very carefully to his Lay Reader’s preaching scarf earlier that morning. Now he was watching the young (and, to his mind, insufficiently well-disciplined) Air Cadets lining up, next to the members of the local branch of the Royal Air Force Association. As he did so, he remembered the telephone conversation he had had with the Rural Dean three weeks before…

‘I’m trying to finalise the rota for September, Harry. As usual, there have been a few difficulties. The main one is with regard to All Saints, on September 16th. It’s Battle of Britain Sunday, and I gather they make a big thing of it in Templeton: almost as much as Remembrance Sunday. They have a local RAFA branch, apparently; then there’s the Air Cadets; the British Legion turns out too, as does the Town Silver Band, the Town Council, the Town Cryer: the whole works. Anyway, I can’t take the service myself - I have commitments in my own parishes that day. Meanwhile, Jack Copeland is already down to lead both the Morrington and Gilfach services. Would you be free?’

‘What about Reverend Wishart?’ said Barrington-Smythe tartly.

‘I’m afraid Fr Benedict refuses to conduct any service with - as he calls it - “militaristic overstones.”’ Barrington-Smythe could practically feel Canon Harris squirming with embarrassment at the other end of the phone.

Of course, Barrington-Smythe had said: Yes. Anything that made him look cooperative and amenable - unlike that abomination Wishart - had to be a good thing.

But now, he was almost having second thoughts. Timing was everything with services like this: and Barrington-Smythe hated lack of organisation and unpunctuality at the best of times. He glanced at his watch again. It was fifteen minutes to eleven, the time the service was meant to start: all so as to enable the two minutes silence to be observed precisely at eleven o’clock, before the ensembled parade marched up the High Street to the Clock Tower, then down Church Street and on to All Saints for the principal service. Major Matlock, his own chest positively gleaming with medals, was now tapping his own watch impatiently, and glaring at him, as if it was his fault that they were running late. Why, the sheer nerve of it. What was the hold-up?

Flight lieutenant Dewi Wyn Hopkins (Retired) was Templeton’s Marshal of the Parade for both Battle of Britain Sunday and Remembrance Sunday. He’d only taken on responsibility for organising the Acts of Commemoration and the Parades themselves two years previously. His predecessor had organised proceedings for twenty-five years, and consequently Dewi still felt a little unsure of himself. He had liked Vicar Ed, and his relaxed yet measured manner in leading worship; but the scowling curmudgeon who was the Church’s representative at today’s proceedings was another kettle of fish altogether. He hurried over to Barrington-Smythe.

‘Sorry, sir, I think we’re ready. The Town Silver Band were still waiting for a few members to make their way down from the Hall - including the bugler who is going to play the Last Post and Reveille. But everybody’s here now.’

‘About time.’

We won’t invite you back to the RAFA Club for drinks after the service, thought Dewi darkly.

***

‘Samuel Wentworth,’ called his mother from downstairs, ‘it’s almost eleven o’clock. Are you actually getting up today - or have you forgotten what day it is?’

Sam groaned, and turned over. Of course I haven’t forgotten, he thought. But if a guy can't lie in on his birthday, when can he?

‘Okay, mum,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

***

Heather Wentworth shook her head in exasperation. She turned away from the bottom of the stairs, and headed back into the kitchen, where Simon Howley was finishing a cup of tea. ‘Sorry, Simon,’ she said. ‘I thought he’d be up by now - he was always up early on his birthday in past years, anxious to find out what presents he’d had.’ She looked at the crudely wrapped parcel that Simon had brought around. ‘You really don’t have a clue about wrapping things up properly, do you?’

Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘You try packaging up a skateboard, and making it look like it’s not a skateboard. Anyway, let Sam have his lie in. He’s almost a teenager, after all. Mornings will be a thing of the past for the next few years, at least at weekends. At least they were for my sons.’ And now they’re grown up, and far far away.

‘If you say so. I never did understand boys. No brothers, my father in the grave by the time I was three, and then Sam’s father walking out before he was even one. And now he’s twelve - what hope do I have?’

‘Don’t be maudlin, lass. You have me now, after all.’

‘I know, Simon. You’ve been really good to us, truly you have. Oh, but look at the time. You’ll be late for church.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not going this morning. It’s a later start today, but I still couldn’t get a band together. Belinda will be spitting feathers.’

Heather said: ‘But isn’t it Battle of Britain Sunday?’

‘Aye: the third Sunday of September, the Sunday on or after September 15th, marking the climax of the Battle of Britain in 1940. It was a big celebration last year, for the sixtieth anniversary. My father was one of The Few, you know. He abandoned the family farm, told my grandfather that fighting Hitler was more important. What’s the point of farming if the Nazis invade? he said. Grandad practically disowned him. He only came back after the war ended because his brother had drowned in a slurry pit accident. The younger son, the prodigal returned: only this time, no fatted calf was slaughtered for his homecoming, given that his elder brother had just died. He was the most reluctant farmer, my father.’

‘Not as reluctant as you, at least according to your brother Matt,’ laughed Heather. ‘But why aren’t you going today? The Air Force - for you father, then you - it’s been the best part of both your lives.’

Simon took her in his arms, and kissed her. ‘No, this is the best part of my life. After Felicity cleared out, taking the boys with her - I never thought I’d find happiness again. But if you want to know the real reason I’m not in All Saint’s this morning - or at the war memorial - well, I can’t face the thought of looking at all those young faces today. All those Air Cadets. Not after what happened in America on Tuesday.’

She hugged him closely, and realised to both her surprise and distress that he was trembling. ‘I know, darling,’ she said, ‘I know. You’re thinking - aren’t you - whether some of them are going to be serving in the Air Force in just a few years. Going into battle, goodness knows where.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Flying sorties and combat missions somewhere in the Middle East. Who knows how this is going to play out? You heard what Bush said after the attacks: that America would make “No distinction between those who planned these acts and those who harbour them.” He’ll be gunning for the Taliban in Afghanistan, unless they hand over bin Laden: which they won’t. And what does that mean? Blood, and more blood, I should think. War without end. But that’s nothing new. And where America leads - we shall follow. Do you know how many years since 1914 there have been without the British armed forces fighting somewhere on the planet?’

‘You’ve told me that before. None.’

He nodded. ‘Not one damned year of peace, in almost a hundred years. I lost too many comrades - sailors, soldiers, airmen - in the Falklands. And for what? So that Maggie Thatcher could win two more elections, close down the pits, sell off half the country to asset strippers.’

‘England, that was wont to conquer others, hath made a shameful conquest of itself,’ Heather said bitterly. ‘That’s how Will Shakespeare put it, four hundred years ago.’

‘Spoken just like an English teacher,’ said Simon.

‘I am an English teacher.’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Look - it’s eleven o’clock.’ As she spoke, in the distance the town’s clock tower began chiming the hour.

Simon released her, and stood ramrod still. The silence was observed by him as respectfully in the Wentworth kitchen as it was by the assembled multitude gathered before the memorial in the centre of town. Only when the two minutes had passed did he look at her, and smile. ‘I will go up to the RAFA Club later, mind, for a drink: drink a toast to my Pa, and all those other magnificent men in their flying machines. Do you want to come?’

She shook her head. ‘No, best not. Not on Sam’s birthday. Oh, talking of which–’

‘Hi mum, hi Simon,’ came a sleepy voice from the doorway. ‘Isn’t someone meant to be bringing the birthday boy breakfast in bed this morning?’

***

Sam’s sort-of cousin, Gordon Howley, had been up for hours, ploughing in Clary Field. The winter wheat would need to be sowed soon. His father was busy checking over the gimmers and ewes in advance of Thurday’s inspection by the men from the Ministry. He wouldn’t have time to join Gordon today.

Gordon’s bright green Massey-Fergusson came to the rise at the top end of the field, near where Gospel Oak had once stood - until it had fallen during the Great Storm of 1987. Gordon lent forward and turned off the ignition, and with a judder the tractor came to a halt. It was a glorious sight, looking down across the fields of Withy Farm. From this vantage point, it was possible to see them all. Angelica Field, Five Shilling Wood, The Rough, Long Itching, Upper Tansy, Lower Tansy, Pease Close, Foxhole, Seven Pines. He remembered when his father had brought him up here, when he was just seven years old, and pointed them all out to him, naming each and every one of them, that wonderful litany of names. It had been a glorious summer’s day, he recalled, and the sun was setting, casting a regal glow across the fields as it did so. Matt Howley had placed his broad arms across his young son’s shoulders, and with great solemnity had ended his speech by saying:

‘All this will be yours one day, son. This will be my legacy to you. The greatest gift a man could bequeath to his offspring. Treasure it, Gordon. Treasure it well. And one day, you’ll stand on this spot with your son. And you’ll speak to him, much as I’ve spoken to you today. Just as my grandfather once stood here and spoke these words to me. Remember the words. Remember what it is to be a Howley, and to be a son of the soil here, in Morrington, working God’s good earth.’

Many times over the ten years since then, Gordon had come to this spot, and recollected his father’s words that day, with satisfaction and with pride. Only a few months ago, he had brought Cindy Giddings up here. The hay bails had been cut; and leaning up against one of them, with her sprawled at his feet, he had reached down and kissed her, and asked her if she would marry him.

‘We’re too young for all that, Gordie Howley,’ she had replied.

He had blushed, he remembered. ‘I don’t mean yet, Cindy. I’m off to agricultural college in a year’s time, hopefully. But we can still get engaged, can’t we? Or don’t you think your dad will approve?’

She giggled at that. ‘It’s your father who’s more likely to disapprove. You, a Howley - marrying the daughter of Tom Giddings. They’re not exactly friends, are they?’

‘It would treble the size of my family’s estate, though, wouldn’t it? Eventually, I mean.’

‘Is that why you want me?’ she chided. She pulled him down, protesting. ‘My father’s lands? And there was me thinking you were more interested in the contents of my knickers. Tell you what - ask me again, on my birthday.’

‘That’s not till next February!’

‘All good things come to those who wait,’ she teased. ‘That was true about my knickers too, after all, wasn’t it?’ And with that she had reached over, and started to unbutton his shirt…

All that seems so long ago. The happiest of interludes. But I didn’t know then what I know now.

Hadn’t the Father of Lies once stood on the pinnacle of a great mountain and shown Jesus all the kingdoms of the earth, and offered them to him - in exchange for his fealty?

Gordon looked across Clary Field, and for a moment it felt as if his heart had stopped.

There it is - again.

Pecking away, at twenty yards distance, at some delicacy that had come to the surface of the soil (having been churned up by the plough that his Massey-Fergusson had been trailing) was a solitary magpie.

‘One for sorrow,’ muttered Gordon, despairingly. He looked around, anxiously seeking for any sign of the magpie’s companion. There was none.

Not so many months ago, Gordon Howley would have scoffed at such rank country superstition. But for the seventh day running, that was what Gordon had seen. One magpie - no more, no less. Every morning since Monday. Since the day after he had made the fateful decision that now, he feared, would cost him his life.

His life: but, he prayed not–

He crossed himself fervently, and repeatedly…

His soul.

XIII: September 17th

The knock on the door came whilst Georgios was deeply engrossed with the third movement of Rachmaninov’s Second Piano concerto. He jumped up, lifted the stylus-arm from the vinyl LP record, and shouted: ‘Hang on!’

A few moments later, he opened the front door, breathless. Canon Vernon Harris smiled at him quizzically, but said nothing.

‘Rachmaninov,’ said Georgios, as if that was the only explanation required. ‘I’m sorry, I was somewhat carried away for a moment. Were you knocking long? The bell doesn’t work.’

The Rural Dean shook his head. ‘No, only twice. Don’t worry, it’s quite alright, my boy. May I come in?’

Georgios bit his lip, embarrassed. ‘Of course. Shall we go to my study? The Archdeacon hasn’t arrived yet.’ He ushered his visitor into the hallway. ‘Can I take your overcoat? Oh dear - I see it’s been raining.’

‘Only a little,’ reassured Canon Harris. ‘But yes, thank you.’ He passed his coat over to Georgios. ‘I’m afraid Archdeacon Graeham won’t be joining us.’

‘Oh, that’s unfortunate. Do take a seat.’

‘Thank you. And yes: it is. But I think he’s busy firefighting. The Archbishop didn’t exactly get the warmest of receptions to his Diocesan Review proposals on Saturday.’

‘Ah. Rather like turkeys baulking at the idea of voting for Christmas, I imagine. Can I offer you some coffee?’

‘Thank you, perhaps a little later. But I’d like to chat about the induction service for a bit first, if I may. I understand from Belinda Buxton that you’re not expecting many personal guests?’

‘That’s correct. To be honest, there aren’t many from Exeter I’d like to invite; and Leicester is a fair distance away. A couple of old friends from Oxford and Cambridge days are coming, but that’s pretty much it.’

‘None of your family?’

Georgios shook his head. ‘My grandmother isn’t in the best of health, and my father and I aren’t particularly close any more. There’s no one else - apart from some relatives in Cephalonia, that is.’

The Rural Dean frowned. ‘Well, we’re going to be looking a bit light as far as ministers are concerned too. We’ve invited the local Catholic priest, Fr Liam O’Higgins, and the Methodist minister, Revd Nathaniel Gyde, to attend and offer “fraternal greetings” as part of the service. I’m not sure if either will be in evidence. We haven’t bothered with the minister of Overhill, Pastor Bennett. He’s a bit of a nutcase to be honest.’

Georgios nodded his head. There seemed little point in relaying the story of his encounter with Pastor Bennett on Saturday.

‘Then there’s the Deanery Clergy,’ continued Canon Harris. ‘They have all been invited, and should make it a priority to be present; but I’m afraid you won’t get PG there.’

‘PG?’

’Oh, apologies. You haven’t met him yet, of course. Revd Fr Peter Geoffrey Auldcourt: ‘PG’ as he’s generally known. He’s been the Rector of the Caer-yr-adfa group for twenty-two years now, the longest serving cleric of the Deanery. He’s vehemently opposed to female priests, and he’s refused to attend any Deanery events since Julie Johnson’s appointment to Cwmpentre. Very much ‘old school’, is PG. Widowed not long after arriving in the Deanery; there were no children. He’s highly eccentric: a vegan, an anti-hunt campaigner, and a poet. 68 years old, and absolutely determined not to retire until he’s 70. He’d carry on past that point if the Church of Wales allowed it, which of course it doesn’t. I think he’s somewhat homophobic too. At least, I get the impression he doesn’t approve of Fr Wishart.’

‘He probably wouldn’t approve of me either, theologically.’

‘Very true,’ sighed Harris. ‘He’s our only fluent Welsh speaker in the Deanery Chapter. A lot of his poetry is written in Welsh. Think of him as being like RS Thomas - but with even more attitude - and you won’t be far wrong.’

‘I prefer the other poetic Thomas - Dylan - myself,’ countered Georgios. ‘Who else is in the Deanery?’

‘Well, myself. And you’ve met Fr Wishart already. The only other cleric is PG Auldcourt’s bête noire, the Revd Julie Johnson–’

‘Whom I’ve also met.’

‘Oh, really?’ Harris raised an eyebrow and smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Our clerical firebrand. Smokes cigars, swears like a navvy, is more left-wing than Tony Benn. A single parent too - I don’t believe she was ever married.’ The hint of disapproval in his voice was unmistakable, and Georgios had to restrain himself from rising to the clear bait. I see your game, Vernon: and I can’t say I care for it.

But instead Georgios said: ‘What about Lay Readers in the Deanery?’

Well, there are only two - both of them in the Templeton group. We’ve already spoken about them briefly. Jack Copeland and Harry Barrington-Smythe. You’ll need to ask one or other of them to act as Archbishop’s Chaplain for the service. Of course, whichever one you don’t ask is likely to be somewhat upset - but it can’t be helped.’

‘The Archbishop’s Chaplain? Can’t that be a cleric, rather than a Reader?’

Harris grunted, and folded his arms. ‘Well, it could be - but I wouldn’t advise you to ask Benedict Wishart. That really would put the cat amongst the pigeons with the Barrington-Smythes and their allies.’

Georgios looked at the Rural Dean squarely face to face, and said coolly. ‘That’s not what I had in mind, Vernon. I’d like Julie Johnson to act as Chaplain to the Archbishop at my induction service.’

Vernon Harris stopped smiling. His eyes narrowed, and there was a definite glint of menace behind his spectacles. For a long moment he paused, as if carefully considering how to respond. ‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘it is your choice, my boy; and there’s nothing that forbids it, strictly speaking. But I’m not at all convinced it’s a good idea.’

‘Why not? You’ve as much as said that Auldcourt is likely to boycott the induction in any case. And if I’m going to offend one Lay Reader, I might as well give them equal cause for offence.’

‘I see. Very well, I’ll let Belinda Buxton know.’

‘I’m sorry, but what concern is it to Belinda? Granted, she’s Peoples Warden at All Saints - but isn’t St Matthew’s hosting the induction? Shouldn’t you be liaising, primarily, with the Churchwardens there?’

Georgios' sudden assertiveness had clearly taken the Rural Dean by surprise. Nevertheless, he slowly nodded his head. ‘You are quite correct. I’ll make sure all parties are informed, and due weight will naturally be given to St Matthew’s as the host church. Perhaps we should have that coffee now, before we look at the order of service in detail.’

‘Of course,’ said Georgios, standing up. But Canon Harris hadn’t quite finished.

‘The late Romanticism of Rachmaninov gives its own pleasures, of course; but personally I prefer the heavier cut and thrust of Wagner myself. His operas are so full of vivid storytelling, of lust and betrayal, of love gone awry, of madness and hubris, aren’t they? Yet for all that, it’s a great pity when real life comes to resemble a Wagnerian opera.’ He smiled, but there was no mirth hidden behind eyes this time. ‘Best avoided, I think. Milk, no sugar.’

XIV: September 18th

Matt Howley looked up, and saw his wife hovering in the doorway of his office. Oh Christ, he thought. I told her I’d only be another half hour.

‘Sorry, love, I know I promised to come and watch that James Bond film on the television; but I just have to get this paperwork in order before the inspectors arrive on Thursday. These new regulations that they’ve introduced across the board, for all livestock, since the Foot and Mouth outbreak - it’s been a nightmare.’

Susan crossed the room and evicted their black cat, Mintie, from her favourite armchair. She lowered herself into it, as Matt continued his complaint. ‘You know, it’s at times like this I really wish Simon was still here on the farm. It’s far too much for one man to handle.’

‘One man?’ said Susan. ‘What about Gordon?’

‘He’s still a boy. And anyways, we’re going to lose him for a while next year if he goes off to agricultural college.’

‘Actually, Matt, it’s Gordon I want to talk to you about.’ She sat forward in her armchair, and clasped her hands nervously together. ‘I’m worried about him. Really worried.’

‘Sue, we’ve gone through this before - it’s just a phase. Life’s full of worries when you’re his age.’

‘Matt, stop it! You know there’s more going on with him than the usual teenage angst. He’s not eating properly, he hides away in his room when he’s not out doing his farm chores, he won’t talk to us properly–’

‘You’ve just described any teenage boy - not just our son.’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Does a normal teenage son put up crosses in his bedroom, and does he stick photographs and paintings of Jesus, Mary and the saints that he’s cut out of books and magazines onto the walls? Does he lug the great big Family Bible upstairs? Does he get all jittery and jumpy in the evening, and refuse to go to bed without a light on - despite having never been bothered by the dark since he was an infant? Does any of that sound like normal behaviour to you?’

‘No,’ said Matt quietly. ‘I guess not.’

‘I think you should ring the new Vicar, and ask him to call round, urgently.’

Matt was astonished by her suggestion. ‘I can’t do that! The Rural Dean has drummed it into all the churchwardens that we are to leave Revd Anagnosides well alone until after the induction. He’s not our Vicar yet. Canon Harris has already had words with a number of people that he knows have bothered him - like Belinda Buxton and Harry Barrington-Smythe.’ He hesitated, then said: ‘All the churchwardens are supposed to be meeting with Canon Harris on Thursday evening down at St Matthew’s, for one final run through. Belinda will try to dominate proceedings, as usual. But I could always have a quiet word with him after we’ve finished our business.’

‘No, I don’t like that man, and neither does Gordon. You know our son will never confide in him. It’s got to be the new priest.’

What makes you so sure Gordon will talk to him? thought Matt. ‘Then we’ll have to wait until at least the weekend - more likely next week.’

‘I’m afraid, Matt.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I’m afraid that if we don’t act quickly - we might lose him. That he might - do something.’

‘Don’t be stupid, woman. My son would never…’ his voice trailed off, as he contemplated the implication of her words.

‘If you don’t telephone Georgios Anagnosides tonight, then I will.’

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her looking so determined. ‘Okay,’ he assented. ‘I’ll call him. I’ll see if he can come tomorrow morning.’

‘But tonight–’

‘No,’ he shook his head firmly. ‘It’s already dark. Meeting him can wait until the morning - if he’s free, and willing to meet, which he may not be. But I’ll ring him. Will that satisfy you?’

She jumped up from her armchair, and embraced him. ‘Yes, darling. But please do press upon him how urgent it is. And that I’m not just some neurotic mother.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘And then after I’ve phoned him, give me just another fifteen minutes. I’ll need to check over this final spreadsheet. Then - I’ll come through and we’ll watch some television together.’

‘The Bond movie has almost finished.’

‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve seen it before. To Morrington With Love, wasn’t it?’ It was a feeble joke, he knew - but at least it brought a smile to her face.

‘I’ll make us some cocoa. Shaken, not stirred. But first, I’ll just pop upstairs to check on him. I do love you, Matthew Howley.’

‘And I you, honeybun. It’ll all be okay - just you wait and see.’

XIV: September 19th

‘Thank you for coming around, Vicar. Ooh - I suppose I shouldn’t call you that yet.’

Georgios smiled at the anxious woman sitting opposite him in the large farmhouse kitchen. Her Rubenesque features were not unattractive; but she would look better, he thought, with her flaming red tresses hanging loose rather than being tied back as they were. She reminded him of Caroline, just a little.

‘Please, just call me Georgios. It’s quite alright.’

She carried on, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘And I know we shouldn’t have called you over, just yet - it’s not the done thing, we do understand - but we just had to speak to someone. I’ve been so worried this past week.’

‘But you say your son’s not quite been himself for a few months?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Not since we found out he’d been seeing Tom Giddings’ daughter. I think that must have been July, when he told us. He’d been seeing her secretly for about six months before that, it seems. Anyway, there was the most terrible row between Gordon and Matt when we found out. There’s been bad blood between the Giddings and the Howley families, going back generations.’

Ah, from the balconies of Verona to the fields of Morrington: some stories don’t change, do they? ‘Maybe that’s why he’s been depressed. If he was close to his father, and now that relationship’s been damaged because of his choice of girlfriend…’

‘No, it’s much more serious than that. You’re right of course - he and Matt have always been close. But Cindy Giddings–’ (There was real feeling in the way she enunciated the name). She paused, and looked down at her hands, clasped together on the battered oak kitchen table. Georgios could see they were trembling slightly.

‘His girlfriend.’

She looked up at the priest. ‘She was more than his girlfriend, Georgios. I think she was his mentor. She had a hold over him. I think she was introducing him to...’ she gulped. ‘To dark stuff. The kind of things we don’t like to speak of in this part of the world. Because it’s not just a silly superstition. It’s real.’

Georgios thought for a moment. This was unexpected: and yet, somehow, he didn’t feel surprised. ‘What signs have you seen that make you suspect that there’s an unwholesome spiritual dimension to all this?’

‘Gordon’s been reading a lot the past couple of months. Unusually so, because he’s never been a particularly studious boy. The kind of books he’s been borrowing from Templeton Library: they’re all about witchcraft, supernatural stuff. Alistair Crowley, Dennis Wheatley, even some American author, Stephen - somebody or other.’

‘Stephen King. What else?’

‘The last week or so it’s definitely become more disturbing. He’s been putting up crosses in his bedroom. Refusing to turn out the light at night. And last night, when I went up to see him, just before bedtime, he asked me…’ Her voice trembled, and she dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. Then she looked intently at Georgios. ‘He asked me if I thought he was a bad person and if I thought he was going to go to hell.’ She turned away, and started sobbing uncontrollably.

The latch of the kitchen door was lifted, and the heavy door swung open. In the doorway stood the tall imposing figure of Matt Howley. Shit, thought Georgios. Talk about timing.

‘Vicar,’ he rumbled. ‘What have you said to her?’ He strode over to the table and put a comforting arm upon his wife’s shoulders. ‘There, there, my love,’ he said softly.

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘It’s not Georgios–Revd Anagnosides’–fault. He’s been very kind. Where’s Gordon?’

‘He went out early this morning - up to Clary Field, he said.’

‘But he only finished ploughing that the other day. Why would he have gone back there?’ She started trembling. ‘Go and fetch him, Matt. Go now!’

***

Gordon had left the engine of the tractor running, fascinated as he watched the magpies gathering. This time, he was relieved to see that there was more than the single solitary bird that had apparently been haunting him over the previous nine mornings. He counted them, and as he did so, he chanted the old familiar rhyme to himself:

One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy…

He remembered, he’d counted four magpies straight after the first time he had made love to Cindy. That had been a shock, and he had blurted out:

‘Fuck. What if the condom’s split?’

She’d giggled at that. ‘It’s okay, Casanova. I’m on the pill. Double insurance. There’ll be no boy - or girl - for you to worry your pretty head about yet.’

But there were more than four today. He continued counting.

Five for silver,

Six for gold.

He’d never ever seen more than six at one time before. He gulped.

Seven for a secret never to be told.

I’ll never tell. Never! How could I tell what I know? Who would ever believe me?

As he watched, his heart thumping, an eighth bird alighted next to the others.

Eight for heaven.

Please God, he moaned. Please, no more.

The inevitable.

Nine for hell.

Gordon leapt up into the cab of the tractor, and swung at the wheel. He needed to get away, right now. He grinded at the gears, and with a reproachful cry of protest, the Massy Furgusson - that dependable vehicle that his dad had bought for him on his fourteenth birthday - began to turn to the left. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the flock of magpies had taken to the wing and were flying directly at him. Some intuition made him count them - quickly - again.

Ten for the Devil, his own self.

They were going to hit. He took his hands off the wheel, instinctively throwing them up to protect his face. His eyes. From the beating wings, sharp beaks and vicious claws; and the mocking chac-chac-chac. The tractor hit the tree stump: the last remains of the old Gospel Oak that had once stood proud at the apex of the field. It teetered for a moment, unbalanced, and then came crashing down on its side. The last piercing scream of the boy, and the last protesting whine of the tractor, cut out together.

The magpies flew off. All was silent on the pinnacle of Withy Farm.

'Crumbs!' Thought Monkey. 'There are crumbs in my bed!'

But how did the crumbs get there?

Monkey was not a midnight snacker. He nibbled no nibbles nocturnal.

Thinking the what might give him some clue to the who, Monkey found his magnifying glass, and picked up a crumb to study it more closely.

He would have twirled his waxed moustache - if he had one.

He rubbed the crumb between his finger and thumb.

The crumb crumbled into even smaller crumblings.

It might have been cake.

Or it might have been a cookie.

Or maybe a cracker.

His pet tortoise, Forthright, had trundled out for his usual morning plod. Three laps around the large rock in his tortorium, then back to the hollow log for a breakfast of moss and yesterday's lettuce leaf.

'Did you make this mess?' Monkey asked him.

If Forthright had, he wasn't saying. But then, Forthright had never really been forthcoming. He was an introvert, preferring the quiet solitude of his shell where, Monkey imagined, he sipped chamomile tea and nutted over that day's cryptic crossword.

But Monkey wasn't crackers! He was certain the crumbs hadn't been there when he'd snuggled under the covers. And crumbs were something he would have noticed.

Somebody had been in his room. And not just in his room, but in his bed! And not just in his bed, but in his bed while he was in it!

But how? There wasn't enough room in the bottom drawer of the dresser for a Monkey plus one.

'Unless...' Monkey thought to himself. '...it was a small plus one.'

Monkey picked up another crumb and held it under his nose.

It didn't smell like much of anything.

He was just about to taste it when he had an idea.

'Wait a minute! What if they weren't crumbs? What if they were mouse poops?'

He looked at the crumb through his magnifying glass again.

No.

Not poop.

A mouse might have left it behind - but it hadn't come from a mouse behind.

It was definitely a crumb.

Monkey held the crumb out for Forthright to see. The tortoise paused in his constitutional to inspect it through the green-tinted glass with a quizzical expression. Like all tortoises, Forthright regarded the world around him with a look of both surprise and mild consternation.

Pondering the possibles, much the same way Forthright often meditated on the complexities of the universe, Monkey decided he could cross Henry off the list of suspects. Cats were fastidious creatures. Obsessive-compulsives. A cat would never have left crumbs.

He could forget about Gus the dog. Gus was a mixed breed; part rottweiler, part golden retriever, part garbage disposal. No crumb could ever hope to escape his keen nose and searching tongue.

'And anyway.' Monkey told his little amphibian amigo. 'Gus is too big to fit in my bed.'

'There must be an explanation.' Said Monkey.

But Forthright had wandered away. Perhaps to play the violin. Or to smoke a pipe.

Gus did not like bananas. He craved no Cavendish and relished no Red Jamaican. He peeled no plantains - period.

'So, why...' He wondered. '...was there a banana skin in his bed?'

'Did you leave this here?' He asked Monkey.

'Crumbs.' Was all Monkey would say.

'Who's Crumbs?' Asked Gus.

'Whose indeed!' Said Monkey.

Monkey thought the crumbs in his bed might have come from a crust of toasted sourdough, but couldn't say so with any real certainty.

'The question we should be asking is how.'

'How?'

'Prexactly.' Said Monkey. 'And why.'

'Why?'

'Why ask why? Because the why and the how will lead us to the who!'

'Go away.' Gus told him. 'You're making my brain hurt.'

'But I haven't examined the evidence!' Monkey protested, holding up his magnifying glass.

'Just go.' Said Gus. 'And take your banana skin with you.'

Henry the cat was shocked and disgusted to find what little was left of half an avocado in his basket.

'Avo-bloody-cado?'

Henry desired no dietary discipline. He much favoured flavour over fibre - always.

Fruit, in Henry's opinion, was one of the many things that was wrong with the world. Vegetables were another. Add legumes into the mix and you had an unholy trinity.

'Avo-bloody-cado!' He repeated himself. 'It doesn't even taste like anything!'

Monkey agreed. 'Soap without the rope.'

Even Gus wouldn't touch avocado.

'Where's all this rubbish coming from?' He asked.

Monkey had his suspicions, but bit his tongue.

He had to be sure.

In the kitchen, standing on a chair to reach the counter top, Monkey trowelled smashed avocado onto an inch thick slice of golden toasted sourdough. Over the forked green smudge he laid slabs of banana like roof tiles. And on top of that, Monkey poured maple syrup. Then he dusted it with an avalanche of icing-sugar, and tucked in a sprig of freshly picked mint.

Carefully setting the plate down next to Forthright's tank of green tinted glass, Monkey stood back - and waited.

It didn't take long for the tortoise to come out of his shell.

'Pour moi?' Asked Forthright. 'For me?'

'Bien sur.' Monkey replied. 'Of course.'

'Sortez-moi d'ici, s'il vous plait? Je ne peux pas atteindre.'

{'Lift me out, please. I can't reach it.'}

Monkey shook his head. 'If you want it, you'll have to come out and get it.'

Forthright looked vexed. 'Alors!'

{'And up yours, too, you hairy little $%&@!'}

But he disappeared inside the hollow log in his tortorium...

And when he came back out, he was swinging a grappling hook attached to a length of coiled rope.

'A-ha!' Thought Monkey. 'So that was how!'

He watched as Forthright scaled the vertical glass wall of his tortorium with all the skill of a mountaineer. Then, with a confident 'C'etait parti!'*, the triumphant tortoise abseiled down the other side.

*{'Here we go!'}

Monkey's marvelous creation was demolished in less than a minute.

Forthright belched.

Excused himself. 'Pardon.'

And wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief he pulled from somewhere inside his shell.

He thanked Monkey with a nod. 'Merci beaucoup.'

'Don't you like lettuce?' Asked Monkey.

'Il est toujours mou. It's always limp.' Said Forthright. 'Et un gout de carton mouille.'

'Did you say it tastes like wet cardboard?'

For somebody who ate avocado, Monkey thought Forthright was being more than just a little fussy.

'But why in my bed?' Monkey asked him. 'Or with Gus in his bed? Or in Henry's basket?'

'Sortir est facile.' Forthright explained. 'Mais rentrer?'

So that was it. Monkey's little mate could climb out of the glass tank, but wasn't able to hoist his purloined booty back in.

'Et j'etais toujours seul. I am always alone.' Said Forthright. 'Je n'ai pas d'amis. I have no friends.'

Monkey knuckled a tear from his eye.

'You're not alone.' He told Forthright. 'I'm your friend.'

He picked Forthright up, and the two of them hugged.

'Pourquoi dois-je vivre dans une prison?'

{'Why must I live in that prison?'}

'You don't.' Said Monkey. 'Never again.'

He set Forthright down on the floor.

'Allez, mon ami. Go, my friend... You're free. Tu es libre!'

Finis

{The End}

A play

Cast of Characters

The Receptionist / A young woman

The Accountant / An older man

Setting

An otherwise empty train carriage

Act 1 / Scene 1

{The young woman is already seated. The man enters the carriage and approaches her, smiling.}

Acc: Hello, again.

Rec: Hello.

Acc: We really should stop meeting like this.

{The young woman laughs. The man takes the seat beside her with his briefcase lying flat on his suit-trousered knees.}

Rec: How was your day?

Acc: The usual. Yours?

Rec: Isn't it funny, how we work for the same firm, in the same building, but only ever see each other travelling to and from?

{The train begins to move away from the station. The young woman gazes out of the window. The man twists the platinum wedding ring on his finger. The young woman checks her watch.}

Rec: We're running late again.

Acc: Sorry?

Rec: I said we're running late again.

Acc: Better late than never, I suppose.

Rec: How hard can it be to follow a schedule?

Acc: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Rec: Who's that?

Acc: Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby.

Rec: I've never read it.

Acc: Few have. They only say they have to impress their friends at dinner parties.

{The rattle and hum of the train becomes louder as it steadily increases its speed.}

Acc: I was wondering if... If you might like...

Rec: Yes?

Acc: If we might have lunch together, some time. There's an Italian place not far from -

Rec: I eat at my desk.

Acc: Oh, right. Of course. The interminable drudge.

Rec: It's not so bad.

Acc: Don't you ever wonder if there's something better?

Rec: Better than public transport?

Acc: Better than this.

Rec: There are worse. I know what it's like to be poor.

Acc: Someone once said 'Life is how we fill our days between the cradle and the grave'.

Rec: There's a depressing thought.

Acc: Come away with me.

Rec: Where would we go?

Acc: Away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just away. From here. Away from this.

Rec: Who would feed my cat?

Acc: I love you.

Rec: Don't be silly.

Acc: I'm serious. I've never been more serious.

Rec: But, you're married.

Acc: My wife cares more for her Begonias than she does for me.

{The young woman turns back to the window.}

Acc: And I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

Rec: You're an odd duck.

{Having reached its destination, the train begins to slow. It's as if the carriage trembles with anticipation. The young woman gathers her coat and handbag, and stands up.}

Rec: This is me.

{The man vacates his seat, standing to let her past. Then he reaches for her hand. Clutches at it.}

Acc: Will I see you again tomorrow?

{The young woman pulls her hand free. Makes her way toward the carriage door on unsteady feet. The train grinds to a stop. The door opens. The young woman steps out onto the platform. She doesn't look back. She doesn't wave. The man slumps into the seat.}

End

Since when was the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre funny? Even fictionalised - as it is in this movie - it’s hardly a barrel of laughs, is it? Especially when you’re looking down the barrel of a Tommy gun. It’s enough to make you choke on your tooth-pick. Maybe being filmed in black and white disguises the brutality of the scene (this certainly is no Scarface or The Untouchables). The blood on his spats that he’s troubled by later - not as bad, surely, as the coffee (that isn’t really coffee) which had been spilled on them in an earlier scene - these are the least of the worries that the humourless, cardboard cutout villain of the piece should be concerned with, surely?

Transgender rights are hotly-contested these days. But if you’re hoping for a nuanced approach to such matters, you won’t find them here. And it has to be said that the two cross-dressing leads - playing a pair of wisecracking down-on-their-luck musicians who have inadvertently witnessed a slice of gang warfare - really don’t look all that convincing at all as members of the fair sex. Even in black and white. Where’s Robin Williams when you need him? It’s not just the much-put-upon manager of the all-female band that they infiltrate (in their attempt to escape the Chicago Mob) who appears to have lost his glasses - everybody else is just as myopic, and there can be no other explanation, surely, for how they get away with their implausible scheme for so long.

The film’s view of millionaires (they would be billionaires now, of course - such are the effects of inflation) is quaint, to say the least. The assumption that most of them would be octogenarians is clearly outdated. Silicon Valley geeks were clearly a thing of the future. A modern-day remake of this film would doubtless feature a villainous billionaire looking like just like ‘Dr Evil’, with an obsession with space - and the package that is delivered in a key scene containing an expensive bracelet for one of the cross-dressing leads that he has unaccountably fallen for (more shortsightedness at work, clearly), would now be delivered by the billionaire’s ubiquitous freight service (which would be named Orinoco, or something suitable exotic). But instead of which, we must contend with stereotypical investors in stocks, shares, and futures; and watch as their beady eyes lift up in concert from the columns of the Wall Street Journal to peruse a rather more shapely set of statistics heading their way - not our gender-bending protagonists, but the seductively-proportioned ukulele player who functions as the female lead of the movie.

By all accounts, she didn’t get on at all with her male opposite number, and so the joke about the frigidity of their characters’ on-screen relationship may have mirrored what was actually happening behind-the-scenes. Not that any of this seems to bother the other male lead, the double bass player - one shake of his maracas, and he’s being proposed to by a lecherous millionaire who bears absolutely no resemblance to Elon Musk. Give it another thirty years, mind…

The reliance upon coincidence to further the ridiculous plot is telling. The most obvious example of this is when the hoodlums end up staying at the same hotel (out of all the many, many possible candidates) as the fugitives, where their improbable disguise as lovers of Italian opera is as unlikely as the fate they come to as a result of a suspiciously overlarge birthday cake. Viewers might be forgiven for assuming that at this point the female lead would pop out of said cake singing, ‘Happy Birthday, Mr President.’ No such luck. Never mind the sheer implausibility of a guy with a submachine gun hiding in a cake. Instead, let’s all chuckle as the spat-wearing villain spats out his final line: ‘Big Joke.’ It’s no Madame Butterfly.

Lots of screwball comedy ensues, with endless running around frantically (so much so, I was expecting Benny Hill to turn up at one point, and for Yakety Sax to start playing). But no, the only sax on view belongs to the square-jawed Spartacus star (no, not Kurt, the other one) who the ukulele player has fallen for, hook, line and stinker - despite the fact that, by his own admission, all he call really offer her is coleslaw in the face, old socks, and a squeezed-out tube of toothpaste. What an implausible end for these characters - though not quite as much so as the fate that awaits not-Spartacus’ best buddy. Despite asserting his true masculinity at the very conclusion of the movie, he still faces the prospect of marriage to a dirty-minded Bill Gates-substitute. Wowser.

In the final analysis, it’s all a bit of a lemon. I’m sorry to have poured cold water on those who think this movie is some kind of classic. But what more can I say about the film director who gave us this unlikely piece of whimsy - other than this?

‘Well, nobody’s perfect.’

John, Chris, and I had talked about it, we knew what we were doing. First, though, we wanted to make sure that our sister agreed too. And we knew we had to act quickly, if we were to dissuade our father. Much as we loved him, and admired him, we knew that once he had decided upon a particular course of action, persuading him to change his mind would be difficult.

Chris’ support was invaluable. Already, we knew that our father had appointed him as the principal overseer and custodian of his literary legacy. John’s moral stature, as the priest of the family, was something Father would respect too. I knew that my influence would be much more limited: whereas my sister possessed an empathetic connection, to both my father and my later mother, that would be invaluable.

It was a bad decision, my father’s sentimentality at its very worst. He could be excessive in this regard at times. He was never embarrassed to shed a tear, or to embrace his sons, even in public. This familial affection was in strong contrast to the prevalent portrait of him as a curmudgeonly writer, an outmoded academic content to dwell in his ivory tower, standing aloof from a world in which every sign of ‘progress’ or ‘innovation’ was greeted with suspicion, even derision.

I could imagine the defence he would mount, when we voiced our sincere objections to him; reservations that we would express only out of an earnest desire to protect him from ridicule. He had so many detractors, after all, in the world, jealous of his genius; and in some respect his devotees - the ones increasingly-known these days as ‘fans’, a word I suspect my father detested - were even worse. They would certainly spot the meaning of that curious name engraved on Mother’s gravestone, straight away.

I could picture him shaking his head, and waving his pipe in our direction. ‘No, Michael, I will not listen. Your mother knew the stories of my legendarium, long before anyone else had heard them. She may have been less familiar with their later iterations. She certainly never understood the attention I was later afforded by so many of those who seem to regard me as an author of something tantamount to holy writ, at least in their own eyes; I don’t pretend to understand it myself. But she knew the love which I bore for her, and the sacrifices we made for one another, not least in the days of our youth; and she knew the person with whom she was identified, in terms of the greater story. She also knew which character within the tale represented me. But the story has gone crooked, and I am left, and I cannot plead before the inexorable Mandos.’

Thus, I imagined, he would respond to our entreaties. Our sister might hold the key to persuading him to our position. But to my surprise, when we spoke to Priscilla, she firmly took the side of my father.

‘John, Michael, Christopher,’ she said, addressing us from eldest to youngest brother, as always she did when speaking to us as a group. ‘Father is right. I know you show these concerns out of love for him. You do not want the memory of our mother tarnished, either. But his mind is quite made up. And when his time comes, he has told me what name he wants carved on the headstone, beneath hers. This isn’t for the fans, for anyone who might come afterwards. It isn’t for us. It’s for her - the girl he remembers who danced for him amongst the hemlocks, long ago. So let him have his way.’

And so we did. Nothing more was said. And when not so many months later we gathered at his graveside, we read together the inscription, suitably updated, in an Oxfordshire cemetery where one of the greatest writers of the 20th century now lay at rest with his beloved wife, our mother. Upon the headstone, besides the roses, were these simple words:

Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889-1971

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892-1973

Commentary:

I didn’t choose the names for this challenge: but as soon as I saw the opening sentence with which we had been charged to begin, I knew exactly what my story would be. My imagined ‘discussions’ between the children of J.R.R. Tolkien are entirely fictitious; but their names and relationships within the Tolkien family are not. The line beginning ‘But the story has gone crooked...’ is a direct quote from a letter of Tolkien to his son Christopher, written in July 1972. And at Tolkien’s behest, the names of the protagonists of his great love story, the Elf-maiden Lúthien, and the man Beren, were indeed added to the headstone that still stands on their grave in Wolvercote Cemetery, Oxford. Requiescant in Pace.

A play in 3 acts

Cast of Characters

Ms Flora Winters

Mr Pericles Henry

Washington Winters

Setting

The small country town of Hope Springs - Nebraska - August - 1947

Act 1

A room in Ms Flora's boarding-house.

{Henry enters with a well-travelled suitcase he places next to the single bed. The furniture is a mix of old and new, under-loved and over-polished. There is a wardrobe; bedside table; chest of drawers; curtains at the window; a rug on the floor. The empty left sleeve of Henry's suit jacket is pinned to his lapel.}

{Flora Winters is young for a widow, on the right side of forty, and still an attractive woman, even if, perhaps, she has forgotten so. Her hair is pinned and twisted into a tight bun, as if, were it ever free, it might unleash some wild and uncontrollable passion.}

Flora: It's not much, and you'll have to share a bathroom, but it's clean. Breakfast is at eight. Supper at seven. No guests in your room after ten. I don't abide with smoking inside, or coarse language, or taking the name of Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, in vain.

Henry: I've never taken the Lord seriously enough to feel the need to profane him.

Flora: That's as may be. My son will bring up the desk you asked for.

{A boy of twelve struggles to fit what is obviously a hall-side table through the doorway.}

Flora: Mind the architraves!

Wash: Yes'm. It's heavy!

{Henry takes the table from the boy, lifting it easily with one arm, and places it against the wall, under the window with its drab and wash-faded curtains.}

Wash: We never had a real-life war hero before.

Henry: They're a dying breed.

Flora: We change the linen Tuesdays and Fridays. I'll clean your room then.

Henry: That's fine. You won't disturb me.

Flora: You're right, I won't. I expect you'll be somewhere else. Doing whatever it is you do.

Henry: I'm sure I'll find something to occupy my time.

{Ms Flora leaves. Wash lingers; hands in pockets.}

Henry: What do you do for fun?

Wash: This is Nebraska. Fun hasn't been invented yet.

Henry: Do you read?

Wash: Some.

{Lifting his suitcase onto the bed, Henry opens it and takes out a much read paper-back he tosses underhand to the boy.}

Wash: The O-dee-see?

Henry: You can learn a lot from the Greeks. A man may fail to impress us with his looks, but a god can crown his words with beauty.

Act 2

{Henry sits at the desk, gazing out through the window, tapping the stub of a pencil on a blank page of an open note-pad. Washington enters the room, cradling a globe of the world.}

Wash: I can't find Troy. Can you show me?

Henry: Would that I could, dear boy, but it doesn't exist. If it ever did, it's buried under the sands of time.

{Washington sets the globe down on the desk, obstructing Henry's view of the note-pad, and the recriminating absence of anything of note.}

Wash: Everybody's talking about your speech at the Town Hall tonight.

Henry: Dust on the wind. Old people. Mothers with small children. All that was left of them was charred bone and ash. Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man. It is what happens, when they die, to all mortals. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bone together, and once the spirit has left, all the rest is made subject to the fire's strong fury.

Wash: You talking about the bomb?

Henry: Bombs. There were two of them.

Wash: My father was on the Indianapolis. He died before they could rescue him.

{Henry rests a comforting hand on the boy's cocked hip.}

Henry: And if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure. For already have I suffered full much, and much have I toiled in perils of waves and war.

{Mistaking the touch for something other, Washington sits on Henry's knee.}

Wash: We're not supposed to. The Bible says so.

Henry: Each man delights in the work that suits him best.

Act 3

{Morning. Henry is packing his suitcase.}

Henry: What a lamentable thing it is that we should blame the gods. To say they cause our suffering, when we, ourselves, increase it by our folly. It is a man's own wickedness that brings him suffering; worse than any which destiny allots him. Sing to me of the man, the man of twists and turns, driven time and again off course once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy. A man who has suffered much, and wandered much, has pleasure out of his sorrows. And if something crude, of any kind is said, let the winds take it. For all is as dust on the wind.

arise silver queen

most fragrant of moons

come hence and vanquish the sun

that we might wax the thread

and together stitch the stars

through night eternal

july14

dear diary

had a storming time at the bastille today

we all ate cake

It’s very simple, really. I’m here on Prose because of @FJGraham (Flyn Graham). And it’s because of Flyn that I’ve rediscovered my own delight in being a writer over the past five and a half years.

Flyn is a remarkable wordsmith. His writing has an honesty, a rawness and a passion that is astonishing in a (relatively) young person, and I have no doubt that his talents will continue to grow. Flyn’s use of language, in his prose, is more taut and sparing than my own. The economy of words that he deploys, to great effect, is different from my own somewhat more verbose approach. One of the things he told me, and taught me, in a conversation a while ago is the importance of reading aloud one’s words. For Flyn, if something doesn’t quite flow, if it doesn’t quite feel right, then it needs to be cut. It’s a principle that he applies with forensic ruthlessness to his own work.

I’m reminded of the Koh-i-Noor diamond - one of the largest cut diamonds in the world, and part of the British Crown Jewels since 1849. It was placed on display at the Great Exhibition in 1851; but despite its size, its lustre failed to impress. Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort, ordered it to be re-cut; and it was ultimately reduced in size - over the course of thirty-eight days - from 191 carets to 106. Such an enormous reduction in size was shocking to many at the time; yet the great loss in weight was necessary because of several serious flaws found in the diamond as it was being cut. Though much reduced in size, the Koh-i-Noor now shone brighter than ever, with a brilliance that continues to take the breath away of those who behold it.

Flyn’s writing is much like that. With each new work - and with each new edit - his stories shine with ever greater brilliance.

Flyn is part of a remarkable band of brothers here on Prose - with whom I am tremendously honoured to be associated. Younger brother Jax (@brothersgraham) is especially skilled in the crafting of sonnets. Hunter (@hunter10G), meanwhile, is incredibly industrious; and his lighthearted tales of Monkey, and magical stories of the Robot Prince, can be enjoyed by young and old alike. Together, we’ve encouraged our dear friend Ethan (@ethangraham), who has written a number of delightful tales of his own. And in recent months, we’ve all enjoyed setting, or taking part in, a variety of Prose challenges.

Reading - and re-reading - the works of my Graham family affords me pleasure like none other. There are some very talented writers here on Prose, and I’m enjoying coming to know the works of many. But, for me, it is @FJGraham who continues to inspire me, forever, and always. And his friendship shines brighter for me than any diamond. He remains a jewel crowned in my heart.

Samuel Griffin, the new sexton at St Adelaide’s, was a relative newcomer to the village, and he certainly wasn’t a person who was steeped in the more arcane rituals of the Church. So how was he to know, unless someone told him, that the traditional burial rites for a priest were different, in one crucial respect, from those of other people?

***

Father Algernon Beaumont-Ward (‘Father Algie’ as he had been affectionately known by his parishioners throughout his forty-two years of faithful ministry at St Adelaide’s) had died at the impressive age of one hundred and three. He had retired from ‘St Adie’s’ at the age of seventy (and was said to deeply regret the fact that had he been born just eighteen months earlier, the newly-enforced canonical retirement age would not have applied to him, and he would have been free to continue as the parish priest for as long as he had wished). His last service at St Adelaide’s had fallen on February 2nd 1977, his seventieth birthday, and the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. Appropriate, given the traditional prayer of St Simeon, the Nunc Dimittis, associated with that day: Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word. Save for his short curacy in an inner-city London parish, his entire ministry had been spent at St Adelaide’s. None of his successors had lasted for more than half a decade; the shadow he had cast during his illustrious tenure had been a long one.

But sadly, over time almost all of the most stalwart members of the parish had died or moved away; fewer and fewer now remained to recall his incumbency, the heyday of the parish. As the congregation had dwindled, so successive reorganisations had seen St Adelaide’s grouped with first one neighbouring parish, then another: the grand if slowly decaying nine-bedroom Rectory that had served as home to Father Algie and his predecessors since the mid-nineteenth century had been sold off; the local church school had been closed as the school roll had dwindled; the post office had shut too, and even the Black Bull was struggling, like many a country pub, as the drink-drive laws had become more stringently enforced. One in three of the houses in Adelaide-on-the-Howe were now holiday homes, standing empty for three-quarters or more of the year. Bit by bit, the village was becoming a ghost settlement, like so many in that remote corner of East Anglia these days.

Only the local nursing home, optimistically and euphemistically named Sunshine Towers, seemed to be thriving; as the local population aged, so the queue to secure places in the home lengthened. Father Algie had lived there himself for the final nine years of his life, but had received progressively fewer visits from the diminishing pool of ‘old-timers’ who remembered his tenure as their parish priest with affection. The Bishop had visited him on his one hundredth birthday; a young whipper-snapper, just fifty-seven years old, with decidedly modern views. Father Algie, his mental faculties surprisingly alert still, even if his eyesight was failing, had not been impressed.

***

There was no doubt that Algernon Beaumont-Ward was ‘old school’. He had left meticulous instructions for his funeral service. The ceremony was conducted by the Rural Dean, Canon Smallbrooke, not by any of Father Algie’s former colleagues (who had all predeceased him), nor by any of his successors at St Adie’s (now part of a sprawling group of seven churches, currently in an interregnum that had already lasted for eighteen months). The Rural Dean had several other appointments that day - including a funeral in his own parish, forty minutes drive away, at the opposite end of the Deanery. Despite the pressure he felt himself to be under, he’d adhered as closely as possible to the strict requirements Father Algie had laid down for his funeral. The coffin had been draped with the old priest’s ordination chasuble and stole, the same vestments he had worn for his first mass in London, and later for his first communion service at St Adelaide’s, way back on Advent Sunday 1934. The hymns and readings were exactly as requested, and a CD player had been set up to play the Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem immediately before the Commendation. However, neither the Rural Dean nor the church wardens had been able to secure the services of someone to toll the church bell in the traditional manner. ‘For whom does the bell toll? Alas, it tolls not for thee, Father,’ Canon Smallbrooke had mused to himself.

The attendance at the funeral was sparse; Father Algie’s sole living relative, his great-niece Miss Evangeline Beaumont-Ward, lived in Cornwall, and was not well enough to travel. The churchwardens were there, out of duty, and the organist, likewise. Apart from the manager and two care staff from Sunshine Towers, the only person in attendance who had known Father Algie was Mrs Molly MacMillan, who had once been the old priest’s housekeeper. Eight-eight years old herself - stubbornly refusing the hip-replacement that she had been in need of for the previous fifteen years - she had struggled up the church path with some considerable difficulty. But she had been determined to pay her final respects to the person she regarded as ‘the last proper priest this parish ever had.’ Seven people, in all - not including the undertaker and his staff, and himself as celebrant, thought the Rural Dean, glancing at his watch to make sure he wasn’t running late. A sad epitaph to a life of faithful service.

Samuel Griffin hadn’t attended the service. He was on holiday on the day in question; and, in any case, he had been assured when he was appointed that it wasn’t a strict requirement for the sexton to attend each and every funeral. Just so long as the burial plot in the churchyard had been marked out, the grave-diggers engaged, and the paperwork was in order; that was what mattered. Then, later, after a few weeks had passed to allow the earth to settle upon the new grave, there would be the task of liaising with the stone-mason appointed by the family, ensuring that the design of and wording upon the headstone was strictly in accordance with the churchyard regulations, and making sure that it had been correctly installed. And then, of course, the biggest part of his job: to ensure that the churchyard was well-maintained, that the trees were managed and the grass was cut, that dead floral tributes were removed, and that no gravestone was leaning over dangerously. But be there at each funeral? No, that wasn’t a necessary part of his duties.

He received the paperwork from Miss Beaumont-Ward, in Cornwall, in due course. The epitaph was an odd one, he thought: ‘How can the gods meet us face to face till we have faces?’ The reference to ‘the gods’ didn’t sound particularly Christian - surprisingly, that, given that he was a reverend, thought Griffin - but there was the counter-signature of the Rural Dean, next to that of Miss Beaumont-Ward, approving the wording. Indeed, Canon Smallbrooke had scrawled a name, next to the sentence. C.S. Lewis. Was that the name of the original author of these strange words?

All was clearly in order. Once again - how was he to have known that the burial of a priest was different?

***

The first he knew that someone had made a grave error was the Sunday after the headstone had been installed. Shortly after midday, he received a phone call at home from an agitated Molly MacMillan.

‘Mr Griffin? It’s Mrs MacMillan.’

He struggled to remember the name. ‘I’m sorry–Mrs MacMillan?’

‘Mrs Molly MacMillan, from Violet Cottage. I used to be the housekeeper for the late Father Algernon Beaumont-Ward. Before your time. Before you were even born, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She sniffed. Her disapproval of his youth was self-evident in her voice.

‘How can I help you, Mrs MacMillan?’

‘Join me in the churchyard of St Adelaide’s, right away if you please. There’s something I need to show you. It’s urgent. I went to lay flowers on poor Father Algernon’s grave, and I was shocked by what I discovered.’

Griffin looked across at the dining table, where his Sunday lunch was lying, half-eaten. ‘Could I meet you there in half-an-hour?’

‘Well– ’ The voice at the other end of the telephone paused. ‘Very well. But no later. I shall meet you at the graveside.’

***

‘Now then, Mr Griffin, can you see the dreadful mistake that has been made?’ Mrs Molly MacMillan, dressed in deepest black, gesticulated with her umbrella towards the plot where the late parish priest of Adelaide-on-the-Howe was lying - hopefully - at rest.

Did he get much rest from this pugnacious harridan in life, when she was his housekeeper, I wonder? thought Samuel Griffin. He looked across at the grave. Nothing seemed to be amiss. The headstone was standing in place, positioned perfectly in line with the others in that part of the churchyard. Was there a problem with the wording on the gravestone? Or the dates? No, he had checked them most carefully. It could only be the strange epitaph, then. Mrs MacMillan must have some problem with that.

‘I can assure you, Mrs MacMillan, that the Rural Dean believed the wording to be perfectly in order.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Molly MacMillan scowled. ‘This isn’t about words.’

‘Then what– ?’

‘Do you know,’ she interrupted him, testily, ‘why gravestones are placed in the way they are?’

‘Of course. They’re placed at the head of the grave. The nearest point to the head of the coffin.’

‘And why are the lines of gravestones orientated in the way they are in a graveyard?’

He shook his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Churchyards, just like churches, are orientated towards the east. They are laid out so that, on the Day of Resurrection, when the bodies of the departed rise up, they find themselves facing east - towards the dawning sun. Towards their risen and ascended Saviour, who has come down again from on high to welcome them, and to judge them.’

Do people really believe that nonsense any more? thought Griffin. He looked at Father Algernon’s grave once again. ‘Then I don’t see the problem - this grave is exactly like all the others.’

‘No, Mr Griffin,’ said Molly MacMillan. ‘It is not.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘If you’d actually attended Father Algernon’s funeral yourself, you would. He had left precise instructions. The old tradition is that priests are buried facing the other way from the people: so that on the Day of Resurrection, when they rise from the grave, they are facing westwards - with their backs to the sun. They face their people, out there— ’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture, across the graveyard. ‘Just as in church, as they face the people, at the altar, representing Christ himself - as it was in the life that was, so it will be in the life to come.’ She tapped the gravestone with her umbrella. ‘And so, this gravestone is in the wrong place. It’s been placed at dear Father Algy’s feet, you numbskull! It should have been positioned there– ’ she gestured, again, pointing to the place where, Griffin had naturally presumed, the foot of the priest’s coffin lay. ‘Now do you understand?’

Griffin nodded. Yes - he did. A grave error had, indeed, been made.

But was he really the one to blame?

‘He’ll rise to face them, the ones he christened, and married, and buried himself, on the Day of Resurrection,’ insisted the old woman. ‘And all the other ones he might have performed those offices for, if the Church hadn’t forced him to retire. All the people who weren’t there for his funeral. The ones– ’ she paused, for her voice trembling now. She dabbed at her cheek with her handkerchief, then continued: ‘The ones who should have been there. Who abandoned him.’

Ah, thought the sexton. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? He’d heard that hardly anyone had attended the funeral. The old parish priest, who had baptised their babes at the old Norman font; who had dispensed the sanctified bread and wine from the altar to the faithful, and had exhorted and encouraged them from the pulpit; who had joined countless young couples in holy matrimony at the chancel step, and had presided at the funerals of hundreds of people, perhaps, over the course of his long tenure at St Adelaide’s; that pious, faithful old man had been forgotten, by and large, in death himself.

It started to rain.

Griffin looked at the basket of summer flowers that Mrs MacMillan had left by the gravestone - the headstone placed in error at the feet of the former parish priest. ‘Come, let me help you arrange these flowers,’ he said. ‘Then you can take my arm and I’ll walk you home. And I promise I will ring Miss Beaumont-Ward tonight, and ask her what I should do.’

***

He had dreaded the phone call, but was pleasantly surprised at the outcome.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Griffin,’ said Father Algernon’s great-niece. ‘It’s really not your fault. I’d completely forgotten, myself, about that rather quaint custom. Uncle Algy was a stickler to such things. I can understand why Mrs MacMillan was so upset.’

‘Thank you. Do you want to arrange for the memorial stone to be moved to the - err - other end of the grave? Of course, I’ll need to check with the Rural Dean if that’s in order, and the monumental mason may well make an additional charge, I’m afraid.’

There was a pause. Then Evangeline Beaumont-Ward spoke again, gently but firmly. ‘No, Mr Griffin, that won’t be necessary. I don’t believe all that stuff myself, about priests facing the other way on the Last Day, do you?’

‘I don’t happen to believe in God, Miss Beaumont-Ward. I plan to be cremated, myself, then for my ashes to be scattered. But, no, if there were a God - why would he treat priests any differently?’

‘Precisely, Mr Griffin. Something uncle and I disagreed on, alas. He was a deeply affectionate great-uncle to me, and I loved visiting him as a child, half a century ago, back when he was in his prime at St Adie’s. But we always had rather different theological views. You are a priest forever, after the order of Melchizedek - he was rather fond of that quotation from scripture. Once a priest, always a priest, in his view. But to my mind - surely we all face God on the same terms, at the end of all things? That’s why I suggested that quotation on his headstone.’

‘That was down to you?’ asked Griffin, surprised.

‘Yes. I helped my great-uncle draw up his last will, and his final instructions for his funeral, some ten years ago, not long before he went into Sunshine Towers. He was stuck for an epitaph. I suggested the Lewis quote to him. We were both rather fond of his writings. He liked it - but I’m not sure he interpreted it in quite the same way as I did. I think that what Lewis was saying is that we can only look upon the face of God when we are really ready to look Him in the eye, to stand before Him face to face, without any of the masks, and personas, and false faces we so often wear in life. And how can we possibly do that if we’ve got our backs to Him? At the end of the day, my great-uncle has to face God not as a priest, but as a human being. Just like any one of us. We can’t change how Uncle Algy’s body was buried. Don’t you need a certificate from the Home Office, or some such thing, to move a body already interred? But neither should we change how his gravestone is positioned. So let it stand, in line with all the others. He may have baptised, and married, and buried, half of them there in the churchyard. But he’ll face his God, as one of them, I’m sure. He’ll face his Maker - as a man.’