Darkwoode (Part One)
Prologue
It was Timmy Weston’s turn to knock on the door. He didn’t want to: but Sam insisted. When your best friend is three inches taller, twenty pounds heavier and dressed in a pirate costume that includes a sword that looks suspiciously realistic, it’s best not to argue. And Timmy didn’t want to appear churlish. After all, this might well be the last time he and his three friends went trick-or-treating. They were in Year 6: Sam had already turned eleven, and Elliot and Timmy weren’t far behind. By this time next year, they would be in Templeton High School: and, in all likelihood, dismissing these Halloween japes as beneath them. Why dress up as zombies, vampires, cut-throats and mummies when you could sit at home, play D&D, stuff yourself with as much pizza, coke and popcorn as you liked, and top it off by watching some violent slasher-horror than you’d persuaded your older brother to get for you from the DVD bargain basement bin at Dicky Jenkins, the town’s one and only supermarket? Well, that was the hope, though only Peter Pugh had a brother old enough to pull this stunt: and, unfortunately, Sean Pugh was currently rather more interested in pursuing girls that acceding to the artful demands, however carefully presented, of his younger brother and his nerdy friends.
But for now, it was cold, foggy and damp, and the four friends were standing at the bottom of the drive of Templeton Vicarage.
In the old black-and-white films, with their rather quaint takes on ‘horror’ that Timmy had actually seen, vicarages occasionally featured, alongside Gothic cathedrals in their gargoyled splendour, mist-enshrouded churchyards watched over by gravely-hooting owls, and draughty country churches filled with the sight of guttering candles and the sound of forbidding organ-tones. Set against all those tropes of ecclesiastical terror, Templeton Vicarage was disappointing, to say the least. An architect with a penchant for neoClassicism would perhaps have dismissed it as a hideous monstrosity: but to Timmy there was nothing the least bit monstrous about it - if only! He wouldn’t even have called it ugly. It was just boring. A fair bit bigger, admittedly, than the pokey council estate house he shared with his mother and two sisters: but otherwise, remarkably similar. He decided to make one last attempt to get out of knocking at this particular residence.
‘I was the one who banged on Vicar Ed’s door last year,’ complained Timmy. ‘Why does it have to be me again?’
‘Cos it’s your turn,’ said Sam. ‘This is the eighth one we’ve done tonight. The rest of us have knocked on two doors each: you’ve only done one. Don’t matter if you knocked it last year. It’s your turn now. Besides,’ he smirked, ‘You like Vicar Ed, don’t you? You’re one of his choir boys, ain’t you?’ He started laughing, and Elliot and Peter joined in.
Timmy’s face flushed, and started to resemble the large pumpkin glowing on the Vicarage doorstep. Quite an accomplishment, considering the skin lightening cream he’d applied to his face to make his vampire costume look more convincing.
‘Piss off!’
He was the only one of the four boys to attend church. He’d actually been thinking about quitting the choir for some time. Nothing to do with anything untoward on the part of Vicar Ed, as Sam was hinting at. He was okay: even if he tried a bit too hard to ‘get with it’ (as he would say). Far too many ‘embarrassing Dad jokes’: not that Timmy had much idea of what a non-embarrassing Dad, or any kind of father, would actually be like. The only really creepy guy in church was Ernie Hutton. There was definitely something odd about him, and the way he sat in the choir stalls, wearing his creased, perpetually-lopsided surplice, with a dreamy, faraway expression on his face throughout the service. He used to wander around the town late at night: owl-watching, he would say. Peeping-Ernie, more like. No: the reason Timmy wanted to leave was the fact that choir-practice was held on a Thursday, at 5 o’clock. This suited the choirmaster and organist, Mr Meeks, perfectly. It did not suit Timmy. Not now that a new series of Byker Grove was back on television, every Tuesday and Thursday, at precisely that time. It was intolerable.
‘So - you going to do it, shithead? Or what?’ asked Elliot. He tried to look threatening, but without much success. That was Elliot Halliday all over: always talking tough, swearing liberally, trying to show himself as capable and as devil-may-care as Sam Wentworth - yet somehow, always failing. Take his zombie costume, for instance. He had tried to make it as gruesome in appearance as possible: ripped shirt and jeans, fake blood aplenty, carefully-applied makeup suggestive of scarring and rotting flesh. Yet he’d spent most of their evening out thus far complaining about his broken-down trainers, that he’d deliberately wrecked for the occasion, only to find them ridiculously impractical to wear, especially in the rain. That was Elliot in a nutshell.
It was nowhere near as absurd as Peter’s. Poor Peter’s choices were always very poor. Last year he had decided to dress up as a ghost: but he had put the eye-holes in the wrong place, meaning that the back of him was insufficiently covered up, whilst his feet kept tripping up over the dangling front side of the sheet. It never seemed to occur to him to make a new pair of eye-holes. This year’s selection had been worse still. He’d wound himself meticulously in reams and reams of toilet paper, carefully tied together around his ankles, abdomen and forearms. Three minutes of contact with even the light on-off mizzly rain that evening had been sufficient to reduce his costume to an unwearable mulch. He’d discarded it in stages, until only a single sodden sash was left around his waist. It wasn’t just that he was the youngest of them, by a good six months. No, there was something not quite there about Peter. God knows how he was going to survive High School.
‘Course I am,’ scowled Timmy. ‘Just saying - that’s all. Right. Here goes.’ He marched straight up to the door. The beckoning pumpkin gave assurance to Halloween callers that they would be welcome. That wasn’t the case everywhere, of course. Many of the older folk in Templeton would complain bitterly about these ‘unwanted American customs’ creeping in. The kind of women who would never kit out their younger children in new clothes if ready-made hand-me-downs were available from older siblings. And the same kind of men who objected to buying their wives a Valentines card. Or flowers for the mantelpiece, come to that. Mean-spirited, penny-pinching. There were plenty of that sort in Templeton.
Some of the very worst were the religious types, of course. Especially with Halloween. ‘Revelling in the works of the Devil, that is!’ they would cry. Vicar Ed would have none of it.
‘There’s no point getting worked up about kids-play,’ he had said in a sermon earlier that year about Beltane, and the revelries of the May. ‘Leaping at every shadow - that’s superstitious nonsense in itself. Templeton is not Summerisle, and we have no fear of Wicker Men here - only foolish minds, and limited imaginations.’
Timmy had asked Sam afterwards what a Wicker Man was. ‘A cool horror film,’ was his reply.
Regardless of the disapproval of his parishioners, on every Halloween Vicar Ed would be waiting behind the front door, with a bucket full of sweets. Sometimes his wife Sarah would be there too, chiding him about the perils of rotting teeth, and gorged stomachs. ‘One handful is quite enough!’ she would say sternly, whilst her husband would chuckle, shaking his head, looking for all the world like a misplaced Santa: dressed from head to toe in black (not scarlet) with a bushy beard that was tinged with only the slightest hint of white.
‘Nonsense, woman,’ he would bellow. ‘There’s plenty more where they came from.’ And then he would start asking the children after the health of their parents, and what their brothers or sisters were up to, and did they have anything else planned for the half-term holiday, and had Great-aunt Mabel had her hip operation yet. Whoever rang the doorbell would get the fiercest interrogation, of course: that was the real reason why Timmy had wanted to avoid the embarrassment of being in pole position for the over-enthusiastic cleric. And always he would end by saying: ‘All Saint’s Day, tomorrow. Our patronal festival. There’s a service in the evening. Hope to see you there. Happy Halloween!’ This was always celebrated with extra ceremony. Timmy knew this because last week’s choir practice had been especially long. Mr Meeks had been trying out a new, and rather difficult anthem, with results that could not, in all charity, be described as anything other than ‘mixed’. Timmy was dreading the next day. At least his friends would not be there to witness another disastrous patronal festival - the third since Timmy had joined the choir.
Curious. There was no answer at the front door. Timmy reached up and rang the doorbell again. Still, nothing.
‘Why don’t they answer?’ asked Peter.
‘Perhaps they’re hiding,’ said Elliot. ‘Pretending they’re not at home.’
‘Then why are all the lights on?’ reasoned Timmy. ‘Anyway, Vicar Ed wouldn’t do that. He likes Halloween - even if most of the Church people don’t.’
Elliot shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever. Fuck it. They’re not answering, so it’s got to be a trick.’ He turned to their leader. ‘You got the eggs and flour, Sam?’ He pointed at the backpack flung over the eldest boy’s shoulder.
‘No,’ declared Sam firmly. ‘Timmy’s right. This ain’t like the Vicar. And even if he’s out, what about his wife? Anyway, their car’s still here. Look!’
Without warning, a piercing scream filled the air. The boys froze momentarily in alarm, then looked at one another in turn, wide-eyed. Sam’s right hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, and half drew it from its sheath.
‘What the f–?’ cried Elliot; but before he could finish, a second scream rang out, even louder than the first. It was clear now where the shrieks were coming from. Across the road, from the Vicarage, was All Saint’s Church. But even against the backdrop of the now steadily-increasing patter of raindrops, the boys could tell that those harrowing sounds had come not from the Church, from the graveyard that surrounded it.
‘Come on!’ shouted Sam. ‘We gotta help whoever’s in trouble.’ Without even looking to see if the others were following, he charged across the road, drawing his cutlass as he did so. Impetuous, foolhardy, yes - but utterly fearless too - that was Sam Wentworth. That was why he was Timmy’s best friend. Why he - he gulped as the thought entered his head, unbidden - why he loved him. Though Sam would laugh at him, and call him a poofter if he had ever said as much, in so many words. Where Sam led, Timmy would always follow. He hurried across the road, trying to catch up to the older boy. Elliot followed just behind, cursing as he did so, limping along in his ill-considered footwear. Bringing up the rear, only following out of fear of being left alone, came Peter.
By the time Timmy caught up with Sam, he was standing by the notice board advertising the next day’s patronal festival service. The boy had sheathed his sword - for despite appearances, it really was just a bit of plastic, and of little practical use in an emergency. Instead he had fished a torch out of his backpack, and was shining it first down the church path, then across to the right where the garden of remembrance filled with cremated remains lay: then finally to the left, scanning the oldest part of the graveyard, filled with leaning lichen-encrusted graves with barely-decipherable lettering, overgrown with weeds, and tangled thickets of ivy, brambles, and unkempt shrubbery. Also scattered around this part of the graveyard were a number of gnarled old trees: elders and oaks, rowans and hawthorns, an enormous and venerable yew tree. And then there was the great horse chestnut tree, which only a few weeks ago Timmy and his friends had been foraging beneath, searching for the best conkers for their schoolyard contests.
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree
It wasn’t anything that might have been lying in the decaying litter of autumn leaves beneath the chestnut tree that was held now in the shaky spotlight of Sam Wentworth’s torch: nor was it the figure of the sobbing woman standing nearby. The boys stood and looked, in disbelief, at the nightmarish sight before them. This was no video nasty, though Timmy. This was real.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last bit of Peter’s mummy outfit finally come adrift, and fall to the ground. He fancied - though he was probably imagining it - that he could hear the soft sound of the trickle of urine as poor Peter Pugh pissed his pants. He could certainly hear the voice of Elliot whispering, under his breath: ‘No, fuck - no, fuck - no…’ repeating that same pointless phrase, over and over again. And then Timothy Weston felt the strong, strangely father-like - or what he imagined a father would feel like - grip of his wisest of friends: resting his right arm across his shoulder, reassuringly, whilst with his outstretched left arm, now no longer trembling, he held his torch steady. The focus of its light remained firmly fixed upon that which was hanging by a thick rope from one of the outspread arms of that chestnut tree.
There, suspended from one of the thickest and firmest boughs, no doubt specially selected for this task, was the lifeless body of the Revd Edgar Dyson, Vicar of Templeton with Morrington with Llanfihangel Gilfach.
Part One: Draco Dormiens
I: May 8th (Julian of Norwich)
The towering horse chestnut trees on either side of the approach to Selsey Tower (the grandly-named home for nearly a century to successive bishops of the mid-Wales Diocese of Pengwen) were only just beginning to come into flower, Father Georgios Anagnosides observed, as he sauntered down the driveway towards where his conspicuous canary yellow Citroen 2CV was parked. Their flowering was running perhaps two weeks behind their counterparts in Exeter. It was a chilly afternoon in the second week of May, and the young priest could barely feel the enfeebled rays of the subdued sun on his face.
Standing by the driver’s door of his car, he looked back towards the unprepossessing red brick mansion that doubled as bishop’s residence and diocesan office: and smiling with about as much conviction as he could muster, he waved at the balding middle-aged figure in purple cassock and cincture standing on the doorstep. The man who had just offered him a lifeline, and a living, on the Anglo-Welsh border. He watched as Bishop Mervyn Mortlake turned around, and re-entered the building. Only once his prune-faced inquisitor had finally disappeared from sight, did Georgios draw the packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d been trying to give them up for the past two years: but today was not a day on which he was likely to make any headway with that ambition. Already, he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision.
***
‘Anagnosides. That’s rather a curious surname, if I might say so. Greek, I presume?’
‘Yes, Bishop. My grandparents came over to Britain, when my father was in his teens, during the Greek Civil War, back in 1947. We still have family in Cephalonia.’
Bishop Mervyn nodded sagely. ‘I see. Anagnosis as in “agnostic”? An ironic name for a priest.’
Georgios smiled. ‘Not quite. Anagnosis actually means “recognition” or “reading”, with particular reference to a public reading of scripture, in a church or synagogue. It can also carry the sense of “knowing again” or “owning.” To read something, again and again, is to know something more deeply, to own it, to allow it to become part of you. Rather like the Lectio Divina method of studying scripture, meditating and praying. The very opposite of agnosticism, in point of fact.’
‘Well - my grasp of Greek is a little rusty,’ replied the bishop, frowning. ‘But you should know, I suppose, given your ancestry.’ Georgios suspected that the man interviewing him was not someone who liked to be contradicted.
‘So,’ continued the bishop, glancing down at the file lying open across his desk, ‘a First in history from St Ignatius College Oxford, then a doctorate. The offer of a fellowship follows, the start of what might have been a glittering academic career. But instead you turn it down, and elect to train for the priesthood, exchanging Oxford for Cambridge. Always a poor move, in my opinion, swapping the elder for the younger institution. I stayed in Oxford, and trained at St Simeon’s House. Why the change in direction? Not the universities - I mean the change in vocation.’
‘The death of my mother in a traffic accident had a lot to do with it.’
‘Ah, you found God in the midst of your grief?’
Georgios shook his head, conscious he was contradicting the prickly bishop for a second time. ‘No - I lost my faith. But I decided to give God a second chance. I went to Westcott House to study theology in the full expectation of having my doubts confirmed. If God could demonstrate his existence to me, to my satisfaction, then I’d resolve to serve him. If not - we’d go our separate ways. God won.’
Bishop Mervyn snorted. ‘Extraordinary. I’m surprised, with that attitude, any Warden of Ordinands would have supported your application. If you’d been in my Diocese - frankly, I certainly wouldn’t have accepted you for training.’
Silence. The bishop looked across his desk sternly, as if expecting - daring - Georgios to respond. But the young priest remained still, and met the bishop’s gaze impassively. Georgios sensed that the future course of the interview - and its ultimate outcome - was now hanging by a thread. He also knew that there must be no third contradiction of the bishop for the duration of their time together. But nevertheless, he stayed calm.
A full minute passed, with the steely-eyed bishop regarding him severely, fingering his pectoral cross all the while. Then, the purple-clad prelate lowered his gaze, seemingly returning to regard the documents laid before him. Georgios thought he saw the ghost of a smile fleeting across his face, before the lugubrious mask reformed.
‘Hmm. An excellent report from Unwin Hall, Cambridge, and an even more glowing one from your training incumbent. A challenging parish, that one, in Leicester. I served in the Diocese of Leicester myself, once upon a time, you know. Very multicultural. Lots of Poles, Irish - and, of course, Asians in abundance now, thanks to Idi Amin. Somalis too, over the last decade. Thirty percent of the city’s now non-White. Twice that percentage, actually, in the parish where you were placed. Well you’ll find Templeton very different, I’m afraid. But perhaps a country ministry will provide a welcome opportunity for you. It’ll be better than your past year’s experience, for certain. I understand you’ve not been enjoying your time as a university chaplain, yes?’
‘Correct, Bishop. Regrettably, I don’t think I’ve turned out to be suitable for my current appointment.’
‘That’s an understatement. I believe you’ve been asked to leave at the end of this academic year. Not - I’ve been assured - because of any scandals. You wouldn’t be sitting in front of me now if that had been the case. No, there’s simply been an acknowledgment all round that you’re something of a square peg in a round hole there.’
‘Precisely.’ And if you could see how appalling the attitudes are of these entitled upper-middle-class students that still make up far too large a percentage of the intake at Exeter, with their faux ‘Cool Britannia’ affectations, you’d feel like a square peg too. In some ways, it’s even worse there than it was in Oxford and Cambridge. What did the Church have to say, at the dawn of the new Millennium, to such as these? Far better for it to be engaged in radical social action in the challenging and changing suburbs of a city such as Leicester. At least I felt purposeful as a curate in Leicester. Would I feel the same way about mid-Wales, I wonder?
Georgios had allowed himself to become distracted. What was the bishop saying now?
‘Well, fortunately for you, we’re almost as desperate to find someone for the Templeton group as you are to find somewhere else to go after your minor debacle in Devonshire. The parishes have been vacant for over six months now, and my attempts to find someone from within the Diocese to take them on have been utterly unsuccessful. We’ve advertised twice in the Church Times. You are the only interested applicant, it seems. You’ve read the parish group profile, I take it? You’re fully aware of the nature of the previous Vicar’s untimely death?’
Georgios nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Good. They’ve had a torrid time of it lately. Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach were a separate incumbency until April last year. The Revd Huw Davies-Jones had been their Rector since 1990. A most unsuitable appointment, made by my predecessor, I’m afraid. He was one of those dreadful evangelicals, without the least bit of proper priestly formation. He trained at Alderdale Theological College - so what do you expect? Not a clue about Gregorian chant - but give him a guitar - hmm... Unfortunately, he didn’t stick to his guitar. He had an affair with his daughter’s piano teacher. Resigned his living in August 1999. He’s a taxi driver somewhere in the West Midlands now, I hear. I couldn’t find a replacement for him, so after consulting with the Senior Staff I suspended the parishes, then amalgamated them with Templeton next door. Edgar Dyson had been there since 1987. Well-liked, solid pastoral work, nothing too extreme in terms of churchmanship. He was a safe pair of hands.’ The bishop sighed. ‘Emphasis, alas, on the was.’
‘I’ve read the news reports following the inquest,’ said Georgios. ‘There seems little doubt, then, that he took his own life?’
‘No doubt whatsoever. As clear a case of suicide as you could ask for. What remains completely unclear is why he did it. There were no indications of anxiety or depression beforehand. Professionally, he was doing a good job with the new parish grouping. His personal life was untroubled. His poor wife was the one who found his body - alongside some young boys, I gather. Poor things.’ The bishop paused, reflective for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he continued. ‘Anyway, it’s been a major headache for me. This Foot and Mouth business has made it even worse, of course.’
Georgios nodded. The one thing that had made him hesitant about responding to the advertisement in the Church Times was the knowledge that since February the UK had been going through its biggest farming crisis in a generation. Was this really the best time to be seeking a country living?
‘Have there been any local outbreaks in the Templeton district?’
Bishop Mervyn shook his head. ‘No, the nearest was twenty miles away, so none of the local farmers have had to slaughter their herds and flocks. But they have still suffered because of the ban on animal movement, and the closure of the livestock markets. And then there’s been the impact upon tourism. It’s been a trying time for us all: and Templeton’s lack of a parish priest throughout this period has been most unfortunate. The Rural Dean has tried his best to keep the show on the road - you’ll meet him, of course, soon enough, should you accept the appointment. Then there’s the curate - Benedict Wishart - I take it you’d have no problem working alongside someone who’s - err - in a relationship?’
Should you accept the appointment…
Trying to conceal his excitement at this tacit admission that the post was practically his, Georgios asked: ‘Relationship, Bishop? Could you clarify that for me, please?’
‘Hmm.’ Bishop Mervyn Mortlake pursed his lips, and placed his hands together, as if in an attitude of prayer. ‘Fr Wishart is a homosexual. He has entered into a personal relationship with another man. They live together in the Old Rectory in Morrington. Not the one that Davies-Jones was living in - that’s been sold off by the Parsonage Board now. No - they’re living in the old Victorian Rectory. Rather fine, as I recall. Anyway, Fr Wishart assures me that he is celibate. Unlike in England - where they’re tying themselves in all sorts of knots - here in Wales the bishops have a little more discretion about appointments in these circumstances. Anyway, he’s only an unpaid curate - not a stipendiary incumbent - so one can afford to be a little more accommodating. It’s up to you what use you make of him of course, but you’ll probably be grateful for the extra help.’
‘Are the parishes aware of his circumstances? And if so, are they accepting?’
‘Well, there’s been some difficulty,’ said the bishop, evasively. ‘But nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle. Any problems, speak to the Rural Dean or, if absolutely necessary, the Archdeacon.’
And not you, you mean, thought Georgios. Typical.
‘Which reminds me,’ continued the bishop. ‘You appear to be an unmarried man. Is there anyone - significant - in your life, at present?’
Only the bloody Church could get away with such an unsubtle prurient line of questioning these days. He’s not really interested in whether or not I’m married. He just wants to know if I’m gay.
Sadly, my fiancée and I split up last month,’ responded Georgios. ‘She wasn’t sure, in the end, that she could see herself married to a clergyman.’ A bit more complicated than that - but it was true, up to a point. ‘We both agreed that it was for the best. So no - I’m single.’ The priest had sensed the strong sense of relief emanating from Bishop Mervyn the moment he had said the word fiancée.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the bishop, insincerely. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I have another meeting shortly. When can you start?’
‘So you’re offering me the position?’ asked Georgios, cautiously.
‘Of course!’ declared the Bishop of Pengwen imperiously. ‘Should have thought that was obvious. Do you accept?’
***
Naturally, he’d said yes. He’d had several unsuccessful interviews elsewhere. This was as good an offer as he was likely to get. It brought him nearer to home, and his beloved grandmother: sprightly though she was for her age, Georgios was acutely aware that at 92 she was in the final autumnal years of her life. The mid-Wales countryside was gloriously beautiful, and he wouldn’t miss Exeter itself one bit. As for Caroline - it would be good to put a bit of distance between them. He’d miss her, Annabelle too: but life was too short for regrets. Time to move on.
Georgios took a final drag of his cigarette, and almost threw it out of the window: but given he was still within the grounds of Selsey Tower, thought better of it. Instead, he stubbed it out beneath his left foot, and turned the key in the ignition with his right hand. Momentarily he considered whether he should travel back to Exeter via Templeton, but then dismissed the idea. He’d already paid a brief visit to the place that morning (making sure his coat was buttoned up to hide his clerical collar), but calling in for a second time on the same day was asking for trouble: he knew he had to keep his appointment strictly under wraps for a few weeks yet. Besides, it would mean adding perhaps three-quarters of an hour to an already three hours long journey, and he had tickets to a Monteverdi concert that evening that he didn’t want to miss.
Tickets, he thought. Only one will be needed, now that Caroline is no longer a central part of my life. Ah well. Perhaps I should trust in the words of Mother Julian of Norwich, given that it’s her feast-day today: All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.
Let’s go home.
***
Bishop Mervyn Mortlake stood at the window of his study, once again fingering his pectoral cross contemplatively, as he watched the yellow 2CV drive off. As soon as it had driven out of the gates, he walked across the room to a side table, upon which there was a whiskey decanter and a telephone. He lifted the jewelled silver cross on its silver chain over his head, and put it down on the table. He poured himself a large glass of whisky, then picked up the telephone receiver from its cradle, and dialled a number, muttering something under his breath as he did so. A few seconds later, a voice from the other end answered:
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Bishop Mervyn here. Your new Vicar has just left my office. I had to make a show of it - as if he really was being interviewed - I didn’t want to make it look too obvious. But he’s just what we need. He’s inexperienced, knows nothing about our ways. He won’t get in the way, like Dyson did.’ He took a sip from his whisky, then chuckled. ‘So spread the word: I’m sure you’ll all find the appointment most satisfactory. Oh - one other matter. The medical report on Bishop Bryson: it’s just as we expected. He’s having more tests, treatments, and so forth. But I think we can start planning the next phase. Draco praevalebit.’
II: June 11th (St Barnabas the Apostle)
At sixty-seven years old, the Right Revd Bryson Maxwell-Lewis, Bishop of Abertawe, was the oldest bishop currently serving within the Church of Wales. None of his fellow bishops, he believed, had any awareness as yet of just how seriously ill he was: but following his most recent consultation with the specialist who was treating his bone cancer, he himself knew that the prognosis was grave.
‘Nine months, most likely, Bishop,’ he had been told, ‘twelve, thirteen months or so at the most. I’m sorry, there’s little more we can do.’
Bishop Bryson looked at himself in the mirror, and frowned. His facial features had grown increasingly cadaverous of late, and the collar of his clerical shirts were loose and ill-fitting. It really was a wonder none of his colleagues had noticed the decline in his appearance. Then again, perhaps they had noticed, but were too polite to enquire.
Well, even if that’s the case - it’s time I spoke to the Archbishop. Give him a bit of warning. And I owe it to Edith, to make sure we have a bit of a retirement, however short.
There was a knock at the door. Bishop Bryson turned, and saw that his personal secretary was standing in the doorway of his study. She was as white as a sheet.
‘Yes, Sybil, what is it?’
‘It’s about Archbishop Geraint. Bishop, there’s been the most dreadful news.’
***
Twenty minutes later, the Bishop of Abertawe was still struggling with a difficult and entirely unanticipated telephone conversation with the Secretary-General, the chief administrative officer of the Church of Wales.
‘Donald, I know you don’t like it - I can assure you I like it even less - but the medical facts of the matter are incontrovertible. My doctors give me no more than a year. I may be the ‘senior bishop’ now, but I won’t let my name go forward to the Electoral Conclave.’
There was a long pause before the Secretary-General replied. Eventually, Sir Donald Brodie, his Scottish Lowland burr still discernible despite forty years living in Wales, said: ‘I fully understand, Bryson. It’s all incredibly unfortunate, and I do sympathise, with both you and Edith. The timing really is dreadful, with the debate about women bishops facing us at the next meeting of the Provincial Synod, come November. If you won’t take on the mantle of caretaker Archbishop for two or three years - if you’re certain your health is that precarious–’
‘Terminal, Donald. Much more than merely precarious.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound tactless. But neither did we expect to lose Geraint like this. He’d probably have given us another five, maybe six more years, of service. Instead of which - if you won’t stand, it means a terrible tussle between the evangelical and the catholic wings - with Rhydian and Ambrose fighting it out. It could be very unpleasant.’
‘There is another possibility…’ mused Bishop Bryson.
‘You don’t mean Mervyn, surely?’ gasped Sir Donald. ‘He’s not exactly the most popular figure, is he?’
‘Precisely. Equally detested by both sides. The perfect compromise candidate, if the Conclave is split down the middle - which it will be. And Mervyn’s almost as old as me - he turns sixty-six in October, doesn’t he? Four years at most before he has to retire.’ Not that I will live to see it. ‘He can’t do too much damage in that time. And it’ll give one of the younger, more conciliatory bishops enough time to build their base, and establish their credentials - it doesn’t matter at this stage whether it’s Christopher or Tomos, does it? Either of them would do a better job at keeping the Church united than Rhydian or Ambrose. But it’s a bit too soon for the Young Turks, agreed?’
‘Agreed. It’s a shame we can’t pull the women bishops’ debate, though.’
‘We can’t. It was a cause dear to our late Archbishop’s heart. I’m still very unsure which way it will go, but we can’t bury it, just because we now have to bury its most ardent advocate.’
‘Yes, well thank you for your time, Bryson. It’s a great pity you didn’t become Archbishop five years ago, at the last election. You’ll go down as one of the best Archbishops we never had.’
‘Pish. That’s nonsense, and well you know it. Geraint Morgan has been the kindest, most inspirational leader we’ve had in half a century. The loss we face is quite profound. To lose him today, on the Feast of St Barnabas the Apostle, whose name means “Son of Encouragement,” is a cruel irony.’ There was real emotion in the bishop’s usual calm and authoritative voice.
‘Och, I know you’ve lost one of your closest friends. Listen, I must go. I have to check the official press release. And then start to make arrangements for the Electoral Conclave. I just hope you’re right about Mervyn Mortlake. Bye, Bishop.’ There was a click, and the line went dead.
So do I, thought Bryson Maxwell-Lewis. Good God, so do I.
III: September 2nd (12th Sunday after Trinity)
‘You’ll regret it, you know, Georgie - mark my words.’ Annabelle Hadley pursed her lips, and frowned. ‘I had to look it up, you know. Templeton. I’d never heard of it. Talk about a pimple on the arse-end of nowhere!’
Georgios smiled. Annabelle had been one of the few friends he’d made during his unfortunate spell as a university chaplain. He’d miss her.
‘Oh, it’s not that remote, Annabelle. Population: 4,000, with both a primary and secondary school, a cottage hospital and a public library, three banks, a cattle market (temporarily closed thanks to Foot and Mouth), a train station and a hotel, seven pubs, two post offices, a petrol station and a supermarket. And there’ll be three churches to look after. Plenty enough to keep me occupied, I should think.’
‘Pooh. You’ll be bored stiff within a fortnight. I know you’re Welsh - “We’ll keep a welcome in the hillside,” and all that blather - but, even so, are you quite certain this is what you want?’
Georgios ran his forefinger clockwise around the rim of his coffee mug, three times, before looking up at Annabelle. He knew - behind the bombast - she was worried about him, and that like a dog worrying away at a bone she wasn’t likely to let up. At least, not until she had received an answer that satisfied her.
‘You know I can’t stay in Exeter. The university has made that quite clear. And, with all that’s happened with Caroline–’
‘The little bitch.’ Annabelle paused. ‘Sorry, but she is.’
Georgios smiled ruefully. ‘That’s not a very nice way to talk about your younger sister.’ You were the one who introduced me to her, after all. ‘Anyway,’ (he continued, before Annabelle could respond) ‘the remoteness is what I need right now. I need time, and space, to think - and to decide whether or not I’m really meant to be a priest. Hopefully, Templeton can give me all that. And it’s not really Wales, Annabelle. It’s right on the border - and the folk there are neither one thing nor another.’
‘Inbred, most likely,’ snorted Annabelle. She turned her head, and gazed out of her kitchen window, though the streaks of rain running down the windowpane obscured the view of the unremarkable suburban cul de sac where she lived. Georgios fancied there was a glistening in her eye. She rubbed away at it angrily, and sniffed. There was a long pause.
All that might have been - if it had been Annabelle and I, and not Caroline. Life’s bitter regrets: perhaps time will wash them away. Like tears in the rain. For all our sakes, it’s best that I go.
‘When do you leave?’ asked Annabelle suddenly.
The removal firm arrives the day after tomorrow. Three days to pack, move, unpack. I’ll be firmly ensconced in Templeton Vicarage by the end of the week. The induction isn’t for another two weeks after that. September 21st. The feast of St Matthew the Apostle.’
‘My patron saint, isn’t he?’ laughed Annabelle. ‘Wasn’t he a tax collector?’
‘Yes. Patron saint of accountants, bankers and, of course, tax collectors, like you.’
‘Ex-tax collector, remember. I don’t work for the Inland Revenue anymore.’
‘Once a taxman, always a taxman,’ teased Georgios.
‘I thought,’ responded Annabelle, ‘that’s what they say about priests. You shouldn’t doubt yourself, Georgie. I know you’re struggling with it right now - but you are a good priest. There’s no question about it. If going to Templeton is what you need, to make you realise that - then so be it.’
Georgios said: ‘It is. Bishop Mervyn may be a dry old stick, but he’s given me the chance for a fresh start. It’s the right move.’
‘Bishop Mervyn? I thought he was Archbishop now?’
‘No, not yet. The Electoral Conclave has appointed him, certainly, but it needs to be confirmed by the Sacred Synod in Llanmadoc Wells on the 14th. Though that’s very much a rubber stamping exercise. And then there’s the enthronement - sometime next month, I think.’ It’s so tragic, thought Georgios, Archbishop Geraint dying in that horrible car crash.
‘Didn’t his predecessor die in some road accident?’ asked Annabelle, as if reading his mind.
‘Yes. He was reputed to be a somewhat reckless driver, I understand. Quite a few speeding tickets, too, over the years. A real shock: he was much loved throughout the Church of Wales. I only ever met him twice - but he was a gentle, kindly old soul, even if he was a bit of a terror behind the wheel. Requiescat in pace.’ The young priest crossed himself.
‘Et surgat in gloria,’ responded Annabelle. She looked at Georgios’ surprised face, and giggled. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? About our Catholic upbringing? Not that Caroline likes to talk about it. But I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before.’
‘Yes. Once or twice.’ Georgios glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘I really should make a move. It’s getting late, and I need to be up early tomorrow. My contract was terminated last Friday, at the end of the month: but I need to go into the university to tie up some final lose ends.’
‘You could stay the night,’ said Annabelle. Her face was flushed. ‘If you wanted to.’
Didn’t see that coming. Damn and blast it. What the hell do I say now?
‘I thought,’ said Georgios slowly, ‘that you believed me to be a good priest. I think we both know that wouldn’t be a great idea.’
‘No. I guess not. I–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ Then louder, ‘God, I really shouldn’t have said that!’
‘It’s okay,’ he reassured her, ‘Please - it’s okay. I understand - truly. But…’ he stopped. Putting his coffee mug firmly down on the kitchen table, he pushed back his chair, and stood up. ‘I really should go. Thanks for the coffee. Thanks - for everything.’ He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he offered her his hand.
She couldn’t look at him. She took his hand, and shook it, limply. ‘Goodbye, Georgios.’ She never called him that. ‘Forgive me…’ she shuddered. ‘Forgive me being so stupid. Bad girl. How many Hail Marys will that earn me when I next go to confession?’
He smiled: ‘Ego te absolvo, Annabelle. I’ll be in touch. Think of me - on St Matthew’s Day.’
She said nothing further. He slipped on his coat, turned away and stepped out into the rain.
IV: September 7th
The driver of the removal van tooted his horn, and Georgios smiled and waved goodbye. Then he closed the front door of Templeton Vicarage, shut his eyes momentarily and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Well, it’s taken all afternoon to get everything unloaded: but, at last, I’m in.
He turned, and walked from the hallway into the study. A large mahogany desk beneath the study window, and two gun grey filing cabinets on either side, took up most of the wall opposite the doorway. Empty shelves lined the two walls running parallel to the desk: in the middle of the room, twenty boxes or more were neatly stacked. The process of transferring the contents of those boxes to the study’s shelves would take him a couple of days. Why do clergy always seem to have so many books? The thought was deeply depressing to him. And then there was the rest of the house…where to begin?
The kitchen: that’s where. The kettle had been the last item to be packed away in Exeter, and first to be unpacked here. A cup of Earl Grey would be just the thing - provided he could quickly locate which box contained the contents of his pantry.
Next to where the kettle was already plugged in, he knew there was a large lemon drizzle cake, with a note next to it saying: Welcome to Templeton. He had found it there this morning when he and the removal men had arrived. He hadn’t had time to consider it in the hours since: but now, he thought to himself, it would go down well with a cup of tea. Of course, as well as the Earl Grey, he’d also need to find the cups and saucers, and the side plates too.
There was a sharp rat-tat-tat at the front door. Georgios frowned: couldn’t he have even a few moments of peace? He crossed the hallway and opened the door.
Facing him was a stout ruddy-cheeked individual in his seventies with a weather-beaten face and an untidy thatch of straw-coloured hair. He was wearing, over a creased linen shirt, a disreputable-looking gilet that had clearly seen better days. His threadbare green corduroys and scuffed mud-splattered Doc Martens were further testament to this gentleman’s casual attitude with regard to his physical appearance. But there was a twinkle in his visitor’s striking pale-blue eyes that Georgios found compelling.
‘Begging your pardon, but you’re our new Vicar, Fr Georgios’ - he made it sound more like ‘gorgeous’, but never mind - ‘aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, Mr–?’
‘Meeks. Bernard Meeks. Choirmaster and principal organist at All Saints Church. Sorry to bang on the door, but the bell hasn’t been working for a while, you see. Not since your predecessor - well, I have told the churchwardens, but they’re being very tardy about it.’ He paused, and took in a deep breath. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Vicar.’
Georgios offered his hand. ‘Please, call me Georgios.’
Mr Meeks clasped Georgios’ outstretched hand in both of his boney, deep-veined hands, and shook vigorously, chuckling as he did so. ‘No, no, I can’t call you that. Vicar Anag–Anag–you know, Vicar will do just fine. Now - I know the induction service isn’t for another two weeks - and you’ll want time to settle in - but I imagine it’s as much as you can do to find the kettle, right now, isn’t it?’
‘Well–’ began the young priest.
‘I knew it, I knew it,’ said Mr Meeks, beaming. ‘I said as much to Mrs Meeks. “He’ll be wanting a cup of tea,” I said to her. We only live round the corner. Why don’t you come along? I saw the van driving off five minutes ago. Rest easy after all that travelling, and upheaval - unpacking can wait. And then after a cuppa, perhaps I can show you round the church, yes?’
Georgios laughed. ‘You’re very persuasive, Mr Meeks.’
‘Call me Bernard. Right-o - just follow me.’ He turned and strode away, clearly expecting that Georgios would follow immediately behind.
Which he dutifully did.
***
An hour and a half later, feeling somewhat fortified after several cups of strong tea and a plateful of Welsh cakes and slices of bara brith in the Meeks’ kitchen, Georgios found himself walking with the choirmaster along the churchyard path of All Saints Church. Together they passed a noticeboard upon which, in spite of the fading light, Georgios was able to read the name of the unfortunate Revd Dr Edgar Dyson, still listed as Vicar of Tempeton. Mr Meeks noticed Georgios’ gaze, and shook his head, tut-tutting as he did so.
‘Terrible business. Poor Vicar Dyson. You know it was four boys who found him, hanging from that horse chestnut, o’er there?’ Meeks raised a hand, and pointed towards a forlorn-looking tree fifteen yards or so away.
‘Yes. Though I thought it was his wife who found him?’
‘Well, yes,’ Meeks rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it was Mrs Dyson, bless her, who found him first. But it’s those boys - who came along straight after - well, what a thing for them to see! Timmy Weston was one of them - he sings in the choir. Sang, I should say. We haven’t seen him in church since that day. Beautiful treble voice.’ Meeks paused again, then said: ‘They should have updated that noticeboard by now. We’ve known for several months of your appointment. I did tell the churchwardens: but they don’t listen to me, alas.’ He shook his head, then fished a large, ornate iron key from his pocket. ‘This will be yours, soon enough, come the induction: but for the moment, it’s in my keeping. There are only three copies. Mrs Meeks and I have another one; she’s our sacristan, as well as me being choirmaster, you see. The People’s Warden, Mrs Buxton, has the third.’
‘The Vicar’s Warden doesn’t have a copy, then?’ asked Georgios.
Meeks snorted. ‘Claude Kennard? He doesn’t come to church that often. Typical farmer. Lives ten miles out of town. No point in him having a key. He’d only lose it, anyway.’ He slipped the key into the lock, turned it and pushed at the heavy oak door.
‘Right then, Vicar. Let me show you around.’
Over the next half an hour, Georgios followed the older man around the church building, listening to him politely as he regaled him with various vignettes about past Vicars of Templeton, pointed out the more significant of the many marble monuments mounted on the austere granite walls and told him something of the history of the church’s foundation by the Knights Templar in the early 13th century.
‘That’s how Templeton got its name, you see,’ said Meeks. ‘For a time, this was the site of one of the most important Templar Houses in the Welsh Marches. Until the Order was dissolved. The church remained, though, as a parish church. There’s a lot of queer stories about the Templars - but I guess you know that already.’
Georgios nodded. ‘Yes. Mostly nonsense, of course. Hidden treasures, heretical beliefs, even diabolical religious rites. The last Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, was burnt at the stake by Philip IV of France, in 1314. Naturally, it was all politically motivated.’ He stopped before a set of three elaborately inscribed boards, halfway down the nave on the north-facing wall of the church. ‘What are these?’
‘Ah,’ said Bernard Meeks. ‘I thought you’d spot those. They’re the Roll of Vicars of Templeton. Your illustrious predecessors. We don’t know precisely how old the church is, of course. There was an archaeological survey in the 1920s which suggests that there was a small settlement here way back in the 8th century - an Anglo-Saxon outpost along Offa’s Dyke, perhaps: but we know very little about it, really. Not even its original name. Surprisingly, there’s no mention of the place in the Doomsday Book: the first solid written reference we have to Templeton dates from 1226, with the arrival of the Templars. And all the Templar records were later lost - probably deliberately destroyed. So the first parish priest we know of, after the Templar period, is a certain Thomas de Bullingdon, from 1328. But then, after him, we have a gap.’
Georgios nodded. ‘The Black Death. It arrived in England and Wales in the summer of 1348, the most fatal pandemic in human history. In some places whole villages were wiped out, fields went untilled, monasteries were laid waste, parish records were abandoned wholesale. The death toll amongst priests was probably even higher than the general population at large - and that was high enough.’ He peered at the list on the wall. ‘Richard Greene, 1427. That is quite a gap. But from then on, an almost uninterrupted record, it would seem - though with the usual disruption during the time of the Cromwellian Commonwealth. Then we have William Wilkes, 1662. And on into the 18th century…’ Georgios had reached the end of names on the first board. He looked across to the second board. ‘Hmm… longer incumbencies now: and signs of nepotism too. The dissolute Anglican church of the Georgian age. Edmund Tusker 1732. John Escott 1767, Vicar for 53 years, followed by Richard Escott 1820. His grandson, perhaps?’
‘Yes. And he was Vicar for almost as long as his grandfather, see: 48 years, until 1868. They had staying power, back then!’
‘Hmm. It’s interesting you say that,’ said Georgios, looking now at the final board in the series. ‘During the twentieth century, there’s a marked decline in the length of each incumbency. The average tenure seems to be five, maybe six years. Sometimes less.’
Odd that. I know Vicars tend to move on more frequently in modern times: they retire, too, rather than carrying on till they drop. But even so, my more recent predecessors really didn’t seem to hang around for long. I wonder why?
‘Until Vicar Dyson, God rest his soul,’ Meeks noted. ‘Eleven years: the longest-serving Vicar of Templeton of the twentieth century. Still just a blink in time compared to the long stretches of the Escotts, mind…’
Georgios was no longer listening to the choirmaster. He had noticed something quite unexpected about the Roll of Vicars.
‘Bernard, I didn’t realise Bishop Mervyn was a former Vicar of Templeton himself. Here: 1964 to 1966, it would seem. Mervyn Mortlake.’ Whyever didn’t he tell me?
‘But of course,’ said Mr Meeks, surprised. ‘The shortest tenure of the twentieth century. But there was nothing scandalous about his departure, though it was occasioned by a painful personal tragedy.’
‘Oh?’
‘His wife Lydia died in childbirth. Both she and the baby. Quite distressing. Vicar Mortlake was beside himself. It was his first living, after a spell as a curate - oh, dear me, where was it? - somewhere from off, across the border. The then Bishop of Pengwyn, Bishop Bannerman-Jones, felt it best for him to make a fresh start somewhere else. So off he went.’ Meeks looked at Georgios curiously. ‘I’m surprised Bishop Mortlake never spoke of it to you. When he interviewed you.’
‘No, he didn’t. I suppose it was a long time ago, and he was only here for a short time.’
‘Yes, indeed. Many of the current congregation wouldn’t remember him. It was well over thirty years ago, after all. But the older folk still speak of him, from time to time, and his beautiful wife. He never remarried. I have to say, though, we’re all rather delighted he’s become Archbishop. Delighted and proud.’
Archbishop-designate, still, as I keep reminding people... Georgios didn’t know why, but this unexpected discovery left him feeling very uneasy. Something’s not right. Why would the Bishop neglect to tell him something so obvious? Because it was something he felt to be unimportant, perhaps? Whatever the reason - it seems a startling omission.
‘You look a little tired, Vicar,’ said Bernard Meeks. He pinched the end of his nose thoughtfully. ‘I’d really like to show you the chancel and sanctuary - the frescoes by John Douglas really are superb. And then there’s the pipe organ - a very fine instrument indeed. But perhaps another time?’
‘Yes, Bernard,’ said Georgios, distracted. ‘Another time.’
***
The red light was flashing on Georgios Anagnosides’ newly installed answer machine as he returned to the gathering gloom within his new home. He groped for the unfamiliar hall light switch, they pressed PLAY on the answer machine and listened to the recording.
‘YOU HAVE FOUR NEW MESSAGES…’
FOUR? Good grief… He fumbled within the top drawer of the bureau upon which the telephone was perched, and found a pencil and pad of paper, just as the messages began to be relayed.
First, a warm, if slightly imperious-sounding female voice: ‘Good afternoon, Vicar. Belinda Buxton here. I do so hope you enjoyed the cake that I left for you in the kitchen. On behalf of the parishes, I do hope you’ll settle into your new home soon. We hope your stay with us will be a long, and happy one. Doubtless you’ll want to meet up with myself and Claude, the Vicar’s Warden at All Saints, sometime in the coming few days? Anyway, I’ll call again soon. Once again, welcome.’
After a beep, came the second message, delivered in a refined, somewhat fruity voice: ‘Good evening, Fr Anagosides: this is Fr Benedict Wishart. I’m sure Bishop Mervyn will have mentioned me to you. I just wanted to welcome you, and to invite you to the Old Rectory in Morrington. I know you’ll be very busy - but, perhaps, sometime in the next week, you could find the time to pop over for coffee? Would Monday be a possibility? I’m very much looking forward to working with you. My telephone number is 763538. Many thanks.’
The third message, after the next beep, was short and rather perfunctory: ‘It’s Harry Barrington-Smythe here: one of your Lay Readers. Could you give me a call, at your convenience? Thank you. Oh - my telephone number is 763597.’
Another beep, and then the final message. This time, the voice was very well known to him. ‘Hello, darling. Hope you’re settling in. I just wanted…’ a pause, then: ‘I just wanted to wish you all the best. Annabelle says hi too. Speak soon.’ It was silly, but it was almost as if he could smell her perfume, the moment he heard her voice. Would he ever be able to move on from her rejection?
Yes. I have to. Now, which of those telephone calls sounded most pressing?
He picked up the telephone, and pressed a series of numbers on the keypad. After a few moments, a voice on the other end of the line greeted him.
‘Hello?’
Georgios paused, then began speaking.
***
Harry Barrington-Smythe replaced the receiver to its cradle, and growled. It was worse than he had feared. He grabbed his walking stick and hobbled from the gloomy hallway into the comforting warmth of the parlour. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and looked across at his wife, sitting in front of a roaring log fire. Even though it was only September, both were increasingly feeling the chill of autumn. Winter characteristically came early in this part of Wales. ‘I can see we’re going to have problems with this new Vicar,’ he said ominously.
His wife Emelia looked at him sympathetically over her half moon spectacles, and laid her knitting to one side. ‘Oh dear, Harry. Is it really that bad?’
He nodded, and lowered himself into the armchair opposite, wincing involuntarily as he did so. His arthritis was progressively worsening, and, not for the first time, he wondered whether or not they should look at having a stair-lift installed. Unfortunately, the narrow, uneven steps of their Tudor cottage would present something of a challenge. He knew that trying to modernise their 16th century home to properly accommodate the needs of its current ageing inhabitants would be a miserable and expensive task.
‘Yes, my dear. I explained to him that we needed to speak to him urgently about that–’ he sniffed, ‘that creature living in the Old Rectory. He fobbed me off, I’m afraid to say. Something about being happy to meet with us after his induction, but that any pastoral matters should properly be addressed to the Rural Dean until then. I told him straight, that as a Lay Reader in the parish, that simply wasn’t good enough. I didn’t get the impression, frankly, that he intends to give us a sympathetic hearing even after his induction. Very cool, he seemed. Classic liberal aloofness. No wonder the Anglican Church is in such a dreadful state. Wouldn’t expect anything different from someone with such a foreign sounding name. What kind of dago-name is Anagnosides, eh? Well: he’ll soon find out just how determined the Barrington-Smythes are when our dander is up!’
‘Now, Harry, try not to get so excited. You know what the doctor said. You’re quite right to be indignant: the impudence of these clergymen! They’re all quite as bad as one another. That last man, Dr Dyson, was no better.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m altogether displeased about what happened to him,’ ruminated Barrington-Smythe, stroking his white whiskers thoughtfully. ‘“He who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind.”’
‘Hosea chapter 8, verse 7,’ replied Emelia, taking up her knitting again. ‘Though his poor wife Sarah: that’s another matter. She spoke to the Women’s Guild once.’
‘Humph. That’s all in the past. But this new fella, Anagnosides: he’s the one that concerns us now. And if he won’t listen to us - well, we’ll just have to show him that the Barrington-Smythes are not alone and that they are not without influence…’
V: September 9th (13th Sunday after Trinity)
The full panoply of bells in the belltower of All Saints Templeton were not being rung that morning: once again, Simon Howley had failed to secure enough members of the band of ringers for a full peal before the Sunday service.
Belinda Buxton was standing in the porch doorway as he approached, looking stern. ‘I do hope, Simon, you’ve let it be known to the band that they really must turn out for the induction service. It just isn’t good enough, you know. What about the following Sunday? We really must make a good impression on our new Vicar!’
Simon shrugged. Many members of Templeton were easily intimidated by the redoubtable Mrs Buxton: but not him. He had encountered far worse in the South Atlantic during the Falklands War than Belinda Buxton.
‘We’ll see. I can’t work miracles. Are you even sure the induction will be here?’
‘What do you mean? Of course it will be held at All Saints. Oh, good morning, Alistair.’ Belinda smiled at the new arrival, a tall slender man in his early forties, but Simon noted, with some small amusement, that the dangerous glint in her eyes was undimmed. ‘No Marjorie this morning? Will poor Laura have to sing soprano alone, once more?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied the new arrival. ‘She’s laid low by one of her migraines again. Needless to say, if the new Vicar revokes the ridiculous ban this church has on young girls becoming choristers, then our choir will become far more robust.’
‘You know very well that Mr Meeks won’t hear of it, Alistair. I do hope you’re not planning to burden Dr Anagnosides by bringing up all that nonsense at his first PCC meeting.’
‘As you exercise considerable control of the agenda as PCC Secretary, that would be difficult,’ countered Alistair stiffly. ‘One thing, though: don’t call him “Doctor” - he doesn’t like it. I don’t think he’s particularly proud of his brief stint in academia. And he was singularly unsuccessful as a university chaplain. That’s what my sources tell me.’ He smiled triumphantly. There! That took the wind out of Madam’s sails for a moment. Simon Howley chuckled behind him.
For a moment, Belinda Buxton struggled to think of a suitable retort. Then her eyes alighted upon another member approaching, and she decided that the best response was simply to ignore the irritating Alistair Gillespie, and move on. ‘Ah, Major Matlock. Chilly morning, isn’t it? Dillie really has done a splendid job with the altar flowers this week…’
***
Young Justin Matlock slipped quietly in through the side door into the choir vestry, hoping that no one would notice his late arrival. The adults were busy chatting amongst themselves, slipping surplices over their heads, or in the case of Laura Jenkins, fussily attending to her hair before the long mirror that was propped up precariously against the back wall. But it was Laura’s elder son Ainsley who ensured Justin’s tardiness didn’t go unnoticed.
‘Late again, Matlock?’ he said, in a fair imitation of Bernard Meeks’ rustic tones. ‘Not good enough, boy.’
‘Piss off,’ hissed Justin, turning red, as several faces turned towards him. Ainsley Jenkins might be head boy chorister: but given that the treble section had seemingly shrunk to just three boys - Justin, Ainsley and his younger brother Trevor - over the past nine months, it wasn’t that impressive a position any longer.
‘Now, now,’ said Violet Hardcastle, who despite her ninety-three years had incredibly sharp hearing. ‘I heard that. You’re not too old to have your mouth washed out with carbolic soap, Justin Matlock. If the Major and Dillie could hear you now, dear me.’ She shook her head sadly. Justin wasn’t sure what carbolic soap was, but it certainly didn’t sound pleasant. Laura Jenkins turned around from the mirror, and gave Justin a venomous look.
At that point, the lad was spared any further humiliation as Bernard Meeks bustled into the vestry. In his starched, neatly-ironed surplice, precisely-fitted cassock and polished black shoes, Georgios would hardly have identified him, had he been there, with the dishevelled figure who had shown him around All Saints two days previously…
‘You all have your anthem books ready?’ said the choir-master peevishly. ‘Remember, we need to make a good impression now for the Rural Dean, as this will be his last Sunday with us.’
‘What’s he like, Mr Meeks?’ asked Maria Kennard, at twenty-six the youngest adult member of the choir - indeed, the youngest adult to regularly attend church at All Saints.
‘The Rural Dean?’ Meeks looked puzzled. ‘You know what Canon Harris is like, surely…’ He paused. ‘Oh, you mean the new Vicar?’
Maria giggled. ‘Of course, Mr Meeks. Is he as good-looking as the photograph of him that was in the Courier?’
‘The Llanmadoc Wells Courier is a serious newspaper, not a pin-up magazine for your immature fantasies, Maria Kennard,’ said Ernie Hutton huffily, gripping the ornate processional cross even more tightly as he did so. It was a heavy affair, poorly balanced, and Ernie was the only choir member who could carry it with confidence. As Templeton’s resident correspondent for the Courier, he was also known to be very defensive when it came to the reputation of his beloved newspaper. Its journalistic integrity was something he highly-prized - more so than most of its readers.
Walter Hardcastle, Violet’s younger brother, and principal bass voice, nodded his agreement; but Antonia Lewis, two years older than Maria, and her greatest confidant, came to her friend’s aid. ‘Maria’s just teasing. Go on Mr Meeks, we know you’ve met him. What’s he like?’
‘Well,’ said Meeks, ‘He seems to be a very personable young man. I think he has the makings of an excellent Vicar. He certainly seemed to enjoy Mrs Meek’s bara brith when he called.’
Belinda Buxton had a face like thunder as she entered the vestry at that unfortunate moment. Mrs Meek’s bara brith, indeed! What about my lemon drizzle cake? Their soon-to-be inducted parish priest had thanked her on Friday evening for her kindness: but which cake had he tucked into first? How typical of Delilah Meeks to try to get his feet under her kitchen table before anyone else. Without a word, Belinda grabbed her choir robes, and the chatter in the vestry ceased. Everyone there was well-versed in the People’s Warden’s darker moods. At such times, there was great wisdom in silence.
Mr Meeks said: ‘Well, I’d better go and start playing.’ He turned to leave, and as he did so, Canon Vernon Harris, Rural Dean of the Templeton Deanery, and Vicar of the Llanfair-y-Dolwen group of parishes, entered the room. He was already vested in readiness for divine worship. Canon Harris immediately sensed the tense atmosphere around him.
Just wait till they hear what I have to report about the induction, he thought. Ah well. Soon this whole nest of vipers will be Anagnosides’ responsibility. And may God have mercy on his soul…
‘Good morning, choir,’ he said briskly. ‘Shall we say the vestry prayer?’
***
Four miles to the south-east of Templeton, on the other side of Penley Hill, lay the village of Morrington. The parish church of St Matthew’s was a fraction of the size of All Saints, but it was not without charm, having been restored in the 19th century by one of the most notable of the Gothic Revival architects, William Butterfield.
Unlike the tower of All Saints, with its eight heavy iron-cast bells, St Matthew’s had just two. But even as Belinda Buxton was castigating Simon Howley for the shortcomings of the Templeton band of ringers, Benjamin Griffiths - ‘Old Benji’ as most villagers knew him - was ringing the bells of St Matthew with an astonishing degree of vigour, considering that at ninety-six he was the second-oldest resident within the village. Benjamin Griffiths still lived in the cottage where he had been born - in the year when Einstein had published his famous equation E=mc2, the HMS Dreadnought was laid down and the Wright brothers attained the first aeroplane flight lasting more than half an hour in only their third aeroplane. Old Benji was born into the world at a time when ironclads and aeroplanes were being built that would point the way to a world of vast change, in terms of speed and power, industrial might and scientific endeavour. But, for him, the ‘old ways’ had never really changed. Electricity remained a new-fangled invention that he could happily get along without, if need be; and the ‘infernal’ combustion engine he continued to view with great suspicion. He was determined that he would die in the home where he had lived his entire life.
In the meantime, his life continued to be regulated by his thrice-weekly visits to the Blue Boar, every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night, and his dutiful ringing of the church bells, every Sunday morning. It was said that Fr Benedict up in the Old Rectory had an ancient and valuable grandfather clock to help him keep the time: but the common folk of Morrington had venerable Old Benji to help them mark the passage of the days and years.
Apart from the resolute bellringer, only five others had arrived for worship at St Matthews that morning. Only a little less than average, in these irreligious times, thought Jack Copeland, glumly. He glanced at his watch. The importance of punctuality was something that he appreciated in his day-job, as Deputy Headteacher at Templeton High School. It was only natural that he should feel the same way about the Sunday services he regularly led as a Lay Reader, a holder of the Bishop’s licence to preach within the parishes of Templeton, Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach. He glanced around the church, quietly noting those who had dutiful turned out for Morning Prayer. There were no strange faces in the congregation today. There very rarely were.
Standing at the back, pointlessly making a play of handing out the hymn books and service sheet, was the Vicar’s Warden and PCC Treasurer, Matt Howley. Like his counterparts in Templeton and Gilfach, Matt was a farmer. Is that some kind of divine right of farmers in this part of the world, that they become churchwardens? pondered Copeland. Matt, at least, was dutiful, if somewhat ineffective. His wife Susan was playing the organ - badly, as usual. It was a pity, especially as Dr Neville Turner, who had moved into the village only eighteen months ago, had offered, more than once, to play. Copeland had visited him at home several times, and on one occasion Dr Turner had played on the baby grand piano that dominated his living room. He was certainly very accomplished. The pain he must feel, sitting there half-way back, listening to every duff note from Susan Howsley’s ponderous playing, must be excruciating. But no, Susan Howley would have none of it, when it was suggested to her that perhaps she might like the occasional Sunday off. In this she was fully supported by her husband, naturally; but also by Gwendoline Hockridge, a gossipy and rather garrulous church member, who always sat at the back of the church near the front. This Sunday, as on many Sundays, she was joined by her spinster sister-in-law Rosaline, the postmistress at Cwmpentre Post Office.
There was no sign of Dr Turner’s wife Agnes today, which was unusual. She normally accompanied him, and her melodious voice was a considerable asset to the congregational singing, especially when the attendance was thin. Also absent were the Chessingtons, but Copeland knew that poor Jasper’s health was failing. The burden of it all was beginning to tell on his devoted wife Dorabella; he had bumped into her on the village green only yesterday, and she was decidedly lacking in her customary air of positivity and enthusiasm.
The only other missing regulars were the Barrington-Smythes, but this, at least, was more predictable. Harry Barrington-Smythe would be leading the service that afternoon at Gilfach, and Emelia would dutifully accompany him - this despite the fact that as People’s Warden at Morrington she should really have been at St Matthew’s. But for some months now, Jack Copeland had been aware that the Barrington-Smythes seemed to be avoiding any service that he happened to be leading. Copeland’s theological views were poles apart from those of his fellow Lay Reader, and he couldn’t pretend he particularly liked Harry’s preaching style either. BS by name - BS in nature, as he’d once described it, perhaps too indiscreetly, to a Lay Reader in another part of the Diocese. Things do have a habit of getting back: perhaps that’s why our relationship is so frosty these days. But no - there were more than enough reasons for the growing gulf between the two of them. Two interregnums - or should that be interregna? - in as many years, with the death of Edgar Dyson following so soon after the disgrace of Huw Davies-Jones. More had been required of the parishes’ Lay Readers in these testing times: and Copeland sensed that Barrington-Smythe had enjoyed the extra responsibility perhaps a bit too much. The arrival of an evangelical bedfellow in Neville Turner - refined, articulate and likeable though he might be in many ways - had complicated matters further. And as for Father Benedict…
Copeland looked at his watch again. Time to begin. On cue, Old Benji stopped ringing the bell, and shuffled down the aisle towards his seat, in the very front pew.
‘Good morning, and welcome to our Sunday worship,’ Copeland began. ‘I understand our new Vicar has moved into Templeton Vicarage, and we look forward to meeting him in due course. However, the Rural Dean has asked me to remind you that Father Georgios does not take up his duties until after his induction, so please do refrain from bothering him for a little while longer. But on the subject of the induction - I have some good news. As you know, when the late Dr Dyson became Vicar of the new parish grouping, the induction service was held at All Saints. However, in the interest of balance, the Bishop has decided that this time the induction will be held here - doubly fitting, seeing that it will take place in twelve days time of the feast of St Matthew, our patron saint. I do hope that the decision meets with your blessing.’
Smiles from the Howleys, a nod of approval from Dr Turner, stony silence from Old Benji - anything more demonstrative would have been most unusual - but from the very back of the church, there resounded an acerbic rejoinder from Gwendoline Hockbridge (ostensibly addressed to her neighbour Rosaline, but in reality fully intended for all to hear):
‘Well I just hope that lot in Templeton don’t expect us to foot the bill for all the refreshments ourselves.’
***
Georgios had decided that he should worship at another church in the Deanery this Sunday: it wouldn’t have been appropriate for him to turn up at either All Saints or St Matthew’s. He’d looked at a map - carefully noting the positions of all the other parishes of the Deanery - and decided that St David’s Cwmpentre, due north of Templeton, would be ideal. Mr Meeks had helpfully dropped a copy of the Deanery Magazine, listing all the services across the Deanery, through his letterbox the day before. The service time at St David’s was civilised - half-past ten - and it would certainly be good to get away from the interminable slog of unpacking.
On arrival, he discovered that the service, a celebration of Holy Communion, was to be led by one of his soon-to-be clergy colleagues, the Revd Julie Johnson. She was a plumpish woman in her early thirties: a younger version of Dawn French’s Vicar of Dibley, at least to look at, thought Georgios. But there was nothing particularly Dibley-esque about the way she led the service. She had a resonant, commanding voice - perhaps a little husky - and there was a clarity and intelligence in the way she delivered her sermon that was impressive. The congregation wasn’t large - perhaps a dozen or so - but they were attentive. Georgios sensed that there was real respect and engagement between priest and people within this church: all too rare, in his experience.
He’d worn his clerical collar, and could tell from the whispered comments from several pews that he’d been ‘spotted’. The priest herself gave no sign, throughout the service, that there was anything out of the ordinary about his presence in their midst. But at the end, as he made his way to the porch doorway where she stood greeting people, he could see her smiling as he approached.
‘Well, I think I can guess who you are,’ she said. ‘Reverend - Father - how should I address you?’
‘However you wish,’ he replied. ‘But Georgios will be just fine, really.’
She shook his outstretched hand. ‘Then Georgios it will be. I’m Julie. But I suppose you know that already. Welcome to the Templeton Deanery. Have you met the Rural Dean yet?’ She pulled a face.
‘That bad, is it?’ he laughed.
‘Worse. Just don’t tell him I said so. It’s just good to have someone here who has lowered the average age of the clergy of Deanery by about - oh - twenty years, I should think.’
‘I’m not quite that young.’
‘You look about eighteen. Did you get some special dispensation to take holy orders so young?’
He laughed again. ‘Hardly. But thanks for the compliment. I’m thirty-one.’
‘Phew, there was me thinking I was going to be accused of cradle snatching–what did you think of the sermon?’ The sudden change of subject threw him for a moment.
‘I–well–’
‘Pretty crap, really. I was all over the place today. The “cost of discipleship,” says Luke - It’s all pretty meaningless, really, when one considers what real suffering and martyrdom involves. “Cheap grace,” as Bonhoeffer said. He knew exactly what he was talking about, of course.’
‘Yes, he did. But what you said about the parable of the king with the small army versus the king with the large one - how that’s utterly redundant now - that Jesus’ analogy, essentially, is wrong, in the post-Hiroshima age - that was quite powerful stuff.’
Julie shrugged. ‘Well, it’s true. Ten thousand men, or twenty thousand - it’s all pretty irrelevant when all you really need is one bomb. Just light the blue touch paper and retire. I’m not a paid-up member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament for nothing, you know.’
‘Yes,’ he pointed to the CND badge pinned to her stole. ‘I’m not sure the Bishop would approve of you wearing that.’
‘Tough shit. Going to report me?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘Of course not. Are you always so–’
‘Feisty? Yes. And yes - I always interrupt. Except when I don’t. What are you doing for lunch?’
‘Well, nothing. But I wouldn’t want to impose upon you.’
‘You wouldn’t be. Oh, wait.’ Julie’s face fell. ‘No can do. I promised to take Charlie to the zoo in Leadington Spa.’ She saw his quizzical look. ‘Charlie’s my son. Nine years old, and I love him to bits, but very demanding at times. And he hates changes to plans. But you must come again: I’ll call you, okay? It’s the same number in the clergy directory, I guess - as Edgar had.’
Despite himself, he felt disappointed. He hadn’t realised she had a son. Was there a husband too? Why did the thought of that displease him, somehow? ‘Yes it is the same number. And of course we should have lunch: another time. If your family doesn't mind. You can tell me all the stuff Canon Harris won’t.’
She seemed to be reading his thoughts. ‘My son is my family: and he won’t mind.’ She held out her hand. ‘Something makes me think you’ll have as much to tell me, as me you. It’s been good to meet you, Georgios. Till the next time.’
***
Midday approached. The churchyard of Llanfihangel Gilfach was eerily silent. There had been no Christian act of worship there in the morning. As the church with the smallest congregation within the group, it had to make do with an afternoon service at three o’clock each Sunday.
The doors of the lychgate creaked open, and figures slowly made their way towards the ancient yew tree that stood in the heart of the churchyard. The first service of the day was about to take place.
It would not be conducted with any rituals that Harry Barrington-Smythe would wish to incorporate into his offering of Evening Prayer.
VI: September 10th (William Salesbury & William Morgan, Translators)
Border folk are strange creatures, you know, Father. But perhaps you’ve already worked that out for yourself.’
Father Georgios Anagnosides smiled politely, but said nothing. He still wasn’t quite sure about his new curate, Father Benedict. Something, he sensed, was veiled behind the other’s genial, jocund exterior. He glanced around the sumptuously-decorated parlour, with its tasteful William Morris-style wallpaper, Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls, plush armchairs and colourful rugs, Queen Anne drop leaf table with intricately-carved legs, and the gentle ticking of what - surely! - wasn’t a Thomas Tompion longcase clock.
‘Pardon me, but is that a Thomas–?’
Benedict followed the gaze of the younger priest, and chucked. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘I have a Tompion for a grandfather. It once belonged to Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough. Well, allegedly. Insuring it is something of a nightmare, and it doesn’t even keep particularly good time: but it’s almost three hundred years old, so I suppose it can be forgiven. I’m impressed - you have a good eye for antiques.’
‘Not especially - but my father was a watchmaker.’ Georgios thought about the furnishing in his own 1970s-build vicarage and grimaced. His priest-colleague was clearly someone of substantial private means. Perhaps that explained why he had resigned his inner-city living ten years previously, whilst still in his mid-forties, and retired to the countryside, keeping his hand in by covering parochial vacancies along the Anglo-Welsh border. Thanks to the loquacious Mr Meeks he’d already heard other rumours about Father Benedict Wishart: but he didn’t want to dwell on that…
‘So your partner - what was his name - Oliver? He’s not at home at the moment?’
‘No, he generally comes home every second or third weekend. It’s a busy life, working at the Bar. Another two, maybe three years, then he’ll retire. Sadly, he won’t be around for your induction service on Friday week either. He knows the Chancellor of the Diocese quite well: they were in Chambers together, once upon a time. He’s an atheist, bless him. He always says I’m more than devout enough for the two of us. But you must come round for dinner next time he’s here.’ The elegant, smartly-dressed priest paused, then said:
‘Do you have any particular views on the supernatural, Father?’
There had been a distinct change in his tone of voice, and - Georgios noted - a slight tremble in his hand, as he lowered his teacup, and leaned forward, with the gravest of looks upon his suddenly-furrowed brow.
‘Please, call me Georgios. That’s a rather surprising question to ask of a fellow priest - but I assume you’re not looking for some conventional theological answer, Benedict. What exactly were you thinking of?’
Benedict drew a red silk handkerchief from the lapel pocket of his jacket, and wiped his forehead. In just a matter of seconds his visage had utterly changed, and his flushed face was glistening with sweat. The aura of comfortable condescending affability that had surrounded him since opening the door to his visitor half an hour before had vanished.
‘Well, if we are to be friends, as well as colleagues, then you must call me Benny. I hope we shall be friends - and that we can trust each other.’
‘Of course, Benny. What’s troubling you?’
‘As I said earlier, people who live on the border are the strangest of people. In the ten years we’ve been here, I’ve found them to be tight-lipped, and inclined to keep their own counsel. The warring may have ceased six hundred years ago now, but people in these parts are still disinclined to take sides. Neither Welsh, nor English. Perpetually suspicious of those who come “from off”. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘I think so.’
‘These are lands where much blood has been spilt; places of the hinterland, where there’s been so much violence and anger. It seeps into the very ground. The hills and the valleys have long memories of the treacheries and cruelties of the past. They don’t rest easily. As for the people: they cling to the old ways. There were other gods, other forces at work, here on the Marches, back in the days of old. Before the missionaries and the monks came, proclaiming the One God, here they worshipped the many. And - if the truth be told - there are plenty who still do.’
‘There’s nothing new or surprising about that. Folk religious beliefs have rubbed shoulders with the more dogmatic assertions of orthodoxy for a long time.’
Benedict shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Father - Georgios. I mean more than folk religion. This isn’t just a case of popular syncretism, or quaint traditions, handed down from yesteryear. I’m talking about something much older, and much darker. Something that is implacably hostile to the Faith. Something that is deeply diabolical - right to its very core. They worshipped many gods - but the chieftain of their pantheon was always the same. He goes by many names. Do you know the legend of Darkwoode?’
‘Darkwoode–?’
‘Silly of me, I know - after all, you only arrived in our midst three days ago. But perhaps you’ve noticed the predominant dedication of the churches in this locality?’
‘Well, there seem to be quite a few dedicated to St Michael. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes. And on the Welsh side of the border - and even here and there on the English side - you’ll see that quite a few of the villages are named “Llanfihangel” - the llan (or place) of angels. As in St Michael and All Angels. Curious, don’t you think, all these churches dedicated to the dragon-slayer? Here on the Welsh border, of all places.’
Georgios grinned. ‘He’s not the only dragon-slayer. My own namesake, of course, was slaying reptilian leviathans long before the English adopted him as their patron saint, ousting poor old St Edward the Confessor for someone more suitably martial.’
‘Then perhaps you’re coming amongst us, here and now, is a sign. You’re young - thirty-one, yes? But perhaps you have the vigour and the courage that I lack. I’m tired, and I’ve witnessed too much. Believe me, Georgios, you will be tested if you stay here - and you will need all your wits about you. The servants of the Darkwoode are not to be trifled with.’
‘I’m sorry, Benny, you still haven’t explained. What is the Darkwoode?’
‘Oh, you won’t find it marked on an OS map. But it’s real enough. The ancient woodlands along the Marches have mostly gone now - just a few copses, a handful of spinneys, here and there, remain. You know those puzzles - what do they call them - dot-to-dot puzzles, yes?’ Georgios nodded. ‘Well, join up the churches dedicated to St Michael, just like a dot-to-dot…’
Benedict moved his forefinger through the air, forming a circle as he did so. ‘You’ll find that they enclose the forests of old. They’re markers for the boundaries - the borders of the Darkwoode. The place where the last dragon was driven, it’s said. Waiting for the End of Time. As long as the churches remain, the dragon remains trapped. They stand as shields - as wards - against Evil Incarnate. But if ’ere disaster befalls even one of the churches - the dragon will escape through the gap.’ The older priest sat back, and sighed.
‘That is the legend of the Darkwoode.’
VII: September 11th (St Deiniol, Bishop)
The scenes unfolding on the television screen before him were truly shocking: yet he sat, sipping a gin and tonic, unperturbed. As he watched, the 110-story tower entered its final death throes The cameras that were trained upon it captured the moment as each floor imploded, one after another, and the whole structure collapsed downward, like a concertina, in a great shower of ash, the grey-white pall hiding from the sight of the onlookers the shattering of metal, the pulverisation of concrete and gypsum, the atomisation of flesh, bone and blood. The roar of the collapse - like that of its twin tower twenty-nine minutes earlier - must have been deafening to the onlookers who were watching just a few blocks of the devastation.
Mervyn Mortlake, Archbishop-designate of the Church of Wales, looked across to the mantelpiece clock. The time was 3.28pm. What would that be in New York? 10.28am, yes? A glorious moment. The blue skies over the city had been so clear that morning: but Mervyn rejoiced in the devastating grey shroud that was now darkening the bright firmament over downtown Manhattan.
‘Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla: teste David cum Sibylla,’ he murmured.
From the other side of the drawing room, came the reply, ‘“Day of wrath and doom impending! David’s word with Sibyl’s blending, heaven and earth in ashes ending!”’
Mervyn smiled, turned towards his companion, and raised his glass. ‘It’s precisely the sign we were looking for. The End Times draw nigh. Our course is set, my friend. Draco suscitabit.’
To Be Continued...