So I present it here for any suggestions and ideas where to take it. Should it be a modern Don Camillo? or should it be a vicar-as-detective? or should it just be a soap opera?
Judge not lest ye be judged
Mrs. Hadley considered that she was the guardian of public
morals, especially since old Reverend Shaw had died, and a new vicar had not
yet been appointed. She saw herself as a one-woman neighbourhood watch, since
her efforts to raise a community effort had been met with apathy or outright
resistance.
She would have been genuinely astounded had she realised the
rest of the village secretly referrer to her as the ‘neighbourhood witch’, and
not in a way which was kindly meant.
“She’s one o’ them wimmin with too much time on her hands
and a nose long enough to pry between courting couples to see how many buttons
are undone,” said Old Tom as he drank down the last of his second pint in The
Thrasher.
“And let’s just hope the new vicar won’t think her wonderful
like Shaw did,” agreed Tony Blake, the publican.
Mrs. Hadley was horrified to see a huge motorcycle roar down
the road, and actually stop outside the vicarage. The driver got off. He was clad in a full-face helmet and black
leather jacket, with jeans.
“You! Hey, you! Be on your way; Lingley doesn’t need your
sort!” cried Mrs. Hadley.
“No?” the young man took off his helmet to reveal a
devastatingly handsome face, topped with untidy blond hair and blue eyes
dancing with merriment. “Well, I’m
afraid my boss doesn’t agree, and I’m going to be here for some time. Good
morning to you.” He pushed open the vicarage gate.
“You can’t go in there!” gasped Mrs. Hadley. “That’s the
vicarage! And there is nobody in
residence at the moment.”
“Yes there is,” said the young man. “Me.” He continued up the path, ignoring Mrs.
Hadley’s cries that she was going to call the police.
It was quite an hour before a single police car arrived; the
police came from Collingham, the market town which served Lingley, and though
it was only four miles away, the Collingham constables knew Mrs. Hadley of old.
“Well, there is a bike, Pete,” said Constable 233, Timothy
Cotton.
“Yes, and there might even be a biker,” agreed Constable
167, Pete Noakes. “I suppose we ought to
knock at the vicarage door.”
Their knock was answered by a dog-collared individual in
full regalia, topped with a handsome face and partially tamed blond hair.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“We ... er, we had a complaint about a squatter, reverend,”
said Timothy.
“Oh, from a, er, lady in a tweed twinset and pearls
improbably teamed with blue hair of the colour I would have envied ten years
ago in my Goth period?” said the vicar. “I’m
the Reverend Charles Cunningham but you can call me Rev Chaz, everyone does.”
The two constables exchanged a look.
“Did ... er, did you arrive in leather and jeans?” asked
Pete.
“Of course; one doesn’t ride a bike in ecclesiastical robes,”
said Chaz. “And most of the time I will
continue to wear jeans, but with a dog-collar of course. I was putting on the uniform to read myself
in at the church as you might say.”
“Silly old besom,” said Pete. “False alarm, again.”
“I suppose one should consider the story of the boy who
cried wolf, if one is charitable,” said Chaz.
“One day she might be right and be murdered in her bed if you lads were
dilatory about getting here, though for my part, I’m glad not to be found in my
lucky underwear when I changed. Poor
thing, is she lonely?”
“She’s bored,” said Timothy.
“Rich widow, employs gardeners and a girl every morning in the
house. My girl, as it happens, Patty
Raikes, and Mrs. Hadley runs her finger over the tops of the doors, and never
let a cup be put down on any surface, even easy-clean, without a coaster! If she
had to do her own work, she wouldn’t interfere with the work of others,” he
added resentfully.
“Well, officer, do you think she is spreading the story of
the leather-clad hooligan about the village?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Timothy.
“Then hubris will find her when I give my sermon on Sunday
on the theme of ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,” said Chaz. “And it is one reason I dress down; to see
what milk of human kindness there is. I
plan to go sit in the bus shelter later, with a scarf over my dog-collar in old
jeans and a t-shirt looking a bit scuzzy.
It should give me a very good introduction to my parishioners.”
“I’ll warn the sergeant,” said Timothy, grinning. “For when he gets outraged phone calls.”
There was the sound of an engine outside.
“Oh, good, that’s Dave with my stuff,” said Chaz. “He’s part of a small pop group and they
transport their stuff to gigs in the van.
I expect it will cause outrage.”
“Psychodelic?” asked Pete.
“It’s all good Biblical imagery,” said Chaz. “But very few
people know their Revelations well enough to associate it, and the group name, ‘Apocalypse,’
with anything but the modern idea of post-nuclear holocaust devastation and
dystopia. It has a whacking great dragon
painted wrapped around the van.”
“Nice,” said Pete, who liked rock music.
They went outside, and the colourful transit had parked in
the layby outside the church, opposite the vicarage.
“Here you are, mate; shall we just take it in and leave you
to sort it?” said the brawny, leather-clad man with long hair.
“Thanks, Dave, mate, that’ll be grand,” said Chaz. Dave’s
girlfriend had come along as well, a diminutive, violet-haired girl in cropped
trousers, corset, and a dog collar which was more appropriate to a mastiff than
to a vicar, though she would be changing the one for another when she had
finished her Divinity degree. Chaz
wondered what Mrs. Hadley would make of
Lily-Kate, had she been a couple of years further on in her studies, and
if she had been the vicar sent. He
grinned.
“I’ll be making tea for Dave and Lily, will you be joining
us?” Chaz asked the officers.
They exchanged looks.
“Probably better not,” said Pete. “The sergeant will be
wondering what kept us if we stay. As it
is he’ll be irritated it was a false alarm.”
“Oh, but think how useful for you to now know the new vicar,
and be aware that the vagrant reports are going to be spurious,” said
Chaz. “I brought cakes in my saddle bag
as well as tea, milk and sugar. And they
are home-made.”
The officers exchanged another look.
“Oh, well, we could help you unpack and write our reports in
the kitchen,” said Timothy.
Shortly thereafter the two musicians, Chaz, and the officers
were enjoying lemon curd fairy cakes, maids of honour and treacle tart.
“Your maker of homemade cakes is very good,” said Pete. “I
bet you’ll miss this source.”
Chaz laughed.
“Oh, I make my own,” he said. “My mother taught me to cook when I was
small, and I’ve never regretted it. I
don’t do fancy stuff, but good plain cooking and baking suits me fine.”
“If you want a cleaner in exchange for lessons, I’ll have a
word with Patty,” said Timothy.
“Well, that could work nicely,” said Chaz. “Let me have her number, and I’ll contact
her.”
The police went on their way, replete, ignoring Mrs. Hadley,
who was pointedly hanging about in her front garden. As Dave and Lily-Kate also left, and Chaz had
moved his bike when she was not looking out, she smiled in grim satisfaction. Doubtless these undesirable elements had
planned a ... a Happening, or whatever they called these things nowadays, and
had been forcibly moved on.
She would have been less happy had she seen Chaz setting up
his music centre in the vicarage, and heading out to the church to find his way
around and ‘read himself in’ as he put it.
The church was a fine mid fifteenth-century example of a
wool church, larger than the needs of the current congregation, but with, Chaz
was delighted to find, perfect acoustics. He was less happy about the bells,
which had been described to him by the Bishop as poorly-founded and known to
anyone who had ever heard them as ‘Dung, Clang and Pip’. Someone over-zealous
in the war office had taken the former bells to melt down during the first world war, to little avail to the
war effort, and offending the inhabitants more than the intended effect of
inspiring them. Chaz was an enthusiastic
campanologist and longed to raise the money to purchase a peal of six so he
could at least ring rudimentary changes. He was independently wealthy, but
buying six bells would be an excess of generosity. The villagers had to want them.
It was what his sound system was for.
On Sunday, it would be playing the sound of bells as they
should sound, with borrowed amplifiers from ‘Apocalypse.’ Dave had installed the amplifier for him in
the bell tower and all Chaz had to do was to hook up his music centre and the
recording of the bells of St, Stephen’s in Upper Crevington where Chaz had
grown up.
Chaz took long enough to appreciate the cherubim on the
hammer beams, and playful misericords in the choir, and after his prayers at
the altar took himself back to the vicarage. Here he changed into jeans, a
faded Iron Maiden t-shirt, base-ball cap and left the dog-collar off. He strolled into the village. It was a pretty
place full of timber-framed cottages, white-washed or painted the distinctive
pink achieved in medieval times with bull’s blood and ochre, and in modern
times owed more to the chemicals associated with an old English sheepdog. Some later buildings of red brick were still
sufficiently picturesque, with bow-fronted windows downstairs, with bullseye glass
in some of the panes. The old forge now
had petrol pumps outside, but the main workshop was hidden under a
traditional-looking barn, even if it was an interwar tin shed on the inside. The village was very nearly twee. Hanging floral baskets decorated it, and the
green and cricket ground next to it were beautifully manicured. Even the bus shelter was stockbroker Tudor,
like the few modern houses, rather than the usual brick-built or metal and
glass edifices. Chaz thought this was
taking things a little too far, but on the other hand it was weather-tight, and
the bench was broad and comfortable. He
got out a lurid-looking paperback, and sat with his feet up. Every now and then he drank from a bottle in
a paper bag.
It was a bottle of water, but he saw no need to advertise
that.
A man with a dog saw him first, hesitated, and came over.
“Look, my friend, there are some elements in this village
who will not be happy to see you,” he said.
“I’m Tony; I run the pub. If you’d
like to help me with the washing up, I’ll give you a meal in the evening, but
you’ll have to find your own place to stay.
I have my licence to think of.
And be sober, too.”
Chaz regarded Tony.
“Thanks, mate; and thanks for the warning, too,” he said. “There’s
one Christian soul here to go with the fine church.”
“Yes, well ... don’t make me regret the offer,” said
Tony. “Fang here likes you, and that’s
good enough for me.”
The dog – Chaz thought it some cross between a bulldog, a
poodle and some species of terrier – had shoved his hand into Chaz’s to demand
caresses. Chaz poured some of his water
into his hand and Fang, who seemed inappropriately named, lapped happily.
“Hey!” said Tony.
“It’s water,” said Chaz. “I like a pint from time to time
but I never have liked hard liquor. My
father was an alcoholic.”
Tony’s nose was fine tuned to any alcohol, and he could
smell that Chaz was telling the truth.
He looked suspiciously at Chaz.
“Are you an undercover cop or something?” he asked.
“Or something,” said Chaz.
“And I do appreciate the offer, though I will admit to not needing to
take you up on it. I’ll drop in for a
pint, though.”
“I’ll have a pie and chips waiting for you anyway; I am going to enjoy Mrs. Hadley’s face when
whatever you are really doing comes out,” said Tony.
“Cheers,” said Chaz, who did not relish the idea of pub pie
and chips, but then it would be impolite to refuse. And maybe the Thrasher had a better cuisine
than he feared and served real food not microwaveable fast meals.
He was not going to hold his breath, though.
Fang snuffled off happily, and Chaz sat back to await the
next development.
