chapter 4 suffer the little children

Content warning; child abuse

Chapter 4 – Suffer the little children

“Please, Rev Chaz, this is Claire, Claire Brady,” said Summer.  “My mum says you’ve come here to fix all the bad things, so can you fix it for her to be able to be safe at home?”

“I don’t know, Summer, but I can try.  Why aren’t you safe at home, Claire?”

Clair, a pretty, dark child who was a foil for Summer’s bright hair and pale skin, dug her toe into the carpet in the rectory sitting room, where she and Summer had been provided with cool drinks.

“I ... he will laugh at me,” said Claire.

“No, he won’t, tell him like you told me,” insisted Summer.

“I won’t laugh,” said Chaz.  “Even if I think you’ve misunderstood something, I won’t laugh because it’s what you believe which has upset you.  And I’ll try to sort it out.”

The story poured out, and Chaz listened, prompting occasionally when Claire flagged, as the tale of how her grandfather had come to live with them emerged.  The old man was beginning abuse after grooming over the last few weeks, and Chaz tried to make his expression more interested than grim.  At last, as Claire dissolved into sobs, he turned to Summer.

“You did quite right to bring her here. Now when you’ve finished your drinks, you let yourselves out the back door in the kitchen, and take Claire to your place, Honeysuckle Cottage, wasn’t it?  You can go over the back wall of my garden if you like, I notice there’s a handy compost heap to climb on and the drop isn’t much.  I explored already,” he added.

“There’s a brick out on the other side, too,” said Summer. “You can get into the garden by using it, but please don’t tell Mummy, she doesn’t know I scrumped apples and other fruit off old Reverend Shaw, she would call it stealing but I only did it when he had been specially rude to her.”

“Oh, that seems a fair penalty, to fine him for being rude,” said Chaz. “You have permission from me to come and help yourself to fruit when you want it, and it’s more fun to take it than to knock on the door and let me know, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you do understand!” said Summer.  “I can pretend I am scavenging for provisions in enemy territory like Robin Hood.”

“Exactly,” said Chaz.  “Oh!  There’s a tin of cakes on the kitchen top, in the green tin with stars, I was going to take them to your mother, you can save me the trouble and take them for me, and then there will be plenty for Claire and you for tea.”

“Now that’s what mummy calls a tactful lie, but thank you,” said Summer.

“Oh, I did intend to send cakes.  But perhaps not as many,” said Chaz.

“I like you,” said Summer, in approval, kissing his cheek.  “You don’t pretend not to be lying like some grownups.  And you tell it like it is when you are caught.  Come on, Claire!”

Chaz made his way to Sandy Lane, where Claire had told him she lived at number 5.  The cottages here were terraced and looked to be late 17^th century, built for workers in the clay pits, no doubt.  They were single storey, but most had dormer windows in the steep tile roofs, and a couple had what Chaz described to himself as dormer half-rooms, much of the roof taken up with a dormer extension.  One of two had a flat roof to the dormer, the other had an added slope down to it.  Chaz reckoned it was a worthwhile extra expense to prevent leaks.  This was number 5, and Chaz assessed the house as owned by practical people.

He knocked, and the door was opened by an older version of Clair, only with red hair.

“Vicar?” she said.

“Mrs. Brady?” said Chaz.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” asked Mrs. Brady. “I’m expecting my daughter home from school any minute.”

“May I come in?  I sent your daughter home with Summer Grey. She told me things which lead me to believe that your daughter is suffering sexual abuse.”

Mrs. Brady gasped.

“Who is it?  I’ll kill him!” she cried.  “I noticed she’d been quiet, I thought it was adapting to having my father-in-law living with us.”

“Well, yes it is; it’s he who has been abusing her,” said Chaz.

Mrs. Brady stared.

“But ... but how could it be?  He’s been married, and had children,” she said.

“That doesn’t stop abusers,” said Chaz, patiently.

“Could she have misunderstood?  Or be making it up because she feels pushed out?” tried Mrs. Brady.

“Your daughter is nine, Mrs. Brady, and in my experience children that young do not make up or imagine things like ‘he puts his thing in my mouth and makes me suck and then he wees white stuff’ so that is not going to wash with me.”

Mrs. Brady went white, and sat down heavily.

“I am going to kill him,” she repeated. “We give him a home so he doesn’t have to be around old folk all the time, now he can’t take care of himself properly, and he does this? But why?  Why so suddenly?”

“Is it suddenly?” said Chaz.  “Do you have sisters-in-law?  Have you asked them? Are there children he might have had some authority over?”

“He helped my mother-in-law with the Girl-Guides when she was alive,” said Mrs. Brady. “She was younger than him, but she died, unexpectedly, of a stroke at sixty-one ...”

“Or was helped because she caught him,” said Chaz, cynically.

The door opened and an old man came in.

“Emma, isn’t Claire home yet?” he said.  “I wanted her to help me tidy my bedroom.”

Mrs. Brady was up like a cat, grabbing the nearest knife, which was a steak knife, and held it to the old man’s trousers.

“Daniel Brady, have you been touching up my little girl?” she demanded.  “Think before you answer or you will lose what you have there.”

“Emma, stop making a drama of things,” said old Mr. Brady.  “I’ve shown her affection; she’s so flirtatious, she just asks for it.”

Chaz took the knife from Mrs. Brady before she could thrust it home, and held it to the old man’s throat in a far more workman-like way than the vengeful woman had held it.

“You will arrange to put him in a secure home where he will not be with children, or I will have the police in, and his care home will be Pentonville,” said Chaz.  “And you, Brady, will agree.”

“If she doesn’t want it, she shouldn’t flirt and flaunt herself,” whined Brady.

Thwack!

Mrs. Brady slapped her father-in-law so hard he fell over.

She dialled a number.

“Sunnyedge nursing home?  Yes, I have an urgent need for a secure ward,” she said.  “Yes, my father-in-law.  No, he can get about physically, but he has gone senile and is a risk to my family.  In what way?  Well, he keeps mistaking my pre-teen daughter for his wife, and acting inappropriately towards her.  Yes, she does resemble my late mother-in-law superficially ... well thank you.  I hope you won’t need to sedate him either.”  She put the phone down.  “They are coming right over,” she said.  “Will you take some eggs to Lucy Grey and ask her to keep Claire overnight?  I’ll just pack a few things for Claire in a bag for school tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brady, for taking the risk seriously,” said Chaz.  “I learned martial arts after I was molested at school, and it’s a terrifying thing, even when not taken all the way. My door is always open for Claire if she wants to talk.  Or your sisters-in-law, for that matter.”

“I might just ring them and find out,” said Mrs. Brady.

Chaz left with a dozen eggs and a bag with clean underwear for Claire.

A vengeful mother would not be talked out of it by her husband if he did not believe her.  

He went to Honeysuckle cottage and knocked on the door. Lucy opened it.

“Rev Chaz!  The girls told me all about it; they are in their pyjamas early because Claire wanted to change so I put her in some of Summer’s after a nice hot bath.  Any joy with Mrs. Brady? She is always polite to me.”

“I took the knife off her before she cut his manhood off, or stabbed him in it,” said Chaz.

“Really? She goes up in my estimation,” said Lucy.  “Oh, are these clothes for tomorrow?”

“Yes, and a dozen eggs as a thank-you for taking care of Claire,” said Chaz.

“She didn’t need ...”

“It’s neighbourly,” said Chaz. “Likewise the cakes.  Your Summer has given me the chance to start in on the seething poison beneath the pretty surface of this village.”

“Well, I have to say I was glad to be able to give Claire and Summer something right away whilst I modified what I was cooking,” said Lucy.

“When I was at college, I didn’t like to seem too much better off than my fellows, and we made three slices of bacon go round four of us by throwing it and some stir-fried veg into rice, and topping it with a fried egg,” said Chaz.  “It was student-version of nasi goring, an Indonesian dish.  It goes round well.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Lucy. “And are you well off?”

“Yes,” said Chaz.  “But it doesn’t matter; it means I can sort things out without having to worry about it being expensive, or about being fired because I am not dependent on my salary. I do usually live within it, though.”

“Wow,” said Lucy.  “And yet you went to war, and became a vicar?”

“I believe in following my conscience,” said Chaz.  “I thought that being a soldier and doing my duty to my country would be enough, but it wasn’t.  So when my tour of duty ended, I resigned my commission and went to train in theology. I believe I am where I should be now.  And being able to help Claire has confirmed that for me.”

“I am glad you are here,” said Lucy, and then coloured.  “I’m sorry, that came out the wrong way; I’m not one of these women who makes a dead set for a handsome clergyman.”

“Lucy Grey, I suspect you will decide what you want, and pursue the course which is right for you without deviation, or indeed, er, hesitation or repetition,” he joked feebly, referencing the famous ‘Just a minute’ quiz.

“Kate Rosier said I shouldn’t send my brat to pester the vicar as a way to make you notice me,” said Lucy, resentfully.

“I don’t even know who Kate Rosier is,” said Chaz.

Lucy giggled.

“Really?  And she did her best to make sure you didn’t miss her in church,” she said.  “She wore a pink suit which ... no, that is catty.”

“Oh, the one in the skirt two sizes too small who looked like a chrysalis about to burst out into a death’s head moth?” said Chaz. “She has a self-image problem; that much make-up will make her old before she is thirty.”

“Oh, Kate considers herself an expert on makeup,” said Lucy. “She would be most put out, though she was wearing more than usual.”

“Oh well, hopefully she will grow out of the crush on the vicar, and will get to know me as a person,” said Chaz.  “I am glad you treat me as a person.”

“She was like this for the new doctor until he married his receptionist and moved,” said Lucy. “Maybe it is a self-image problem; poor Kate if so.  I will try not to mind what she says.”

“Attagirl,” said Chaz. “I am used to it; I can’t help noticing that I attract attention.  I try to ignore it mostly, but as a pretty young woman, you probably know all about it too.”

“With one difference,” said Lucy, dryly.  “The unattached women of the village will want to marry you.  The men, attached or otherwise, think I might be good for a bit of fun, but no more than that.”

“Dear me, two slightly different kinds of idiocy,” said Chaz.  “A perception problem, I fear.”

“I rather fancy you are going to be doing some serious mote and plank removal,” said Lucy.  “Do you think that Claire’s grandfather had hurt other people?”

“Yes,” said Chaz, soberly.  “His late wife’s Girl Guides, who must be mostly grown up, I should think, but I need to find out.”

“I will see what I can find out, if you’d like?” said Lucy.

“Bless you, yes,” said Chaz.  “Mrs. Brady told the nursing home that he was treating her daughter like his wife and that he was senile.”

“That’s fairly brilliant, actually, and more certain than a prosecution,” said Lucy.

“I wanted him out of that house fast,” said Chaz. “It may not have been the best thing to do, but we will see if his other victims want to bring a case or if they prefer to just pick up the pieces by themselves. I don’t think there’s ever an easy answer, and so long as he is shut away safe, I would hope that will help.”

“I doubt he’d survive gaol,” said Lucy.

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Chaz.  “I did a stint as prison chaplain, and the feelings towards perverts run deep.  I personally think it’s a terrible mental illness; where normal men see a little girl playing without being aware of her body, a paedophile sees her as flirting and flaunting her body because to him it is a sexual thing on display.  Don’t get me wrong, it does not make them the less dangerous to society, and they need to be locked away.  And they know it is wrong, or they would not hide their feelings and behaviour.”

“I see,” said Lucy.  “Summer goes to play with Claire at times, and last week she said Claire’s granddad asked if she would like to sit on his lap while he told a story and she was indignant and said she was not a baby ... do you think....?”

“Yes, I do,” said Chaz.  “Because you don’t have support to help you.  They target the vulnerable.”

“I know it is selfish, but Oh! I am glad he had not already touched Summer,” said Lucy.

“Me too,” said Chaz.

chapter 3 a joyful noise unto the Lord

Chapter 3 – A Joyful noise unto the Lord

Chaz decided he did not want to know who had tacked up a poem on the village hall notice board.

It ran,

“Sir Tarleton Rickett

Was fond of Cricket

He lost his wicket

And had to Duck.

He took on the vicar

And tried to bicker,

But the Rev was quicker

So Sir T’s out of luck.”

Chaz had made a complaint to the police, and had asked them to take seriously any complaints from Miss Grey or any other young ladies in the village, as Sir Tarleton’s title did not make him immune to violence.

Coming from a vicar, this carried more weight than the complaint of a woman who was designated ‘a scarlet woman who came on to me, and then changed her mind’ which is what Rickett had told them about Lucy.

Back in the village, a bluff looking man with sandy cropped hair stopped Chaz.

“I’m an atheist, but I approve of how you handled Rickett,” he said.

“Does your religion make a difference in whether you approve or not?” asked Chaz, mildly.  “I’m Rev Chaz, Charles Cunningham. I didn’t get your name?”

“I’m Wendel Whitely, and I’m the vet.  And I have no religion.”

“Oh, excuse me, I thought you said you were an atheist.”

“I am.”

“Well, that is a religious stance, you know; to deny the existence of all deities is a choice of religious belief.”

Wendel Whitely stared.

“Perhaps I should have said I am not a believer in any religion,” he said.

“That suits my sense of pedantry better,” said Chaz.

“You aren’t going to argue with me about it?” Wendel thrust out his chin, pugnaciously.

“Why should I?  It’s your business what you believe,” said Chaz. “You wouldn’t argue me into believing that there is not a Divine Being, so why should you expect me to convince you that there is?”

“Oh!” said Wendel, taken aback. “The Reverend Shaw was always on about me being a healer and needing to explore my spiritual needs.”

“That must have been annoying of him,” said Chaz.  “My job here, however, is to minister to those who are believers on a spiritual level, and as an acknowledged part of society, to do my best for the village in a temporal sense.  Which includes doing what I can to help with your nurse’s feral cat colony by contributing towards cat food.  I believe the church could do with a resident cat or two; some of the hassocks are quite badly nibbled.”

“You are aware that a cat cannot exist on mice, and hunts better if not hungry?” asked Wendel, sharply.

“Oh! Yes. My family has always had cats and dogs.  I wouldn’t mind a dog for company too; I’m not particular about breed.  It’s the smell of cat about the place which deters the mice, even if the cat involved is pampered and lives mostly in the vicarage.  I wanted to approach the lady who runs the colony, but I am afraid I don’t know her surname.”

“Podmore,” said Wendel.  “Of Clematis Cottage.”

“Thank you,” said Chaz. 

“If you want to take a couple of cats, and I do recommend a couple, to keep each other entertained, then I suggest Zebulun and Rachel,” said Lyndsey Podmore, having decided that the vicar was All Right. “Zeb lost an eye when he was hit by a car when he was little, and Rachel is the runt, and she and Zeb are very close and wash each other.”

She presented Chaz with a large, one-eyed Tabby, who curled up on his lap and began to purr, and a tiny black cat, who scrambled up Chaz and began exploring.

“She has crampons,” said Chaz, mildly.

“Oh, well, it’s like those teabags; you need the little perforations to let the flavour out,” said Lyndsey, bracingly. 

“Apparently,” said Chaz.  “I admire you for taking them all on.”

“Someone had to,” said Lyndsey.  “And that’s the way it happens round here, someone has to care enough to make a stand.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had help from friends, but I had to come up with what to do.”

“So Lucy Grey told me,” said Chaz.  “I’m a great believer in initiative, but a village ought to be supporting the initiatives which improve it.  I hope you will permit me to help, both with fundraising for your charges, and in general in the village.  I don’t like some of the undercurrents here.”

“Ah, now you’ve put your finger on it, vicar,” said Lyndsey.  “Undercurrents. I try not to let them affect me; for me it’s about looking after animals. I’ve given up on most of the people.”

“Well, I’m paid to not give up on anyone,” said Chaz.

“Rather you than me, mate,” said Lyndsey.  “Keep them in for a couple of weeks until they are used to you being their new dad.  Once they figure out where the food and caresses come from they’ll probably stay.  They like being indoors which is more than the rest do, barring Josephine and Ribena.”

Chaz settled down in his sitting room with a tabby on his lap and a miniature panther on his shoulders, washing his hair firmly, and wrote his sermon for the morrow.  It started on the theme of ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,’ as he had threatened, and wandered into the Good Samaritan, and Jesus’ assertion that what you do to any fellow being you do also to him.  He sighed. There were some tough nuts to crack in his congregation, and it appeared that his predecessor had encouraged them in their muddled thinking. 

Rachel seemed happy to ride around the house on Chaz’s shoulders, and when she took a flying leap up his back when he had got ready to lead the morning service, he mentally shrugged – it would disturb her to do so physically – and went to church with her still attached.  She sucked his earlobe lovingly and ran needles in and out of his shoulder.  He made a hasty revision to the hymns, and the first hymn would now be ‘All Creatures that on Earth do dwell’.  The ‘Old 100^th’ was a good, rousing tune to get people going, in any case, and it rather went with his recorded bells, making a joyful noise unto the Lord.  Chaz winced, and wondered whether the odd yelp of pain counted as a joyful noise if the cat causing it was happy. 

He chuckled as he recalled overhearing Mrs. Hadley in the baker’s shop, holding forth about how he was going to ruin her Sundays, and would doubtless introduce awful modern songs instead of proper hymns.  For all his liking of rock music, Chaz had a liking for old fashioned hymns by the likes of Wesley and Watts.  He planned to introduce a few good modern hymns as well, but for now he would run entirely with tradition.  The other hymns to be sung were ‘And Can it Be,’ reflecting on the Saviour’s sufferings in the hopes that others would pass on love to each other if He died for them,  and ‘Love Divine, all loves excelling’ and he had made a firm note to the organist that this was to be sung to ‘Blaenwern’.  Chaz did not object too much to ‘Hyrfrodol’ but he did not like ‘Bithynia’ or ‘Love Divine’ as tunes for it.

The final hymn would be ‘Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah’ to ‘Cwm Rhondda’ purely because it was a good, rousing hymn, and the congregation were sorely in need of some kind of guidance.

Chaz nodded to the organist who had come in, an elderly gentleman who looked surprised and gratified at the hymn list.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to consult with you,” said Chaz.  “I hope these ones are well enough known to cause you no trouble?”

“I look forward to playing them,” said the organist. “Charlie Wilks; I act as sexton too.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Wilks,” said Chaz.

“Just Charlie,” said Charlie.

Chaz hit the ‘play’ button of his CD player, and from above the loudspeaker belted out the intricacies of Stedman triples.

That ought to wake them up.

“Eh, that sounds pretty,” said Charlie.  “How much would it cost to get our bells furbished up?”

“I’m not sure, but I wondered if new ones would be cheaper,” said Chaz.

“That’d be a fearful amount, surely?”

“Yes; bells start around two grand and head on up to about fifty,” said Chaz. “I’m going to see if I can’t call in a favour and have Dung, Clang and Pip looked at though, see if we might salvage them.”

“It’d be main good,” said Charlie.  “Here comes the Vanguard, armed with her pink pearls!”

Mrs. Hadley had charged in rather as though she had been discharged from a rocket launcher, and sat down in what was plainly ‘her’ pew near the front, staring in disbelief at the hymn numbers on the board.

“We do have bells, vicar,” she said, tartly.

“Not to a trained campanologist we don’t,” said Chaz.  “I’d be affronted to use any of them without them being checked over.  Health and safety, you know; poor tone can indicate cracks.  And until they are checked, I’m not about to risk several tons of bronze descending on any hapless ringer.”

Mrs. Hadley could find nothing to say to that.

Indeed, she had complained about the bells herself, if only in private.

The sermon was received in offended silence by Mrs. Hadley and Sir Tarleton. There were murmurs of approval from other people, which offended Mrs. Hadley and Sir Tarleton even more.

The popular old hymns were sung with gusto, and Chaz found himself joined by a toothless old man and – a surprise attender – the vet in singing the bass part to ‘Guide me, O’. Chaz did not consider himself musical, and had achieved a rather deep voice earlier than his school-fellows, which had embarrassed him until he was co-opted into the choir and taught how to use what he had to the best effect, and he enjoyed part-singing if given the opportunity, so long as it was simple enough for him to follow.  He knew the parts to the older hymns by heart. 

He waited at the door to see people out according to custom of time immemorial.

The toothless old man grinned at him.

“I’m Old Tom; and you certainly are a cat amongst the pigeons,” said Old Tom.  “Can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself in church more.”

“I’m not sure that Schadenfreude is a true uplifting of the spirits, but the Good Lord accepts our human failings,” said Chaz, “Knowing myself to be guilty of it too.”

Tom cackled a laugh.

“Ar, and that dun make you a proper vicar, what knows sin for admitting to it,” he said. 

Mrs. Hadley pushed forward.

“You need not expect me to tithe as much as I did for Reverend Shaw,” she said.

“Madam, if your income has decreased so that the tithe, or tenth, is less, then one could not expect it,” said Chaz.  “Very few people actually tithe these days, anyway, but give a contribution.”

“My income is undiminished!” yelped Mrs. Hadley, flushing dull red, having forgotten that ‘tithing’ meant giving a tenth.  As she had never contributed anything like a tenth of her considerable income even to Reverend Shaw she was now beset with an uncomfortable feeling which she did not recognise as guilt.

“I am so glad,” said Chaz.  “I am sure you will contribute as you see fit.”

Sir Tarleton glared at Chaz and barely touched fingers to the vicar’s held-out hand.

“You look more respectable for the service at least,” he barked, “Apart from that ridiculous cat, are you trying to make a mockery?”

“Do you think any man of the cloth has the right to exclude any of God’s creatures from His house?” said Chaz. “I don’t.  Rachel made no trouble.  I will be looking to borrow a donkey for Palm Sunday and Christmas.”

“Preposterous!” cried the baronet.  “What have animals to do with church?”

“Perhaps you should read the words of our first hymn, and acquaint yourself with the scriptures and the association of an ass with our Lord,” said Chaz.  “I could see you protesting if I used the ‘Chronicles of Narnia’ as an allegory and brought a lion in to church ... mind, that is an idea, I wonder who I know who might have a tame lion?”

Sir Tarleton passed on spluttering in real outrage, and Chaz shook the hand of the laughing Wendel Whitely.

“I wasn’t expecting you here,” Chaz said.

“Pure nosiness,” said Wendel.  “You preach a good sermon though.  I don’t believe in your God but if you can put such good moral messages, I might even continue to come when I’m not the district vet on call.”

“If you’ve a bleeper, you are welcome to use the phone in the vestry,” said Chaz.  “I’ll be touching on ecological issues when I have the time.  Feel free to let me know if there’s anything you feel should be brought up.”

“Thanks, I shall. Even if I might disapprove of the way of putting the message across.”

Chaz shrugged.

“I have a captive audience; if you want to run meetings for animal issues, you are welcome to use the church on weekdays,” he said.  “If you work with any of the big charities for cheap chipping days, for example.”

“Thanks; I’ll take you up on that,” said Wendel.

Lyndsey nodded to Chaz as she shook his hand.

“I see she soon got her paws under the table,” she said, looking at Rachel.

“Yes, and Zeb is on my bed,” laughed Chaz.

Lucy had a little girl with her.

“This is Summer, reverend,” she said.

“Oh, call me Rev Chaz,”, said Chaz.  “I don’t go much for formality.  I’m glad to meet you, Summer; I’ve sent some emails to see what I can find out about your dad.  I don’t think I met him in Iraq, but I do know something about what he was doing as a soldier.”

“Oh!” said Summer. “Most people avoid talking about him, even Granny Di.  Thank you.”

“Any soldier who dies for his country should be honoured,” said Chaz.  He shook hands with Summer and with Lucy, and carried on greeting his congregation. It would take time to remember all the names, but he would learn them.

Chapter 2, whited sepulchres

Chapter 2- Whited Sepulchres

Sir Tarleton Rickett [“Not Sir Richard Tarleton, please!”] strode out onto the cricket ground for a little net practice. His long-suffering man-of-all-work, Jamison, was to bowl for him.  Sir Tarleton looked around the centre of the village with complacent pleasure; it looked good to him, the self-styled squire and leader of society, such as it was.

And then his eye fell on a sight which suffused his already florid face with purple, and made his Colonel Blimp moustache quiver in outrage.

A down-and-out in the bus shelter!

Sir Tarleton strode over to the bus shelter.

“Look here, you, just get out of our village,” he said.

Chaz looked up from his book.

“I beg your pardon, what did you say?” he said.

Sir Tarleton went a shade more purple.

“I told you to get out!” he bellowed.  “You layabouts have no place around decent folk! A little military service is what you need!”

“I have seen active service, as it happens,” said Chaz, mildly, whose education had been Eton, Sandhurst, Iraq and Oxford.  His voice sounded like it, but Sir Tarleton was too incensed to notice.

“Oh, one of these cowards claiming PTSD, I suppose, after hearing a gun fired once,” he sneered.

Captain Cunningham, DSO, who had singlehandedly taken out an enemy mortar position, flared briefly in the blue eyes of Rev Chaz, and was subdued for a while.

“Where did you see active service, sir?” Chaz asked.

“None of your business!” roared Sir Tarleton, whose active service had been served behind a desk in the Ministry of Defence.   Soft answers did not turn away wrath in Sir Tarleton’s case, but were rather a red rag to a bull.  “Now you just get out and don’t question your betters!”

“I don’t feel like getting out, you know,” said Chaz.  “I’m enjoying watching the village life. I certainly have no plans to leave on the say-so of some over-inflated desk-wallah. You can’t make me, you know.” He mentally grimaced that the captain had escaped momentarily to speak with such scorn.

Sir Tarleton raised his cricket bat.

“I can make you; one way or another,” he said, grimly.

Chaz was vaguely aware of a flash of light, but he became rather preoccupied.  He had taken seriously the warning from Tony that he would meet some disapproval, but that anyone should actually physically attack him was not something he had anticipated.

He gave his full attention to the charging Sir Tarleton.

Sir Tarleton could not have explained afterwards how he ended up disarmed, and flat on his back, minus his whites.

Chaz threw the trousers back to him, the reverend mentally chiding the captain for backsliding.

“They’re too big for me,” he said. “I think I might keep the bat to hand to the police as evidence as well.  Really, assault and battery upon the Queen’s highway?”

“I have a photograph of him going for you while you were sitting there,” said a female voice.  “I took it as evidence of his violence as the police don’t believe me.”

“Who would believe a whore?” blustered Sir Tarleton.

“Our Good Lord, when he accepted Mary Magdalene,” said Chaz. The woman flushed, angrily.

“I am not a whore, and so I keep telling him!” she said.  “He tries to force himself on me – I have an illegitimate daughter, because my fiancé and I got premature and he went out to fight in the second gulf war. He died there.”

“My commiserations; you are a widow without a pension,” said Chaz.  “I was also in Iraq; it was a mess. Knowing that you loved him probably buoyed him up.  I will ask for the use of the photo, and I will ask the police to listen seriously to your complaints.”

“Who are you?” asked the woman. “I was bringing you a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches when Sir Tarleton started in on you.”

Sir Tarleton was putting his trousers back on over incongruous boxers with an adult theme to the pictures on them.

“He’s a down-and-out,” he snarled. “You found your level with him, Lucy.”

“Miss Grey. I have never said you can use my first name, Sir Tarleton,” said Lucy.

“Miss Grey, delighted,” said Chaz.  “My name is Charles Cunningham; I’m the new vicar here, and I decided I would like to see the village incognito, so I dressed down.  I see that some people make it something of a whited sepulchre.”

“I don’t believe you!” Sir Tarleton blustered, his colour draining.

Chaz shrugged.

“If you ever come to church you will find out,” he said.  “You are someone who needs the power of prayer to heal you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” cried Sir Tarleton.

“That is why you are so much in need of healing,” said Chaz.  “Miss Grey, will you share coffee and sandwiches with me?  I have some maids of honour which I can add to the pool, but only water to drink.”

“If ... if you don’t mind eating sandwiches made for a homeless person...” said Lucy.

“Jesus said, ‘whenever someone does any kindness to the least of my people, he does it to me,’” said Chaz.  “Now feed the inner Jesus; and then I will call the police.  I shan’t press charges, but they need to have a crime report to establish character.  Perhaps being watched by the fuzz will have a greater impact on Sir Tarleton than the knowledge that God sees all.”

Sir Tarleton glowered and stalked off, his afternoon’s cricket quite spoiled, and a number of aches and contusions making themselves felt on his body.

“So, what can you tell me about the village?” asked Chaz, devouring his second sandwich. “These are good; what do you put in the egg that lifts it?”

“A pinch of black pepper, chopped spring onion and the lightest touch of cardamom,” said Lucy.  “It wasn’t as bad when Gran was alive – I’m an orphan – but calling it a whited sepulchre is spot on. Above the surface all is pretty, and good, and below the surface all sorts of tensions seethe.  I’m a bit of a pariah to some people because I have a love-child, which I think is a nicer term than bastard, but it’s unfair on Summer, because some people won’t let their children play with her.  And it’s not her fault.”

“No, poor child, and it’s not yours either,” said Chaz.  “What about your man’s family?”

“Diana, his mother, is very good,” said Lucy. “But she’s moved out to Collingham, to be away from memories of Adrian growing up.  I sort of understand, but I would want the memories, myself, if I lost Summer.  And I know it’s an odd sort of name, but it was Ade’s nickname for me, because he said I was like sunshine on a dull day.  So her middle name is Adriana after him ... I’m babbling.”

“I think you’ve needed someone to talk to for a while,” said Chaz.  “I find it hard to take on board how parochial and unkind people can be in this day and age; in a city, a significant number of the kids in any school don’t even know who their father is, let alone have a hero to be proud of, lost rather than strayed, as you might say.”

“And I almost took Diana up on her offer to go and live with her with Summer in Collingham, where such things are not unknown,” said Lucy.  “But it seemed like cowardice.  And Gran left me her cottage, and expected me to keep it nice.  It would be like letting her down as well as letting down Adrian’s memory.  Am I making any sense?”

“All kinds,” said Chaz.  “Oh dear, here comes trouble.”

Trouble was in the shape of Mrs. Hadley.

She glared.

“Not content with flaunting yourself in public, Lucy Grey, you consort with his type?” she said. “I thought the police moved you on.” That was addressed to Chaz.

“I can’t help what you think, I’m afraid,” said Chaz, firmly quashing the captain’s desire to question out loud whether she was capable of thinking. “But I think you are rather discourteous to the widow of a war-hero.”

“If she told you she was the widow of a war-hero she was lying! She’s nothing but an unwed mother!” frothed Mrs. Hadley.

“Oh, weddings are made in Heaven, and a temporal ceremony is merely a matter of dates,” said Chaz.  “The intention to marry Adrian was there, and God sees and knows.  And a soldier who dies for his country is a war-hero in my book, you know. She did not claim it, but you see, it is a matter of perception.  I think you should see someone about the plank in your eye before claiming that Miss Grey has a mote in hers.”

“Well really!” said Mrs. Hadley. “Don’t think you can get round me by quoting the Scriptures; the Devil quotes the Scriptures for his own purpose.”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve been called a devil in English,” said Chaz, amused.  “I don’t think it counts coming from an Arab out of his head on adrenaline on the scary end of an AK47.”

“You, sir, are a disgrace, if you are frightened of Arabs,” said Mrs. Hadley.

“Oh, not in general, and I did not have time to be scared, but with an assault rifle jammed in my belly, I was a trifle unnerved,” said Chaz. “Fortunately he had not cared for it properly, and it jammed long enough for me to sock him on the jaw and take it away from him.  But war reminiscences are tedious fare.  It is sad that there are people of any religion who cannot accept that others follow different paths, and that Christians, Jews and Muslims even worship the same God.”

Mrs. Hadley, who ranked Jews along with Methodists and Catholics as Unbelievers, let alone Muslims, gaped at him in incomprehension.

“I meant, young man, that you should not be afraid of inferior types like foreigners,” she snapped.

“Inferior to whom?” asked Chaz. “If the Good Lord sees every sparrow fall, does he rate er, foreigners lower than Britons? Or did you mean only English Britons?”

“A good English sparrow is better than any foreigner,” said Mrs. Hadley.

“Jesus was a Jew from Palestine,” said Chaz.

“Wash your mouth out, you heathen!” cried Mrs. Hadley.

Chaz dissolved into laughter.

“He’s the new vicar,” said Lucy.

“I don’t believe it!” Mrs. Hadley almost shouted.  “Swapping lies, that’s what you two disgraceful objects are doing! I shall write to the Bishop.”

“Yes, he told me the village needed a shakeup,” said Chaz.

Mrs. Hadley, incensed,  stalked off, not sure whether to believe such utter nonsense or not. She planned to telephone the bishop as soon as she got home to ask whether he had sent a vicar, and if it was indeed an extraordinary young man with a motorbike who looked like a hoodlum.

Chaz had no idea that Mrs. Hadley was about to be told by the Bishop’s secretary that yes, he was the new vicar, and that he had been appointed to bring the village into the twentieth century since the Bishop considered that aiming for the twenty-first was probably a little too ambitious.

He was discovering that unless an individual tackled a problem, it was swept under the carpet.

“You’ll think it a little thing, I am sure, but I see it as a way of demonstrating things,” said Lucy.  “Rose Cottage belonged to an estate agent, and she lived here most of the time, but when she got promotion, she moved to the city, and because she only had a flat there, she didn’t take her cats with her.  And she had never bothered to neuter them, she just kept them in at night.  Well, everyone complained about the sounds of cats mating, and the explosion of kittens,  but nobody was willing to do anything, until Lyndsey Grayling stepped in.  She’s one of the two vet receptionists, but she’s training to be a vet nurse too.  And she collected Josephine, who has a coat of many colours, and the black panther, and took them in.  She called the black one Reuben until she produced kittens, when she changed her name to Ribena.  And they were then neutered, and I helped her trap the tomcat who had sired kittens on them, and the vet did the neutering for the cost of the anaesthetic.   The tomcat is Jacob, and Lyndsey gradually captured Isacher, Gad, Dan, Zebulun, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Benjamin, Dinah, Leah, Rachel, Bilhah and Zilpah to have them done.  Summer helped me clear out so we could have a garden sale to help with the costs, and Sausage-Roll Sally , that’s the other receptionist, baked stuff to sell.”

“I take it she makes sausage-rolls and doesn’t need feeding any,” said Chaz. “I thought health and safety regulations banned the use of meat in fundraising cooking?”

“Probably, but nobody here takes any notice of it,” said Lucy.  “Only instead of being grateful that Lyndsey took care of the problem, half the village just refer to her as the crazy cat lady.”

Chaz nodded.

It was a little thing, perhaps, but it was emblematic of the problems the Bishop had outlined.  He had told Chaz that the village was smug and self-satisfied with a good many churchgoers, but bums on seats did not indicate souls in contemplation. Chaz had pointed out that he might lose a few parishioners, but the Bishop had reminded him that the Good Shepherd sought for those who were lost, and there were more ways to stray than not going to church.

“It sounds as though Lyndsey had help from you,” he said.

“And from Patty; Patty Raikes,” said Lucy. “We grew up together and have always been friends.  They never judged me, and I think without them I would have given up.”

“Patty was recommended to me as a cleaner if I teach her to cook in return,” said Chaz.  “Her boyfriend is a copper.”

“Oh, yes, they’ve been engaged for years, waiting to afford a down-payment on a house,” said Lucy.  “I would have let them live in Honeysuckle Cottage if I moved.”

“And is that by any chance next to Rose Cottage where the cats were left?” asked Chaz.

“Yes, and Rose Cottage has been bought by someone who keeps himself to himself,” said Lucy.  “It used to belong to the Vaiseys; Adrian’s people.  And Lyndsey on the other side, with her parents, in Clematis Cottage.  There’s a row of half a dozen of what used to be farm workers’ cottages, the three at my end timber-framed and the others at the other end built to resemble them in the eighteenth century as what they called ‘cottages ornés’ to fit the look.  Apart from Gran’s cottage, which was already named by  Gran’s parents when they married, the others were just numbers two to five.  Someone bought them all in the 1920s and fancied them up, and gave them all flower names in keeping with Honeysuckle Cottage.  My great-grandparents refused to sell.  So now the other three are ‘Lavender Lodge’, where the doctor lives, ‘Marigold Mansion’ which is where Sir Tareleton lives, and a misnomer if there ever was one, and ‘Hyacinth House’.  All terribly pretentious, but then, that also shows what the village is about.”

Chaz nodded.

“So who lives in Hyacinth House?” he asked.

“Tony, the landlord of the ‘Thrasher’,” said Lucy. “He’s an incomer, like Sir Tarleton, but at least Tony had relatives here. He’s only been here twenty odd years; moved in when I was a kid, you are laughing at me.”

“Only a little,” said Chaz.  “And how long has Rickett been here?”

“Sir Tarleton moved in when I was in my teens,” said Lucy.  “He had a wife, then; but she was terribly frail.  I think he bullied her to death.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Chaz.  “Well if he and Tony, whom  I have met, along with Fang, are incomers, what does that make me?”

“A breath of fresh air,” said Lucy, and then blushed.