Chapter 4—The Vicar
It was only just 7 o'clock, so the boy wasn't sure if the church would be open yet. He'd better check though—see if he could find the vicar. The church doors were securely locked, and a firm series of knocks using the round wrought-iron door-handle produced no response. What did he expect? The vicarage was a few houses over from the church, just beyond a terraced row of what had once been alms-houses. These were converted to private dwellings in the sixties, though the vicar retained his grace-and-favour dwelling.
The boy looked forward to waking the vicar up. It looked like he was still in bed, as the curtains were all closed and the milk stood on the doorstep warming in the rising sun. He had nothing against the vicar, even liked him a bit, for he was quite a character. The latest incumbent was once a missionary in the Far East, and married to a Chinese Christian, who espoused some Buddhist beliefs too. This mixture inevitably coloured the vicar's own sermons and he was an outspoken pacifist, going on protests and appearing regularly on television chat-shows and in newspaper interviews.
That he looked like a dotty clergyman, with National Health black-framed spectacles, a fringe of white hair around a gleaming bald pate and flew around on an old Lambretta scooter, his cassock billowing in the breeze made him all the more popular. His scooter had a distinctive rhubarb and custard paint-job and his crash-helmet carried the advice that, 'God is my pillion—back off!'
With dwindling congregations nation-wide, the mad vicar here actually bolstered the numbers of worshippers. The church was on 'Songs of Praise' the year before and the local bishop regularly visited. The boy's dog was mystified by this detour—they had a fixed route and they stuck to it! He was sniffing around the hostas in the front flower-bed—didn't the vicar have several cats? His dog was about to do some scent-marking. That wouldn't do, so the boy pulled his dog closer, ordering him to sit. By some miracle he obeyed—did he know he was about to meet someone respectable? The boy hammered gleefully on the door with the haft of his hazel walking-stick—that should have shook the vicar out of bed! Nothing happened for a minute, then an upstairs window was pushed open, the wood obviously swollen with damp and catching on the frame. The vicar's tousled head appeared, his spectacles perched at an angle on the end of his nose.
He blearily looked down at the boy and his dog, asking what the matter was. The boy wondered why people were forced to knock on a vicar's door. There must be all sorts of sad reasons—an imminent death in the family, homelessness, a tragic suicide—but he doubted that what he was about to impart to the clergyman was a common occurrence.
He identified who he was first, which the vicar hadn't asked, but it seemed like good form. When he added that the vicar performed the double marriage ceremony of his older twin-sisters the year before, he was recognised, for the two of them chatted about the wildlife in the church and its grounds after the service.
On being informed that one of the graves in his churchyard was collapsed exposing its occupant to inspection, and potential raiding by the local crows, the vicar was momentarily perplexed. Such a thing had never happened before, though he'd received a warning to be as alert to possible incursions by black magic oddballs as he was to thieves stealing lead off the roof.
Surely that couldn't have happened. No, it would just be because of the heavy rain last night. He recalled noticing some new swells and dips in that part of the burial-ground, but didn't anticipate any subsidence. Perhaps they should get the area inspected—he didn't want the gardener disappearing into a grave on his heavy sit-on mower.
He knew what he could do—get some goats to keep the grass trimmed. No, they were a bit satanic! What about sheep then? Brilliant—he'd literally be adding to his flock...What would the bishop think though? Good for publicity—he'd love it. He'd have to have the back-gate to the fields repaired properly—couldn't have the sheep straying….It would help his gardener out if anything, as he was getting a bit arthritic to do the mowing. And the grave-digger would be getting some overtime, filling in the hole that had appeared. The boy was still looking up at him—he'd been drifting. Too many ideas and not enough time to do 'em was always the problem.
The boy waved a cheery goodbye, which was more satirical than the vicar appreciated, though it was nice to have been thanked so effusively. He'd also been blessed, which he wasn't sure about. The vicar appeared not to believe what the boy was telling him at first, asking exactly where the grave was and peering myopically in the direction of his church, even though the old alms-houses obscured his view.
Saying that it was one of the unidentified Civil War warriors clarified matters, though he'd confused the vicar further by suggesting that it could be one of his relatives who was making a bid for freedom, so would he make sure he was properly covered over again?
The boy pondered on his lineage, as he and his dog headed into the sun's rays down Rectory Lane. Who would he have fought for? He'd always liked the Royalist Cavaliers, as they were much more jolly with long curly hair, just like him, and they fought with rapiers and the boy was just starting to learn fencing at school. He wasn't much of a monarchist though, preferring the notion of a republic—but Cromwell was so ugly, boring and a killjoy too, that the boy couldn't see himself ever wearing a breast-plate and daft helmet.
A buzzard soared overhead, heading for the fields. The boy's eyes tracked the large predator, wondering if it would fall on one of the rabbits in the graveyard, or take a game bird in the fields beyond. He'd be back there tomorrow, for another walk.
The buzzard was there already.
The End
About The Author
Paul Whybrow has a young head on old shoulders.
Ex many things, including being a teacher, counsellor,
librarian, dispatch-rider, milk-man, postman, bar man,
house renovator, classic vehicle restorer, courier,
van driver, factory worker, project manager,
live-in carer for the elderly, editor, photographer,
volunteer at a community centre, play-schemes,
homeless campaigns and nature conservation projects.
I wrote non-fiction magazine articles for ages,
but turned to creative writing in the summer of
2013. I've been my own boss for a long time,
which means I'm working for an idiot and the
pay is lousy—but the holidays are great.
Paul Whybrow has a good heart inside a battered chest.
* * *
Also by Paul Whybrow
Novellas
* A Man Out Walking His Dog—A tale of mistaken identity.
* Burpwallow Holler—Loyalty in post Civil War America.
* Quarry—A gangster becomes prey in a lethal reality TV show.
* Ghosting—How a lonely biologist finds peace with the ghosts of her life.
* Is It Her?—A new start is offered to a grieving widower.
* A Blue Tomorrow—Temptation and new beginnings on a farm.
* Hearts On Tour—Small town friends support one another.
* What Would I Do Without You?—A newly-single wife begins life again.
Short Stories
* The Moon Is Out Tonight—Two soul-mates separated by circumstance.
* Due-Date—A soul in limbo is given a new job.
* Jacqui In Space—A 20th century explorer on 22nd century Mars.
* Over And Out—Things come to a head on a 50th wedding anniversary.
* In The Graveyard At Dawn—A boy and his dog among the graves.
* Soul-Swapping—Moving souls, a demon tries to get back to hell.
Song Lyrics
* 12 Country & Western Lyrics—hope, regret and seeing things as they are.
* 13 Kinds of Blue—trouble's your only friend, ain't it?
* A Dozen Pops—love in a bubble always goes pop.
* A Dozen Rocks—head down boogie along the highway.
* Box of Love—songs of love and hope.
* Howling For You—the sadness goes on and on.
Poetry
* Love Stages—Love affairs seen at different phases.
* Love Begins—The thrill of the new, the nervousness and delight.
* Love Ends—What do you do when things go wrong?
* Love Hopes—How would you like love to happen?
* Love Wishes—In an ideal world your affair would be like this...
* Nature's Ways—Aspects of the natural world, happy and sad.
* Modern Times—What it means to live in the 21st century.
* Old Age Navigation—Ageing stinks, but it beats the alternative.
* Darkness—Written from the endless night of the soul.
* Darkness Darkness—We all have our dark side—how's yours?
* Loneliness—The poverty of the soul, when you're alone.
* Solitariness—The richness of the soul, when you go solo.
* Poems To Ponder—Thoughtful and amusing poems for children.
* Witches' Knickers—Silly and nonsense poems for young readers.
* Hold Onto Yourself—Funny and warm poems for youngsters.
* What Do You Like?—9 Erotic Poems
* Building Story House—10 Poems on creating stories
* Lost Among The Words—10 Poems about Writing
* Friends And Other Confusions—10 Poems on liking others and yourself.
* Chasing Big 'O'—9 Erotic Poems
* Squeeze It—10 Poems on Creativity and Setbacks
* We Stop Ourselves—10 Poems on Creativity, Doubt and Self-Belief
* Love Scenes—10 Poems about love
* Free To Fly—10 poems on getting through
Novels
Coming soon:
* The Perfect Murderer—a novel about a serial killer, who makes no mistakes.
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* * *
Connect with the author
https://paulwhybrowblog.wordpress.com
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