Chapter 12
In the volume of the book it is written (Psalm 40)
That afternoon during the lovely time between the end of school and supper, Pert got out the Church Council books again. He turned to the pages holding the Minutes of the last few meetings. By this time whoever was writing had stopped bothering to list the accounts by name as they were accepted, and simply put “Accounts accepted by generall consent”. Goodness, thought Pert, they didn't even bother to have a vote.
He seemed to have drawn rather a blank so far, so he turned back to the older books. Perhaps he might find something interesting in his grandfather's time. Here the minutes were much more detailed and there had been many more decisions to be made. Most were trivial, like the new chasubel for the curat, but once in a while something major would turn up. It had cost the Council the princely sum of £23/5s/9d to have a new roof put on the vicarage, for instance. The vicarage was not a place Pert was familiar with. He knew where it was, of course, further up the hill towards the top of the town with a circular drive so carriages could pull up, deliver their passengers and go away again, but he had never been inside. He didn't think very many carriages called there these days, for the Reverend Tench was not a sociable man.
He worked backwards through the early books, and finally came across something in the very first one that took his eye. In November 1770 the Church Council had been asked to approve the sum of £2/0s/3d for repairs in “ye crypte under ye vestrie”.
That was a puzzle. The church had a crypt, certainly. It was a gloomy, sinister place under the nave, though the door opened off the vestry right enough. You went down a flight of narrow stone stairs, and there was a long vaulted space lined with tombs. Some had figures lying on top to show who was buried there, while others were plain.
On the walls were more plaques to the dead, and Pert had a nasty feeling that behind them were the actual bodies. These days the crypt was a storage place, full of broken chairs, old altar cloths, clumsy wooden furniture and the like. And many piles of hymn books, torn and mutilated, many without covers, dating from a previous age with music written in big white notes. Hymns must have been very slow in those days, Pert thought, even slower than now. Perhaps it was just the words that were peculiar? Ye crypte certainly opened off the vestry, but it wasn't under the vestry. Maybe the long-dead scribe had been careless in choosing his words? There was no crypt under the vestry that he knew of. Another question for Mr.Surplice.
The thought of Mr.Surplice reminded him of the time. The curate was supposed to have moved in today. He hastily tucked the books away and clattered down the stairs to supper.
Supper was the usual, potato stew. There was no meat in it, but in honour of their guest there was a bit more potato, and fresher chunks of bread to dip in it. Mr.Surplice didn't seem to mind the plain fare, and indeed seemed already more relaxed and not so drawn about the face as before. He was a model guest, appreciative of everything put before him, and talked easily with Fenestra and Pert though he seemed to be a little in awe of their mother.
He asked them about their day at school, and Fenestra told him about Billy Moon. Her mother looked rather alarmed to hear the name, and she and the curate exchanged glances. Pert thought he knew why, but said nothing.
Fenestra explained about the smell, and her desire to wash him. “Pert said I couldn't because I'd get a reputation,” she said, “but I wouldn't care. Why can't I?”
“I think “reputation” is a very appropriate word,” said the curate, “though I can't say I've ever heard anything against the woman, apart from her profession.”
“She isn't the first,” said Mother, “and she won't be the last. On her own, out on the streets and Billy to feed, what was she supposed to do? I remember her when she was younger. She liked a good time, like many others. I can't condemn her for that. She was always pleasant enough.”
“Quite right,” replied Mr.Surplice. “And in any case it would be quite wrong to ascribe the sins of the mother to the soul of the child, would it not?”
“He can't read,” put in Pert. “And he got the cane today for calling Mr.Merridew 'mister'”.
“Mr.Merridew! Hmph!” his mother said, but would add nothing more.
The conversation turned to the bullies, Bunt and Durridge. Fenestra was too proud to be specific. She said they had been horrible to her.
“In my experience,” said Mr.Surplice, “which is considerable on this subject, there is no solution except to endure. They quickly tire and move on to some other amusement. And you always have one great satisfaction from it – they never, ever, feel any better for doing it. They bully others because they are bullied themselves, perhaps, or because they are unhappy, or because they know themselves to be of little worth and that they will never prosper in the world. So their bullying profits them nothing, and that is our revenge, if I may be permitted to use such a word.”
“Were you bullied?” asked Fenestra.
“Oh, goodness, yes! At school, terribly. I was a weak little thing, and couldn't stand up for myself. But I endured, and they went away. Then there were others, at the missionary college – would-be priests, just imagine! - and they went away too. And look at me now. I am a world authority on tolerance, for I have tolerated the sticks and arrows of outrageous misfortune and the slings and stones of ridiculous vicars. There are many virtues, they say, but tolerance is my favourite, because I'm really, really good at it. And I am a curate, I have a job, and thanks to yourselves I have dear friends and ... a home, if you'll permit me the liberty.”
He beamed round the table, and Mother patted his hand and said “Of course you're permitted. Now, as this is a special occasion, I made a treacle tart. Just don't expect it to happen every day, that's all I ask!”
On his way up to bed, Pert was waylaid by Mr.Surplice, who popped out of his room – Fenestra's old room, that is – and whispered urgently.
“I found something out about the accounts!” he said. “There are some in the locked cupboard in the vestry. I sneaked a look when the vicar's back was turned. They run until about five years ago, but there are none since.”
“We need to get a look at them, then.”
“How? The cupboard's always locked, and I don't know where the key is.”
“Well, there must be a way ... we could find the key. Or wait until the vicar's out in the church and then pinch some and run off with them. Or break the door and pretend it was burglars or something!”
The curate looked shocked, but evidently wasn't all that shocked, because he said “I know! The communion service! While the Vicar's giving the sacraments don't you sometimes have to go back in the vestry to top up the wine? You could take some of the books and hide them somewhere and go back later!”
“Perfect!” said Pert. “I'll start planning. Er ... you're sure you're all right about this? You are a curate, after all.”
“Those are public documents. They should not be locked away where no one can see them. Oh, I know it'll be bad for me if we're found out, but we're doing nothing wrong.”
“Good. Now I've got something else to ask you. What's under the vestry floor?”
“Earth, I should think.”
“Only I found some mention of another crypt, under the vestry.”
“Never heard of it, I'm afraid. Mind you, anything could be under that carpet. I think it came out of the ark!”
“Probably still has camel-poo on it,” said Pert, thinking of the enemies that keep exulting over me. “Good night!”
In the attic Fenestra had taken his bed-space and put her own mattress in it. She had moved his behind the chimney breast, where the spiders were. The mouse was nowhere to be seen either, probably because she had already fed it. He felt a little aggrieved, but watched her sleeping. Her puzzle was still clutched in one hand and she was snoring gently. She was quite pretty, really. How odd that he'd never noticed, and Billy Moon did.