Constable Around the Village (12 page)

“It seems there’s been a bit of poaching,” he said. “Dusty’s dug the grave at the wrong side of the road, so he has. So we’ll bury him there, poor man. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

And so, after a brief consultation with the vicar, James Bathurst was laid to rest among his ancestors and relations. I knew that Father O’Malley would erect a memorial plaque on the wall of St Francis of Assisi, so the truth would prevail. As we adjourned to the house for the traditional ham tea, Dusty lovingly filled in the grave and arranged the floral tributes about the new earth. He came into the house an hour later, ready for his refreshments and I saw one or two of the villagers congratulate him. I wondered if this had been Dusty’s own idea, or whether some of the stalwarts had put him up to it.

But it didn’t matter. With the coming world of
ecumenical
understanding was one grave any worse than any other?

The last word went to Father O’Malley. I was fortunate to be nearby as he cornered Dusty Miller over his cup of tea.

“Dusty Miller,” he breathed at the little fellow. “This was all your doing, I’ll be bound.”

“He’s resting in his rightful place,” stated Dusty.

“Then you’ll rest in my churchyard, Dusty Miller,” said Father O’Malley. “If I can convert a Bathurst, I’ll make short work of you, my lad. Mark my words, and like it or not, you will be buried in the churchyard of St Francis of Assisi. I’ll get you, so help me!”

Dusty fled and I saw the glint of amusement in Father O’Malley’s eye.

No worse fate could befall poor Dusty, for he was a very protesting Protestant.

That little incident served to bring together the two faiths, Anglican and Catholic, in Elsinby. The Rev. Simon Hamilton and Father Brendan O’Malley became even more friendly towards each other, although it must be said they had never shown any real antagonism. They served together on committees, lunched together regularly to discuss mutual problems and ambitions, and loaned each other various items of religious significance. All this had evolved long before the Bathurst funeral, but it was that burial with its last-minute compromise which sealed the friendship. One immediate result was that the Catholics traipsed into the Anglican churchyard on a regular, organised basis to pay open tribute to their celebrated convert, James Bathurst. Some had misgivings over this, but Father O’Malley dealt with their worries by buying the grave from the Anglicans. He paid a nominal sum, but it thus became Catholic ground. James Bathurst was now buried in a patch of Catholic ground, an island of saintly refuge in the middle of an Anglican graveyard. But at least he was among his Protestant forebears and friends, an ideal situation.

While Catholics could be seen pottering up and down those paths of Anglican ground, the Anglicans had no reason to do likewise so far as the Catholic church was concerned. Their reticence continued; the only occasion they entered the walls of St Francis of Assisi was for a local wedding or funeral, or when the two ministers of religion held a joint service, such as an ecumenical gathering or on Remembrance Day. Officially, a state of bliss existed but in practice the two faiths were poles apart.

A real test occurred late one summer. My first intimation was a telephone call from the Reverend Hamilton asking if I would pop in to see him next time I was on duty in Elsinby. I agreed and within a week I was in his study, enjoying a pleasant coffee.

He was a fine man, the Reverend Hamilton. With a faint
Scots accent, he stood an impressive six feet tall and boasted an athletic past, having once played football for a Scottish First Division team. He was married to a lovely wife who happily joined the multifarious affairs of village life. The vicar considered himself very much part of the North Riding population even though he had been here a mere eight years. He reckoned he had adopted the county as his home.

But there was one grey cloud on his horizon. In spite of his popularity and his earnest efforts, the congregation of St Andrew’s Parish Church continued to dwindle. Young folk didn’t bother to attend, the middle-aged were too busy and the elderly too tired. Mr Hamilton relied on a regular attendance of some twenty faithful, swollen to fifty at times like Easter and Christmas, but this was in no way a
proportional
representation of the population. With over 350 people in the parish, his church looked miserably empty at most times.

Father O’Malley, on the other hand, had a Catholic
congregation
of some 180 souls, young, old and middle-aged, and he ensured they attended Mass every Sunday. They also came to other services as and when required. He averaged a hundred and ten each Sunday for Mass and this made the poor Anglican church look very poorly attended.

The unhappy Simon Hamilton told me all about this aspect of his work and he wondered how the Catholics managed to fill their church with youngsters when he failed; I told him I was a Catholic and attended Mass regularly at Aidensfield, and he raised his eyes to Heaven.

“You know, Mr Rhea,” he said, with that faint Scots accent lingering in the air. “I could do with your faithful in a fortnight’s time.”

“Really?” I didn’t quite understand his comment.

“Yes, I’ve called you here to discuss a small matter.” I thought he’d gone off at a tangent, but he continued. “My bishop is coming a fortnight on Sunday. It’s his first visit since his appointment three years ago, and that’s why I called you in. I want to ensure everything goes well, and I need your advice on car-parking and traffic arrangements.”

“I’ll help, of course,” I assured him, for supervision of such events was part of my duty.

“There’s no car-park at the church, as you know, so I’m afraid the bishop’s car will have to park on the road
outside.
”

“That’s no problem,” I said. “The road is wide enough to allow that.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is. And there’s the congregation’s cars, plus the other clergy who come from neighbouring parishes. There might be a lot of cars, Mr Rhea, and I wondered if I could prevail upon you to ensure the bishop is parked as near as possible to the gate.”

“I’ll get here half an hour before the service,” I assured him, “and I will make sure things go according to your wishes.”

We discussed the outline plans for the day and I learned he was to prepare a feast in the parish rooms, at which the bishop would attend for the purpose of informally meeting the parishioners. Clearly, Mr Hamilton had a lot of work ahead, and I could see that he wanted the day to be a huge success.

Having explained everything to me, with details of timings and anticipated numbers, I could see he still looked rather apprehensive.

“You’re not very happy about this?” I put to him.

He shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “No, Mr Rhea, I’m not. It’s the apathy.”

“Apathy?”

“Yes, people don’t come to church any more and I’ve tried to talk those who never come into attending on that day. This church was once a flourishing community, full every Sunday with lots of activities, but now, well, I get my regulars—only a dozen or so—but no more.”

“Surely they’ll all come to meet the bishop?” I said.

“Ah, yes, they’ll come, the regulars. But no one else. Well, I’m lying there—one or two extra people have expressed a desire to come, but I’ll have more clergy there than lay congregation if I’m not careful. I would have liked a full church that day….”

“Is it just a social visit?” I asked, wondering whether this came under the heading of ecumenism, or whether it was a confirmation visit.

“Not really. It’s an official inspection really, disguised as a social ‘meet the people’ outing. Bishops go around checking on us, very discreetly, to make sure we do our job. My God, Mr Rhea, I’ve worked, but I never seem to make headway …”

“If it was an ecumenical service, Father O’Malley’s lot would come,” I smiled. “They would fill your empty seats.”

He rubbed his chin and smiled at me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to convince me that Catholicism was the answer to everything.”

“It’s not the answer to everything, Mr Hamilton, but it might be the answer to your immediate problem.”

“You’re not serious?” he cried, staring at me over his coffee-cup.

“Why not?” I returned. “Why not fill your church with Catholics?”

“The bishop would object…. he’d know….”

“Not if you didn’t tell him, not if Father O’Malley provided them with…. er…. how shall I put it…. their terms of reference.”

“But suppose the bishop talked to a Catholic who let the cat out of the bag and said he was from St Francis’ across the road….”

“Then you talk to the bishop about the spirit of ecumenism. You tell him how the faiths mingle in the village and quote the Catholic presence as an example of the interest in his work by the Catholic community….”

“My church will seat nearly three hundred,” he mused. “With a handful of locals and a few clergy hangers-on, it will look deserted. How many Catholics could he muster?”

“A churchful,” I smiled. “If you issue that as a challenge to Father O’Malley, he’ll fill your church with religious folk who will listen to your bishop and eat your sandwiches like good Anglicans.”

He smiled, “You know, Mr Rhea, I find this very
tempting
. I would not wish to lie to the bishop, but a churchful of worshippers would look fine, and it would be impressive.”

“Shall I intercede with Father O’Malley?” I suggested.

“No,” he said. “No, I think this had better come from me.
Look, I’ll talk to him and let you know what transpires. Can I be in touch again about the car-parking?”

“Of course,” and I left him.

Hardly had I got outside when I saw Sergeant Blaketon
sitting
in his official car with the window down. He was looking up and down the High Street and when he saw me emerge from the vicarage he left the car. He strode stiffly
towards
me.

“Good afternoon, Rhea,” he greeted me. “I saw your bike. Busy?”

“I’ve been to a meeting with the vicar,” I told him. “He’s got an official visit by his bishop shortly, and wanted me to help with car parking.”

“Do you anticipate problems?” he asked. “We can fix you up with parking cones or another constable if you wish.”

“No, I’ll manage,” I said and added thoughtlessly, “I don’t anticipate a lot of cars.”

“Oh, does that mean a poor congregation?” he asked me. “Even for a bishop’s visit?”

“He’s working on ideas for filling the church,” I said. “He’s a man of great imagination, is our vicar.”

“What he needs is a few Methodists to help out,” I heard him say. “Now, I’m a keen chapel-goer, and in these days of ecumenism it’s good for the faiths to mingle.”

I began to wish I’d accepted his cones and additional policeman.

“I’m sure he will fill the church.” I tried to steer him away from his topic, but he was not to be swayed.

“Not with Catholics?” he looked at the modern outline of the St Francis of Assisi Church just behind.

“I think there are enough Anglicans hereabouts to provide him with a full house,” I said.

“Not on your life,” he retorted. “I’ll speak to our local minister at the chapel. We might come along to support him. When did you say it was?”

I provided him with the date and groaned inwardly. I hoped he’d stay out of this. We went for a long walk around Elsinby, with Sergeant Blaketon expounding the merits of inter-religious exchanges and the need for more discipline among the young. I wondered if the two were connected,
but he lost me in a sea of hazy words as I worried about the possible outcome of his idea. I tried to deter him but he was not to be deflected.

A week later, I was back in Elsinby and decided to call upon Father O’Malley. I found him making wine in his kitchen and he invited me to sample a glassful of last year’s vintage. It was beetroot wine, a beautiful red colour, and it tasted like fine port.

“Your health, Nicholas.” He raised his own glass. “What brings you here?”

“I was passing,” I said, “and thought I’d pop in.”

“You did right, so you did,” he smiled through his strong teeth. He looked a typical Irishman, with bushy black hair and firm eyebrows set in a strong face, full of character. “How’s the wine?”

“Fine.” I sipped appreciatively. “Father, has Mr Hamilton seen you about a service at the parish church?”

“He has, yes he has. And a nice idea too.”

He paused and sipped the wine, then added, “He tells me it was your idea.”

“Well, I thought we might do a little for ecumenism.”

“And so we will. I’ve already mentioned it to some of the faithful here and we’ll fill the church for him, to be sure. It’s a challenge to these people, Nicholas, and it’s a way for them to get their own back for Jimmy Bathurst’s funeral. But I’ve asked them all to behave like good Anglicans that day.”

“I hope it doesn’t backfire on him.”

“No, it won’t. I’ll see to that. I’ll be there too.”

“In your collar?”

“No, I will dress as an Irish labourer that day, so help me. Never you worry, Nicholas. We’ll give his bishop a day to remember. We’ve already agreed on the hymns that will be sung, and my lot are in full training. They’ll sing some lovely Anglican hymns, mark my words.”

So far as the arrangements for the service were concerned, I knew I had no worries. The two clergymen had come to a fine, sensible agreement and my next involvement was on the actual day of the bishop’s visit.

The service was to begin at 3 p.m. that Sunday and it
would last for an hour, with twenty minutes being allowed for an address by the bishop. Tea had been arranged in the parish rooms during which the bishop would mingle with the faithful on an informal basis. Those Catholics who felt they might behave erratically need not attend, for the tiny room could not accommodate everyone.

On the big day, I took my motor-cycle into the grounds of the Hopbind Inn and left it there with George’s permission, replacing my helmet with a uniform cap. At two-thirty, I took up my position outside the St Andrew’s church gate to keep a space free for the visiting dignitary. Cars began to arrive about twenty minutes to three and all greeted me warmly. Mr Hamilton came out to check that all was well, and the sun shone upon his little castle. I bade “
good-afternoon
” to many good Anglicans and lots of equally good Catholics, all filing into the sombre walls of the church to be issued with hymn-books upon entry. Father O’Malley was there too, dressed in rough clothes but beaming all over his rugged face.