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Kevin Wood
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@KevinStphnWood
7:00 AM 29th January 2021
fiction

Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 10

 
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The hierarchy of the Church of England is pretty dull subject, but, as a sociopathic vicar intent on becoming Archbishop of Canterbury, it’s important to me. The country is split up into dioceses and deanerys. Roughly, these can be thought of as counties and districts. The Rural Dean is head of the deanery, and one step down from the bishop.

Thus, discovering that the Rural Dean had decided to visit was annoying. This is supposed to be an honour, a show of the higher-ups taking a compassionate interest and to be celebrated by the local church. What it means is that you see people in church who haven’t been in months, and afterwards, the vicar has to provide a Sunday dinner. Apart from handing out a free lunch to the Rural Dean, I’m not sure what the purpose is.

The following Sunday, once again in the school hall, I announced the joyous news to the congregation. They all perked up in their seats and seemed delighted - I don’t know why.

I was pleased and somewhat surprised to see that Al had decided to come along again. This time had brought Porker with him.

“Who’s this Dean, then?” asked Porker.

“He’s one down from the bishop and keeps more of an eye on the locals.”

“You mean, he’s the bishop’s enforcer?”

I smiled. “Yes, that’s one way of looking at it. Not a bad way, either.”

“So, what happens?” asked Al.

“I introduce him, then he does the sermon and celebrates communion. After that, I take him and a few people from the church, and give them dinner.”

“What’s for dinner?” asked Porker.

“What would you like?”

“Roast beef, Yorkshire pud and gravy.”

“Why don’t you both come along, then? And bring Psycho too.”

They both rapidly agreed. Which was no bad thing. I was a little short of people to invite. Normally, it would have been the church warden, treasurer and secretary, but two of them were dead, and the secretary was seeing her grandchildren. I had momentarily considered inviting June Whiting, the Parish Evangelism Officer, but thought better of it. She still hadn’t come up with a single idea for her post. Al, Porker and Psycho would make far better dinner companions. I left them talking to Mabel over coffee and circulated around the congregation.

There followed a week of standard bread-and-butter vicaring. I found out by chance that the wife of the police inspector who I had seen so much of lately was in hospital for an operation, so I visited her a couple of times. Standard visits but considering the attention I had had from the police recently, it did no harm for them to think that I was a caring person.

Torbut Smyth
Torbut Smyth
The grand day arrived, and with it, Torbut Smythe, the Rural Dean. Not a name to inspire, rather like the man himself. It is a name that conjures an image of someone from a privileged background, out of touch and overweight. It is a name that suited him. Minimal intelligence, minimal competence, minimal value.

“Well, now, David, how about you give the notices and then hand over to me?” he asked, when I showed him the room we were using for a vestry.

“That sounds admirable to me,” I said, allowing him to take over. In truth, that is how these things work, but conventionally, the visiting clergy should make a show of fitting in with the local arrangements. Barging in and taking over is not the way it’s done.

What can be said of the service? I managed to stay awake during the sermon, which is more than could be said of the congregation. The words were clearly recycled and had probably been used in a hundred other churches. Eventually, it was over, much to everyone’s relief.

Before dinner, it was obligatory to take a tour of the church, to examine the wreckage. It was a mess, of course. When a hundred tonnes of stone tower collapse on a burning church, it’s not going to be pretty.

“My word, that’s a terrible sight,” Torbut said, stating the obvious.

“Indeed. Oh, don’t cross the tape – it marks areas that it’s not safe to enter.”

We were inside a line of those wire grid fences that builders put up to keep out the curious. Most of the building had been deemed safe enough, but some areas were unstable.

“You can see that the quire is still almost intact. I’ve started talking to the architects that the Diocese recommended, and the hope is that it might be used as the basis of a new building.”

“Indeed. What’s the insurance situation?”

“The insurance company have processed the claim, they have the reports from the fire brigade and the police. Now it’s just waiting.”

“How did it start?”

“Fire brigade reckons kids smoking by a leaking oil tank. Took a while to catch hold, but once it did…”

He didn’t contribute any advice or support. I think the tour was more to do with his sense of morbid curiosity than anything. With that, we processed to lunch.

As we entered the vicarage, Abigail took his coat, his bag with his vestments, and his briefcase. As I showed him through to the dining room, I saw her rummaging through his briefcase. I distracted him with some petty parish trivia, so he wouldn’t notice. Not that I endorsed her activities, but it would have been inconvenient to draw attention to them. I was sure that I saw her remove something and slip it into her pocket, but I couldn’t say what it was. Unlikely to be the sermon notes, though.
I have to say, that Abigail had done us proud with the meal. The guests were Mabel and Abigail, of course, with Al, Porker and Psycho. These had taken a dislike to Torbut, and it showed. It was less than fortunate that he decided to try and engage them in conversation.

“So, tell me, how did you find the service this morning?” Torbut asked Psycho, presumably expecting praise.

Psycho looked up at the ceiling for a moment, considering, then looked Torbut square in the eye, and said – I’m editing his words somewhat, you understand – “I thought you were rubbish.”

Disclaimer: Rev David Wilson’s representation of Rural Deans is quite inaccurate, and very unfair to these fine members of the clergy.
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