fiction
Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 20
As for me, I discovered early on that languages just naturally fit in my head. I learnt Latin to A-level at school – grammar schools are funny like that - then studied Hebrew at theological college. To avoid fellow students having sing-a-longs of “Kum-Ba-Ya”, I also taught myself Greek. Thus, having discovered an ancient book hidden buried beneath the flagstones of a burnt-out church, it was no problem that it was written in (fairly poor) Latin.
It was the content that was problematic. It claimed to be “The Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria”, and was illustrated with lots of arcane looking line drawings amidst a scattering of obscure symbols. It was the kind of thing that the Sons of Jesus Lemurian would probably kill for. Fake, from one end to the other, of course. Without getting technical, I’d guess it was written mid-1800’s.
Still, it was useful source material for me in my mission to dismantle the Sons of Jesus Lemurian.
But first, I had a routine bit of vicaring to do. One of the old boys at church had slipped and had broken his leg. Rather a nasty break, but he was home now, and I was to visit him.
I hadn’t visited Douglas Turner’s house before. I try to visit as many of the congregation as possible, but I haven’t been in the parish so long, and the Turners were still on my list. Their house was on the better side of Sutley – even small market towns have a better district – on a slight hill that gives a pleasant view. The house was large, well proportioned, and featured a small tower.
I knocked at a front door that was more impressive than many church doors, and was answered by Evie, Douglas’ wife.
I thanked her as she took my coat. Late seventies, didn’t use a stick, capable of holding an intelligent conversation. She led me through to the wood panelled drawing room where Douglas was sitting in a winged armchair. It was in front of an open (unlit) fireplace. His right leg was resting on a pouffe, and his left foot was on the floor. There was a pipe on a small side table next to him. That explained why his neat moustache was slightly yellowed, unlike the fringe of white hair around his head. Due to the average age of congregations, you encounter a lot of baldness as a vicar.
“Come in, come in,” he said, “Please excuse me for not getting up. Evie, could I bother you to bring in some comestibles?”
He gestured me to another winged armchair on the other side of the fireplace.
Rather than diving straight into a medical report, I said, “This is very beautiful house that you have.”
“Why, thank you! I designed it myself, you know.”
“Really?”
“Well, if an architect can’t design a house he’d want to live in, then he’s in the wrong line of work.”
This argument was hard to refute.
“Been retired a while now, of course. Good thing too. If I’d stayed in any longer, I’d have had to learn to use a computer.”
“So, all your work was pencil and paper?”
“Absolutely. And a slide-rule,” He leant forward in a conspiratorial fashion, and added, “Well, if I’m honest, I used a calculator, but I kept my old slide-rule on the desk for the kids to see.”
I gave the required chuckle and allow my eyes to crinkle.
“Here, see that little bit of stonework by the fireplace?” He pointed, “Yes, that one. Push down on it.”
I got up and did as I was told. Much to my surprise a section of wood panelling slid to one side.
“Oh Douglas,” said Evie, entering carrying a tray, “You’re not showing off your secret passage again, are you? It’s not really a secret if you show it to everyone.”
I took the tray from Evie while Douglas looked guilty. “That passage will take you up to the tower,” he said. “Not that I can use it at the moment, of course.”
“Yes, how is your leg?”
“Oh, it’s healing, but it takes a while at my age. Still, I’m following orders, and doing my exercises. She makes sure of that.”
Evie smiled.
He continued, “Enough of that. I’m not interested in talking about my leg. I’ve heard about it non-stop for too long. Tell me about the plans for the new church.”
“Well, I’ve contacted all the architects recommended by the Diocese, but none of them were satisfactory.”
Douglas laughed at this. “And I bet they put Mike Garrison at the top of the list.”
“Yes, they did.”
“I’ll tell you a story about that someday. You won’t like it though.”
“Is there anyone you’d recommend?”
“Yes. Me!”
“Oh, Douglas,” said Evie, shaking her head.
“Well, come on, Evie. I’m going out of my mind with boredom here.”
I felt a slight dilemma. True, Douglas had built a nice house, but a church is not quite the same as a house.
“Give me some headlines,” I said. “How would you do it?”
“Reuse the stone from the old building. That’ll please people, and it’s better than the modern rubbish. Forget multifunctional spaces, make things one thing or the other. Knock down the old quire. If you try to build around that, you’ll be compromising from day one.”
I nodded. “How soon can you get me some preliminary ideas?”
From beside his armchair, he pulled out a leather tube, about a metre long, and handed it over.
“Take a look. Let me know what you think.”
I didn’t open the tube then but saved it for later when I could look at it properly. The conversation then drifted into anecdotes of various buildings and their construction. Some of the stories were even slightly droll, after a fashion.
After a while I left, happy that I had not only done the necessary pastoral work, but also that I had found an alternative architect to the ones the Diocese recommended. Better yet, he was prepared to work for free, as long as I let him put in a secret passage. He saw it as a form of immortality. Although I could see his point, I felt his theology was a little confused.
I got back to the Vicarage, hung up my jacket and put the tube of plans on my desk.
“Is that you, David?” called Abigail from the kitchen.
“Yes,” I called back, although I’m not sure who else it could have been.
“I had a phone call about Jill Baildom,” she said, walking through to my study.
Jill Baildom – church organist, or rather, a pianist attempting to play an organ, plays everything half-speed, consistent with her thinking. Despite this, like all church organists she was irreplaceable.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“She’s fallen and broken both her wrists.”
Disclaimer: The syllabus followed by trainee priests at theological college is carefully crafted to enable priests in real-world settings. Indeed, many vicars would say that they find a knowledge of Greek and Hebrew indispensable for pastoral matters.