Felburgh Page 2

  He turned to look at Peter.

  “I actually smashed against the deck of a racing yacht. Do you know they deliberately take those things out in bad weather to test the rigging and crew! I landed virtually on top of the wheelhouse, certainly near enough for the crew on deck to get to me. I was held fast on their deck by one of my lifejackets that had caught on something or other. The crew – they were all French - saved my life in more ways than one. The deck of a racing yacht is not smooth, it’s covered with winches and stays, and all sorts of rubbish, and the sea pounded me down on it at full force. I broke both legs, cracked my pelvis, badly shook my spine, and smashed my face on a spar. Somehow they dragged me inside the tiny cabin. Fortunately one of the crew was as a medical student; she splinted my legs as best she could, gave me some morphine, and sewed up the bits of me that were open; I’m glad to say those boats carry a top-class first aid kit. They couldn’t get me lifted off by helicopter because the sea was too rough, so they turned about and went to rendezvous with a large container vessel. How they turned about in seas like that I’ll never know, but I guess if you’re mad enough to deliberately go out in a wild sea you know how to handle the boat in any weather. After that they transferred me onto a container ship. I’ve seen the video of that transfer and I’m glad I was unconscious at the time! That ship was big enough for a helicopter to lift me off; even that was ruddy dangerous. The helicopter had to take me to Ipswich Hospital because of the weather and lack of fuel. Lucy was on duty in A & E at the time they brought me in; she got a hell of a shock.”

  Mark paused and resumed looking into the far distance.

  “I was in hospital for six months, almost two of those in intensive care. Then there was the physiotherapy and the coming to terms with the fact that I lived and all my mates had drowned. Lucy was there by my side all the time.”

  He paused for a moment and continued to stare out to sea, Peter had no doubt that his lost friends were on his mind.

  “Eventually, when I thought I was fit enough, I found a place and a fishing smack. I thought the best thing for me was to go back to sea, you know like getting back on a bicycle when you fall off. Lucy was devastated.”

  He suddenly smacked his hands together.

  “Then it all changed. I decided to cycle down here to pray in the church and thank God that I was alive. The church was shut for repairs, they were glassing off the North Aisle, and so I decided to pray in the graveyard and ended up there.”

  He leaned over the edge of the tower and pointed to six brown granite gravestones in a well-tended corner of the churchyard.

  “They’re the gravestones of the crew of the fishing boat Samson’s Cove that foundered just off the coast here in the winter of ‘64. Each gravestone is the same; it has the name and dates of the deceased and then the simple word ‘Fisherman’. I realised I was being a fool. I got a job in the boatyard and have never been to sea since. Lucy and I renewed our wedding vows a year later and since then we have never looked back. I started coming here regular like, and one thing led to another. I look at it like this, God gave me a second chance, not many men can say that, and I don’t intend to waste it.”

  “Do you like the boatyard” murmured Peter

  “Not at first, it was like being in a cage when you’ve been allowed to roam free. But I loved Lucy and I knew I had to make a go of it. When it got too much I used to come here and sit in the corner of the churchyard. Sort of a reminder like. It got better about five years ago when we got the contract to service the tugs that work in the Harwich Haven, they’re boats I understand, not fancy yachts or summer cruisers.”

  “Regrets?” asked Peter

  “Only that I didn’t do it sooner, I put Lucy through hell”

  “And how have you thanked God?”

  Mark looked up, again staring into the distant horizon.

  “I do volunteer work at the Seaman’s Mission in Felixstowe; takes a seaman to know a seaman”

  Mark stirred then and Peter realised the conversation was coming to an end. He nodded,

  “Thanks Vicar, thanks for listening.”

  As they went down the tower stairs, Peter asked the final question that he been on his mind.

  “Did I read the accounts correctly, have we got £350,000 in the bank”.

  “More or less, probably more. Most of it is invested.”

  “Invested where?”

  “Don’t know. Sam handles all that, we get a good return though. Oh and we now also own the navigation rights on the river from the bridge for four miles up to Little Glumburgh thanks to a generous legacy.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We can charge for mooring, not much, but it will bring in a few thousand a year.”

  At the bottom of the tower Mark tapped a panel on the wall.

  “Second power feed courtesy of the Army. They don’t believe in doing things by halves.”

  He grinned and checked his watch.

  “Sorry, I’ve gotta go, but if I can do anything you only have to ask.”

  Peter decided to air his only current problem. “I need a cleaner, any ideas?”

  Mark chuckled.

  “Not my department, but my wife will doubtless know someone, and we’ll send them round.”

  Once outside the church Mark climbed onto an old BSA Bantam motorcycle, and gave Peter a rye grin.

  “One thing,” he said. “Don’t let the mafia get to you, they may think they are the church, but they’re not really.”

  He left in the general direction of the harbour. Peter rescued Aquinas from the churchyard and went home to find a home-baked apple pie on the doorstep.

  Also on the doorstep were two visitors, Peter expected visitors as they were part and parcel of a new vicar moving into a parish, but these two somehow didn’t seem to be making a social call. He invited them in and they introduced themselves as his churchwardens. They refused tea, and a slice of pie and sat down in his lounge. George Thrushton, introduced himself as the most long-standing warden. Being tall and ramrod straight he cut an imposing figure (“Major Thrushton you know, but I don’t use the title”) with a grey moustache and a Saville Row Grey suit. He had that clipped manner of speech so loved by the military. In swift military style he made no bones about saying that he did not want any major changes to either of the services, or the use of the church building. Peter could sense in him the feeling that the town had been ruined both by the addition of the new estate and the town edge supermarket. It was also apparent that he barely tolerated tourists, but recognised that the local economy largely depended upon them. He finished his pre-prepared spiel with a half smile and a dismissive wave of the hand as he muttered, “Change is not always for the better it just makes things different and is not always a forward step.”

  The second warden, Henry Peyton-Jones, was short and dumpy, but somehow still cut an imposing figure. Unlike his companion he was dressed in casual clothing, but it was all carefully matched and definitely not from a department store. Henry almost apologised that he had only served as warden for eight years (compared with George’s twenty-two.) It soon became clear that he was the warden who was in control of the buildings and graveyard. He was adamant that there should be no alterations to the building. His motto appeared to be: “Everything should be done properly and in order and by due process.”

  He said it at least three times in their short visit.

  As they left George invited (commanded?) Peter to his house the following evening to meet the Church Council members before he was formally licensed as in a fortnight’s time.

  That night Peter restudied the church accounts over a piece of the scrumptious apple pie. So much was clearer now. The church was spending around £100,000 a year and had an income of around £120,000 of which about £12000 came from tourists who visited the church and gave a donation. All in all it was a clear profit of £20,000 per year, plus the return on the investments. On the other hand the church appeared to give away nothing. There was no indication o
f any missionary support, charity support or financial support to the local community. Peter sat back; he’d worked in churches which were a financial black hole in that no matter how much money you poured into them they never had enough, but he had never worked in a church which was a financial supernova. Was that the problem? Was that why the last four vicars had given up? Had this church somehow become a profit making enterprise rather than a House of God and the social conscience of the community?

  He spent the last moments of the day reading both a small book on the local history and the last five years of the Felburgh Church Council minutes. As he went to bed he was not sure which would make the better horror movie. As usual he did not sleep well.

  Chapter 3

  First Blood

  That following evening the rain was teaming down in a manner reminiscent of the Niagara Falls, so Peter opted to take his ancient Land Rover rather than cycle. When he finally found the Major’s house on the edge of the golf course he noticed that the church council members had had the same idea. As he sat in his vehicle summoning up some emotional strength, and listened to the drumming on the cab roof, he surveyed the other cars in the ample driveway. With one exception all the cars were less than three years old, most of them less than two years old. All were expensive ranging from a Porsche to a Jaguar via a number of Volvos. The exception was an old blue Ford Escort that was so battered and worn that it was probably in danger of being taken for a dumped wreck and towed away. Eventually, after about fifteen minutes, Peter summoned up his courage, walked to the door, and entered the lion’s den.

  Just over three hours later Peter left and drove towards home. On a whim he diverted into the Felburgh Common Car Park to watch the sparkle from the lights of the passing ships and contemplate the evening while it was still fresh in his mind. One thing was for sure, the majority of the Council held firm views and they obviously felt that they had the power and prestige to ensure that their views were followed - and followed to the letter.

  Peter reflected on his experience at the Major’s house as the moon began to peep out from behind the clouds and reflect off a silk-smooth sea. He remembered being surprised at how few people were there. According to the church minutes there were seventeen people on the council, but it looked like there were only nine people in the room. The Major had first introduced Peter to his wife Beatrice (‘insists on being called ‘Bessie’), who the Major painstakingly explained was not a Council member, but he could hardly keep her out could he! From then on Peter was passed around. He didn’t think that the evening had been deliberately choreographed, but nevertheless he was passed around from person to person having almost exactly eighteen minutes with each individual. It was obvious from the start that they were a tight knit bunch.

  Peter had first been introduced to Marjorie, a tall woman in her late fifties wearing a pale pink designer dress and clutching a Gucci handbag. She obviously took great care in her appearance, had one of those faces that seem to be continually looking down on you and a voice that seemed perpetually condescending. But to be fair she was tall; Peter was just over six feet and Marjorie was about the same high in her red low healed Italian shoes. She obviously had plenty of money and liked to display it as she had matching diamond jewellery: necklace, earrings, ring on second finger of right hand, and a delicate bracelet on right wrist. Peter was also pretty sure that the left wrist sported a genuine ladies Rolex. As a seasoned spinster Marjorie was absolutely convinced that children should know their place. ‘We had to be quiet in church and didn’t complain so why shouldn’t they?’ was said three times in three different ways. Peter also found out that she claimed to be an opera lover, but talked with more passion about the blues singers of 1950’s America. She also surprised him by having a seemingly encyclopædic knowledge of current affairs and quizzed Peter deeply about his general views; in particular wanting to know how he felt about the current debate over assisted euthanasia.

  Next on the agenda had been Dan, who besides being a council member was also the church organist. Peter had been expecting to meet him as the church minutes had revealed that every minister over the last five years had arguments over music with Dan and lost. Dan apparently had the absolute backing of the Church Council in his stance about traditional hymns. However, Dan was not at all what Peter had imagined. He turned out to be a small dapper man in a well-cut grey suit. He obviously took great care in his presentation, to such an extent that he looked an animated tailor’s dummy. Dan had come almost straight to the point as soon as he was introduced to Peter by handing him a list of hymns. This was the definitive list of hymns; he would play no other. Peter had been ready for this and thought that he had had a cunning plan. He had asked Dan if he would play “Will your Anchor Hold’ at his licensing service explaining the it was the adopted hymn of the Boy’s Brigade and that he had first been introduced to Christianity by that organisation. Dan’s reply had been an uncompromising no. He called the hymn a load of sentimental 19th century American twaddle enjoyed by those of low intellect and poor taste. Peter had not pressed the point, but was amazed at the man’s capacity to be both dogmatic and rude at the same time. Dan proved to be fiercely possessive of the church Organ to the point of obsession. He talked about his organ and how other people playing it could easily damage it. He seemed to have no conversation outside the organ and organ music. Peter did find out that he had been a music teacher at a local private school all his working life and had retired early a few years ago. He was now a freelance piano tutor, but it was obvious that his first love was the pipe organ.

  Sam, the church treasurer, was next in the unofficial choreography. He turned out to be an accountant by profession and looked every inch the professional man with an expensive pin-stripped suit, old college tie and gold initialled cufflinks. Looking back, Peter had trouble recalling what the man looked like beyond that he had one of those instantly forgettable faces. All Peter could remember was the man’s upper lip where he had one of those dormant hairy papulae that alter the shape of the lips and catch the eye. He had tackled Sam about the church investments, but Sam gave smooth and evasive replies. It was obvious to Peter that Sam understood quite clearly what an ethical investment was, but considered the highest rate of return the only investment feature worth considering. Sam talked mainly about his family. He had been married to Wendy for fifteen years and had three children, Little Sam (5yrs), Samantha (16yrs), and Ernest (21yrs) who was reading Fiscal Studies at the University of Michigan. Peter knew there was a story there somewhere, but Sam had that knack of saying what he wanted you to hear no matter what question you asked.

  Peter had been circulated to Bunty next; a tiny octogenarian lady in a green plaid skirt and snow white blouse. She had one of those wrinkled faces where the wrinkles seem to follow the laughter lines and Irish green eyes. She had been christened Barbara, but called Bunty for as long as she could remember. Three things stuck in Peter’s mind about Bunty. She had been the headmistress of the local primary/junior school for decades; this meant a large proportion of the church members had been at the school during her era. Then she was passionate about relieving the loneliness of the stranded housewife and the single mum. Finally it was blatantly obvious that she was not one of the inner-circle. She had found out about the meeting by a chance encounter with Bessie that afternoon and had gatecrashed the event. Peter had realised at that moment that this meeting was composed of those the Major thought ran the church, not all those on the council.

  Henry was next on the rota. Peter had already met him the night before, but that didn’t stop him from re-iterating his views about church order. He was also obviously of the opinion that as Peter was the vicar he was paid to run the Sunday services and therefore he should do everything as ‘having others involved spoils the flow of the liturgy’. Henry was married and his wife had been the Magistrate’s Court junior clerk. There was nearly thirty years between them and Henry had considered himself a crusty old bachelor when he first met Caroline. Peter
found out that they married on Caroline’s eighteenth birthday, when Henry had been approaching his forty-seventh. They had now been married for twenty years and Caroline was currently pregnant with their first child. Peter smiled; Henry’s quest for order would soon be taking a severe battering. Henry was also surprisingly knowledgeable about benefits that the unemployed, poor, single, and destitute could apply for, and – in his opinion – had a right to.

  Peter was then circulated to Lord Felburgh. He was not strictly a Church Council member, but he was the Church’s Patron and as such had the right to strongly influence the choice of vicar. If Peter’s reading of the church minutes was right, Lord Felburgh had virtually bullied the Church Council into accepting his decision to place the choice of the next minister entirely in the hands of the Bishop. He was the catalyst for Peter being sent to the Parish before being seen by the Council or having personally seen the church. Lord Felburgh was not a member of the aristocracy nor the landed gentry; in fact he was the owner of the local scrap yard who had bought the title. He looked like a rough diamond, but was wearing a decent enough suit and a tie bearing his coat of arms. He was also a huge man being almost a head taller than Peter and built like a barn door, but at least he had a gentle smile. Tom had noticed Peter’s arrival in his Land Rover and they spent a fair bit of their time together discussing the merits of lockable and split differentials.