Incense and Insensibility ​

 

December is the worst month to move somewhere new. Especially if you’re a vicar.

 

Not that I realised it at the time, of course. Blissfully ignorant of the trials in store, I edged my old Mondeo estate through the busy little town of Hunsford and turned off the high street up Church Close. No chance of mistaking my destination, since there were only three buildings to choose from: St Bartholomew’s, aloof in its graveyard; the church-linked primary school, playground heaving with little red-and-grey bodies; and the place I would call home for the foreseeable future, Hunsford Vicarage.

 

I swung the car on to the vicarage driveway and braked sharply. Another few inches and I’d have flattened a large white cat, crouching there calm as you like. A feline squatter, which no one had seen fit to mention? I hoped not; I’d never been partial to cats.

 

The creature glared at me as if I was the intruder, and stayed defiantly where it was. With a wry smile, I left the car slewed across the drive and walked the short distance to the front door. Naturally, I’d seen the house before; but that was in late summer, when the well-tended gardens distracted the eye from its mean little windows and damp-stained render. Now, on a dull winter’s day, it looked bleak and unwelcoming, huddled as if for warmth against the honey-stone walls of the school.

 

I reached under the coir doormat for the key, as I’d been advised, and unlocked the door. My footsteps echoed across the tiled hallway, where two rooms beckoned on each side. The only one with an obvious identity was the kitchen, back left. I would have to decide which roles to give the other three, although I’d been informed that they were traditionally used as living room, dining room and study. The study was a no-brainer; every vicar had to have one – if only to store the volumes of paperwork that dogged church life, even in the computer age. But what would a single man do with a dining room? Better to have a formal space for receiving visitors and, back right, a more private living room where I could unwind. That arrangement would give my parishioners no ammunition for endless discussions on what I drank, listened to and read in my precious spare time.

 

Someone had switched on the heating, arranged bronze chrysanthemums in a brass vase – hijacked from the church, no doubt – and left fresh milk in the fridge. But the house still felt cold and cheerless, the shell of a past life. Or lives, to be precise: the previous occupants had been Reverend and Mrs Collins and their ever-increasing brood. I hadn’t even been able to produce a wife, let alone the patter of tiny feet.

 

Not that I hadn’t tried. Some months ago, as part of my application to St Bartholomew’s, I’d confidently offered a fiancée. And then …

 

With a shaky little sigh, I went out to unload the car.

 

*****

 

That evening, when the furniture van had rattled emptily away and the room I’d designated as my personal living space looked and felt a lot more cosy, I checked out the church website on my laptop. The calendar of events was impressive: my induction service, nativity and carol services galore, extra choir practices, planning meetings, meetings to plan the planning meetings – and apparently endless preparations for the Christmas Fayre, only ten days away.

 

It seemed – and this was a further disadvantage of arriving in December – as though a well-oiled machine had been set in motion, without any involvement from the person officially in charge. Me. Not that this was unusual for a new vicar during the settling-in period, but I’d been warned that some of my duties would start immediately. At a time of year when going to church appealed to a wider population, I needed to get my bearings – and fast.

 

The next morning, I met with the church wardens – John, a retired civil servant, and Peter, a semi-retired accountant – for a detailed tour of the church and halls. By the time we’d finished, the café was open in the smaller hall. Over a mug of excellent Fairtrade coffee, I broached the subject of the pre-Christmas events.

 

‘I’d like to know which ones to attend, and what’s expected of me.’ I showed them the page I’d printed from the website. ‘The Fayre, for example. Do I just turn up on the day, or should I go to the planning meeting tonight?’

 

Peter shrank visibly in his chair, while John said, after a furtive look round, ‘Best to ask Her Ladyship.’

 

‘And who might that be?’

 

‘Haven’t you read your church directory, Vicar?’ Peter made me feel as if I should have studied it from cover to cover, and learnt every name off by heart.

 

‘I haven’t needed to look anyone up in it yet,’ I said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘What’s this person actually called?’

 

John smiled grimly. ‘You’ll find all you need to know on page two.’

 

This set the pattern for everything else I mentioned, even my induction service. It seemed that St Bartholomew’s was ruled by a higher authority, and it certainly wasn’t God. Yet I couldn’t recall anyone particularly dictatorial during my selection process. When I said as much, Peter gave a hollow laugh. ‘Her Ladyship moves in mysterious ways.’

 

Afterwards, I went home and rifled in my desk for the directory I’d been sent through the post some weeks before. It was far thicker than the one at my last parish – reflecting the quality of the paper, I suspected, more than the relative size of the congregation. I turned to page two, anticipating the usual list of names, addresses, phone numbers and email details, and wondering how easily I would find Her Ladyship among them.

 

I needn’t have worried; page two was devoted entirely to her. At the top was a coat of arms, embellished with the motto Bene agendo nunquam defessus. I knew enough Latin to translate this as ‘Never weary of doing good’. A promising start for a Christian, I thought. The tone of the next section, however, was positively grovelling. ‘Our grateful thanks go to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, without whose boundless generosity and scrupulous attention to detail this directory would not have been possible.’ Her address was simply ‘Rosings’, followed by a phone number and the words ‘No hawkers or time wasters’. So much for the boundless generosity.

 

I picked up my mobile and rang the number. A woman answered, more tentative than I’d expected. ‘Yes?’

 

‘Lady Catherine?’

 

‘Who is this?’

 

‘Daniel Tilbury, the new vicar. And you are …?’

 

‘Oh dear, you’re late.’

 

‘Late? What do you mean?’

 

‘Reverend Collins came here every weekday morning at eleven, and Her Ladyship assumed you’d do the same.’

 

‘What on earth for?’

 

In the background a voice boomed, ‘Tell him I cannot stand unpunctuality, but I shall make an exception just this once.’

 

‘No need to tell me,’ I put in wryly. ‘I heard every word, loud and clear.’ I hesitated, then decided there was no time like the present to pay my most influential parishioner a visit. ‘It’s only ten past – I’ll come now, if you can give me directions?’

 

Rosings didn’t sound far; and, as the roads looked dry and the traffic heavy, I got out my mountain bike. A good move, I thought, as I sailed through the gates of Rosings at twenty past eleven. Unfortunately, the house itself turned out to be still some distance away. After several minutes of zipping along a sinuous drive overhung with gloomy rhododendron bushes, I skidded to a halt outside a vast pile that could have accommodated ten Hunsford Vicarages. I’d hardly dismounted when a small, faded woman scuttled down the front steps and gestured frantically at me.

 

‘Not here!’ she hissed. ‘I’ll show you in the back way. And we mustn’t let her see your bike.’

 

Intrigued, I followed her round the side of the house, wheeling my bike as noisily as possible on the crunchy gravel, wondering if there was a special door marked ‘Disobedient vicars’.

 

I took the opportunity for some gentle interrogation. ‘Are you the lady I spoke to on the phone?’

 

‘Yes. I’m Cora Jenkinson, Lady Catherine’s personal assistant.’

 

‘And what’s this daily meeting about?’

 

‘That’s up to Her Ladyship.’

 

I resented the implication that I’d have no choice in the matter, but said nothing; no point in shooting the messenger. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

 

We entered the house via a covered verandah, where Cora suggested I park the bike in case it rained. As we negotiated the servants’ quarters, evidently still in use, the only sound was the squeaking of our shoes on the bare floorboards. Once we progressed to the plush carpeting beyond, however, a tomb-like hush descended. At last, with a look of what I could only describe as terror mingled with pity, Cora ushered me through vast double doors into the presence of Lady Catherine de Bourgh – and hastily withdrew.

 

I wasn’t sure what image I’d formed of Lady Catherine, but the reality didn’t disappoint. Enthroned at the far end of a long gallery, she reminded me of a distant and majestic mountain: each knee and shoulder an unyielding rocky outcrop, rising to a stern craggy face that would daunt the most intrepid Sherpa. While I was no Sherpa, I enjoyed the challenge of a difficult climb.

 

‘Good morning, Lady Catherine,’ I said, advancing briskly along the gallery. ‘My name is—’

 

‘I know exactly who you are, and you have ruined any possibility of it being a good morning.’ Her eyes narrowed as I came within range. ‘You look younger than thirty-three, but I suppose that can’t be helped.’ Before I could reply, she went on, ‘You’d better sit down. I have much to say.’

 

The only chair near enough for meaningful conversation was a low footstool, designed to inflict instant humility; I took it with some reluctance.

 

‘Now,’ she said coldly, ‘while I accept that you were the best candidate on paper, there is considerable room for improvement. First, you must set an example to your parishioners and marry. What happened to that fiancée of yours?’

 

I felt myself go red. ‘That’s a very personal question, and one that I’m not prepared to answer.’

 

‘So she got cold feet about being a vicar’s wife?’ This was uncomfortably near the truth, although I refused to give Lady Catherine the satisfaction of knowing it. She must have interpreted my silence correctly, because she nodded to herself. ‘That’s the trouble with young women these days – they can’t see the value of tradition. Let me think …’ She raised her eyes heavenward.

 

‘I don’t really—’

 

She swept my words aside. ‘I’d have recommended Elinor Dashwood – Deputy Head at the primary school, about your age and full of go – except she must have a grudge against vicars. I heard she was almost engaged to one over at Norland, but he let her down very badly. Poor little Frances Price might be an option, although—’

 

‘This is unacceptable,’ I put in curtly. ‘In fact, according to the Church of England’s Dignity at Work policy, I could charge you with harassment.’

 

‘Nonsense, I’m only stating what they should have put in the job description. And Reverend Collins didn’t object when I said exactly the same to him.’ Her face contorted in a complacent smile. ‘He told me it was very gracious of me to take such a discerning and benevolent interest in his affairs. Within months he’d found himself an active, useful sort of wife who knew her place – stood in for the organist, taught in the Sunday School, helped out in the church office—’

 

‘You mean unofficially employed, and totally unpaid. You’re right – young women today can’t see the value in that sort of tradition.’

 

She favoured me with a withering stare. ‘It is fortunate, then, that some of us are still disposed to serve our community in whichever way we can. I flatter myself that nothing is beneath my notice. The cupboard in your vestry owes the arrangement of its shelves to me. The charities receiving church donations are those that I consider the most deserving. Even the refreshments at the Christmas Fayre are provided by me – I remember Reverend Collins describing my Heritage Tiffin as the most elegant complement to a humble beverage that it had ever been his privilege to encounter.’

 

‘I can well imagine’, I said, grimacing; Reverend Collins sounded the sort of man who would call a spade ‘an exquisite implement of excavation’.

 

She retaliated by changing the subject. ‘Second, you must uphold certain customs, such as this daily meeting – you have brought your car, haven’t you? I need to go and tell that stupid bank manager—’

 

I interrupted her with an incredulous laugh. ‘Lady Catherine, are you telling me that Reverend Collins came here every day to drive you in to town?’

 

‘Certainly not. Sometimes I instructed him to take me further afield, on more social calls.’

 

I was speechless – but only for a moment. ‘Haven’t you got a car of your own?’

 

‘Not any more. Why would I need one?’

 

Why indeed, I thought, when Reverend Collins was so obliging. Aloud I said, ‘Well, my bike’s round the back if you want to borrow it.’

 

‘Your bike?’ She loomed forward. ‘And you have the impudence to chastise me about Dignity at Work?’ Her mouth pursed. ‘Reverend Tilbury, this meeting is now closed and I should warn you that I am not inclined to attend your induction service.’

 

I jumped to my feet. ‘That’s probably just as well, given that my sermon is entitled “Incense and Insensibility” – about how, in the vexations of church life, we often forget to apply our Christian principles.’ Aware of my own shortcomings in this department, I forced a smile. ‘With that in mind, Lady Catherine, I’d like to return your hospitality and invite you to tea. Perhaps when we get to know each other, we’ll find we have more in common than we think.’

 

By now her face was like a swollen red balloon, ready to burst. ‘On the contrary, it will merely confirm my opinion that you are a sorry replacement for Collins. I am most seriously displeased!’

 

‘Goodbye then,’ I said evenly, and turned to go; but I couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘If you’re still planning to go out, shall I ask your assistant to order a taxi?’

 

As my predecessor might have put it, I was not privileged to discern every particular of Her Ladyship’s response. The general substance, however, was unmistakable, and I left Rosings safe in the knowledge that my daily visits were no longer required.

 

*****

 

I spent the rest of the day unpacking my boxes, relishing such a mundane task and the sense of achievement on completing it by six o’clock. To celebrate, I opened a bottle of Shiraz and was contemplating the local Chinese takeaway menu when the doorbell rang. Instinctively, I prepared myself for a parish emergency: anything from a sudden death to a dispute over the flower arranging rota.

 

But the woman on my doorstep didn’t show any signs of panic. The garish outside light revealed glossy brown hair tied back from a tired but attractive face, a dimple either side of a polite smile.

 

‘I’m Ellie Dashwood, from next door.’ She indicated the school with a turn of her well-groomed head. ‘I’ve brought you something from the children.’

 

Great, this was the woman who bore a grudge against anyone in a dog collar. Still, forewarned was forearmed; Lady Catherine would have loved to know she’d been of use.

 

‘Come in out of the cold,’ I said awkwardly, stepping back in to the hall.

 

‘Thank you, it’ll only take a minute.’

 

As she came in, something white streaked past her and shot up the stairs. ‘What the—?’ I began.

 

‘I hope you like cats, looks as though Buster’s taken a shine to you.’ The dimples deepened. ‘He hated Reverend Collins – used to follow him round the garden and dig up whatever he’d planted.’

 

Well, at least someone in the parish preferred me to my predecessor. ‘Is he yours?’

 

‘He lives at the school, actually, although I tend to have him in the holidays. I may not need to, of course, if he settles here. Now there’s a happy thought.’

 

A happy thought indeed. I realised that Ellie Dashwood was not to be underestimated; she’d found my Achilles heel instantly, and taken full advantage. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, fishing something out of her briefcase, ‘here you are. The children are so excited at this time of year, they’d made your invitation before I could check the spelling. And I’m afraid I didn’t have the heart – or the energy – to correct it.’ With a rueful laugh, she thrust a large blue card at me.

 

Her enthusiasm was infectious. I took the card and made appreciative noises about its excellent craftsmanship, reserving particular praise for the largest and stickiest blob of cotton wool labelled ‘Buster’.

 

I read: Dear Vicker, you are invited to our natvity play on 19th Decmember at 2.00. This year we writed our own natvity play with Buster as King of the Sheeps coming to wurship Baby Jesus. Please come. Santa will be there.

 

‘A new nativity play, with Buster in a leading role – sounds delightful.’ I gave what I hoped was a convincing grin; then, struck by a wicked thought, I added, ‘But would Lady Catherine approve?’

 

Ellie’s eyes danced. ‘Definitely not.’

 

‘Then I’d like to know more. A lot more.’ I was about to show her into the front room, when I stopped. ‘Actually, would you care to join me in a glass of wine?’

 

The slightest of pauses, then, ‘I’d love to.’

 

As I led her into the back room, I had a strange premonition that this would be the first of many evenings with Ellie Dashwood. And Buster, of course.

​

Maybe Lady Catherine did move in mysterious ways, after all.

​

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The End