Open Writing

Sunday morning

The bells of the Cathedral rang out joyfully across the vale of Letchfield. The triple towers were calling the faithful, not to mention the openly ambitious in society circles, to prayer and social interaction on a civic and community platform.

Religion and the acceptable public front of capitalism were going happily hand-in-hand together into another respectable Sunday. The morning service, where the comfortably off could sit in the rows at the front and ignore genteel pensioner related poverty being openly displayed behind them, by old and shabby parishioners wearing their Sunday hats, careful gloves, threadbare coats and down at heel shoes.

Elderly Dean Pemberton, be-gowned in the usual black, nodded kindly to those he recognised in the congregation stooping forwards to have a brief word here, and a thin smile there, as crow-like he pecked stoop backed down the aisle following his beak like nasal protuberance.

The 11 am service was always popular. Late morning being a good time to catch tourists who’ve been kicked out by cheap hotels, and finding no place else open to take their cash dollars on a Sunday. It was being thus comforted by jovial thoughts of loose change as the willow thin cleric meandered benevolently towards the arched doorway nearest to the high alter which led to the Bishop’s dressing chamber, when Pemberton first spotted him.

There was no mistake.

There he sat large as life between the Mayor and that vile Councillor, with the big hair, who wore such ridiculously short skirts for a woman of her age. Arms folded about his chest as a protective measure against such secular evil, the Dean averted his gaze and scurried forward as fast as his skirts would permit to avoid contact with the city council’s contingency.

As luck would have it, holding open the door for the Dean was Desmond Mountebanks, the Verger.

‘There he is look. Did y’ see him, Dean? Larger than life, and as full of,’ he was going to say crap but in view of the day thought better of it. ‘Full of it he is, full of it. How he dares show his face in here, I just don’t know,’ the old man wheezed. The conspiratorial manner of address, the Dean found as profoundly offensive as was the after odour of stale alcoholic beverage, which of late accompanied the Verger’s every word in a miasmic cloud.

Keeping his own counsel the Dean eased uncomfortably passed the Verger. He took a moment to mentally adjust his composure before proceeding towards the Bishop’s chamber.

Weren’t things hard enough?

The Bishop was out of sorts as it was. It would be an absolute catastrophe if his lordship found out about Councillor Brownlow’s indiscretion. The Councillor being on the management committee of the Cathedral, even in a liaison, non-executive, manner. There is such as thing as ‘by our associations shall we be known’. That the Verger knew about the situation was also a real problem. When that disreputable old fool, Mountebanks, was in his cups it was likely the whole diocese would soon know about the Councillor’s unfortunate preferences. The graphic image of that rounded pink bottom haunted him – how he wished he’d never had the misfortune to clap eyes on it. A shudder passed across those stooped shoulders.

A few moments later the bass tones of the organ pipes began ringing out, as the organist banged pedal to the metal to belch out full rounded notes shooting upwards in praise towards the vaulted roof. The elderly Dean silently took his place behind the claret purple of the See’s octogenarian Bishop. The small procession tottered towards the high altar. Once again the Dean thanked his stars he’d had the presence of mind to rid himself of the incriminating evidence.

Pity he couldn’t have the comfort of confession. If it had indeed been a trial of his morality, or test of his metal to do the Lord’s work, had he passed the test or not? How much penance is required for the disposal of one pornographic picture, never mind a whole folder full? Catholics had it so much easier. Five bob for a mass, six Hail Mary’s and they could get on with their lives with a clear conscience.

With his luck he’d be on his knees for years trying to expunge the stain on his soul for what he’d just done. Perhaps he could beg a few favours at the same time and pray Cllr. Benjamin Brownlow could rot in hell for his multi-various sins, or even better disappear off the face of the earth.

No, no, that was an uncharitable wish; he’d have to pray to be forgiven for that thought as well now. As the organ proclaimed its presence and the service started, Dean Pemberton cast up his eyes to the magnificent stained glass window behind the high altar and prayed for divine intervention to tell him what to do, for even if he, personally, could find it in his heart to ask for forgiveness for the old fool.

Even then, there was still The Verger. . .