Burley Cross Postbox Theft (24 page)

c)The Flowers:

I do think the point you made about flowers in the church had a great deal of validity to it. I’m ashamed to confess that I hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that some members of the parish might be allergic to them – the lilies especially. Gillian Reed is actually responsible for the majority of the displays. I think she has a real knack for arranging – a genius, even. She has spent a great deal of time and energy over recent months conducting a series of truly fascinating researches into the ‘language of flowers’, a medieval concept (the lily, for example, represents the Blessed Virgin!) and likes to
experiment with these wonderful ancient symbols and ideas in her arrangements.

Of course to someone like yourself, who doesn’t welcome the sight of flowers indoors and finds them, at best, frivolous (even at funerals!) and, at worst, toxic, they might indeed make the church resemble ‘the inside of some trendy, Chelsea fashion boutique and not a sober place of worship’.

I will certainly consult with Gill on the issue and see if we can integrate some more seasonal, less sumptuous flowers into the mix (more holly and ivy and dried flowers, perhaps). I’m sure she will be delighted to do this and that these restrictions will bring out a still greater creativity in her.

d) Music:

After what you said about my ‘sidelining’ Drew Cullen, I thought it best to go to him directly and have a private word with him on the matter. We spoke frankly and openly about many subjects relating to the church, the church organ, to music in general and its wider role (as I perceive it) in the liturgy.

Drew kindly confided in me that he had been finding it quite a strain to keep up with his commitments at St Peter’s over the past year or so, and that he actually welcomed Shoshana’s recent involvement, her fresh approach and her extended repertoire (not to mention her first-class fund-raising skills!).

The issue of music is probably one that you and I will never find true accord on, Reverend Horwood. While to you it is simply a bane (an awful, jarring cacophony!), to me it is an untrammelled joy (a true balm to the troubled soul!). When all is said and done, I suppose this is just something we’re going to have to continue to agree to disagree about.

As a matter of idle interest, Reverend, just before I sat down to write this letter I chanced to look at my diary and saw that it was almost exactly ten months – to the very day – since I took my first faltering steps in this glorious parish of ours.

For a second I was perfectly astonished – the time seems to have passed so quickly! There’s still so much I need to do! And then, with the benefit of some sober reflection, I realized how much had been achieved since I first arrived here.

It is also (and I hardly need tell
you
this!) almost ten months, to the day, since you formally retired. From my few snatched conversations with you (and my chats with your former parishioners – especially that redoubtable group of acolytes I like to call ‘Reverend Horwood’s Ladies’!) I knew that this was not a change in your life and circumstances that you felt entirely at ease with. I don’t doubt that this transition (or ‘evolution’ as I prefer to think of it) has been rendered somewhat less precipitous (and hopefully less traumatic) by your unexpected decision to remain living in the diocese and to continue to engage with – and preach at – St Peter’s whenever the opportunity arises.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t initially rather taken aback by this decision of yours (which, in most parishes, would be considered a serious breach of Church etiquette!), but with the benefit of time and experience I have been able to realize how wrong (worse still, how arrogant) my misgivings (and my silly prejudices) were.

I have had plenty to learn about this small but dynamic new parish over the last ten months, and what better a person to teach me than someone who knows it like the back of his own hand?

Of course we approach things very differently, Reverend. We come from very different places – emotionally, theologically, socially, culturally – so it was almost inevitable that some feathers would be ruffled (on
both
sides) along the way.

I’m sure I thought – on the odd occasion – that you were far too uncompromising, old-fashioned and stuck in your ways. I’m sure you – in your turn – thought I was way too much of an ‘eager beaver’, too gung-ho, too touchy-feely, too liberal, too ingratiating, too intent on changing things for change’s sake
(I believe ‘Princess Pushy’ was my nickname for the first six months or so!!). I don’t for a moment doubt that there was some measure of validity to these harsh assessments of ours on
either
side.

But we live and we learn, Reverend (I thank God for that fact every day!). We sin, we err, we repent, and then we do our humble best to set things right.

We practise patience, fortitude and humility. We strive to ‘enter through the narrow gate’ as our dear, Sweet Lord prescribed, ‘for wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it’ (sorry for quoting from the New International Version which I know you loathe, but I think you get my point!).

I hope it goes without saying that I have taken the time out to apologize, individually, to Mr Simms, Miss Logan, Mrs Bramwell, Ms Brooks and Mrs Hawkes for my terrible breach of last Sunday. Mrs Hawkes was exceptionally Christian about it (and this was all the more surprising since I hadn’t so much as seen BC’s charming publican anywhere near the church since I first arrived here; let’s just hope her vision of the ministry hasn’t been irreparably skewed by my appalling behaviour!).

Wincey was actually kind enough to help me to remove the bloodstains from my cassock (it was a new one! And it
had
to be the white one, didn’t it?! Perhaps there
are
some virtues to the black ones after all!) with a hefty application of Cillit Bang (she’s a dab hand in these matters, it seems, since she hand washes fourteen white tablecloths from the new dining rooms at The Old Oak each and every day of the week!).

Thankfully the nosebleeds have abated slightly as time has progressed. I went to the doctor (Dr Hardcastle, who was very good with me; I’m an awful patient – a shameful hypochondriac!) and he said he thought they were chiefly stress-related and really nothing to worry about (he gave me some tablets for my blood pressure and recommended yoga!
I should probably have a quick word with Tammy Thorndyke on the subject although… well, on second thoughts …!).

I was extremely grateful (not to say relieved) that my grovelling apologies were welcomed – and with demonstrations of great kindness, for the most part – from all those who were unwitting spectators to Sunday’s awful
fracas
. In fact I could even go so far as to say that, in some instances, my horrible childish outburst has led to a slight (and completely unexpected!) ‘thawing’ in relations with certain parties (although I still don’t have the foggiest idea why!).

One of your most loyal supporters, Rhona Brooks, has left three beautiful little packages on my doorstep this week: some wonderful leeks, some delicious duck eggs, and even an exquisitely painted milk jug (by the hand of her sister, Tilly, I presume) decorated with a perfect, tiny posy of hellebores (my favourite wild flower)!

So bolstered and enthused was I by these kind and benevolent gestures that I finally took my heart in my hands and went to see the enigmatic and taciturn ‘Edo’ at Bleachers, who (much to my great surprise) welcomed me into his home most cordially.

I explained to him that I thought his crucifix was extraordinary, but not, perhaps, entirely suitable for the front portal of the church. I then begged that I might be allowed to hang it in the vestry. He seemed touched and delighted by the idea and actually came along to the church on Thursday to take a quiet peek at it,
in situ
. We had a wonderful talk about a wide range of subjects. He’s a complex and fascinating man – a tortured soul, a true artist – and I feel like I’ve learned so much from him already in just our two short meetings.

I don’t know if he will become a regular member of the congregation (although I live in hope!), but I certainly think an important connection has been forged there, and I want you to know that none of this could possibly have happened without your involvement.

It only remains for me to thank you for your forbearance, and to wish you every blessing and happiness over the Christmas period.

Yours, united in God, and truly penitent,
Paul

PS Lily Beer approached me – out of the blue – and asked if I might baptize her grandson, Fergus, after all! Obviously I was absolutely delighted to accept her request. I’m presuming that you were forced to cancel for some reason and that you gently nudged her in my direction. If this
is
the case, then thank you, once again, Reverend. I have done so little to earn your support this week, but that you should have continued to offer it, and so graciously, honestly means the world to me.

Buckden House
Piper’s Ghyll Road
Burley Cross

21/12/2006

Dear Ms Squire,

Since I’m a chronic technophobe, I deputized my husband, Robin – who’s the complete opposite – to send you an email with a link to our website on it, but given that I haven’t heard from you since our conversation two weeks ago (and just happened across your address on a piece of paper by the phone), I thought I should send you one of our promotional leaflets in the mail, to keep in Mr Booth’s files, just in case.

As I believe I said when we last spoke, Buckden House really is widely held to be one of the premium B&Bs in the Wharfedale area. We are situated at the prestigious ‘top end’ of this ancient and picturesque moorland village, on the legendary Piper’s Ghyll, one of Burley Cross’s most leafy and magnificent roads. All our rooms (or ‘suites’ – of which there are eight, in total) are quiet and nicely proportioned, with their own bathrooms (containing either a shower, or a deep, free-standing bath with shower fitments) and boast spectacular views of the surrounding moor.

I would envisage Mr Booth taking the Dragon Tree Suite (our equivalent of a ‘penthouse’; it has a subtle, Mandarin theme, i.e. oriental silk bed wear and throws, shiny black skirting, gold fitments, Chinese wall hangings and screens) and possibly you in the Juneberry Suite (gentle lime-green walls, acres of crisp white calico, wooden floors, thick sheepskin rugs), just a short distance down the hall.

Obviously Mr Booth’s needs are
very
specific, and you will know best what will suit him…

Although I didn’t write down the date when we talked (and I’m kicking myself for it, now), I’ve had a nagging feeling that you said you were planning to come for your quick recce to Wharfedale today (the 21st). Given that I haven’t seen you, I’m presuming that either you didn’t make it to Burley Cross after all, or that you’ve happened across somewhere you think Mr Booth will prefer in Ilkley itself (although the noise will be a factor there, I can assure you, especially at the weekend. And if you’re seduced by the apparent grandeur of The Railway Hotel – and it
does
look grand on paper – be assured that the central heating groans like a wounded heifer, every night, without fail, from 3 a.m. onwards).

Did I see a small advert in the latest edition of the
Wharfedale Gazette
saying Mr Booth would be ‘appearing’ upstairs at the Middleton Theatre on the nights of the 6th and 7th of January 2007? I think I possibly did. Well, I quickly checked our diary, and both Dragon Tree (which is at the top of the house –
very
private) and Juneberry are currently free for those nights (although Juneberry is booked for the 3rd, 4th and 5th by a regular couple who come every year, Mandarin on the 2nd and 3rd for some German honeymooners, then again on the 9th for local celebrity Frank K. Nebraska’s mother-in-law – a lovely American lady,
extremely
cultured and affable, who always stays with us when she’s in the UK visiting her daughter, Kizzy).

Obviously breakfast is usually served between the hours of 7 and 9 a.m., but in the case of Mr Booth (and yourself) I would be willing to extend that time-frame until 10 (you said he would be ‘drained’ by the performance, although I remember you didn’t like to call it a ‘performance’. I can’t exactly recollect the word you preferred to use instead; it began with an e, I think. Was it ‘evocation’? No. It was something else. Something slightly more abstruse…

That’s it! I just asked Robin, who was wandering past in a terrible bate because a guest has cheekily purloined the crossword section from his
Sunday Times:
the
amanuensis!
Starts with an a! Silly me! Kind of like a secretary taking down notes from dictation, Robin said.)

After seeing the advert in the
Gazette
(will they be doing an interview with Mr Booth? Photographs? If so, I’m very happy to free up my spacious back conservatory for the press. It’s huge; Victorian; iron and glass, extremely beautiful and ornate, wonderfully ‘atmospheric’, full of fruit trees and a plethora of exotic palms) I idly mentioned my fascinating conversation with you to Wincey Hawkes at The Old Oak.

Robin and I had popped in there for a quick drink on Tuesday (bridge night, although the saloon bar where we usually prefer to sit is still presently closed after a small ‘contretemps’ with a local biker gang brought on by an abandoned darts tournament!), and she said you’d spoken to her, too (a couple of days after our conversation, I believe). Obviously we’re all rather excited about the idea of having a famous psychic staying in the village (or ‘a practitioner of the Esoteric Sciences’, as I believe Mr Booth prefers to be known!).

Wincey runs a tight ship at The Old Oak, but I think it only fair to warn you that since the death of her late husband (Marmaduke Hawkes – or ‘Duke’ as we all knew him), she’s been struggling somewhat to keep her head above water there.

Duke (I know, curious name for a Yorkshireman, but apparently it was common in these parts in the eighteenth century, and it’d been handed down through the male line of his family for years. Robin says – he’s just wandered back past again, still searching! – it comes from Maelmaedoc or ‘servant of St Maedoc’ who was a famous Irish ‘religious’ at that time) had instituted a number of improvements to the pub (extending the car park, a new kitchen, a new ‘dining room’ – which isn’t nearly so grand as it sounds!) and was then struck down by a throat cancer halfway through the process.