Bones in the Belfry (3 page)

The next day I was sufficiently distracted by my parish duties to forget, or at least ignore, Mrs Tubbly Pole’s bizarre proposal. I had a wedding on my hands in the afternoon and it turned out to be an occasion of such excruciating embarrassment that Mrs T.P., Nicholas and his tiresome pictures all paled into temporary oblivion. The bride, a seemingly earnest but bovine local girl, had started to come to me some weeks earlier seeking pre-nuptial counsel and preparation. Never having been married myself I take rather a pride in my calm objectivity in such matters, and like to think that I gave her sound spiritual advice regarding her new status. At any rate she seemed quite impressed with my discourse and showed a proper appreciation of the occasion’s solemnity. However, she confessed that there was one thing that was bothering her acutely – her virginal, or rather non-virginal state. I assured her that a proper contrition would of course speedily resolve the matter and that she could approach the altar with a clear conscience. To this she replied that it wasn’t her conscience that was the problem but her dress.

She must have seen my perplexity for she explained, ‘You see, my gran always says that if you’ve been a bad girl you can’t wear white and that if you do you’ll be smitten and have bad luck for ever after. But if I don’t wear white my mum will have a fit and call me every name under the sun – she’s very particular like that.’ I asked her what her young man thought. There was an embarrassed giggle, and then she said, ‘Oh, Trev,
he
said he’d like me in my birthday suit!’

Inwardly I cursed her gran and mum, not to mention the lewd Trev, but said lightly that perhaps a delicate shade of ivory might suit all interests and always looked nice, adding jovially that if I were in her position I would sport scarlet!

‘Would you, Vicar?’ she asked gravely.

‘Oh yes,’ I laughed, enjoying the joke, ‘Give it to ’em good and proper!’

The day came – and the bride wore scarlet. The bridesmaids were in gold lurex, sequinned mascara, and black mock-ostrich feathers. The groom, his hair combed into the slickest D.A. you have ever seen, was attired in a teddy-boy suit of impeccable cut, and with drainpipes so tight as to make me wince in vicarious agony. Resplendent in puce and pink, Mum and Gran sat stiffly in the front row, the one glowering, the other bun-faced. Across the aisle, festooned with Kodaks and mammoth silver-foiled carnations, Trev’s parents lolled bibulously. I recall that one of them – I think it was the husband – had a cigar thrust behind the ear, and I spent the first ten minutes nervously awaiting it to be lit up in the middle of my address. As things turned out such an eventuality would have mattered not one jot …

Despite her visibly pregnant paunch (starkly outlined in the vibrant satin), the bride Madeline had chosen to wear stilettos of such spectacular elevation that she not so much teetered as staggered up the aisle, gamely supported on the arm of some diminutive kinsman. He seemed bowed down by his burden and looked distinctly the worse for wear, and I thought it unlikely he would last out the ceremony.

Indeed, dazzled by so rich an array of lurex and scarlet I rather wondered about my own chances – but, beaming encouragement, waited for the procession to complete its faltering course to the chancel steps. Bride and escort finally made it, and she was delivered into Trev’s smirking care. Taking a deep breath I commenced the service, and slipping into the familiar rubric began to feel that despite the threat of the cigar all might possibly be well … It wasn’t of course.

As we neared the apex of the ceremony my attention was caught by the white face of Mavis Briggs at the back of the church. As far as I knew, Mavis had no connection with either the bride or the groom, but she is one of those parishioners who contrive to be everywhere and always. From bible classes to bazaars, wakes to enthronements, Mavis is invariably there; and should I ever be required to conduct an exorcism I am convinced she would somehow get in on the act. It would have been less bad were she not given to reciting execrable poetry at the drop of a hat. Much of this is of her own penning which makes it all the worse. Funerals are her speciality, and at such times it takes enormous skill to pre-empt some maundering and pious recitation. Seeing her now increased my gloom as I wondered vaguely what bits of doggerel lay in store for us at the reception. But it soon became clear that it was not doggerel that she had on her mind.

She stared at me fixedly and then started to make the most peculiar movements – contorting her features, opening and shutting her mouth, and gesturing with upturned thumb towards the door behind her. Naturally I took no notice and tried to concentrate on what I was saying. However, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the gestures were getting increasingly frenzied, and fearing that she might be drunk or worse, I speeded as fast as decorum permitted to the crucial exchange of vows. I never got there.

Suddenly, pandemonium was loosed. The door Mavis was standing in front of burst open, and the sidesman Davies and the churchwarden Colonel Dawlish came crashing in grappling with two young men. ‘Young men’ is perhaps a rather charitable term, for they looked distinctly ruffianly and were emitting shouts and words not usual to wedding guests. Felling Davies and thrusting the Colonel to one side, the larger one began to advance grimly down the aisle. For one dreadful moment I thought he was making a beeline for me (Elizabeth Fotherington’s avenging angel?) but his eyes were on one quite other: the girl in red satin. The startling nature of the intrusion had brought cries of alarm, but as the youth got nearer to the bride the noise was replaced by a stunned silence. Madeline, though still patently unsure on her pins, regarded him with calm and indulgent eye.

‘So you’ve come then, Fred, have you? Not before time neither.’

He muttered something incomprehensible, and grabbing her by the wrist proceeded to drag her away from the chancel steps and back up the aisle. In fact the only reason she needed dragging seemed less to do with reluctance than with her footwear. Hitching up her voluminous frock, and with much stumbling and giggling, she followed him past the gawping pews.

And then the air was rent with banshee shrieks as Mum and Gran, furiously puce and pink, started to make their position clear. Clutching the hapless Trev they thrust him after the departing couple, exhorting him to honourable retrieval. He seemed disinclined and hung back twitching. Not so his father, who with a bellow of rage lunged forward in pursuit, tripped, and was then promptly given a black eye by the kidnapper’s henchman. From that moment chaos reigned.

Among the congregation were the boyfriends of the bridesmaids (presumably dragged along to admire their girls’ finery). These seemed divided re the merits of Trev and Fred, and their lack of consensus led to a mêlée of unfortunate size and intensity. I looked on in horror as fists flailed and hassocks hurtled. Collars were discarded, hats cast aside, hymn books lobbed, and handbags wielded with practised ease. The wedding party was in its element.

The chief protagonists appeared to be Mum and Gran who were fighting with a zest I had never previously witnessed in anyone, but it was difficult to discern their particular affiliation as each seemed ready to take on whoever happened to cross their paths. I kept well out of range, and glancing up saw Tapsell peering down from his organ loft, waving his arms and shouting the odds in a state of rampant ecstasy. Wretched fellow, I thought, could he never conduct himself with dignity? His job was to play the organ, not be a tick-tack man! He must have seen me scowling for at that moment he sat down and launched into a violent rendering of the march from
Tannhäuser
. The noise was deafening – yet only marginally more so than the row raging from beneath.

Amidst all the mayhem I glimpsed one still and solitary figure: Trev, sitting on the pulpit steps smoking a cigarette. I felt a momentary pang of envy as I could have done with one myself. However, I went over to him and said gently that smoking was not really allowed in the church and could he possibly wait until later. He nodded obligingly and stubbed it out in Mavis Briggs’s tastefully placed pot of trailing ivy. Feeling sorry for him I started to marshal words of sympathy.

He cut me short and with a slow smile said, ‘That’s all right, mate. I never really liked her and it weren’t mine anyway.’ It was difficult to know what to say to that, and while I was racking my brain, he added ruminatively, ‘Just goes to show, don’t it: if yer keeps yer fingers crossed long enough somethin’s bound to turn up in the end.’ I was impressed by the tenacity of his faith. And thus fortified, I left him to his peaceful contemplation and set off to quell the revellers.

Eventually of course, things died down, though I think that was less to do with my efforts than with the combatants’ desire for beer and buns. Thus, averting my eyes to avoid confronting the state of the church and firmly locking its door, I herded them into the parish hall where they set about the wedding tea with the same relish as they had shown in beating one another up. Of the runaway couple there was no sign, and the last I saw of Trev was a spindly-legged figure sauntering nonchalantly across the canal bridge in the direction of the Swan and Goose. He looked enviably free.

The next morning there was a complaint from the cleaners and a request that I go and view the fallout from the festivities. Obediently I walked over to the church and surveyed the damage. It was a daunting sight. The grey flagstones had become a kaleidoscope of spilt confetti and shredded flowers. Hymn books, service sheets, broken vases, articles of apparel – gloves, scarves, collars, the bride’s veil – all lay strewn in loose abandon. Unaccountably the Mothers’ Union banner had been ripped from its socket and was slumped limply over the back pew, its blue and gold embroidery looking raddled in the morning light. It may have been my imagination but there even seemed the faintest whiff of stale ale, and I cast a wary eye around for signs of a broken bottle.

My gaze was intercepted by the baleful face of Edith Hopgarden as she and her fellow polishers stood relishing my dismay. Clearing my throat and tut-tutting loudly, I grabbed the nearest broom, rolled up my sleeves and started to sweep vigorously. One by one, and with grudging grace, the ladies joined in and were soon hard at work complaining primly and swapping anecdotes about Madeline and her questionable companions.

After a while I thought I might safely slip away but was waylaid by Edith who, taking me to one side, said that she hoped the previous day’s events were not going to set a precedent for future weddings at St Botolph’s. I assured her this would not be the case, and then asked solicitously after the health of Mr Hopgarden. This generally does the trick in forestalling further offence. Ever since I had once stumbled across Edith in flagrante delicto with Tapsell in Foxford Wood her attitude to me has been one of reproachful petulance. However, the one thing that gives ballast to our relationship is a shared allergy to Mavis Briggs. Thus in addition to Mr Hopgarden, reference to the former is invariably useful in defusing bouts of Edith’s simmering hostility. So I asked her if Mavis was all right after being so nearly trampled in the skirmish at the church door.

She sniffed and said tartly, ‘Well, she’s making a great
fuss
. Thinks her arm’s broken but it’s pure imagination of course. I don’t know what she was doing by the door in the first place.’ I was inclined to agree but said nothing and, leaving her brooding on the ninnyish Mavis, made my escape.

On the way back to the vicarage I saw Mrs Tubbly Pole and Gunga Din in the distance but they didn’t see me and I slipped into the house unmolested.

Rather unexpectedly a card from Nicholas bearing a French postmark had arrived by the early post; but having more important things to do than decipher his obsessively tiny script I had delayed giving it my attention. Now, with a few spare moments, I was able to do so.

It began by sending me fulsome ‘Greetings from Le Touquet’ and went on to describe the delights of its municipal gardens and the casino. Why he thought I should have been interested in either I could not imagine. However, what did interest me – or rather irritate – was the postscript to the effect that he hoped the pictures were ‘behaving themselves’ and that he might be over soon to remove one and replace it with another. That Nicholas might simply take the two of them away altogether and leave me in peace was clearly a fantasy of absurd devising! I sighed wearily, and seeing Maurice glide past was tempted to tweak his tail, but fortunately prudence prevailed.

The morning had not been helped by bumping into Mavis Briggs – last seen at the wedding going gently berserk in front of the church door. Recalling Edith Hopgarden’s scornful reference to the allegedly injured arm, I was not surprised to see her sporting a large sling and a martyred expression. I tried to look sympathetic, and together we tut-tutted about the mores and alarming peculiarity of modern youth.

Eventually I was able to disentangle myself, but not before she had warned me about the state of the floorboards in the lower loft of the belfry, observing in pained tones that it would only take the merest stumble for a bell-ringer to be laid flat out, or worse still, losing control of the rope, be hoisted to the rafters! Accidents were so common, she observed, glancing pitifully at her bandaged arm.

I assured her I would go and investigate immediately; and assuming an air of worried concern set off briskly for the bell tower. However, since it was nearly lunchtime and I was feeling rather tired, I decided to postpone the matter till the afternoon. Doubling back on my tracks and keeping the dwindling figure of Mavis in sight, I got home unobserved in time for the one o’clock news, a cigarette and a bit of shut-eye.

Later that afternoon and moderately refreshed, I set off once more to inspect the floorboards. Despite the irritation of the Le Touquet postcard, I must have been feeling in lighter mood, for as I started to mount the first flight of stairs my mind was beset with images of Mavis Briggs swinging spectacularly on the end of her bell rope, watched by a ring of gaping colleagues as she spiralled slowly and remorselessly skyward …

Savouring these scenes, I emerged into the lower chamber. The mirth stopped: across the bottom rungs of the belfry staircase, its coverings split and loosely trailing, sprawled the larger of Nicholas’s pictures.

I gazed dumfounded. I could have sworn blind they had been stacked safely against one of the rafter posts. How on earth could this one have found its way to the bottom of the steps? Surely on top of everything else I was not now to be plagued by some deranged poltergeist. It was too bad! I stared at it bitterly, cursing Nicholas and wondering how I was going to summon the energy to heave the wretched thing all the way up again. However, it certainly couldn’t be left lying there – so up it must go. Taking off my jacket and crunching a peppermint humbug for strength, I commenced my labours.

It was only when the picture was once more resting against its post that I started to take a proper look at it. I wasn’t exactly impressed. The principal colour was a sort of dingy bluey-black intermittently slashed with streaks of ochre with here and there splodges of grey – rather like ragged balls of sock knitting-wool. It was difficult to make out whether they were meant to be clouds or just random bits of decoration. In the foreground, and rather unpleasantly, I thought, were large heaps of white bones and skulls. Could it perhaps be intended as a protest against the current spate of cemetery vandalism? Nothing so simple, I suspected. Doubtless it held some dark preternatural significance which for the moment entirely escaped me. It all seemed decidedly gothic and morbid and I couldn’t imagine why anyone should want to hang it on their wall.

I wondered about the smaller one, now also dislodged and lying on the floor though still in its wrappings, and was tempted to undo the string and take a look; but I was pressed for time and thought that if it looked anything like its companion such fumblings were hardly worth the effort. Nicholas had implied they were valuable, but judging from the first specimen I rather doubted this. He had always dramatized. If this other one was of the same style – dismal and pretentious – it seemed unlikely that anyone would really go to the trouble of stealing them. So perhaps after all, my nagging suspicions were groundless and the tale of simply needing extra storage space was entirely genuine. There was, I supposed, just a remote chance that he had been telling the truth. And clinging to that thought I began to feel better.

But there was still the curious matter of their displacement. Could it have been rats, cavorting squirrels, a sudden gust of wind blowing in from the roof vents …? Or perhaps it was just one of those times when inanimate objects, poised more precariously than realized, do fall down on their own. I remembered an incident from childhood, when right in the middle of the night my cricket bat, propped against the nursery wall, had suddenly slipped to the floor with the most dreadful clatter. It had given me a terrible fright and I had woken the whole house with my wails.

Yes, there was obviously a perfectly simple explanation – but I really hadn’t the time to pursue it further. The Vestry Circle was meeting later that afternoon and had asked me for suggestions about their next month’s agenda. As I hadn’t a single notion it was time I thought of something to say. And with that wearisome challenge in mind I clambered down the stairway and hurried back to the vicarage.