Authors: Jack Sheffield
‘And what exactly will we be doing on Sunday morning? And does Colin need his walking boots?’ asked Sally.
‘Just comfortable footwear,’ said Vera. ‘We’re only walking on local footpaths, so it should be straightforward. Joseph has checked the route. We simply stop at places of importance, sing the occasional hymn and say a brief prayer of thanks. It’s a way of showing our Christian gratitude for the village that sustains us in all its bounty. At least that’s what Joseph told me this morning.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I muttered, returning to the Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue and an order for a blackboard ruler and a trundle wheel.
I got away from school much earlier than usual, at 5.30 p.m., and when I walked into Bilbo Cottage Beth was in the kitchen preparing a shepherd’s pie and watching the portable television. She had adjusted the little wire aerial on the top sufficiently to receive a grainy picture of Richard Whiteley presenting Channel 4’s
Countdown
.
‘How are you?’ I said and kissed her neck softly.
‘A little tired,’ she said. Then she touched her tummy and smiled. ‘But happy.’ Beth was now over six and a half months pregnant and household tasks were beginning to be wearing. One of her books for her coursework at Leeds University was propped against the bread bin and I marvelled at her ability to multitask.
It was a quiet evening and after a hot meal we settled down with a pot of tea in our tiny lounge to watch television. The choices included
Are You Being Served?
with Mollie Sugden. Apparently, this week, a golf professional from the sports section of the department store was causing a flutter among the ladies. However, while I watched the opening credits to
Hawaii Five-O
and Beth bore with stoicism my impression of canoeing across the hearthrug, we then settled for
Gardeners’ World
featuring Jack ‘The Carrot’ Simpkins with his bumper crop of vegetables. This was followed by
Cagney & Lacey
and a strange plot where the dynamic duo tried to discover the identity of a murdered down-and-out. For my part, I merely looked at Cagney and thought how similar she was to Beth … without the bump of course. We were too tired to watch
Cheers
on Channel 4, which Beth explained was a new popular American comedy set in a saloon bar. I couldn’t see it catching on and we settled for an early night.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. On the Crescent, Anne was in her kitchen trying to unblock the sink while listening to Radio 2. She was pleased that Cliff Richard was in the charts again with his new record ‘True Love Ways’ and she swayed along to the music while secretly cursing John for using her kitchen sink to dispose of his unused tile cement.
Meanwhile, in the High Street, Saturday shopping was in full swing. The might of the new supermarkets appearing in York had so far not diminished the activity in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores. For Margery Ackroyd, saving a penny on a loaf of white bread did not compensate for the familiarity and convenience of the local shop, or the excellence of the personal service. It was also the hub of local gossip and for Margery this made it worth paying 29½ pence for a jar of Robertson’s strawberry jam.
That evening Beth and I were picked up by Dan and Jo Hunter in their two-tone-green F-registered Wolseley Hornet and we drove into York. There was a long queue outside the Odeon but, as Jo had made a block booking, we went straight in and found our seats. It was good to relax, and Beth and I sat transfixed as the story unfolded against spectacular scenes of the Indian countryside. The acting was superb, with Ben Kingsley perfect in the part of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, ably supported by such luminaries as John Mills as Lord Chelmsford, John Gielgud as Baron Irwin and Trevor Howard as the presiding judge at Gandhi’s sedition trial. Along with the three hundred thousand locals who acted as extras, it really was a film of epic proportions.
When we walked out I asked, ‘So, what did you all think?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Beth.
‘Brilliant,’ said Jo.
‘Crowd control was interesting,’ said Acting Sergeant Dan Hunter with a grin.
‘Spectacular scenery,’ said Sally.
‘Boring,’ said reformed-smoker Colin Pringle, searching in his pocket for his last sherbet lemon.
‘The construction of John Gielgud’s desk was a real craftsman’s job … all dovetailed joints,’ said John Grainger enthusiastically.
‘Well, Ben Kingsley was absolutely
perfect
,’ added Anne hurriedly.
‘And Trevor Howard, of course, is such a wonderful actor,’ swooned Vera.
‘Not keen to see the demise of the British Empire, what?’ grumbled Rupert with a furrowed brow.
‘And what did you think, Joseph?’ asked Jo.
Joseph had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Well actually, I was just thinking of tomorrow’s Rogation Walk with me leading the flock … a bit like Gandhi really … almost prophetic in a way.’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Vera as we meandered towards High Petergate and a fish supper.
On Sunday Joseph was up early and Henry Fodder had arrived for the 8 a.m. service. All seemed well on this perfect morning, with the purple wisteria clambering up the rectory walls, the branches of cherry blossom pink and fragrant and a warm sun lapping the ancient stones of St Mary’s. Only the harsh cawing of rooks in the high elms disturbed the calm of the two clerics as they walked side by side into church.
‘A splendid day, Joseph,’ said Henry.
‘A day to be at one with Mother Nature,’ replied Joseph benignly.
Inside the church there was only the peaceful ticking of the clock, installed in 1912 to commemorate the coronation of George V the year before. The time for the Rogation Walk was approaching and Joseph was content in his world.
Beth had decided to potter in the garden rather than join the ‘route march’, as she called it, so I left her tying up the new growth of clematis against the fence. I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton, wound down my window and breathed in the clean Yorkshire air. It was the time of the bleating of the lambs and new life was all around me. In the woods a carpet of bluebells swayed in the dappled shade and above my head a flock of black-headed gulls speared the clear sky in sharp formation. I followed their path towards Ragley-on-the-Forest, where around forty adults, children and assorted pets had gathered in the May sunshine on the village green.
Vera and Sue Phillips were handing out the service booklets,
A Service for Rogationtide
, and soon we were ready.
‘We shall begin by singing the hymn on page one,’ said Joseph, ‘All people that on earth do dwell, sing to the Lord with cheerful voice’.
Without music it was a disjointed rendition; even so, we all finished within a line of each other. Then Rupert, in a loud, sonorous voice reminiscent of military commands on a parade ground, began the first reading. ‘Psalm one hundred and thirty-three, verses one to three,’ he announced. ‘Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.’ It was at that moment that two angry faces appeared at the upstairs window of The Royal Oak. Don and Sheila Bradshaw had been enjoying their weekly morning of passion only to be interrupted by a commotion outside their bedroom window.
Meanwhile Joseph led us in our first prayer. ‘From petty feuds and jealousies,’ he said in a resonating voice, ‘from grumbling and bad temper,’ he continued, ‘and from talking too much about our neighbours, good Lord deliver us.’
As we set off down the High Street, Joseph turned to Vera and Henry. ‘Do you know, Henry,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘I really do feel rather like Gandhi.’
Henry nodded benignly. ‘And so you should, Joseph, leading our people to live in harmony.’ Then he turned round and was surprised to see Sheila Bradshaw leaning out of her bedroom window in a see-through negligée, shouting at the departing throng. He wondered fleetingly why she was so upset on this perfect day, particularly a lady who had been blessed with such a prodigious bosom.
‘Look at t’mess on t’village green,’ yelled Sheila. ‘Litter an’ dog muck. It’s a bloody disgrace, that’s what it is.’
Don shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nobody told us abart a bloody protest meetin’,’ he said, putting his arm round Sheila’s shoulders.
‘Sitting on our benches as large as life,’ complained Sheila bitterly.
‘It’s a bloomin’ liberty,’ said Don.
They caught sight of Joseph in the distance, leading his tribe like a modern-day Moses.
‘’E wants shootin’, does that vicar,’ shouted Sheila, her words echoing down the High Street, and, for the first time that day, a grain of doubt entered the uncluttered mind of Henry Fodder.
Our first stop was the pretty meadow next to the cricket field. It was a picturesque scene, with Stan Coe’s herd of Friesian cattle contentedly chewing grass to their hearts’ content, and we gathered under the welcome shade of sycamore and beech, oak and elm.
It was at this moment, unknown to Joseph, that Tony Ackroyd, Margery’s teenage son, let go of the lead attached to Carter, their Jack Russell, who immediately scampered off to introduce himself to the cattle. Meanwhile, Joseph led his slightly distracted multitude in prayer once again. ‘Blessed shall you be in the field … the increase of your cattle, pigs and horses and the flocks of your sheep … let us treat with gentleness all living creatures entrusted to our care, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’ Then he led us in the hymn
‘
All creatures of our God and King
,
Lift up your voice and with us sing
,
Alleluia, alleluia!
’
On the final ‘alleluia’ the cattle hurtled across the hallowed cricket square and into the nearby woods, closely followed by the frantic Carter. However, Joseph, with his back to the stampede, was blissfully unaware of a scene that resembled an episode of
Rawhide
.
With a few murmurings in the ranks, we walked to the hedge that bordered Farmer Tubbs’ orchard and Joseph looked around him at the fruit trees rich in colourful blossom. Once again he raised his voice to the heavens. ‘Praise be to you my Lord, for our sister Mother Earth, who gives us her fruits in due season.’
Heathcliffe and Terry Earnshaw, standing at the back of the crowd, had managed to drift away from their mother and Dallas Sue-Ellen. Heathcliffe knew the value of forward planning and an idea formed in his mind. Whenever they had visited Farmer Tubbs’ orchard on autumn days, when the bounty of rich ripe fruit knew no bounds, they had usually been caught because there was no means of escape apart from through the gate by which they had entered. While they had listened to the story of Beatrix Potter’s
Peter Rabbit
years ago in Anne’s class, they had not heeded the implicit warning. However, here was an opportunity beyond their wildest dreams.
So, while the congregation sang ‘For the fruits of his creation, thanks be to God’, the two brothers created a hidden escape route through the base of the thick hawthorn hedge.
The unwitting Joseph pressed on: ‘For the stirring of all young life throughout the countryside; for hard work in the open that wearies and satisfies; may God preserve your going out and your coming in, now and always. Amen.’
Meanwhile, Heathcliffe and Terry carefully hid their going out and coming in escape route using twigs and broken branches and stood back to admire their handiwork. ‘Perfect,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘Jus’ think of all them apples, Terry.’
* * *
A little further on we stopped again, this time by a farm gate, and Jimmy Poole’s terrier decided it was time to do something that came naturally. Scargill slipped his lead, ran into the farmyard and disappeared into one of the barns.
‘Health and a good constitution are better than all gold,’ said Joseph, raising his arms to the heavens.
Sadly, just behind Joseph and in full view of Henry, Vera, the rest of the congregation and half the residents of the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk, who had come out to see what all the noise was about, the manic Yorkshire terrier burst back on to the scene.
‘Bless the hands that work here,’ said Joseph, ‘that they may create useful and beautiful things.’
Behind him, Scargill had a dead rat in his jaws and a bloodthirsty look in his eyes. He then proceeded to rip the unfortunate rodent to shreds.
‘Thcargill!’ shouted Jimmy. ‘Thcargill, thtop it.’
Undeterred, Joseph walked on to the Ragley allotments and stopped next to Maurice Tupham’s vegetable patch. Maurice was dozing in his shed in a deckchair on this peaceful morning. We lined up on the bank of the small stream that bordered the allotments and kept them fertile. As we bowed our heads we enjoyed the gentle tinkling of the crystal-clear water as it babbled over the stony bed.
‘Your gift of water brings life and freshness to the earth; it washes away our sins and brings eternal life,’ said Joseph in a humble voice. Unfortunately, he was unaware of Engelbert, who had snuggled up beside Henry. To Henry’s alarm and Vera’s abject horror, the hound calmly cocked his leg and urinated in the stream. In sounded like Niagara Falls. As we moved on, Maurice Tupham awoke from his reverie to see the offending dog and his shouts could be heard as we tramped on to our penultimate destination: the cornfield.
It was a scene to raise the spirits. The pussy willows hung heavy above our heads as we stared out at the green swaying carpet of new-grown wheat that had brought the brown earth to life and rippled in the watery sunlight. The pattern of ploughing, sowing and reaping marked the seasons of our life on the fertile plain of York and time was measured by the changing land. So, once again we stood in silence.
‘May the blessing of God protect the young corn in this field,’ said Joseph. It was just as well that he didn’t see, as we did, the rest of the assorted dogs in our party race into the field, leaving trampled patterns in their wake.
Finally we arrived back in the High Street outside the village hall, where Joseph thanked everyone for sharing this experience. As he did so, Deke Ramsbottom, on the roof of the hall, had just completed the repair of the weather cock on his day off.