A Child of the Cloth

A Child of
the Cloth

James E. Probetts

Copyright © 2013 James E. Probetts
The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Cover Picture: ‘The Lovers' Seat' by kind permission of the Bridgeman Art Library, William Powel Frith. The Lover's Seat: Shelley (1792-1822) and Mary Godwin in Old St. Pancras Churchyard.

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ISBN 9781783068012

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For Mary

James E. Probetts lives in Wimbledon Village with
his wife, Mary.

This is his third book.

Melanie, a Memoir
and
The Green Road to Bannow
published by Rectory Press.

I
was occasionally called upon to go back to Wimbledon Village where the business had originally started, to submit estimates. I never looked for this work, as the firm had somewhat moved on, but I felt a certain loyalty to some of the old customers who had been good to me in the early days. One such customer was Mrs. Stevenson, an elderly, widowed lady living in an Edwardian house with her spinster daughter. Her husband had been a Minister of the Church and he had died some years ago. Her daughter was of an indeterminate age but looked toil worn; no doubt the years of looking after her mother had taken a heavy toll on her. She had devoted her entire life to her and her Christian beliefs. The daughter would telephone my office to enquire whether I would be in the Wimbledon area in the next few days, as her mother was considering whether she should have some work done in the house and would be obliged for my guidance. Her mother was also enquiring as to how well the business was progressing. I quite liked visiting Mrs. Stevenson, not because she was a particularly likeable person, that she most certainly was not but because she could be interesting. I had never met anyone with such religious commitment. She literally believed everything as written in the Bible of which she had a superlative knowledge, no doubt gained by reading and re-reading it since childhood. She translated her understanding of the Bible into sin and guilt. She had somehow completely missed compassion and was selfish in the extreme. There was only one view allowed to be held in the house and that was her own.

My visits would fall into the same pattern each time usually in the mornings at the time she took her coffee. She was completely bedridden; it was not unusual in those days for a woman to take to her bed as a form of escape from the realities of life. Each time the ritual was the same: on my arrival, I would be taken upstairs where Mrs. Stevenson would be propped up in her bed. After a few words of greeting, she would invariably complain to me that she was in great discomfort because the pillows had not been arranged exactly to her liking. She would insistently ring her hand bell, displaying great irritation that her daughter had not responded instantly to bring up the coffee. It was always served using the same old silver tray laid up with the fine china coffee cups accompanied by a plate of toasted buttered crumpets, which were cut in half. I found it quite strange as there was always an odd number. I could never make my mind up whether the odd number was parsimony or etiquette or whether, perhaps, Mrs. Wiggins the housekeeper was partial to half a crumpet. I would usually stay for about two hours, the conversations would never range any further than her views on religion would allow and the discussions could be somewhat narrow and when talking about how other people should live, she would often quote Leviticus but I learnt a lot from her. She knew of my interest in religions, she played the part of an evangelist, never failing to find an answer that suited her argument. It was through talking with her that I first became aware of the writings of the Reverend Frederick Farrar whom she quoted regularly.

It had been some time since I had heard from the Stevensons when I received a call from Miss Stevenson to inform me that her mother had passed away. She had for the last year been in a nursing home. Miss Stevenson asked me if I could possibly call at the house as her mother had asked her to pass on to me the old silver tray which we had regularly used on my visits. She seemed delighted when I said how pleased I was that her mother wished me to have the tray.

I said I would call the following morning at twelve o'clock, she suggested that perhaps we could have coffee together. I arrived as arranged and was greeted most warmly. Miss Stevenson had obviously been standing on the steps waiting for me to arrive. The house looked a little neglected and in need of a fresh coat of paint. As we entered the house there was a strong smell of damp but there was one very noticeable sound missing, the insistent ringing of the hand-bell from her mother's bedroom.

Even though it was mid-morning, all the blinds of the house had been pulled down. She informed me that the house had been shut up for about one year as her mother had been living in a nursing home. At the time of her death her deterioration, mentally and physically, had been swift but not unexpected, she had initially tried to look after her mother at home, not wishing to see her go to a nursing home but finally had to give up, accepting that a nursing home was the only answer. She said that some days her mother could be quite lucid and other days her mind would just wander. We walked down the stairs to the basement kitchen to make the coffee. It was much as I remembered from past visits, scrubbed quarry tiles, the same old scrubbed pine table with four yew wheel-back chairs, the Welsh dresser and, standing on the dresser, a beautiful and extremely large inlaid mahogany music box which I remembered well from one of my previous visits. On being left alone in the kitchen my curiosity got the better of me and I foolishly lifted up its lid to see what was inside it, not thinking for one moment that it was a musical box. As I lifted the lid the mechanism started and it then played, with surprising volume, a well-known hymn. I immediately put the lid down thinking this would switch the mechanism off but to no avail. I was convinced everybody in the house could hear it. I was saved by the kind intervention of Mrs. Wiggins, the house keeper who, with a smile on her face said, “You are not the first person whose curiosity got the better of them,” she then lifted the lid and pressed a small catch to silence the box.

Miss Stephenson, placed the coffee pot and cups on the old silver tray, excusing its need for a good clean. The tray and its contents were placed on the old plate lift. A good pull on the rope and the tray disappeared up to the dining room above. We walked up the stairs to the ground floor drawing-room, most of the furniture had been covered with dust sheets, the drawing-room was next to the dining room. I collected the tray from the plate lift and as we sat down she said, “I would like to tell you of my life in the last year. As I'm sure you have noticed the house has not been lived in for some time. It has been a year of extremes, of delight and some sadness; a year that I'd never ever thought possible.”

This was a totally different woman, not the same cowed character who had been completely crushed by her domineering mother. She now had brightness in her eyes and was no longer the woman I remembered from my last visit, who had always described herself with certain sadness in her voice as ‘Just a child of the cloth'.

“If you've time,” she said, “I would love to tell you of my earlier life and especially the year that has just passed. Mother was extremely troubled in her mind when she first went into the nursing home, expressing great fear of dying and continually saying, ‘I shall be turned away from heaven because of my sins,' and repeating the same words over and over again: ‘I lied; I should not have kept the truth from you. I hope and pray one day you will be able to find forgiveness in your heart for me and pray for my salvation'.

“Mother greatly feared death but not the manner of her death. No more did she quote my father saying: ‘
death come but come quietly
'. It was the judgment and punishment that she was convinced awaited her in the life hereafter which frightened her so much. After my mother's death my solicitor suggested that I should put an announcement in the
Church Times
and
The Daily Telegraph
, to inform friends and past parishioners of mother's passing. I did not dream my life would change so much by accepting that advice. It is, I suppose, possibly a little unbelievable, especially when I think that when you first came to the house my father had been dead for some years, having died, as I was made to believe, from a broken heart and that my behavior was to blame.

“I discovered the truth not only of this, but also as to why she was so frightened of death and judgment when I found letters and my father's death certificate amongst mother's papers. The death certificate clearly stated that the cause of death was heart failure (prime cause ‘cancer of the left ventricle') but there was no mention of a broken heart.

“The guilt I had suffered following my father's death made me accept the fact that the rest of my life should be devoted to looking after my ageing mother. I settled into a very mundane life indeed, long days, days that seemed to have no end, ‘Bible days'.

“My life revolved around looking after my extremely querulous bedridden mother and attending church. The new Rector at St. Mary's was Reverend Speechley, so different from my father, as Spiritualism was part of his ministry. He had spoken to me once about what he called his extra gift. I had told him of my father's insistent tugging at my sleeve in an attempt to say something to me before he lapsed into total unconsciousness and how disappointed I was that I would never know what it was that he was trying to tell me. Reverend Speechley said he was sure he could resolve the uncertainties in my mind by helping create a bridge to him. I was sorely tempted but decided against it, knowing my father's strong views on Spiritualism. He did not see it as part of the Anglican Church. His view of Spiritualism was perhaps coloured by his experiences after the First World War, when the grief of thousands of people was turned into profit by some cruelly dishonest people. But he also acknowledged there were some well minded people who truly believed. He said he could not accept associating Spiritualism with the Anglican Church.

“Knowing my family's long association with St. Mary's, Reverend Speechley kindly allowed me to continue to be involved in the church. I had a drab and colourless life the only colour was the changing liturgical colours of the altar cloths. I was allowed no other outside interests at all. I would look forward to your visits to the house, as mother enjoyed discussing religion with you; it allowed me time on my own.