Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

April 2017

Pennies From Heaven - Pete Norman

Up, way up, in the remotest part of the North York Moors, there stood a little village called High Hillingbury. Everyone called it a village, but in truth this was not strictly true – with just five cottages scattered at random over a few hectares, plus the church and the pub, even if you counted the two outlying farmhouses it was more a hamlet than a village, but to Father Graham McKenzie it was heaven.

He stood in the doorway of his church gazing out at his Parish, but the arthritis in his legs was playing up so he stepped back and rested his ample bottom on the stone bench in the porch. The parish had seen better days he had to admit – when he first took up the calling all those years ago each of the cottages had rung to the sound of a multitude of children and his little church was always bustling. However, the large families had long since moved on and nowadays his entire congregation numbered no more than twenty two and that was on an exceptionally good day.

The church was built almost exclusively with flint, it was pretty and it was much photographed but it was constructed at a time of great optimism and it was large enough to hold the population of High Hillingbury many times over. It was always in need of repair but despite his persistent pleading the Diocese could never seem to find the cash to assist him and few seemed to pay much attention to the notices he had so carefully displayed or to the thermometer shaped measure indicating the glacial progress of donations.

Nevertheless Father McKenzie was happy in his little heaven and he knew that when the Good Lord finally did call for him – and his ever increasing aches and pains were hinting that this might not be too far away any more – he would be able to hand over his flock to his successor with very few regrets. He had even set aside a small plot in readiness for that auspicious occasion and every Sunday when he sat here on the cold stone bench he would contemplate that small piece of ground but he had never managed to come to terms with the dichotomy he faced. On the one hand he should be overjoyed at the prospect of shrugging off this mortal coil and spending eternity in the comfort of the Lord's House, but on the other he liked where he was and he liked what he did and he was in no hurry to move on just yet, thank you very much.

The sound of voices dragged him out of his reverie, the first of his parishioners were walking up the lane – it was Mary Bishop, her husband Michael and their small daughter Elizabeth. He struggled to his feet, groaning at the twinge in his knees and smiled warmly at the group. He had an easy smile which illuminated his whole face, his eyes glistened and the crow's feet spread out like a road map around his pebble glasses.

Michael was his friend, he was a small jobbing builder and worked hard all week across the vast expanse of the Moor but he was always prepared to put in a few hours of his precious time at the weekends to help out at the church with those small but urgent jobs that simply could not wait for the donations to creep further up the thermometer.

One by one the congregation drifted along, were warmly greeted and then ushered into the church. As Jonathon, the licensee of the George and Dragon, was shaking his hand the Father caught sight of two strangers walking up the lane. In this isolated area they seldom saw tourists, but occasionally one might stop for a while in passing to photograph the church and to wander around the ornate interior. The church was renowned for its pews, the ends of which were decorated with elaborately carved beasts, and the sound of camera lenses clicking was not unknown. However, these passing travellers who soaked up the ornate beauty of the church seldom took much notice of the donations thermometer and seemed to treat the collection box as if it was invisible.

Most people were respectful of the sanctity of the church but there were always some who felt that they had the absolute right to poke and prod into every quiet corner and on one occasion he had been obliged to politely usher an inquisitive visitor from the Vestry.

The Lord had said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me,' and he knew that the word 'children' was intended to encompass everyone, even awkward visitors, but there were times when the word 'suffer' took on a whole new meaning.

This particular couple, however, looked a little different to the norm – the man was dressed in carefully laundered casual clothes, which suggested that in his working life he was probably more accustomed to wearing a pin striped suit, and his wife was quite severely dressed, with a facial expression which implied that she was not too pleased to be here. Father McKenzie hoped that they might confine their visit to the churchyard and not disturb the service, but he knew from past experience that this was most likely insanely optimistic. He stepped through the huge arched doors into the church, closing the door behind him, hoping that on this occasion he might just be wrong.

He was not wrong.

Part way through the first hymn the door swung open and struck the side wall with a bang loud enough to drown out the handful of tremulous voices. Undeterred the couple entered the church, leaving the door open wide behind them and began to wander around the font and the statuary at the back of the church, conversing in loud voices. Father McKenzie was furious but his only response was to sing even louder as if to emphasise to the terminally ignorant the true reason why this small group had in fact gathered here today.

To his dismay the couple quickly tired of the rear of the church and began to walk up the aisle towards the altar, they made no move to sit in the rearmost pews as people would usually do out of simple respect. The Father groaned.

The lady was looking all around her as she walked, at the ornate carvings on the pews and at the elaborate stained glass windows, but she was paying little attention to where she was going. Suddenly she screamed out as her toe struck the raised edge of a floor slab and she fell forwards, throwing out her hands to protect her fall. Nevertheless she landed heavily and noisily and the hymn was abandoned.

Father McKenzie rushed to her aid, although he felt little charity towards such a crass individual. 'Are you alright, madam? Are you hurt?'

The woman did not reply, she was holding her right knee and moaning theatrically. Her husband snapped, 'She has probably broken it. This place is a death trap. Where is your Health & Safety, eh?' He waggled his finger with a degree of menace. 'You will be hearing from my solicitor about this, you mark my words.'

With that he seized his wife by the waist and hauled her upright. He supported her back down the aisle to the door, accompanied by the sound of her wailing, and made sure that the slamming of the door made the desired impression.

The congregation looked on in stunned silence. Father McKenzie shook his head in disbelief. It was Michael who finally broke the silence. 'She was putting that on. I swear she knew that slab was there and tripped over it deliberately. They will sue you know, Graham, mark my words they will sue.' He put his hand reassuringly on the Father's shoulder. 'But we will all be witnesses for you, don't you worry.'

The service resumed but his heart was not in it at all and he mangled the sermon he had spent so much of the last evening preparing. As the flock filed out Michael stopped and crouched down beside the offending slab. He ran his fingers around the edge. 'I guess it might be a bit heavy but I can't see why we couldn't lift it and re-lay it level. I'll bring my tools over and we'll have a go. If they do sue it would look so much better if you have made at least made some attempt to put things right.'

The following Saturday morning Michael parked his van in the lane and pulled a wheelbarrow from the back. A trowel, a selection of bolster chisels and a bag of sand were soon trundling into the church. He was greeted by a smiling Father McKenzie and two mugs of coffee.

'Let's just open it up first and see how heavy it is, shall we, Graham? We need to earn that coffee.'

The Father smiled and set the mugs down beside a pew. 'I will put a good word in for you, my son, you will receive your reward in heaven.'

Michael laughed. He began to scrape away the centuries old earth from around the slab and was pleased to see that he was exposing a gap wide enough to get the bolsters into. However, even with their combined weight behind the levers the slab resisted valiantly and they were both sweating profusely when, with a last final push, the slab rose sufficiently for him to get a block underneath it.

He had laid many a patio in his time and was able to judge the excavation beneath the slab and the infill of sand to perfection. When he finally levered it back into position and tapped it down all trace of the offending edge had vanished. 'Now

As they sat for a few minutes chatting easily Michael ran his eye up the aisle. The other slabs all looked to be fine, all, that is, except the last one just below the step up to the altar.