Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

Lonely - Pete Norman

June 2013

Nobody knew just how old Ellie was or how long she had lived in Great Farnham. There was no one left who knew her story and she had become simply a part of the furniture in the village. Her cottage was in some way tithed to the church and he could only presume that someone at the Diocese office must have all the details and deal with the necessary arrangements pertaining to rent and other considerations. But that was not his concern, so he did not concern himself about it. All that mattered to him was that Ellie lived alongside the church and that she was a great help to him.

For centuries Great Farnham had been a quiet rural farming community with very little change from one decade to the next – there had never been any money for change – but in the 21st Century things were so very much different. The boom of the 70's and 80's had created a whole new world beyond the leafy lanes and the village green and one by one the youth of Great Farnham had drifted away, seduced by the bright city lights and the financial rewards and hedonistic delights they offered. With the life blood draining out of the village, the few who had been left behind had eventually made their own migration and most of them now slept in the churchyard of St. Stephens.

Then the village idyll and the picturesque cottages had attracted the burgeoning middle class and by a perverse twist of fate Great Farnham was fast becoming a smart commuter belt retreat. On the driveways where the Morris Minor Travellers and the occasional tractor had once stood, now BMWs and Audis displayed the new found affluence of the village.

Cottages had been re-thatched, subtle extensions and great glass conservatories had been added, driveways were carved out and laid with antique block pavia. The only part of the village which had remained faithful to its humble origins was the medieval flint church, the Rectory and the tithed cottage which stood beside it.

Ellie dragged her weary body from her chair, her knees cracking and a bolt of fire racing up her lower back. She struggled through to the tiny kitchen with her cup gripped firmly in her arthritic fingers and rinsed it under the tap. Her frailty had crept up on her insidiously over the past twelve months. She had always felt old and there had always been the odd ache and pain, which she put down to her advancing years, but today she felt ancient. She would have dearly loved to have taken the day off, to just sit in her chair and watch the birds through her window, but it was Sunday and she had important duties to perform, especially as there had been a wedding the day before and the Father would be anxious for the church to be restored to its former glory ready for the afternoon service. Not that anyone ever came nowadays, she grumbled. In the old days the church used to be full to capacity, with latecomers reduced to standing at the back, but all that people seemed to worship these days was the car and the giant flat screen TV.

Beside the front door on a tiny three legged table stood a jar full of some strange thick paste, its composition a secret known only to Ellie herself; a recipe as closely guarded as that of Coca Cola itself. She squinted in the marbled mirror, scooped up a generous portion in her fingertips and applied the cream to her face, a little more heavily nowadays to hide the multitude of sins. Finally she was satisfied that she was fit to face the world and especially the nice Father.

She hobbled around to the front of the church and opened the heavy oak gate, walking through the elaborate wooden arch which brought back memories of the wishing well of her childhood. The devastation that confronted her was simply awful. The pathway all the way from the gate to the church doors was covered with a thick layer of brightly coloured confetti and in one place it was clear that some overenthusiastic well-wisher had even scattered rice over the happy couple.

Ellie ignored the huge oak door, studded with great iron diamonds, and made her way around to the small vestry entrance where the Father was putting the finishing touches to a sermon, which he knew from bitter experience would not be heard by many, if any, of his flock. He greeted her in his uniquely fervent manner, 'Ellie. Good morning, and what a wonderful morning it is. The good Lord is truly smiling upon us. However, I am afraid they have left it in a bit of a muddle out there for you today.'

Ellie treated him to a grim smile and said, 'Father.'

He had never once had a true conversation with Ellie, her simple response to any comment or question was always the same, 'Father.' Sometimes the inflection at the end of the word implied a slight variation in the inference, but usually it was bland and flat, leaving him to guess at her true intention.

He was a kindly man, and he knew that behind the mask she must be so very lonely. But he had become accustomed to the brick wall that Ellie presented to the world and he had long since lost the will to break through that wall and to discover the person she was hiding within.

He was lonely himself, of course; churches these days were treated very much like post boxes – when you had a letter to post you stopped and used the facility, but when you had no letter you passed the box by as if it was invisible. He could still remember the time when an enthusiastic flock had been attached to the church and a flourishing Women's Guild to meddle in village affairs – quite often for the common good.

He stood back to allow Ellie to pass him in the narrow confines of the vestry to recover her broom and long handled dustpan from the cupboard.

She worked slowly but methodically down the drive, sweeping the offending detritus into her pan leaving a swathe of clear path in her wake and when she finally returned her materials to the cupboard it would have been difficult to find a single piece of confetti, a single piece of rice remaining; it was as if the wedding had never taken place at all.

She wandered into the church and spent a few minutes attending to the flowers, teasing out the ones that were beginning to droop and re-arranging the rest to cover any gaps. She picked up a bedraggled feather duster that was struggling to hold onto its last few feathers, flicking it expertly over the pulpit and the pews until she was satisfied that her church looked as good as possible. Then she disappeared like a wraith, her responsibilities complete, back to her humble cottage to a cup of strong tea and a piece of toast, which she would share with her beloved birds, as always.

After the service the Father removed his dog collar and loosened the top button. It was God's work and he served the Lord faithfully, but he only wished that, just occasionally, the good Lord would provide him with a few people to pass the exciting message on to. He reached for his slippers and removed his shoes, noticing with little surprise that his big toe nail was protruding from a hole in the sock. He grumbled and rummaged about in the kitchen drawer for his sewing kit. They made needles so ridiculously small nowadays he mused as he struggled to persuade the thread to pass through the eye of a needle, they had always seemed to be so much larger. He pushed his tongue from the side of his lips and with a determined expression on his face wove the thread across the offending hole until a surprisingly neat repair had been done. He admired his handiwork and slipped his sock back onto his foot and reached for the Church Times; he still had the crossword to do.

The following morning he allowed himself a lie in; despite the fact that he had the Lord's work to do, it was the Lord's day and technically a day of rest, so he took his time readying himself for the excitement of the day . . .

It was close to ten o'clock when he finally surfaced. The vestry was unlocked and as he entered, stooping through the low doorway, he called out, 'Morning, Ellie. And what a beautiful morning . . .'

He stopped and took in the terrible sight that lay before him. A pair of sturdy black shoes and dark surgical stockings were protruding from the front pews. He knelt down beside her prone form and laid a hand on her forehead, a reverential gesture, a loving gesture, but it was a one way experience, because today, Ellie was closer to their God than he was. He moved around to the other side and saw with relief that her face was peaceful. She was at rest. He replaced his hand on her head, closed his eyes and in a soft voice intoned the last rites, his eyes blurring with sadness.

The police had to be called, and an ambulance. It was 'procedure'. Poor Ellie was removed from his church and as the Father robotically went through the motions of his daily routine he could not help but wonder about her life; where she had come from; what had brought her to the village in the first place; whether she had ever been in love, had experienced the joys of children . . .

But somehow he knew that her life had always been sad and solitary; that the police would find no long lost relative to share his grief at the final moment.

The police handed him the key and for the very first time the Father entered the tiny cottage. It was Spartan and functional; there was very little comfort there, but within the dark walls he could detect a presence and as he stood in silent respect in the lounge his attention was suddenly drawn to the tired old chair and on the very edge of his hearing came just one word, 'Father.'

He drew in a sharp breath and crossed himself. 'Bless you, Ellie.'

He made a cursory search of the house to ensure that anything valuable she might have left was safeguarded, but it was a fruitless task – there was no money in the house, nothing to protect and nothing to contribute towards the costs of her funeral.

He was good friends with the staff at Guivers and he negotiated a minimal but respectable service. When the day finally arrived four pall bearers carried the modest coffin into an empty church – empty that was except for the good Father. They kindly sat while he delivered what eulogy he could resurrect from his limited contact with her and then the coffin was carried out to a quiet corner of the churchyard where she was lowered into her final resting place with as much dignity as she had displayed in life.

'Dust to dust . . .' The Father bent and plucked up a small handful of earth from the mound beside the grave, sprinkling it liberally, the sound beating out a 21 gun salute on the wooden lid. 'Ashes to ashes.' The five men bent their heads in respect and then retreated. Father McKenzie brushed the dirt from his fingers before shaking their hands, to thank them for their kindness. He was embarrassed that there was no one else there to represent her, to mourn her, to outlive her or to save.

Sometime later he arranged for a modest memorial stone to mark her spot. He agonised for days over the wording but the only thing he could find that seemed even remotely appropriate was: 'Eleanor Rigby, died in the church and was buried along with her name.'



Based upon 'Eleanor Rigby' by The Beatles

Ah, look at all the lonely people Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been,
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Father Mckenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father Mckenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely people (ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people (ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all belong?