fiction
Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 21
Porker studied Romantic Artists at College
It works like this: The vicar does something; the congregation does something. It’s very complicated. For example, the vicar leads the opening prayer, the congregation responds with “Amen”, and sings a hymn. Do it a few more times, and you’ve got a service.
Generally, there’s four hymns. The first hymn kicks off the service and needs to be familiar. The next hymn comes after the prayers of repentance, so should be reflective. Next up is the sermon, so echo the mood of the sermon, and – importantly - make it long enough to take the collection. The final hymn needs to be a good toe-tapper, so they’ll come back next week. Oh, and make sure you don’t repeat hymns too often - a spreadsheet is useful for keeping track – otherwise you’ll find yourself singing Wesley and Watts greatest hits.
That’s all there is to it.
Choosing hymns is easy. The problem I had was that my organist, Jill Baildom, had decided to break both her wrists. If it had been one wrist, then it wouldn’t be so much of a problem. She could bash the tunes out with one finger, and I doubt anyone would have noticed. But no, she had to break both. Substitute organist? No chance. Organists are like gold-dust and guarded just as carefully. Now I had to download the hymns from the Diocese recommended online service and copy them to CD. The website was awful.
I started that week’s service by saying, “I’m sure that like me, you will have been shocked to hear that Jill has broken both her wrists in a fall. I’ve visited her, and although she should make a full recovery, she’s going to be out of action for a while. If you have the opportunity, she’d love to see people.”
There were the expected groans of sympathy. Looking around, I was glad to see that there was an extra couple of people again. During the period between the last vicar and myself, a number had drifted away to the services at Norley, but they seemed to be returning again. That would upset Robert Howey, their rather dreadful vicar.
I said the opening prayer and pressed the play button on the CD player. I noticed Porker and Psycho nudging Al, who had a face like thunder. No doubt I’d find out what was upsetting them later if it mattered.
At the end of the service, I said hello to them. “Porker, are you still OK for me to drop round this afternoon?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. You know where I am, don’t you?”
“Yes, no problem.”
Psycho was nudging Al again, who was looking unhappy. Porker shook his head slightly and Psycho desisted.
“Oh, and Al,” I said, taking advantage of the respite, “I’ve just had some more plans for the new church.”
“Not again! What idiot have the Diocese sent you this time?”
“Not the Diocese. You know Douglas Turner – late seventies, sits over there, moustache?”
“Sure – didn’t he break his leg?”
“Indeed. Well, it turns out he’s a retired architect, and he’s come up with a few ideas. I think they’re far more suitable for us.”
“OK, fix a time, and I’ll fit in.”
That afternoon I collected my notes and went round to see Porker. He had an upstairs flat in social housing on the south side of the river. It was a small estate, squeezed in between the river and the school, and was reputed to flood each year. I made a mental note to see how the church would be able to help when that happened.
His flat was easy to spot because of the bike outside. I ascended the outside steps and rang the bell.
Porker opened the door, “Hi,” he said. “Next time, just walk in. If it’s locked, I’m not here.”
He led the way up a short flight of stairs into a living area.
“Don’t you worry about intruders?”
“No. Intruders worry about me. Grab a seat.”
Porker put the kettle on while I sat on the sofa and looked around. It was a smallish, one bedroomed flat with a modest living area, a separate kitchen, and the smell of single man. The room was furnished with old, rather tatty furniture, including an armchair, and a dining table with a large black folder. Porker returned with builder’s tea and sat in the armchair.
“OK,” he said, “You show me what you want, then while I look through it, you can look at my work, and we’ll see if we can meet in the middle.”
“Alright,” I replied, and took out the book I had discovered beneath the flagstones of the church. “Can you do something like this?”
He took the book and started flicking through it. “Hey! What you playing with here? This is dangerous stuff!”
Not quite the reaction I’d expected, but I am capable of a rapid mental gear change.
“No, it is not. It only looks like it. It’s a fake from the 1800’s, by someone who knew of such matters, but without understanding them. It was a common vanity of people with time and money on their hands.”
“What do you mean?” asked Porker, mollified, but not yet comfortable.
“Doing proper research is hard work. You need training – probably for years – and you need to focus. It isn’t fun.”
“OK, I can get that.”
“Alternatively, you could read a few pamphlets that other people had written about what they had thought they heard someone say at a public lecture, take a large dose of laudanum, and wait for cosmic inspiration.”
“Laudanum? Isn’t that the drug all the Victorian poets and artists were on?”
“It’s a solution of powdered opium, and was very common at the time.”
“I guess that explains Romantic paintings, then. I had to study the Romantic artists at college.”
“Indeed. Well, this is the final result of such inspiration. It looks good, no doubt it would impress those of a similar mind, but otherwise, it is of no value.”
“You’re saying it’s like a Victorian game of “Mine’s bigger than yours”?”
“Exactly,” I said, pleased that I’d got my message across. “And there’s a group today that are looking at writings like this and causing problems. What I’m asking you to do is create something that will get them over-excited, so they turn on each other.”
“Like, mess with their heads?” asked Porker, getting interested.
“Create a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow.”
“Right, you let me look at this while you look at my portfolio. It’s on the table.”
I went to the table and opened the folder. As I started leafing through it, I asked, “What was that with Al this morning? He was looking quite cross.”
“Follow the breadcrumbs, bro, follow the breadcrumbs,” he replied, nodding to the folder.
I continued looking through the portfolio. It was wide ranging and good. Some landscapes, a study of Sutley Town Hall, some portraits. Then I found an album cover, for a band called 'Uranium Death Cult'. The album had the charming title of 'Nail Through the Skull', although as I regularly read the Bible, I can hardly criticise it for that. I recalled that Al said he’d done a couple of tours as a roadie for the band.
“What’s this one?” I asked.
“Looks like a breadcrumb to me,” said Porker.
Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson yet again demonstrates his over-reliance on study, which is why he fails to appreciate ineffable knowledge, and has yet to take into account the influence of the continent of Mu when dealing with his imaginary secret society.