Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 26

People immediately become curious if they see a vicar with a carrier bag full of used fivers. I do not understand this, but they feel the urge to enquire loudly, “Why are you carrying hundreds of pounds in a Co-op bag-for-life, vicar?”

This can be inconvenient.

Yet Porker had done some work for me and wanted payment in cash. I was in favour of this arrangement, because if I were to write a cheque, sooner or later someone would know. The cashier would tell everyone, “A big Hells Angel came into the bank today and cashed a large cheque from the vicar!”

This would only lead to lurid and inaccurate speculation.
Bearing this in mind, I removed my clerical collar and the back-to-front shirt that marks me out, replacing them with a T-shirt and jeans. This represents the entirety of my non-clerical casual wardrobe. Thus disguised, I took the mid-morning train to Musdon, a good-sized town a few miles away.

Exiting Musdon Central Station across a mosaic of dancing mice, I reflected on my actions. This was the price of ensuring my housekeeper did not murder a large number of clergy. True, they were all members of a heretical secret society, the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. Equally true is that multiple deaths among the clergy would excite comment. It was not a good look for a future Archbishop of Canterbury if the path to greatness had been cleared by his housekeeper. Especially as she had a habit of removing her victims’ clothes.

I made a withdrawal at a bank in a town where no-one knew my face and returned home. Back in my usual attire, I drove to Porker’s flat. He greeted me, and I passed him the bag of used fivers.

Raising his eyebrows, he asked, “Don’t you want to check the work first?”

“Why don’t you count it while I look at what you’ve done?”
He shrugged, sat in his armchair, and started counting cash. I suspected that he might forget to declare this income to Inland Revenue, but that was up to him. I’m a vicar. I can’t decide people’s morality for them. It has to be their choice. All I can ever do is put another option on the table.

Looking through what he had prepared for me – and, at first sight, it was everything that I had asked for and more – I found something unexpected.

“What are these?” I asked, holding up one of a number of transparent, golden-orange discs. They were few centimetres across, and maybe one centimetre thick. Held up to the light, a tracery of fine lines became apparent deep within.

Porker finished counting his money and leant back, putting his hands behind his head. “That,” he said, “Is a disc of amber. Of course, with a piece of that age, it’s impossible to be sure, but from the honey colour, it’s probably middle-Eastern in origin.”

“How do you know it’s real?”

Porker brought a slightly grubby pint glass of water from the kitchen and dropped one of the amber discs in the water. “See? It floats. That’s your basic test for amber.”
“Intriguing. But what’s it for?”

“You know you wanted some bits of paper, each with a bit of a picture? Lay one on top of the other, shine a light through and see the whole picture?”

I nodded. The plan had been for four pictures, hidden in separate locations.

Porker continued, “Same thing, except the pictures are inside the amber. Look in the books I did you. There’s a diagram of how to make a telescope device with these as lenses. Thought it might fit the theme a bit better.”

“Porker, I am impressed. How did you do it?”

“The knowledge of writing in amber was lost many centuries ago, after the last of the Atlanteans fled to Egypt. I could discuss the Mayans too, but light-weight epoxy resin with the right dyes is a useful modern substitute.”

He grinned like Dennis-the-Menace.

I finished checking the work. Two of everything – but they weren’t copies of each other. There were two versions with subtle differences. In addition to eight “amber” discs, there were assorted scraps of paper, and two slim, leather-bound volumes. Leafing through the artificially aged pages, I saw hand-written Latin interspersed with line drawings and weird symbols of occult insignificance.

I took home Porker’s work and the original material I’d given him. After that, I had a quick session in the gym. I’m not sure I was losing much weight yet, but I was surprised that I seemed to be toning up well. Mabel, my fiancée, was approving in her rather evangelical way. “Our bodies are temples of the Lord,” she said to me, “so it’s only right that we should look after them properly.”

Indeed.

That evening was the church council meeting to approve the plans for the new church. It wasn’t going to be a short meeting because everyone would have to have their say. In principle, this sounds sensible and fair. This was a decision that would affect the church in Sutley for the foreseeable future. The other side of this argument is that the main requirement for sitting on the church council is to want to be on it. Such lack of judgement should be reason for automatic exclusion from decision making.

The architect, Douglas Turner, was a church member which made for a friendly start. Due to a recent broken leg, the meeting took place at his home. Although retired, it was clear that he was used to this type of meeting. He started by showing us one of those architect’s cardboard models of what the new church would look like. This had the expected effect on the church council members. Immediately, it became real and believable; they were sold on the design.

Many questions were asked, and Douglas was remarkable in his patience.

“Why don’t they build all new churches like this? Most modern ones look like car showrooms.”

“Because,” explained Douglas, “if you want a room fifty feet wide, a modern computer system will tell you what sized supports you need and give you the part numbers as well. This kind of work requires more skill.”

“Do you think they’ll put it on Grand Designs?”

“I’m not sure it is the kind of project they’re interested in.”

“I like the dome. Can we have it painted like the one in Florence?”

“There’s no technical reason why not.”

“How much carpet will we need?”

And on, and on, and on. There were no questions that I would have thought relevant, such as could we afford it, and where would we find stone masons. I had already had answers to these questions, of course, but the church council really should have asked them too.

The consensus was that the new church looked lovely, so I moved it to a vote. They accepted the plans unanimously – an achievement in itself – and moved that I should forward the plans to the Diocese for approval. There followed a motion – quickly approved - that I should ask how much it would cost to have the dome painted like the Duomo in Florence.

I arrived back at the Vicarage late and tired but satisfied. I thought I’d just check my e-mails before settling down for the night, just to clear the decks before sending everything to the Diocese the next day. It was a mistake. There was an e-mail from a gentleman who was moving to Sutley and was hoping to attend St. James. Normally, this would require a standard greeting and generalised offers of help if required. Except, this person was a Lay Reader.

This quite ruined my whole mood.

Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson clearly underestimates the necessity of choosing the correct carpet for a church. This is a key decision for any church, and its importance in the church’s ongoing ministry should be obvious.