Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 40

I consider it axiomatic that a vicar should involve themselves in all aspects of the life of their parish. This is not the same as saying that they should take part in all things. I would not expect a vicar to be on the local football team, for example. Yet I do think that it is reasonable that the vicar should have at least a nodding acquaintance with the local team and attend the occasional match.

An area of parish life that I have neglected since my arrival is the allotments. An omission - yes, there were reasons - there always are – but it was still an omission. It was a little like not knowing your next-door neighbours’ names.

The entrance to the allotments is through Cornwall Street, which joins the Musdon Road almost opposite the Vicarage. I entered via the metal five-bar gate into a small, gravelled car park occupied by a couple of cars. A path ran a slightly crooked route left and right from the car park between two sets of allotments. Each had their own fences and gates, but with a great deal of up-cycled improvisation. At the head of the path was a standpipe fastened to an old plank with plastic ties.

A middle-aged man in jeans and a jumper was using an old bit of hose to fill a container from the standpipe.

“Morning, vicar,” he said cheerfully. “Come for a look around?”

“Call me David, please,” I said. “Yes, I realised that this is only a hundred yards from where I live, but I’ve never visited.”

“I’m George. You’ve been missing out not coming sooner. It’s a friendly bunch of allotmenteers down here. You just take a wander along.”

I was aware of the term “Allotmenteer”, although I tried not to be. “Thank you,” I said.

“Oh,” added George, “If you just hang your bag on the fence there, no one will touch it.”

I thanked him again and hung up my vestment bag. I had come straight from taking the Sunday service, and the robes did make it quite heavy. Walking down the path it was clear how individual allotments were. Some had regimented rows of plants, set with military precision. Others looked like they hadn’t been weeded in weeks, and a few had small kiddie slides or swings. I stopped outside one which was dominated by a Victorian-style greenhouse and cocked my head to the side. Inside the greenhouse were the biggest leeks I had ever seen. They must have been a metre tall, supported by a metal framework around which ran a complex system of pipes. As I was trying to make sense of what I was seeing, a man came around from the other side of the greenhouse.

“What’re you doing?” he demanded, quite making George the liar for saying people were friendly.

“Hello, I’m David. I’m just taking a look at the allotments,” I said, “I was…”

“Well, take your look elsewhere,” interrupted the man.
I smiled pleasantly and walked on. It had been a certain smell that had caused me to pause, not the leeks. Rather like offal, of all things. Well, for all I knew, offal made good leek fertiliser.

The next allotment down, on the opposite side of the path, a pipe-smoking man was leaning on the gate to his allotment, chuckling. If you were to draw a caricature of an “old boy” on his allotment, he would be it. Checked shirt, corduroy trousers held up with suspenders, wellies, and a flat cap. Obligingly, he also sported white mutton-chop sideburns.

“I see you’ve met friend Martin,” he said.

“The, ah, gentleman over there?” I asked.

“That’s him. Champion leek grower, and champion pain in the behind. Not surprised his wife left him.”

“Really? That’s sad.”

“Not for her, I’m thinking. He got into leeks, what, a couple of years ago? Had all these ideas, he did. Now old Charlie used to be the leek king. He tried to help him along, but Martin wouldn’t listen to him. Then Charlie disappeared, just wandered off one day and Martin won the regional competition last year.”

“Impressive for a beginner, I’d think.”

“Yes, but his wife wasn’t so happy. Thing is, he obsessed over leeks, not her. And she left.”

“Because of the leeks?”

“That’s them vegetable competition types for you. All a bit strange if you ask me. Now, me – I’m Maurice, and I grow delphiniums. That’s a real competition, I can tell you. Want a look?”

I readily agreed, and let Maurice introduce me to the fascinating world of competitive delphinium growing. By the end of the tour my head was spinning from information overload. Still, meeting people who otherwise wouldn’t have contact with the church was the whole point of this exercise.

I returned home having spoken to several other allotment holders, just in time for lunch. Mabel, my fiancée was already waiting for me, and Abigail my housekeeper was starting to look irritated.

“You’re late,” said Abigail.

“I’m sorry, I was taking a look at the allotments,” I replied. “It’s an area we haven’t explored as a church before, and they’re right opposite us.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” said my somewhat dim, somewhat evangelical fiancée, smiling. I like it when she smiles.

Abigail snorted, and returned to the kitchen.

After lunch, when I’d said goodbye to Mabel, I returned to my study. The Sunday service might be over, but I had other tasks to attend to. This week the contractors were coming in to start taking down the burnt-out remains of the old church. As the plan was to reuse as much of the stone as possible in the new building, it wasn’t a simple operation. Our architect, Douglas – a member of the congregation - had handled most of the arrangements, locating stone masons and the like. He wasn’t as mobile as he might have been due to a broken leg. Evie, his wife, had made quite clear to me that my job was to make sure he didn’t overdo it.

While I was going through the details of the job, the phone rang.

“St James Vicarage – David Wilson speaking.”

“Oh, hello David. It’s Mike. You know, Jessica’s Dad.”

“Hello Mike, what can I do for you?” I asked. I’d known Mike’s family while I was a curate, and I’d bumped into them at the church’s Souper Saturday soup kitchen at the market.

“Just something that you mentioned. Your church treasurer - wasn’t there something about him embezzling the church?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Then he killed himself when he was caught. Most tragic.”

“Have you replaced him yet?”

“No, it’s been a bit difficult finding a replacement in the circumstances.”

“Well, Marina and I have been talking it over, and as we’re moving into the area, and as I’m an accountant, and thinking of all that you did for Jessica, well, what I’m saying is I know we’re not church-goers, but would you like a hand?”

“Mike, that is incredibly generous of you,” I said. Granted, I had visited Jessica in antenatal every day for the first month of her life, but it had not been possible to predict this situation. And, of course, it is not advisable to inform people that you are visiting their child in hospital in the hopes of some future quid pro quo. “I’m required to get permission from the church council before appointing a treasurer, but I’m sure they’ll be just as grateful as I am.”

This was followed by the required mutual-gratitude/denial-of-exceptionalism and the call concluded. Most satisfactory, not least because I was the person who had been doing the accounts since the death of Geoff the treasurer. It wasn’t a difficult job, but it wasn’t something I enjoyed.

I eased myself in my seat and returned to work. Barely had I started when the phone rang again. It is a good thing that I had not taken up building ships in bottles as a hobby. I answered the phone.

“Ah, David – Martin Dawson here. Got a bit of a problem, I’m afraid.”

Disclaimer: Although it is good to see that Rev. David Wilson is starting to take an interest in competitive delphinium growing, it is regrettable that he did not consider the effects of the 1953 rule exception when displaying delphiniums in competition.

Further disclaimer: On investigation, it has been discovered that in fact there is no 1953 rule exception when displaying delphiniums in competition. The Diocesan Office of the Disclaimant would like to apologise for any inconvenience caused.

A map of Sutley may be found here:
https://kevinwoodauthor.com/SutleyMap.htm