Such Men Are Dangerous (24 page)

“Howdy do, by the way? My name’s Champney. No need to tell me yours!”

A puffy hand was offered for a clammy handshake.

“And we’re going to tart it up in other ways, too. Great wooden tubs of flowers all round the perimeter, big ones I mean, too heavy for anyone to steal. That’ll add a nice bit of colour, make it almost like a park!” He laughed at his own little joke.

Simon, who was anxious only to make his getaway, gave a nod but said nothing.

“You know, thanks to you a lot of people are going to want to take a gander. Or largely thanks to you. Well, let me put it this way. I’ve never been a one for going to church, I make no bones about that, yet there are plenty who still get comfort out of being religious and I can understand them feeling drawn here. Of course I can. They’ll come in their coach parties from all over. May even have to make appointments!”

An intolerable suspicion entered Simon’s mind. “Surely you’re not thinking of charging an entrance fee?”

“What? Just to take a dekko at an old car park? Oh, if only you could show me how!” The burly fellow slapped himself on the thigh. “No, of course not, vicar, and you wouldn’t want it that way, I can tell. But at the same time you’ve got to admit how they’d be disappointed if they couldn’t get a nice cup of tea or a hot dog or a burger to perk them up after a hot and dusty journey, or ice cream and toffee apples for the kids. And ditto if they couldn’t get themselves a little souvenir to remind them of their visit? We’re going to have a big van here from Saturday and there’s going to be T-shirts you can buy (tell you what, vicar, we’ll be proud to present you with one, that’ll be
our
pleasure) and peak caps and enamel badges—yes and painted mugs and tea towels too—it’s all going to be great, a real crowd-pleaser. To be honest, it hadn’t occurred to me but if you’re not busy on Saturday afternoon around two and could put in an appearance and maybe sign a few autographs…oh, I can tell you, that would go down a proper treat as well. We could have placards printed. We’ve already got streamers and bunting and raffle tickets.”

“I can say one thing. You haven’t wasted your time.”

His dryness of tone went unperceived. “Well, no one deplores a recession as much as yours truly but at least it does mean you can get things done a bit quicker. Let me put it this way. Every cloud has a silver lining if you’re really bent on finding it.”

“But don’t you need a licence for all this?”

Mr Champney gave a huge, slow-motion wink. He put one stubby forefinger to the side of his nose.

“Well, how about it, then, for Saturday afternoon—eh, vicar? I believe we could promise you a not unacceptable little gift to go in your collection plate. Not to forget about the T-shirt either. You’ll be wanting the large size I should think?”

Simon did
not
pray for restraint. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “I’ll have to consult my diary of course. It will mean my postponing a couple of weddings; that’s easy. But I think it may be Saturday I’m down for card tricks and a little bit of magic in front of the public library. They want me to saw a woman in half and make some rabbits disappear—that kind of thing. Then as a climax they’d really like another angel or the Virgin Mary; should I suggest we saw
her
in half? In any case I’ll have to keep you posted about the subsequent performance times.”

“Remember, though,” said Mr Champney, chuckling, “that I’ll need to tell the signwriters.” Simon didn’t even say goodbye. He went striding off towards St Matthew’s.

This time he had no instinct; simply felt the church might be the proper place to go.

“
Instinct
!” he exclaimed, bitterly.

Had he thought that he was listening to the voice of God?

St Matthew’s was unlocked.

Of course—he’d forgotten what day it was—a meeting of the Mother’s Union in the large vestry.

He could imagine the level of excitement showing itself in
there
, the way each member must have been storing for the common pool all her reactions, impressions, speculations. He’d be surprised if attendance this afternoon wasn’t setting a St Matthew’s record. He decided to go into the Lady Chapel: the part of the church where he was most likely to remain unseen.

Unfortunately, however, before he could reach it Mrs Lorrimer came from the direction of the lavatory and caught sight of him as she teetered through the darkening nave on her way back to the vestry. She put her hand to her heart and gave a cry.

“Oh, Simon! How you startled me!”

“I’m truly sorry. I should have—”

“But thank heaven it’s you.”

“I really do apologize.”

“No, I mean thank heaven you’ve arrived in the church right now. Thank heaven you’re here.”

He had to remind himself that an important part of the vicar’s role was to be of service, if possible, at any moment he was needed. He turned towards Mrs Lorrimer, with her immaculate blonde hairdo and overpainted face (she was a woman in her late seventies), and waited patiently.

“We have a little crisis on our hands!”

She spread her own scarlet-nailed hands (he had often thought: well, bully for her, at least she does try) in a broad, despairing gesture that one would have believed deliberately comedic if Mrs Lorrimer had ever shown much sense of humour. Even allowing for the heels, she stood five-foot-nothing, weighed down by stress and hairdo, and looked every inch a tragedienne.

“Is anybody ill?” he asked quickly.

“It’s too bad, it really is.”

“Tell me, Mrs Lorrimer.”

“We all feel so upset.”

“Please tell me what the trouble is.” He had half started towards the vestry but thought it better he should go prepared. His forbearance had seldom been so resolute.

“Simon,” she said, “I still can’t believe this. The unholy cheek of it! The Family Circle has been using the Mother’s Union teacups!”

“What!”

She repeated it, with a gratified look at seeing him so aghast; although she had known, of course, he would be.

“Mrs Lorrimer,” he said. “Half the world is at war and half the world is starving. There’s earthquake, pestilence and flood; man’s inhumanity to man is everywhere apparent; we’ve all been told what we can do about it but no one seems to give a fig. Damn the Mother’s Union teacups!”

And he turned abruptly and walked out of the church.

That was on the Thursday afternoon.

34

On the Sunday morning St Matthew’s was fuller than it had ever been, whether at Christmas, confirmations, inductions, anything. People were standing four or five deep along the back wall and were also closely crowded into the vestibule, with the doors between this and the church wedged open. The press was there, so was TV. People who hadn’t worshipped in years were there, people who had never worshipped, people who didn’t live in Scunthorpe. Giving his sermon for once from the pulpit Simon felt a little like an emperor, or a baritone, gazing out across the rippling expanse of the marketplace or else the Coliseum: row upon row of upturned and expectant faces from the chairs and from the pews. Further back a tiptoe impression, of ears and necks and bodies craning out towards him. Hardly any shuffling, or clearing of the throat. A long moment of almost incredible stillness before he began.

In fact, he’d thrown away the sermon he had started on the previous Thursday and been working on until Geraldine’s call had interrupted him. Afterwards, he had never gone back to it. (In the meantime he had written, partly as a form of escape, three more chapters of his Life of Christ. He thought it was going well; he had even found a title for it—
Firebrand!
) Now, although he had obviously rehearsed all the points he intended to put across in his sermon, he had no notes in front of him, nothing to indicate the proper progression of his argument. He was hoping to rely as far as he could on the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.

He spoke rather slowly and with many pauses.

In the eleventh century (he said) a woman called Richeldis thought that the mother of Jesus appeared to her, asking her to build in Norfolk a replica of the holy home in Nazareth, so that the replica might become a place of pilgrimage. This miracle was never authenticated: Richeldis was the wife of a squire: in those days you didn’t doubt the lady of the manor. But most people have probably heard about Our Lady of Walsingham.

Yet that happened nearly a thousand years ago. Ask anyone to tell you about any more recent manifestation in this country, authenticated or not, and the chances are they’re going to be stumped. I know I should be.

I wonder if in years to come, when we’ve all passed into history, many will have heard about what happened here in Scunthorpe, eleven days ago.

Of course, I wonder if that question isn’t purely academic. Because…will there be anyone left at that time either to have heard of it or not to have heard of it? Impossible to speculate about a point so far in the future, the point at which we’ve all passed into history, or what at any rate we now speak of as history. After all, I’m talking of a period that could be as much as two whole years away. Or even three.

I take it there’s nobody here who doesn’t know what happened in Scunthorpe eleven days ago? You notice I don’t say “what is alleged to have happened” which seems to be a general favourite with the media? I say simply “what happened”.

Right, then, we’ll assume there’s nobody who hasn’t been informed of it, informed of it with varying degrees of wit or impartiality or credence. Some people have been amazed and as a consequence inspired. Some have been uncertain. Some have been entertained. But how many do you know who in the past few days have been talking about that and about nothing else?

Or put it differently. How many do you know who’ve simply carried on in the same old way with the same old preoccupations: the state of their health, their finances, the weather, the government, sex, diets, football, motorbikes, a new car? The boredom of work, the boredom of leisure. Getting the front room decorated. Anything worth watching on the box?

Or—again. How many do you know who in the past few days have actually gone down on their knees and prayed about this thing; or stood at the kitchen sink with their hands deep in soapsuds and prayed about it; or sat on the lavatory and prayed about it; prayed to be shown where the dividing line comes between faith and gullibility?

Come to that, how many of you yourselves have actually asked for guidance, deeply and honestly, with more than just the passing, wistful, intermittent gesture? Have
you
, I wonder? Or
you
—or
you
—or
you
? Is it worth as much as twenty minutes a day, this thing that happened here in Scunthorpe? This miracle? I wonder what proportion of us could say with a clear conscience that it was?

Is it worth as much as ten?

What
is
religious faith? It’s the acceptance of a truth which can’t be proved by the process of logical thought. We accept it because we have the authority of the Church and of the Scriptures, because we have the experience of God within ourselves and within each other. But there’s obviously a world of difference between that and gullibility.

We’re gullible, of course, if we’re easily deceived or cheated. And no one can deny that there’s plenty of that around, the intention to deceive or cheat. We find it in politics, we find it in the press, we find it in the Church. Inevitably, it comes down to the individual: the politician, the journalist, the vicar. So this is the question which you now have to ask yourselves: do you think the present vicar is out to deceive and cheat you? Or do you think, a shade more charitably, he’s just a dope, a credulous old duffer who, himself, could be conned into almost anything? And if you do think that—you who belong to St Matthew’s—well, how long have you thought it?

Because,
naturally
, there’s always the chance I’ve been bamboozled. And,
naturally
, there’s always the chance I’m wanting to bamboozle you. Why? Because maybe I hope to become famous, cause a stir, find myself in a position of some power? You can’t ignore it. I could have all the wrong reasons for standing here and saying all the things I’m saying. Of course I could. I could have as little interest in my church and in my parish, not to mention my country or anything beyond it, as…well, as I feel, for instance, that our current MP has in his current constituency. Merely a stepping stone to something better: that’s how I may regard St Matthew’s and Crosby and all of you now present. And remember, too, you shouldn’t automatically trust a man simply because he warns you he may not be trustworthy. You see, you just don’t know. You can’t be sure. Yes,
naturally
, plausible neurotics can be found in the Church, the same as in any other walk of life.

But
…and this is a very big
but
. What exactly is it I’m asking of you? Because whatever you finally decide in this matter it’s essential you should be quite clear as to that.

Am I asking you to believe in some sort of celestial messenger sent to Scunthorpe eleven days ago by God? Beamed down, if you will, like Captain Kirk or Mr Spock or Scottie?

No.

Am I asking you to believe that on that day in the car park behind Tiffany’s—by means of
any
sort of supernatural agency, benevolent or otherwise—a statement was made to two boys who live in this town?

No.

Am I asking you to believe they didn’t invent the whole message themselves, perhaps taking a long time over it and getting a lot of pleasure out of thinking how thoroughly we might all be turned into suckers?

No.

It isn’t strictly necessary you should believe any of these things.

Desirable, yes. But not necessary.

Am I asking you to believe the content of that message is good, however it’s been come by, and to act as though you believed in it?

Yes.

Yes, I am. Most certainly I am. Most emphatically I am.

For even though you consider the trappings as false as Father Christmas I should still have thought your best course was to play it safe. A gamble. How much do I stand to lose if I act in faith and the angel never happened? How much do I stand to lose if I take no notice and the angel really did happen? How much do I stand to gain, in either eventuality?