Ultimate Justice (30 page)

“Jack,” he said huskily, “Jack Smith?”

“Yes!” Jack had instantly recognised the man to whom he owed so much. He reached out and took his hand, then the whole of him. “Mr Evans! How are you doing?”

“You remember me! Not so bad considering. I'm ninety-five at Christmas.”

“Wow,” said Jack.

“And how's it all going with you?”

“Very well. You know my mother, Matilda,” the old gentleman took her hand, “and this is my youngest, Bandi.”

“Your youngest! How many do you have?”

“Three.”

“And they're all well and your girlfriend, um…”

“My wife, Jalli.”

“Of course! How long have you been married now?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“Time rushes by!”

“I have so much to tell you about,” laughed Jack, “none of which would have happened if you had not come round and sat with me in the rain!”

“Are you coming to the Harvest Supper later?”

“To tell you the truth we just popped in to find out the time of the service tomorrow and discovered this hive of activity!”

“Yes, ‘Messy Church'. I've been waiting for it all of my life. I've had my ups and downs with what I have now come to call ‘Stuffy Church'. Now I feel a bit like Simeon when he met Jesus in the temple, ‘Now let thy servant depart in peace, for I have seen thy salvation!' or in Messy Church words, ‘Now I can kick my clogs with a smile because people in the church are at last having fun learning about Jesus!'” he laughed. “But really, you
must
come to the Harvest Supper. There is someone I would love to introduce you to, John Banks. John is a town councillor who has been struggling to get a specialist school for blind children going in this part of the county for years. It has at last got the go-ahead in principle. All they have to do now is vote on the money! You and he could have a very fruitful conversation. By the way, do you have a job where you are now?”

“Yes, I work in a school for blind children!”

“Perfect. This meeting is meant.”

“I believe it is. I can now see why we had to come here today. I am delighted for the blind children of Persham.”

“Good. So you'll all come tonight. It begins at 6.30 pm. Don't worry about tickets, I'll organise those.”

Just then the old man stopped talking and put this hand in the air as high as his ninety-five years would allow. He had just seen the lady in charge do it. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and stood with their hands in the air too. The noise had been turned off like a tap!

“Five more minutes!” ordered the woman. “Start finishing off now.”

***

When the five minutes were up the woman said quietly, “Now, sit down where you are.” Everyone did so. “Chloe's people first. (There are some Chloe's people in the Bible too, in Corinth.) Now Chloe's people, do you want to show us your frieze?”

A long length of still wet wall-paper with drawings and cuttings of fruit and vegetables was extended. The leader called the others to move round to see.

“What have you got there in the middle? That looks like people.”

“It is,” said one of the older members of the group, “it's us because we should be part of God's harvest too. All safely gathered in like my husband Joe who passed away last year.”

“Dropped dead in the Pig & Whistle over a pint,” whispered Mr Evans in Jack's ear.

“Sounds the perfect way to go,” replied Jack.

“No, he still had three-quarters of his bitter left. He died too soon!”

“Yes,” said Joe's wife, who had picked up the last words. “Too soon. But he's getting me place ready for me when the time comes.”

“Good!” said the activity lady quickly. “
We
are part of God's harvest too. And we don't have to wait till we die because we can all become part of the Kingdom of God now. How good is that! Good, what have we got from Peter's group working on the prayers?”

They went through each group in turn and soon they had prayers to say, songs to sing and a little playlet. Finally the lady leader asked, “So, are we ready to begin? Let's sit in a big semi-circle. That's it, spread out. Not too far, George, we need to see you!”

When they had all settled, she called them to their feet and announced the first song. Words appeared on a large screen above her head and a young man standing behind a keyboard began to play a harvest worship song which clearly the children all knew and sang with gusto. Then they were all urged to turn to the people on their left and right and greet them, saying:
Welcome in the Name of Jesus Christ. I'm (name)
. The reply was to be:
I'm (name). Together we praise him.
Then a second hymn was sung. This one Matilda and Jack knew instantly: ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter.'

The worship progressed with all the elements being presented by the different groups and all too soon it was ended.

“Alright,” said the activities lady. “The
sad
news is that today we have to finish early because the people who are going to set up the church for tomorrow's Harvest Service need to get in and get started.” There was a polite boo. The lady raised her hand, “But the
good
news is that over in that corner there is orange juice, tea and coffee, aannndd… loads-of-Mrs-Whittaker's-Dorset-Apple-Cake-and-iced-biscuits. Wait, waiiit for it…! I've still got my hand up, George! Let's finish with our prayer, together, ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be among us, now and always. Amen!'” She threw her hands in the air and there was a mass rush for the goodies.

It was a very slick operation but within a very few minutes all the ‘messy' kit had been gathered up, the floor swept and the chairs returned to their traditional rows.

“Ten minutes past the agreed time,” sighed the activity leader checking her watch.

As soon as they had finished, a small army of people surged into the church with armfuls of greenery, buckets of dahlias and chrysanthemums and baskets and boxes of fruit and vegetables of every description. Jack was blown away by the smell of it all. For even the least churchgoing Englishman, the scents of harvest are laden with nostalgia – a nostalgia that is not just about the younger days of an individual but a cultural memory that extends back to Pagan days.

“Sorry Mrs P. Ten minutes late!” called the Messy Church leader. She was met by a scowl as a women bustled by her clutching special flowers for the sanctuary. The leader relaxed. It seemed that was all the trouble she was going to get into. But it was not to be.

“Since you seem to have persuaded the vicar and the churchwardens that you can move things, the least you can do is to restore the church to how it should be! Who put those chairs there?”

“Er, sorry,” squeaked Bandi, “it was me. I wasn't sure of exactly where they went. I'll put them right. Where would you like them?”

“I don't know you, do I? Coming in and moving furniture before you've been here five minutes!” snapped Mrs P.

“I was only trying to help,” sputtered Bandi, feeling cowed.

“I'll tell you who he is, Petunia!” spoke up Matilda. “He's my grandson, that's who he is!”

“Well,” gasped Mrs P., “if it isn't Matilda Simpson. Where'd you spring from?”

“Yes, Petunia Greenbottom, it's me. I'd like to say I'd died and come back to haunt you! But I haven't, sadly, so you'll be spared that a few years longer. It seems you haven't given up bullying people then?”

A small group of people began to gather. No-one had ever dared take on Mrs P. before. The ladies squared up to each other as they had done in the playground of the Persham Primary School some fifty years before. It was soon evident that Mrs P. had met her match, perhaps her long lost nemesis.

“Now,” declared Matilda, “apologise to my grandson and get on with your bouquet!”

“Flower arrangement,” wheezed the woman in an effort to appear defiant, but without being at all convincing.

“Whatever!” barked Matilda. “I'm waiting.”

“Sorry,” said Mrs P. to Bandi. “I hadn't realised you were Matilda's grandson.” And then, before any more attention could be drawn to her, minced off to the chancel step.

“Well, that sorted her out,” whistled a small man in a royal-blue clerical shirt. “I gather you are Matilda. Welcome back. People have told me about you. I'm Dave, the vicar. Been here for eight years now and no way could I have faced up to Mrs P. like that. She still sees me in nappies, I fear.”

“Pleased to meet you,” smiled Matilda. “Petunia Greenbottom was a bully at school but I was a worse one!” People laughed.

“I never knew her maiden name – or her Christian name come to that,” said the Messy Church leader.

“People used to call her Grassy Arse,” smiled Matilda. Bandi couldn't control himself and began to weep as he laughed.

Partly to draw attention away from his son, Jack then introduced himself and explained that they used to live in the parish many years ago. They were back on a very short visit. Mr Evans then came over and explained that he would like to introduce Jack to Councillor Banks that evening.

Jack asked if there was anything they could help with.

“No I don't think so,” said Dave. “It's all organised. Just come along to be seated by half past six. Thank you Mrs Simpson…”

“Mrs Smith. Simpson is the maiden name.”

“Of course! Thank you. And, don't be put off this church by Mrs P. – I'm afraid her attitude to life is not so, so… exactly Christlike.”

“No worries!” retorted Jack. He turned to help put the chairs in the right place but the leader had already done it.

“Five moves,” she laughed.

“As easy as that?”

“As easy as that.”

“So, Petunia Greenbottom married a man with the initial of ‘P',” said Jack.

“She
was
married but I don't know what happened to the husband,” explained the vicar.

“I know,” explained Matilda. “He ran off with the floozy behind the bar of the Red Lion less than two years into their marriage. He and the girl emigrated to Australia…”

“Talking of the Red Lion,” said Jack, “we'd better get back there. We'll need to get ready if we're to face a delicious Harvest Supper!”

“I love this Messy Church,” said Bandi, “it's cool. The leader there has just told me that sometimes they have a guitar band in, and the teenagers do a drama. It's not craft-work every week.”

“So, my home town is fun?” remarked his dad.

“The church is, anyway,” replied Bandi.

“That,” said Dave, “has made my day!”

***

They took their leave and wended their way back through the streets. As they walked, Bandi observed that he had seen a new side to his nan.

“There's lot's about me you don't know,” she said.

“How'd I know you were going to say that?” laughed her son.

When they arrived in the Church Hall at a quarter past six the hall was almost full. Mr Evans met them and ushered them to seats he had reserved for them.

“Just sit here for now,” he said. “I expect the vicar will try and mix people up anyway. But whatever happens those two tables will remain exactly as they are. They are the same every year. The only way anyone gets to sit with those people is if one of them dies or is sick and can't come.”

Matilda surveyed the tables. “It was the same when they were at school. The very same people. Excuse me I'm going to sit over there while there is still a space.”

“It'll be reserved for someone,” worried Mr Evans.

“That may be, but I haven't seen Cynthia for thirty years.” And she was off. Of course everyone remembered that Matilda was high in the pecking order from her school days. It turned out, as luck would have it, that the displaced person was none other than Mrs. P. There was nothing else she could do but sit on another free seat. As Mr Evans predicted, the vicar suggested that they all moved to sit with someone they didn't know so well, so that any new people would not feel so left out. That didn't apply to Karen and Tom, he joked, who had just returned from their honeymoon the day before! There was a roar of delight and people applauded them, while Karen and Tom went the same colour as the fresh beetroot on the side table. Tom stood up and took a bow.

“OK,” said the Vicar, “let's do it!” People got up and started moving around including Mrs P. It was like a game of musical chairs. Before he knew what was happening, two pretty girls had swooped on Bandi and carted him off to a table populated by young people. Mr Evans signalled to Councillor Banks who plonked himself down in his place. The last person to find a chair appeared to be poor Mrs P. who had hovered around the table with the ‘friends' but, of course none of them moved. They just continued to talk and totally ignored what was going on. This sort of stuff didn't involve them. By the time that Mrs P. had given up on getting onto a table of her own choice there was only one chair left – next to the vicar. That was not exactly a bad thing because she had been so battered that day, at least he could begin by helping her get over it by treating her with respect.

Bandi had never enjoyed vegetables quite as much. There was pork and ham as well as all sorts of different roots roasted and covered in gravy. It was all new to him. The others were amazed at just how much he didn't know about things everyone took for granted. In return they wanted to learn as much as they could about Joh. Bandi had gathered from the way his father did it that it was best not to speak as if Joh was a whole planet because it begged too many questions. He allowed them to think it was some exotic place on Earth. It was easier that way. They seemed to think he sounded a bit American and built him into their romantic view of California – Hollywood, sunshine, beaches and, following the song by Frankie Ballard, ‘bunches of girls' in skimpy attire.

Meanwhile Councillor Banks was in earnest conversation with Jack about the school for blind children. It would be attached to the Middle School, he told him. Jack explained the nature of his job and how important he felt a school that taught blind children how to make the most of their world was to them.

Mr Banks asked, “Would you be prepared to come and address the meeting? It's Tuesday evening.”

Jack realised their hotel reservations took them through to Wednesday morning. He decided that was why they, or at least he, was here.

Matilda was a having a whale of a time goading and stirring up the ladies on her table. Three of them remembered her from school but only one had seen her since. This was positive for Matilda because they didn't know about the dark years with, and then without, her husband Shaun Smith. She could return to her dominant rating in the school pecking order.

“So, you've not been to the church much before?” asked a dumpy woman. “How now?”

“We don't live in Persham these days but I did come a few times before I moved – but that was a long time ago.”

“But you was never brought up to come to church. Never remember seeing you in Sunday school. Anyways from what I recall you were dead set agin ‘organised religion' as your family called it.”

“Oh, I was. I couldn't stand most of them vicars and priests that came to take assembly. Do you remember that one who called himself, ‘Father Hopkinson'?”

“Yeah. He was a not popular. He got that young curate… didn't look above twenty, but I expect he was… anyways he brings him along to the school and introduces him. He had the unfortunate name of John Christmas. But the worst was when Father Hopkinson tells everyone that he doesn't hold with calling priests by their Christian names – no matter how young. So he only goes and introduces him to the kids as ‘Father Christmas'. Poor lad didn't stand a chance.”

“Whatever happened to him?”

“I dunno. He didn't stay long. Went to another parish by all accounts…”

“I remember, my mother liked him. He was the one who organised her to help with the flower arranging. He allocated her a windowsill. It's the same one where I still do my arrangement… I can't stick this Messy Church on a Saturday afternoon. It really gets in the way of doing the flowers. We used to have all day to do 'em but now we can only do the ‘top end' in the morning. We can't come in while they're on and if we want flowers in the nave we have to wait till after four.”

“But you came in earlier today though,” remembered Matilda.

“Well, today's different. It's Harvest. But I don't see why they couldn't hold their kids' thing in the Church Hall. Why does it have to be in church?”

“Because it
is
church,” suggested Matilda, “and I don't think it is meant just for kids.”

“'Cours it ain't church,” one of the ladies was getting a bit high on something and she was speaking rather too loudly. “It's Sunday School – of a sort.”

“Shh a bit Fiona,” said Cynthia, “don't doctor your orange juice any more. You'll smell like a ‘distillery'.”

“But it looked like church to me,” observed Matilda, “There was singing about God, harvest hymns even, prayers, a bible story and some drama. Next week they're having communion, I gather.”

“But it's not
proper
church. Folk are not coming like they used to. Our numbers are going down.”

“But Messy Church numbers seem quite high,” said Matilda.

“Well, that's the point. Our congregation has lost the young people to Messy Church. They go there instead.”

“Twenty-two years ago I don't really remember too many young families in the church,” said Matilda. “How many of the Messy Church people ever came to the main Sunday Service?”

“None. Except the leaders, and they still come on a Sunday,” said a woman who up till then had not said much, “and they want it on a Saturday afternoon because that is the most popular time for it. I think it's great seeing kids in church having fun. I reckon my son's daughter might even get confirmed this time – even though no-one in the family mentioned it to her. I was
sent
and
done
when I were thirteen. But she
wants
to be. She believes! I didn't until much later on.”

“But she doesn't have to get confirmed like we did if she wants communion.”

“No. She's been taking it since she were three. They've given up linking communion with confirmation it seems.”

“Like living together before you're married,” broke in Cynthia. But she quickly regretted the remark. Of all the people around the table she was the only one with a straight forward love-life. Still happily married to the man she dated when she was sixteen, she was the exception.

The conversation died, until Matilda picked it up again. “That's probably why I never came as a teenager. I was never sent, and I thought church must be the most boring thing in the universe from what the kids that went said.”

“But you said you did come – just before you moved.”

“I did,” explained Matilda. “I met someone. Well two people really. The first was Mr Evans over there, who helped us all through Jack being blinded, and the second was Jesus himself. It was, like, Mr Evans introduced us. Once I started talking to him – praying to God, that is – I began to understand why church was so… important, even special. When it makes sense, it isn't boring. And all the decorations and all the ceremony – even the statues and the incense if you have 'em – make sense too. It all depends on whether it's about worshipping the Creator, or just decoration and ceremony for the sake of it.”

The table was silent again. This was serious stuff. Then the quiet woman agreed. Jesus was what counted. She began to talk of her own experience of God ‘in her life' as she put it.

“You've never told us about this before,” commented Cynthia.

“No? Well, I didn't think you would be interested. But hearing Matilda talk it has made it sound like… something I could share.”

“We're all very serious tonight!” laughed a woman with increasing hollowness. “We're not at a wake!”

“No,” said Matilda, “but we are here to give thanks to the Creator for the wonderful gifts he has given us and to ask him to safely ‘gather us all in'…
right now
…” she glanced around at a set of stunned open-mouthed faces, and then laughed. “I didn't mean
die
you idiots! Aren't we at the Lord's banquet here tonight? We can be ‘gathered in' to his Kingdom
before
we die, can't we?”

“Indeed we can,” said the vicar who had come over. “You're clearly having an enormously enjoyable conversation.”

“Indeed we – hic – are,” said Fiona with a slightly glazed expression. “Vicar,” she called out loudly, “you'll know. Whatever ever happened to that gorgeous Father Christmas?”

***

The Sunday service was one that could not fail. All the traditional harvest hymns and the Eucharist in contemporary language. There are few things in the universe, thought Jack, to rival an English Harvest Festival with use of all five of the senses so intensely. Bandi was being helped to follow the service by an attractive young blonde girl. Matilda hoped that he would survive till Wednesday, but then realised she was the Vicar's daughter and scolded herself for not trusting these young folk. She recalled with horror how she had behaved at their age. By contrast this was tame stuff indeed!

***

Sunday lunch was enjoyed at the Red Lion. Jack asked Bandi how much he liked the young lady.

“What young lady!?”

“The one you've been cuddling up to most of the morning – and some of yesterday evening too.”

“I haven't been cuddling up to anyone!”

“No, perhaps not. But you've got very close all the same. You smell of violets or whatever they call the perfume she sprayed on herself this morning. And you've got that wistfulness about you which means that something inside is a bit pre-occupied.”

Matilda laughed. “And I saw her. Pretty, tastefully dressed in a not too revealing top and nice clean jeans. Blonde – natural perhaps – lots of it.” And she picked a strand off of Bandi's shoulder. “Vicar's daughter I think.”

Bandi shrugged. Why did he have to be blessed with detectives for parent and grandparent?

“OK. Good taste,” said Jack. “Go for it. Only don't get heart broken in the next two days…”

“Her name's Abby,” said Bandi blushing, “…and nothing serious is going to happen, is it?”