Tom Conaghan

Extract from Father Nicolas

Father Nicolas weren’t a priest. That much is for certain I suppose. He lied and deceived and cheated us all. Our years with him counted for nothing. 

Our Parish were sent a letter by the Diocese congratulating us on our art and fortitude in bringing his imposterism to the attention of their Holy Ministers. 

~

I saw and knew only from the corners I peeked from behind a crowd. None can know more than that. 

It’s not that I were handing him in. If I had a fault it were I believed him too much.

No, you can’t get straight what’s gone. When I were very young, my dad had to beat me cos he’d heard around how, to get other kids to like me, I told them all secrets about our family.

~

On Sundays, when I were young, how men and women would mill around outside church. Then, when it were time to go in, they’d go in together, all their outdoors cheer dwindling asudden now within its hallowedness. The sole one who went in by herself were Old Mary who would, while everyone were still outside, inch through them all with a smile, into the dark of church long before anyone else. When we all came past and took our pews, she were in her place, bent and eyes shut and praying most urgently.

She were like Pratt – everyone said – him who liked to get to the field an hour before everyone else cos he disliked the noise of everyone chatting. Or, they reckoned, she’d been up to no good and so had a greater weight of dirty clothes to wash.

None of us could have guessed why she had so much cause for prayer.

~

And the rector’s words came again and again:

Thy Will Be Done… We cannot change God’s Ordaining but prayer lets us align with it. Faith is washing ourselves clean of the presumption of knowing better. 

Give us This Day… Everything is only through God. We do not see or feel or know without God. His knowing everything is His protection. 

Lead us not into temptation… we all have worries and losses, it’s only quieting prayer will make it quieter.

~

He were the same age as I and we all grew up with him. Known then only as Mary’s returned son. He’d died as a baby many years before, before that snowy morning she’d seen him tottering over the common to her, just as he’d left her. Said she knew it were him cos he were wearing only his shirt in that cold, for he never would wear his coat.

At that, his second go at life, he grew up in the village the same time as us – in those years of Spring – though he were tall and sorry like a willow, and kept himself apart. Which might have been fine were it not for the great cowering of our Parish which happened then and how folk came to know of his great ableness, ordaining him as the priest at Minch, which brung in such a time we’d never dreamed.

I don’t know if we may all have stayed on like that. But, when others came, things showed different and everything we’d ever built were took down. 

No lifetime in England has had as much furtherance as mine. 

~

He were seized, not handed over. 

In my life I’d never seen more than a hundred people together until that day at Whitefield’s tump, when I heard the noise from the congregation of ten thousand, all calling for Father Nicolas. 

The very carnate Rev. George Whitefield, with slaves from America, and him a humble son of Gloucester.

~

After Old Mary found him returned, it were a year till anyone else saw him. He were chary, Mary said, and had never liked the outdoors. 

There were few in Minch who could remember what Nicolas had been like first time and Old Watkins, Old Halfford and Old Thomas went over to Besbury to see, though the wonder was how their knees could go down the hill, folk saying they must have sat and slid to Mary’s on their bums.

That’s him, they said when they saw him. There’s none other as pale. Or as beetle-browed. Even ten and so years on, that’s the only nipper as long as him and who regards folk like that. Whether it were a fairy or the Devil who took him, They’d brung him back right enough. 

They asked Mary what’d she done to be granted her posthumous boy back – why, of all her children who died, it’d been Nicky who been handed up. She said maybe it were him she’d prayed for most but she didn’t know – they went on and tried to ask her more but had to let her be.

~

We’d watch them go across the common together from Besbury into Minch, walking side-by-side the whole way. At the end of the common, by the churchyard, if Nick walked on the left of Mary, she moved him so she walked between him and his grave.

~

I never wondered what it must be like for him. I cursed the others for making him a mirror of themselves but though none loved him like I did, my love were as senseless as any’s.

~

When I told my dad about Nicky come back, he bent down me very close and made me vow on my own grave not to breathe another word of it – at my age, the picture I had of my own grave were strong, two large stone doors in a field.

Everyone in the whole Parish, my dad said, none were to tell the rector that Mary’s Nicky had come back to her. The rector’d come to us appointed by the bishop at Oxford and he would not enter into it in the right way. 

Not that the rector were bad. He’d always give us each a smile, stopping when he saw us children on the High Street and presenting himself as though to dignitaries, and we all laughed and looked down except for Rob who nodded back at him very superior.

I were young still and, when in church on Sundays, I were shocked to see Mary there, confused cos I’d thought she were the secret we were keeping. I couldn’t remember more than just there were a deep forbidding like an unseeable wall in the church among us. A wall, I imagined, made of a single stretch of stone, like my grave.

~

Though I only found out why afterwards, I were there the churchday it all come down. 

I don’t know how long the Parish had kept Nick a secret, but that time had a bright feel to it – like the intent of a hot day with everything alive round you. 

Dad and I would pray for Mum-in-Heaven then. He and I kneeling next to my bed after a picture he’d seen. For ages, I waited beside him as he searched for words. When I started fidgeting, his slaps at me came haphazardly cos he were scared to open his eyes till we’d finished. 

~

Mary would share her great fortune and everyone would help brood over this wondrous thing she’d found, all of us guarding it against the outside. It were a time of great anticipation and great togetherness.

~

Old Halfford always said the same thing when we came past him.

Mind, he said, don’t let them bury me in the church when I go – just chuck me on the bonfire and I’ll be right.

He’d laugh at this a great deal.

Chuck me on the bonfire! And I’ll be fine!

~

The rector’s face were that of a loving God, which – Heaven help us – had been a lifetime overdue for us. 

It were before my days, but when he’d come from Oxford, in the year of Charles’ restoring, he were hurrahed on his horse down the High Street like he were the King himself.

His eyes were always kind, his brown beard bold and thick, though you could hear his smile in his talk. God were like the sun which smiled on us, and the rector enjoyed painting the brightness of his glory all around.    

We loved the rector and when he beckoned us on the common we ran over – except for Jamie, who were scared by his big beard – and played his guessing games. 

Nicky never went around with us so it’s strange I feel I he were among us then. 

What gift, asked the rector, could we imagine a lark had given him yesterday; and what did we think he’d found in the core of the apple he’d ate that morning. The answer were never any thing we gave: gold! A bunny’s head! A Spaniard! Instead the answer were always more metaphysical than we’d thought, till one time he before he’d even finished his story about a chair he were mending, we were calling out: God, Heaven, Angels, which made the rector laugh so hard even Jamie looked round from his tree.

My boys, the rector said and bent down among us, the world is a gift, and held up some daisies for us. His breath always smelt nice cos, Baggett said, he chewed lavender.

God’s gift to us and it is my humble pleasure to deliver it to you. Look… everything we see about us is his good work. It brings peace to one’s heart to see it. That is all a priest is, boys, just one who feels God in his heart and shares the feeling as wide as he can.The rector finished peeling off the petals then rubbed the stalks off his hands. 

He were purely the bestower of God’s beneficence. We loved him for his simpleness.

~

I’d never thought before: though Nicky were always a stranger, even from the beginning he were joined to us. Even being spurned shows you your role in a Parish 

Though we only ever thought of him as a tool for our work. I wonder if he had felt part of us then, maybe he wouldn’t have needed later to be above us.

~

I remember that time there were animals come back from death’s door – and one morning we heard a hawk got into a squirrel nest high up. There were a terrible noise and shaking and one squirrel newborn then another fell out to the ground below. Then there were louder thumps on the ground and there were two grown squirrels lying in each other’s arms. When we went over to it (though it weren’t me among them but I feel I were there) and touched them with a foot, from between the two there skipped out a baby.

All the folk were heavy with such signs and emblems that year – we looked for them in at the usual times.  Lambing went fine. The mowing, though hard work with bad whetstones, took longer but weren’t as bad as was afeared. When calves came they were on time and no worse or better than normal. We took stock of it all and our thanks we gave in proportion. 

~

There’s a picture I have about that time of me one winter evening. Unknown to me, my dad were back home and I were surprised when he spoke behind me. Son, he said very sincere from the doorway, if you wish to you may sing if you like.

On the other side of the firelight, he were just a dark shape and so I couldn’t read his mood.

He stayed in the doorway for a while after, only leaving eventually after a long time.

~

It were said how red-faced Mrs Jones – her whose dad had been the tailor to Lord Someone-or-other – when folk spoke to her on the High Street seemed to scorn Mary and her great fortune. Even saying, when going bolder, she’d be surprised if it were her boy at all and not most likely a foundling fell off a gypsy cart.

She’d never mourned her husband and her daughter were all grown up and married – Mrs Jones said to a merchant in Gloucester, though we all know he were a collier.  

At home, my dad were in such a storm at this. Mrs Jones needs shut her bad-mouth or she’ll have us all robbed. He said if she didn’t, he and some others were up for hushing her their selves before they were passed over for ingratitude.

~

Having never sought her before, people found – now they thought it kind to call on Mary – she weren’t anywhere around. Maybe it were habits learned from the the years she’d spend hiding Nicky, but she weren’t home whenever people would call, nor ever round the usual lanes or fields. Other than when she appeared at church on Sundays, she were like a phantom. 

Where did she and her Nicky go?

~

Shrove Tuesday that year, all four hundred souls in Minch came onto the common, dressed up for dancing Thread the Needle. Though everyone asked, none had seen the rector that day and, as this were corroborated by more and more, folk decided him busy inside with all the Lenten things we were meant to be at, which made us free.  

It’d been twenty years off and Old Watkins with the Devil’s own job explaining how it went – his voice strong as he called out to us, getting everyone on the common to join hands and making a long snake of us all, me hand in hand with my dad which were queer, and queerer for him – I sticking my tongue out and making faces at him, figuring his were hands bound by I and his neighbour, though when he looked my way I saw his face were screwed-up red and gasping. Our line led and coiled all over the common and the wind blew among us all. I were sick Jamie were hand in hand with red-haired Alice Tebble, them both the fairest in Minch and who I loved the most. Jamie didn’t look at her though she danced where she stood. Rob and Trusty were with each other, their families knowing each other. Though it were worst for Stevoo whose hand were had by old redfaced Ms Jones. 

They say there’s none as dumb as Minch cows for they would sit in the good weather and stand in the rain, and I remember them all sat there under the oaks like they’d come to watch our show. 

Though he were aged, Watkins were still square as an ox. Like a giant among us all, he stood in the middle of our lines and assembled us. While he spoke, the line swayed here and there. He hollered at parts of it to stay still and the folk there all glared around for it to stop but it roamed on all the same, as if wind-blown.  

On the wall behind me, the olduns who I’d never seen move much before, waggled their feet and rocked at the sight of us all.

Old Watkins sent Newbold over to quieten the lines but Newbold were a kiddy-fiddler and only went over to tickle the children till the line flailed round and he were knocked over. 

Watkins had stalked off to the very end of everyone which were Neil Williams’ little brother. Though I knew Neil well, he were so quiet this were the first time I knew he had a brother. They had the same slight hedgehog eyes on them both, the brother just smaller and paler like he’d grown in less sunlight. 

Watkins’ hollered each word slow so it were carried round on the wind. This nipper here, he said, is the needle on the thread, shaking littler Williams by his shoulders like he were no more than a leaf. He will go forward and through the eye of the needle which is – and Watkins stamped off over the common a hundred yards past the serried rows of us all, to the other side of the line.

– Here! he went on, holding up the hands of the two women at the other end of the line. I think they were Alice Dixon and Kerry Portlock’s two mums, their whole families being like one.

– The nipper will then lead everyone through this eye, before coming all the way round again, long enough a circle to pull the thread tight and turn the last person round to face away like this. He’ll then bring it all the way round, go through the eye made by the next two in line – this being Kerry Portlock’s mum and Kerry Portlock herself – turning Maggie here away, then lead you all  through the third eye – here Kerry Portlock and her dad held up their arms. 

And so on, said Old Watkins. He turned to look round the busy common. Now, everyone ready? 

On the wall, Old Thomas and Halfford were calling out: He won’t go like that! You old sheep! You done it wrong! Which made the olduns beside them laugh. 

Littler Williams looked paler than a ghost.

Off we go then! cried out Watkins.

We all watched hand-in-hand as the thread crossed the common, and cheered as it went into the eye and then waited and whooped when we felt it tug us forward and we skipped forward together, it were only then, as I was passing one way and the other bit of the line were going the other, I saw May who had hold behind her of a lad which – though we were all going round so much I couldn’t ask anyone – by his pallor and dark hair and brows, I knew to be Nicky. 

My memory is him looking strict with concentration, his mouth moving and nodding as he danced like he were cajoling himself into it, a habit of his we knew him for doing later in life. 

What at the beginning I’d wondered at its great duration, now – inside its rhythms and repetitions – came to feel timeless, our work of turning each eyelet round pleasing and natural, like anything fixed or knit. All holding hands felt now a good way of being, my movement over the grass quicker and lighter than I’d usually could, like my weight were shared around and the pull at my arms were the thread keeping me from flying up and away. The familiar trees and clouds and houses from going round and round, the passing same folk and new folk, the slackness at the furthest point of the loop like being reined back, though which grew to a trot and canter as we were brung round, and towards the other end, we felt the thunder of our galloping as we ducked and sailed under and through the new eyelets and up and out before going on round, letting our pace abate gently for our motion were sovereign and continual – my sense of that morning like digging up something long cherished of mine.

So, it were cos of this, I couldn’t say how long it were before I saw, leaning over the common into the wind, the black crow-shape of the rector. 

Old Watkins were down off the wall and limping quick towards us. And though many of us must have seen his approaching too, none let go their hands from little Williams’ pulling, we kept our blasphemy on Shrove Tuesday, more and more flagrant and uncowed as we saw it as the rector came on, all around us the hollers and yelps and folk passing in tears.

And then now were the rector, his robe whipping and flickering around him, facing all round him the great serpent of us all. Little Williams had covered his eyes and eventually we each came to stop and let go each other, the sound of crying going here and there like it were flowing off the great oak trees around.

The rector’s eyes were brilliant. Though we were strewn all over the common, he looked at us all equally without seeming to move. My lip wobbled terrible when he saw me so I also started blubbing, my fear of God and Damnation and Him, which I’d tried to forget, now fleeing out of me stronger for being caged. 

It weren’t me, someone called.

Like the quick coming on of rain, more and more of the folk’s cries fell among us then, brung on by the rector’s stillness.

And he drew himself up, to speak, over their pattering, with the vastness and closeness of the storm. But then he stopped and looked and smiled, and we followed his eyes and were all hushed for saw it were Nicky he were looking at.  

Mary looked around her and the wind beat between and on each of us. 

The rector leaned his head on the side like he were ‘couraging a rabbit to come nearer. 

And though the common were wobbling and I kept my face away, I felt the warmth of her look on me. Instead, I stared right ahead where little Williams had stood, wishing he might free us and we could go back to our May day. 

And it must have been that others were all looking at him cos soon after he gave a shriek and vanished off over the wall into the Morris’ garden. 

Folk were apart now and soon sparser, smaller and smaller and smaller, dwindling between the gaze of the rector in front of them and that of Mary beside them.

My eyes dried quick on the way back. We walked next to an old man I’d never seen before. He spoke with a bird’s screech I could hardly make sense of.

How you think on that, younger? One’s got roots which go a mile down, the other’s bigger than a giant. ‘Magine someone being both.

The last thing I saw behind on the common was the rector stood alone in the wind. 

~

Maybe it were just childish though I were sure at that moment – and feel sure still – there were no powers or tortures on earth which could have made me sing for him then.

~

We were all sitting out one bright morning, when Baggett – who liked best to know everything, and liked second best to pretend to – told us his dad had just saved Minch from a terrible calamity. He’s a patrician sort and were giving a drink to the horse of a messenger who’d brung a note from all the way to Gloucester.

What sort of message is it? Asked Baggett’s dad.

All I can say is it’s a highly important pistle, said the messenger, except it’s the kind none would want to hear. It’s too heavy a pistle for me to give so I were looking for your priest if he would pass it on. This is their line of work more it’s mine.

News of a death? said Baggett’s dad, who’s? 

I shouldn’t say, but it’s a bad day for the Rebecca Jones’ family, who’ve survived her dying the night before last from a miscarried baby.

The messenger went on and on, how he weren’t paid special for this sort of pistle and had had the idea when he saw Minch’s church he’d tell it to the priest here for him to pass on, though he hadn’t found him yet and he were worried he might not make it back home before dark.

Baggett’s dad thought fast – give me your message, he said, so you can make it back to Gloucester in good time. Our rector ain’t home this week, he’s off in Oxford seeing a play his sister’s in. I’ll make sure the mother of Rebecca Jones is told in full the news. 

Which is how my dad kept our secret safe from unfolding in the rector’s hearing, said Baggett.