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The first to arrive were the Althorpe family who took their places towards the rear of the 14th century church, which was decorated in purple ready for Advent. A single candle flickered at the foot of the statue to Our Lady and the wooden coffin supports were in place surrounded by copious white lilies and evergreen foliage. Next to arrive was Miss Taylor, the village eccentric but esteemed organist. She left her pre-war bicycle in the porch and moved towards the organ console. The Althorpe family watched her slide onto the organ stool and marvelled at her green, woollen stockings (baggy with copious holes), heavy brown hiking boots, tweed skirt and white blouse with matching pearls. Her clothes were definitely part of her character but the locals accepted her eccentric dress sense as they did her style of playing. Alice Taylor reached down to switch on the console lights and organ blower. There was an audible creak and groan as the bellows raised and air started to flow through the internal piping.
"Who the hell’s that?" asked Jeremy Althorpe, the youngest member of the family. "The organist I presume," replied the mother obviously embarrassed by the question. "She looks mad!" "Don’t be so rude, dear. Remember where you are!" "Ok, mum." Alice Taylor removed her rings and bracelets and placed them on the adjacent hymnbook. She removed a small mirror and lipstick from her crocodile skin handbag and proceeded to apply a liberal coating of lipstick to her small, tight lips. With the task complete she then removed a bottle of aspirins and took a couple washed down by the contents of a hip flask concealed in her jacket pocket. She was ready to begin. Her thin fingers, complete with extended, red artificial nails caressed the keys and the sombre music started to fill the church from the fine, two- manual, Hunter organ. The Althorpe family were transfixed and enjoyed the melodies from the Sound of Music. "All we need is the Mother Abbess," announced Bernard Althorpe to his wife. "Be quiet dear and enjoy the freak show!" For the next twenty minutes the church started to fill with guests. They were suitably dressed in black and they each took their places in a mood of silent anticipation and partial reflection. The stillness of the church was interrupted by a loud crash outside, the sound of metal against wood. The churchwarden rushed outside to help Canon James from his car. "Are you OK, Canon James?" "What?" "Are you OK?" "Wait a minute, I’m not switched on yet." Canon James felt behind his ear and switched on his hearing aid. When at home with his wife he always switched it off to save the battery and the eternal ear bashing from his wife. "That’s better. Now what did you say, Terry?" "I asked if you were OK!" "Oh, yes. I never can remember which pedal to press when I want to stop," replied the elderly, 86 year old retired Canon. The front of his battered Citroen car bore testament to this regular emergency braking procedure but no one had the heart to suspend his driving license but chose to avoid contact when seeing him driving along the country lanes at speeds often in excess of 50 miles an hour. Not only did the locals know his car but also he could be recognised by the cassock hanging from the driver’s door and the permanently illuminated left indicator signifying motion. To read the rest of this story send me an email... © 2002 Steven Longman-Marshall – all rights reserved.
Dedicated to Canon Burt – an enigma of the priesthood.
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