Later, I chatted to Andy Souter about his music. He was a professional cornet player with various brass bands in the area, and in demand as a session musician. He was a shy, hesitant man in his mid-thirties and had recently moved to the village to look after his ailing mother.
He was implanted, but I received the impression that, even so, he held a deep distrust of the Kéthani.
That night, I remember, we chatted about how the aliens’ presence on Earth—or rather how what they had done to transform the planet—had come little by little to be accepted.
We noted how even religious opposition to the gift of the Kéthani mellowed over the years, as theocratic doctrine—as is the way—sought to accommodate itself to the exigencies of the modern world… or to compromise its principles.
I was to recall this conversation when, a few months later, as the scorching summer gave way to a compensatory winter of gales and snowstorms, we gained another—albeit temporary—member of the Tuesday night group. He was Father Matthew Renbourn, a Catholic priest convinced that his God still occupied His throne on high, and that the Kéthani were but part of His overall grand plan…
Andy Souter came to know Matthew very well, and is the best person to relate the priest’s remarkable—some might even say unbelievable—story.
EIGHT
MATTHEW’S PASSION
I first met Matthew Renbourn in the public bar of the Fleece. He was sitting at the table beside the open fire with the rest of the Tuesday night crowd, a pint of Landlord in his hand. He was laughing at a joke that Elisabeth had just told. Okay, it wasn’t that funny a joke, but he had such a deep, appreciative laugh that everyone else was laughing too. I didn’t catch on to his true identity at first. This wasn’t surprising: he was, in his own words, undercover. Besides, he was implanted.
It was my first Tuesday night at the Fleece for a while, and in my absence Matt had made himself a regular in the group. Now Khalid formally introduced us.
“Andy Souter. Andy plays the cornet,” Khalid said. “Front row for Brighouse and Rastrick, among others. Been round the world as a session man, too. Maybe you should ask him if he’ll help you out with the orchestra.”
I shrivelled inside at this introduction; but I shouldn’t have worried. Matthew was a likeable man. Maybe I should say an exceptional man.
People have a funny way of acting when they meet someone who has made a success of one of their own particular interests. Matthew was a keen amateur musician; nonetheless, he didn’t turn to me in a show of bravado or excess bonhomie as many do when they approach me in my professional capacity. Nor did he make a pretence of false modesty and engage me in sycophantic conversation. He smiled his wide, genuine smile, leaned across the table and shook my hand. “Delighted to meet you,” he said.
Khalid went on, “Matthew is the priest at St. Luke’s.”
Matt laughed. “I’m here undercover,” and he slipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a strip of white plastic. It took me a moment to realise what I was looking at. A dog collar.
I stared at the implant at his temple.
He smiled. “No,” he said. “It’s real. Not one of those fakes you hear about.”
He could see I was surprised; he was expecting it, almost looking forward to my reaction.
I don’t believe in first impressions: I think the time to make your mind up about someone is never, and although Matt Renbourn thought the same, he knew other people would disagree. He realised that he was always on show, and so he lived up to it. He liked to make an impression.
Later he told me about his “orchestra”.
“Well,” he smiled. “We used to have a band to accompany the Sunday service. You know, couple of guitars, violinist, kids playing flutes and clarinets. But then we found ourselves an organist, and suddenly the band felt themselves a bit surplus to requirements. My fault, I suppose, but I think you need an organ for the Gloria and so on.”
I said nothing. Call me a snob, but I’ve often thought that if there is a hell for musicians, their punishment will be to spend eternity sitting in a band such as the one Matthew just described playing, “Shine, Jesus Shine”.
“Anyway,” he said, sipping from his pint, “the band didn’t want to just drift along doing nothing, so we continued to meet and practice. Once you removed the ‘church’ association, others wanted to join in. Things have grown from there.”
“Novel,” I said. “Oxenworth has never had an orchestra before.”
“It’s not really an orchestra,” he said, but you could hear the pride in his voice. “More a show tunes sort of band. I’m trying to arrange a series of concerts to help with the restoration fund. I’m going to schedule one for next month. Give the band something to work towards.”
“Still no luck with the pianist?” Khalid asked him. He can be such a stirrer.
“Good pianists are thin on the ground,” Matt said, equably.
I was tempted to volunteer. Earlier, I’d heard Khalid whisper to Matt that I was pretty handy on the piano as well as the cornet, but he didn’t presume upon me. That was one of the many nice things about Matt, I came to discover. The truly religious are hardly ever pushy.
The evening wore on. I had a couple more than my usual two pints, and the more I talked to Matt, the more I warmed to him. He came over as humane and genuine, and more than willing to listen to the other person’s argument.
Towards the end of the evening I asked him, “This orchestra. When are the rehearsals?”
“Every Wednesday evening.” He looked at me.
“And what nights are you planning the concerts for?”
“Sundays,” Matt said, face still impassive.
I nodded. “Well, I have nothing much on those days. Okay if I come along and help out?”
He gave a wide grin. “More than okay, Andrew! Welcome aboard.”
If the truth be told, the orchestra was not very good, but what they lacked in talent, they made up for in Matthew Renbourn. It turned out that he was actually a fairly competent pianist himself, but that wasn’t his real strength.
There are some bandleaders who can take a group of musicians and make them play better than they have ever done before. They have a feeling for the music and a way of communicating their enthusiasm that lifts the band to a higher level.
I know, I’ve worked with people like that; and I say without any modesty, I’ve worked with the best. And although these people may have been significantly better musicians, none of them came close to Matthew in his ability as a leader of men and women.
The more I played with him, the better friends we became. And the more I began to have an inkling of what his congregation must feel each Sunday as he preached from the pulpit. When Matthew lifted the band in music, he was lifting us closer to his God.
It was this insight that threw his emerging mysterious side into harsh relief.
I remember one particularly cold Tuesday night in February. The usual crowd had made it to the Fleece through the snowstorm, and there was an atmosphere around the table of bonhomie that often unites people against the elements.
Matt, oddly, was quiet that night. He was not at all unfriendly, heaven forbid. (Heaven forbid? Listen to me! That’s Matt’s influence.) He didn’t have an unfriendly bone in his body, but he was distant, as if preoccupied with his own thoughts. He was certainly not his usual gregarious self.
When it was his round, he took people’s orders and moved to the bar. I gave it a couple of minutes and went to help him with the drinks. While we were alone at the bar, I said, “Is everything okay, Matt? You’re quiet.”