Well, she was content that there was a God in Heaven and He would have vengeance on those who sinned with their flesh. Disgusting. No spirit or backbone to this modern generation. Dancing on Sundays and not reading the Good Book. Not like in her day. Oh no. Well, they deserve everything they are going to get.
Alicia was sure of God’s vengeance. She was as sure of her place in Heaven, and certain that she and the Reverend would sometime stand before His Majesty and He would bless them for carrying His word and keeping His faith while they were mortal.
She went to the privy, disgusted that the flesh was so demanding. Everything physical was of the devil and the pure in heart had to be on guard eternally. The disgusting clothes that people wore nowadays showing themselves to all and sundry. Bathing costumes and low cut blouses and silk stockings. Disgusting.
As she walked back to the kitchen door, Alicia was glad that she had been brought up in the truth and the pure spirit. No gaudy clothes for her. Sensible woolen underclothes, combinations, and sensible bloomers. Sensible flat shoes and thick wool stockings. And knowing the Bible so well. She smiled, remembering her father, the Squire. Firm, upright, reading the lesson on Sundays, and all the services every Sunday, going to Church five times, her brother and her beating the boys and girls of his village if they didn’t come to church for every service. And being so near to God. How lucky you are, Alicia, how lucky to know that you haven’t strayed. That you’re one of the good and you’ll live in heaven for eternity.
Reverend Trout came in tiredly. He was feeling all of his years and he sat down at the table, hating the square, massive ponderous woman who set the plate of fish before him. But he hid his hatred, for he was glad of the parish and the two pounds per week he received from her, less ten shillings for his keep. He liked Tuncliffe; it was so old and beautiful and quiet and gentle. It was like his old parish in Dorset, but that had gone long since, like his wife and his child. Both dead, long since.
“How nice,” he said politely. The fish was haddock. It was old and stank and lay in a pool of graygreen slime of well-used congealed fat. The Brussels sprouts were boiled, boiled to that perfection of tastelessness only the English call cooking. Also on the plate were two soapy boiled potatoes, wet and slimy. A piece of bread and margarine. Sunday lunch, and it was always the same.
True, we are at war, he told himself, a little unhappily, but the war had little to do with it, as Tuncliffe was a dairy farm and the government allowed the farm to keep some of its produce, butter, eggs, bacon, pork, meats of various types and chickens and eggs and there was also a wealth of partridge and pheasant in season. There was plenty, but the plenty was for the Squire’s table and Mrs. Drinkwater always had her meals at the Manor.
He only got his rations. Sometimes he ate with one of the parishioners in the village, but this was rare and the village had many children from the big cities billeted on them. So the little food was distributed. To them. But the Squire entertained. Once a month he was invited to dinner at the Manor. The first Monday of the month. It was a custom from time immemorial.
But today’s Sunday was not the first Sunday. And tonight he would have Bubble and Squeak. It was his usual Sunday dinner. Boiled cabbage and Brussels sprouts leftovers mixed with more of the soapy potatoes — when there was a whole storehouse full of last year’s crops, but these had to be kept, kept usually until they were rotten, and then given to the pigs to make them fat and rosy and healthy — and this mixture of cabbage and potatoes was burnt-fried by Mrs. Drinkwater’s indelicate hand. She always prided herself that she looked after the Reverend Trout herself. It was a penance that she did, hoping thereby to placate the evil spirits that inevitably surrounded him and his immoral ways.
The old man sighed, and forced himself to eat. It was all he would get. He was thankful that he was old, and near the grave, and thankful he needed little to keep his thin blood circulating his thickening veins. He did not hope for death, in any way. He liked life. He gloried in life. But he would be content to die. When his time came. Then she put down the rice pudding. It was warm and lumpy — a sludge of condensed milk. He picked at it, then pushed it away. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m not too hungry.”
“That’s all there is.”
“That did me very well, thank you, Mrs. Drinkwater.”
He got up and found his pipe. On Sundays he could smoke three pipes to celebrate the Lord’s day. The rest of the week he could only afford one, but today, one after each meal. He knew that Mrs. Drinkwater disapproved of his smoking on Sunday. She had said so many times. And she would not let him smoke in the house — “makes the place smell like the halls of Babylon” she always said with a twist of her thin lips.
Reverend Trout sighed inwardly, pitying the woman. But who was he to judge? Perhaps she was right to be so firm.
He went out of the Rectory putting on his scarf and topcoat and cap. “I think I’ll take a little walk,” he said. “Thank you for an excellent lunch.” Then he made his way down the lane, past the hedge rows flicked here and there with spring growth. Beside the rutted lane, the gentle meadows rolled and dipped under the gentle drizzle. Crisp and clean. He quickened his pace slightly as he crested the hill and looked down on the hamlet of Tuncliffe nestling the oaks. He took out his watch and peered at it rheumily. Happily he noticed it was only twelve fifteen. Good. An hour and three quarters to closing time. The little pub, the Cow’s Bell, would be warm and easy and the Squire would be there and he would have a pint of mild and bitters with the Squire and they would play darts and even perhaps some shove halfpenny and they would have a fine time, he and the Squire and the villagers. Warm and content and far away. His arthritic fingers tightened on the shilling he had in his pocket. Perhaps he could afford one of those wonderful sausage rolls old Mister Wethersby, the Innkeeper, made. No. He better keep the shilling. Perhaps the Squire would offer him one. That would be nice. Perhaps he might beat the Squire twelve games in a row and that would make a shilling, for they played for a penny a game. Reverend Trout saw nothing wrong in a little game on a Sunday in a pub, even though the Squire always laughed long and loud and told him that if Alicia ever found out what he did with his Sundays he’d be tossed out of the parish. But Reverend Trout knew that the Squire would never tell, and even if she found out, he, the Squire, would let him stay on for the duration, for after all it was the Squire’s money that paid his stipend.
He knew the Squire would be content to let him stay on even when Reverend Drinkwater came home — there was never any doubt that he would come home from the East — but, “after all, Reverend Trout, he is my sister’s husband, and well, as you know, the parish carries a seat in the House of Commons and all that. Man’s got a lot of responsibility being the Reverend of Tuncliffe, in normal times, you know. And Theo’s such a decent chap. Did all right in Parliament — he’d just made his maiden speech when this blasted war started. If it hadn’t been for that, well, you never can tell. They say he’s got a good chance to be a Minister some day. No telling what position a man of his talent can attain.”
Then suddenly Reverend Trout stopped. He stared down, filled with the beauty of what he saw. There was a crocus, the first he had seen this spring, growing sturdily from the good earth. And around the slim green shafts was a cowpat, fertilizing the soil. But the Reverend Trout did not see the manure. He only saw the beauty of the crocus, pellucid, and from its beauty, he knew the majesty of the Lord.
