The archdeacon laughed in a beneficent way and I smiled.
“You must be the architect,” he beamed.
“I suppose I am,” I replied. “Yes.”
“Very good. Very pleased you could come. There’s a door along here we can try.”
He shepherded me round the corner, past some shrubs and newly emerging bulbs. On this side of the building it was damp and shady, and there was a smaller door. It was locked.
“They’re trying to keep us out, I think!” he laughed again. This time it was a compulsory laugh, and I joined in. The archdeacon’s face was pink, his eyes were blue, his hair was white. He smiled a lot and took me under his wing. We sat down, side by side, on a wooden bench.
“They always seem to rope me in for these committees,” said the archdeacon, placing his briefcase flat across his knees. “Probably think it’ll keep me out of mischief! They’re most probably right!” This time I anticipated the laughter, which seemed to please him.
“Would you like a sandwich?” he asked, opening the lid. “I’m supposed to keep papers in here, but to tell you the truth I hardly ever get round to reading them. Always get given lots of papers. In case I miss something, I suppose. Good job really. My wife says I never listen. Not properly. Still, it all goes down in the minutes. I’m just there to agree with everyone really. Salmon and cucumber, I think. Yes. Like one?”
I said, “Thank you, no,” and he turned and smiled with bushy eyebrows raised.
“You don’t mind if I…?”
“No, no. Of course not. Bon appetit.”
“Ah, merci.”
The swallows were skimming low and it might rain soon. I could feel the dampness coming through from the bench, but it would have been rude of me to rise. So I waited while the archdeacon broke his bread alone. Silence had fallen, for the moment, on our small corner of the world. One of the flagstones between the bench and the door had a crack across it, from which moss grew. Some of the others had signs of weakness, here and there. I began to count them, from left to right, in my head, but the silence had become too much for my companion.
“Lovely garden, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely lovely. Abounds with flowers in summer. There’s a man comes from the council, twice a week. Sort of loan, I believe. Do you know him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Very nice man. Will always give you the time of day. Very nice. Always sweeps up.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“Yes indeed.”
We smiled and nodded together. A moment passed.
“Cost a lot, will it?” he asked. “This new roof?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can’t be helped, I suppose. Nothing lasts forever.”
I glanced at my watch.
“Oh dear,” said the archdeacon, closing his lid and rising quickly. “Rather damp, this bench.”
Here was the opportunity for me to rise as well, and we paced about upon the flagstones, turning our backs on the breeze that was getting up. The shrubs rustled as the archdeacon fastened his overcoat buttons, an empty briefcase clamped between his knees. In the tower high above a bell struck nine.
“This always happens to me when I arrive early somewhere,” he said, preparing to see the funny side of it. “I end up being late.”
We waited.
“Aren’t there any others?” I asked.
“Should be,” he replied. “Usually seven or eight at least.”
“Perhaps we should try the front door again.”
“Wasn’t it locked?”
“Well, I thought you said it was.”
He pulled a face. “Oh dear.”
♦
The front door was not locked, but because of the archdeacon, we entered the cathedral late. The rest of the committee were waiting inside, still wearing their coats.
“So sorry,” he explained. “Slight misunderstanding about which door.”
His arrival brought in the fresh air from outside. They forgave him with a shiver.
“Better late than never, Norman,” said the chairman, leading the way to where an antechamber had been prepared. There was a round table surrounded by wooden chairs with leather seats, and in the corner stood a cylinder-gas heater, pale flames nickering on the gauze. As we looked for our places the archdeacon took command.
“Now I’m going to sit next to you because I know absolutely nothing about architecture!”
He sat down in the treasurer’s seat beside mine, in spite of the card marked ‘Treasurer’. The chairman’s table plan was now upset. He tried to intervene. The archdeacon did not listen. He was telling me about his pen.
“Gift from the last chancellor. Christmas 1972 it was. No, sorry, ‘71. Very nice man. Always exchanged gifts at Christmas. Without fail. Terrible loss and we miss him greatly. Never let me down, this pen.” He removed its cap, examined the nib and then replaced the cap again.
“Won’t be needing it today, of course. Not with all these pencils Frank provides. Always a box of pencils. You wouldn’t believe it. If I had all the pencils…oh, we’re ready, are we, Frank? Sorry.”
♦
The chairman, meanwhile, had made diplomatic moves and managed to rearrange the table plan without the archdeacon even noticing. At last we were all seated and the minutes of the previous meeting were read aloud.
Beside me the archdeacon had fallen silent for the time being. As business proceeded and various points were raised, he carefully balanced his pencil at the edge of his pad. If he placed a finger on one end of the pencil, it would dip and touch the table surface. When he removed his finger it became level again. After half an hour he suddenly took up his pencil and wrote LIGHT BULB in block letters across one corner of the pad. The rest of the time he nodded and smiled, and gave the appearance of listening.
At the end of the first session, the chairman addressed the archdeacon: “Unless you’ve got anything to add to that, Norman?”
“No, no,” said my neighbour with confidence. “Sounds fine to me.”
There then followed a welcome break for coffee and biscuits. Before I had a chance to stretch myself, a firm hand took me by the arm and led me over to a newly opened hatch.
As he offered a plate of Malted Milks the archdeacon spoke in a low voice. “Not going too bad, is it?”
“So far, no,” I agreed.
“Not too bad at all. Odd that they haven’t mentioned the roof yet.”
“Odd?”
“Yes. Must be a trial for your patience.”
“Why’s that?”
“You being the architect and everything.” He looked at me. “You did say you were the architect, didn’t you?”
“Yes, architect would be one way of describing me,” I replied. “I sort of plan things really. Set things up.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see.”
The archdeacon stirred sugar into his coffee before he spoke again. “But we will be getting onto the roof eventually, won’t we?” he asked.
“Eventually,” I said.
When we got back to the committee table the chairman had already been round tidying up. The archdeacon’s pencil, for example, had been returned to the holder in the centre of the table. Also the place cards indicating people’s status had been rearranged in the new order dictated by the archdeacon’s decision to sit next to me. As I resumed my seat I selected a pencil for the second session, and chose one for the archdeacon too.
“How kind,” he remarked, preparing to balance it again at the edge of his pad.
The second session continued in much the same way as the first, with a number of reports being read out and approved. After a while the archdeacon drew a circle around LIGHT BULB, the outline of which he renewed from time to time as the hours passed, until it became a dark ring surrounding the words. Then he added a pair of ears at the top of the circle, as well as some cats’ whiskers, before laying his pencil down.