A Month in the Country by J.L. Carr Page A

half-a-dozen pews and these huddled before an enormous varnished pulpit which I scaled and found my exalted position afforded an excellent view of the river through the rear window. Behind my head an enormous clock would share, perhaps engross my fellow worshippers’ attention. Then I busied myself finding two very long chapters in the Old and New Testaments and put the tasselled markers in. The clock’s loud ticking was much slower than my heart beats. The organist made no sound at all, her strong brown hands on lap, her head hanging. I don’t think she was praying. It was very hot and I began to sweat.
    On zero hour and not a second earlier, two freckled children, a red-faced farm lad and an elderly man trooped in and penned themselves like sheep below me. I then announced the first hymn, ‘O for a thousand tongues to sing my great redeemer’s praise’, which we sang surprisingly loudly for so tiny a band. The succeeding prayer limped from despairing silence to silence, the Lord signally not honouring Mr Ellerbeck’s guarantee on His behalf to put words into my mouth. Nevertheless I stumbled on, tossing in pleas to be forgiven for unmentionable sins I felt were His responsibility (with Passchendaele in mind) rather than mine, and sprinkling around plenty of Thees and Thous as cover: I deceived nobody. Opening my eyes once, I saw the organist’s bowed shoulders were twitching slightly.
    After we bellowed hymn 4 (‘Crown him with many crowns’) I basely determined that I must abandon my awful impersonation, even if I did land the stationmaster in trouble with the Circuit Authority. ‘Look here,’ I declared quite fiercely. ‘I’m just filling in and, as I’ve not preached before and certainly shan’t again, I’m going to tell you what I’m doing in Oxgodby and, if you want to leave or nod-off, that’s alright by me.’ Actually, they recognized the good sense of this and listened with great attention and, in fact, the children put up their hands and asked several sensible questions. Afterwards, the old boy who was their grandfather said he’d drive them over in his trap so they could see what I’d been talking about.
    When they’d drifted off on their several ways I thanked my organist, and as she was locking the door, made to put on my bicycle clips. ‘You could come on home for your tea,’ she said.
    â€˜Well, I’m expected back I think,’ I said but then thought, ‘Why not? Perhaps I can ask her to meet me again.’ (I was missing a woman badly.) So I added, ‘But I’d like to come; I need a cup of tea in this heat; I know the Ellerbecks will understand.’
    She lived at a farmhouse gable end to the road – not a big place. Deep red hollyhocks pressed against the limestone wall and velvet butterflies flopped lazily from flower to flower. It was Tennyson weather, drowsy, warm, unnaturally still. Her father and mother made me very welcome, both declaring they’d never met a Londoner before. They gave me what,in these parts, was called a knife-and-fork ‘do’, a ham off the hook, a deep apple-pie and scalding tea. In conversation it came out that I’d been Over There (as they called it) and this spurred them to thrust more prodigious helpings upon me. Then I noticed a framed photo of a young soldier on the piano top.
    â€˜That’s our son, our Perce,’ Mrs Sykes said. ‘He had it taken on his last leave, on his nineteenth birthday.’ A glance across those faces made it unnecessary to ask what had befallen Perce. But, when I got up to go, I went across and looked more closely at him; he’d been a stocky youth, open-faced, a pleasant-looking chap. His father came up beside me and was looking over my shoulder. ‘He was a right good lad, Perce,’ he said, ‘a real worker. Would give anybody a hand; they all liked him.’
    And on my way home by the