The Concurrencies - part I

Old friends gather, but is everything as it seems? A novella in 4 parts

“Sam? aye, it's Jim, at bar. They’re all here now, I think.”

“Who is?”

“Bible bashers.”  There was a pause, then Jim continued “You know, party of eight, for the back cottages. That religious lot.”

“Oh.” said Sam, who was in the boot room office, line 8 on the internal phones.  “You mean the Mountjoy party? Did you send them up to reception?”

“Aye. Just ‘ave done. Charlemagne, he called hi’sen. Eriks has took their bags up forrem.”

“Thanks Jim, oh and don’t call them Bible Bashers, for God’s sake.”

“Wouldn't be bashin’ t’ bible for any bugger else’s sake now, would they?”

“You know what I mean Jim!”

“Hmmm. Reyt. You know, the fellah actually had one in his hand, at bar!  Aye. Big leather one. First time I’ve seen the good book in ‘ere, I tell thee.  And I’ll tell thee what else - he actually bashed it down. On’t bar!  What else d’you call that then eh?”

“Just be polite, Jim, they're here the whole week. They’re nice people.” said Sam.

“Not drinkers though, eh?” Jim laughed and put down the phone.

It was late afternoon, and the main bar of the George was quiet for a Friday.  Jim sighed, straightened his back, threw his arms out in a stretch then reached for a glass cloth.   Eriks returned a few minutes later and Jim threw the glass cloth at him as he approached  “Finish this lot will you?” he said, nodding up at the wine glasses hanging above the bar “I’m going up to see the boss. I reckon Chef’ll have buggered up menu again by look of it, and Sam’ll need me to go shopping for ‘im“

“How' do you mean?” asked Eriks. His accent was European. Jim had taken him for Polish, and that had stuck, even though Eriks was Latvian.

“Bible bashers.” said Jim, as if this was all he needed to say.

“Bible bashers?”

”Them church folk whose bags you've just took up the back cottages.  Chris-tee-uns.”  Jim said, slowly and loudly.

 Eriks didn’t know what to reply.

“There's eight of them in’t there? So Christians’ll all be wanting white fish and new potatoes, won't they, not steak and chips, see?”

“OK” said Eriks, still sounding unsure.  “They have very heavy bags.” he said, eventually, feeling he needed to say something “It took me four times to go with the cases.”

“Bibles. Full of bibles I bet.” said Jim, and he mimed carrying a heavy load in his arms.

Eriks pondered this. Some of the bags had felt heavy, but more like there was a single heavy object inside each one, that swayed back and forth as he walked, making it hard to balance. 

“There was also one of those … metal cases. Like for guitar. He would not let me carry, the man.”

“Hmmm” Jim sounded full of suspicion.

“They didn't give any tip. Not even one … quid?  I thought you get tips in hotel?”

“Pfff” said Jim “Tips? This is Yorkshire, lad!”

-o()o-

Charlemagne Mountjoy, who preferred to be called Charlie, placed the armoured flight case gently down on the bed and looked about the room. “Jolly nice, isn't it Lettuce dear, hmm?”

“I suppose so. Very clean. Very … new. No bath though; one of those ghastly wet rooms.”

“Did they put us in here last time? I can't remember.”

“No. We were in the old building. All low ceilings and beams. Don’t you remember the wonky walls, Charlie?”

Charlie did not reply. He was clearing away the kettle, the lamp and the thing full of biscuits, tea and coffee, making space for the flight case on the reproduction desk.  Letitia went to the window and looked out, then went to her suitcase and began to unpack.

“It looks to me that we’re in the old stable block.”

Her husband continued to rustle about with the case, humming.

“They’ve converted the outbuildings.  And they’ve done something with the gardens.”

“Hmm. Bit of investment eh? Must be doing well.”

“Portuguese laurel has no place in the Dales. They’ve planted it everywhere. Worse than Leylandii.  Box would have been more in keeping, but they’ve no patience for it, these modern gardeners.”

There was a snap as Charles flicked back the catches of the case and lifted the lid, revealing a dark, matt-grey rectangular slab, embedded in textured black foam. Some glass panels revealed a multitude of metal pipes inside. The words “QSpin” were embossed on it, in electric blue. Letitia approached and peered into the case over his shoulder. “So that’s it then, this gadget that Anne has been making all the fuss about?”

“Indeed it is!”

“And it cost how much again? No, don't tell me.”

“Pretty much everything we had in the war chest, my dear.”

Letitia reached a hand into the case as if to rub a finger over the embossed writing.

“Don’t touch it, darling. Static! It's very sensitive.”

Letitia sighed and pulled her hand back “I still can't understand what it does. I’ve asked Anne to explain it to me, but you know what she’s like.”  Anne pursed her lips together, arched her eyebrows “She’s got a PhD, you know.”  she squeaked.

“From Cambridge.” added Charlie. They both laughed. Charlemagne closed the lid of the case carefully. “I’m just glad we got it here in one piece.”

“Why did we even have to bring it at all?  I was rather looking forward to a holiday.” said Letitia.

“This is the 5th gathering of the Novus Septuaginta, Mrs Mountjoy, not a holiday.” Charles said, gravely.

“6th, if you count the first one. Which was a holiday, if you remember! And why are we the Septuaginta, when there are eight of us?”

“Oh come on, darling, you must know this - it's how we started it all off - shall I get Geoffrey to give you the history of scripture lesson before or after Anne has given you the science lesson?”

“Don’t be mean.  It's just, you know, I’m a bit bored of it all now, if truth be told.  It used to seem…mysterious and a bit… I don’t know, daring, scary even. Now, I just feel it’s…”

“SHHH! “interrupted Charlemagne “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen…listen…oh good lord!”

Letitia tilted her head and concentrated, then clapped a hand to her mouth as she registered the rhythmic bumping noise coming through the wall. “Is that…”

“Lizzy and Alan!” hissed Charlemagne.  The pair of them started to chuckle.

“How shocking!” said Letitia.

“At our age!” said Charlie.  The bumping began to speed up.  Charles and Letitia continued to stare at each other, their eyebrows raising and brows furrowing with increasing disbelief as the unmistakable sounds of sexual activity went on and on and on.  A syncopated huffing and mewing started to become audible before finally, with a rattle, a groan and a shrill set of yelps, Liz and Alan apparently came to the same conclusion that it was time to stop.

“Now that?  That was scary” said Charlemagne, after a few seconds.

“I simply shan’t be able to look them in the eye at dinner, Charlemagne. We cannot sit opposite them under any circumstances.”

“Fair play to them, though Lettuce eh?  And both of them are 60 this year too!  Who do you think was on top?”

“Oh Charlie, stop it for goodness’ sake!  It was bad enough having to hear it, I don’t need a mental image!”

-o()o-

In the room on the other side of the corridor, Geoffrey and Anne Asquith were, in the words of Anne, enduring a cup of tea from the selection on offer in the room.  Geoffrey had forgotten to bring the proper tea, and Anne reminded him of this. Geoffrey replied that this was self-evidently the case and the reminder was unnecessary. Anne then reminded him how important a good cup of tea was.  Geoffrey in turn, assured Anne that he well knew this and that he was sorry for having forgotten the tea, but even if he had not, the absence of a tea pot in which to brew it would have been perhaps a worse disappointment and a waste of the proper tea. 

Geoffrey went on to say that, whilst it wasn't their favourite blend, it was nonetheless, Whittard’s, and how much better, at least, that was than an inferior brand, such as PG Tips, would have been.  And there had been real milk in the little fridge, which was a nice surprise.  As a gesture of contrition, Geoffrey offered Anne his ginger biscuit, knowing that she would at first refuse it, but on the third entreaty, reluctantly accept it.  The weekend was not, yet, in ruins.

-o()o-

Next door to Geoffrey and Anne’s tea ritual, Hilary and Peter Dunne, who had also been spared the sounds of Alan and Liz’s tryst, were kneeling in prayer. As always, Peter thought of the words to say and Hilary would say “Amen” and “In Jesus’ name.” here and there.

At some point, Peter would know when there had been the right amount of prayer. He could just feel it inside, like a lightness, he would say, like God had lifted a hand from his head.  Peter inhaled the slow deep breath - the one that Hilary knew was the sign for her to stop - held it to a count of ten, then breathed out.  They stood up and faced each other, holding hands and swaying slightly as they stared at each other, beatifically. 

“Has he heard us, Peter?” asked Hilary.

Peter closed his eyes for a moment “I think so. Yes. I do think so.”

“So… will we hear His word this time then, do you think?”

“God’s heard us, my love. He’s always heard us. I’m sure. We’ve been calling him, praying to him, giving up our good works to his glory. For years now.”

“More than forty years!” said Hilary

“Yes, two score and two” said Peter, as if saying it that way bestowed some further depth of meaning to the passage of time. “Now is the time, wife of mine, if ever there was a right time. For us, anyway.”

They absorbed this for a while, still facing each other, holding hands. Then Peter drew Hilary to him and embraced her.

“So, are we all unpacked then?” asked Peter, rhetorically “We are? Then I think a small glass of wine would be appropriate, don’t you, Mrs Dunne?”

-o()o-

Contrary to Jim’s expectations, all eight of the Bible Bashers wanted a drink. “Well, it would be wine, of course.''  he said to himself as he watched the posh one take a tray of glasses and a bottle of pinot grigio back to the table.  Jim was contemptuous of men that chose to drink wine in pubs.  He had been against swapping the brewery’s house red and white for a range of premium wines from around the world. “Nobody drinks wine round ‘ere.” he’d said to Samantha, from behind firmly crossed arms. “Come Christmas, all that lot’ll still be in’t boxes.”  He’d nodded his head towards the cases of merlot, shiraz and whathaveyou, that he’d had to lug, red faced, from the dray.  “Waste of bloody fridge space, that is, and I’ve no room on’t bar for all that … that… paraphernalia.”  He’d swung his arm to point accusingly at the ice buckets, measures and wine glasses that had come with it.

Samantha Braithwaite, the manager, was having none of it “Nobody drinks wine round here, Jim, because what we’ve always sold, round here,” she said, making a circle in the air, “is that plonk you take off the brewery. And come Christmas, I’ll bet you five pounds we’ll have sold all of it, and twice as much again!”

And she had been right, more than right, in fact, and Jim had had to cough up the fiver.  As a form of quiet protest at having to serve pie-not griggy-oh and the like, he took a perverse pleasure in mispronouncing the content of the wine list as badly as possible to any guest that asked.

As Jim leaned back against the counter, ruminating, he saw Bill Thirkettle shuffling awkwardly to get round the party of eight from his usual table.  Doggit, his equally aged border collie, left him to it, head on paws beneath the table.

“Two of the usual, Bill?”

“Appen,”  nodded Bill.  He bought two pints at time, to save on t’ shoe leather.  When he got to the bar, he cleared his throat with a growl then spat into a large, unpleasant looking cotton handkerchief he had brought to his mouth. He inspected the rag briefly, then buried it back in the pocket of his antique Barbour jacket.

As Jim pulled first one then a second pint of best, Bill’s head bobbed up and down slightly, as if in approval. His tongue flicked in and out, like an old tortoise, as he moistened his lips. He took a long swig of beer, when both pints had been set before him, then looked back over his shoulder at the party of eight, visibly disgruntled.

“Think I’ll settle at bar a while.” he rumbled.

Jim had a lot of time for Bill Thirkettle, aside from the spitting.  “They’ll be going in fer dinner soon, Bill, don’t worry.”

Bill’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he tipped his pint again.  The two men chuntered on a little, and Doggit, sensing that his master was not coming back to his seat, hauled himself up and padded across to settle at Bill’s feet again.  Eriks appeared from the back stairs, still buttoning a cuff. “Tek that eight to their table, lad,” said Jim, pointing across the room  “Best get them in early; chef loses his touch when he gets too many on at once.”

Bill swivelled round to watch Eriks hurrying over with menus. There was a burst of celebratory laughter from the table. Bill let out another grumble.

“That lot” he said, turning back to face Jim.

“Aye, reyt pack of grockles.”

“They’ve bin in ‘ere before,” said Bill.

“You sure, Bill? Don’t recall them mesen. I’d remember that bloody posh pair.  Lettuce and Charlemagne they call themselves. Lettuce! Can you bloody believe that?!”

“Never forget a face, me, lad. They’ve been ‘ere before. Whole bloody lot of them. Seven year ago it were, to the day,” said Bill.

“Well if you say so, Bill, but …”

“And… they’ve all been here ‘afore that ‘n’all. Woulda been abaht another 7 year back before that, if I’m not wrong.”

“Oh aye?” said Bill, his voice full of circumspection. “And I suppose you can tell us what they had for their dinners, eh?”

Bill said nothing for a while, ignoring the jibe. “Think what tha will. I’m certain of it.”

“But Bill, fourteen year? How can tha be so sure a summat so far back?”

“Whitsun.” Said Bill

“What?”

“It's Whitsuntide in’t it.” said Bill.   Jim looked perplexed. “Seven weeks after Easter. Whitsunday.”

“If you say so.”

“Aye, ‘appen as I do say so. Whitsuntide all this week past. Whitsunday service this Sunday coming, and the very last one at Wensley Kirk, Vicar says.”

“Whitsunday?” said Jim, baffled.

“Aye. Whitsunday. When Holy Ghost come down, d’int it? To the disciples? Jesus ascended up t’heaven?”  Jim’s face was a blank.

 “ ‘Ave you never read Bible, lad?” said Bill.

“Forty years back, mebby. Sunday School.”

“Ten ‘oly days there are, ‘int Church Calendar - that’s one you can put in yer Tuesday quiz for free  -  Easter, Whitsun and such.  And every one of ‘em, I goes t’ church in’t mornin’ rain or shine, then fer Sunday roast at the Bull, since you went all oat quizeen  in ‘ere. Then I walk Doggit up and back the tops, and then in ‘ere for a pint.  Been doing that since, well, since the Mrs. packed her bags.”

“Aye, right, but what of it Bill?”

“Soon as I ‘eard them lot this evening, all of them from outside ‘t Dale, it set me thinking I had heard one of them voices before. And I had. In church, Whitsunday, seven years back.”

“But ‘ow does tha know that?” exclaimed Jim.

“I remember it clear as day cos it were reyt queer to see eight new faces in’t congregation.  People die, Jim, but you never see a new face, least of all eight at once.  And… and…the Vicar welcomed them in special, see. Like they was old friends.”

“Right” said Jim.

“And I know it were seven years back because that were the year they took me drivin’ licence off us after me 70th, which was the same week.  Bloody fumin’ I were!”

“I don't believe that for a minute, Bill.”

“What d’ya mean lad?!”

“You being only 77, Bill.”

“Funny bugger.”  Bill supped at his pint, and looked up to his right, concentration on his face. “Reyt - I’ve got it now,” he said, jabbing a finger at Jim  “When t’ Vicar was welcoming them lot in to the kirk, I remember lookin’ at them at the time, and thinkin’ - them’s the same buggers that were ‘ere a few years back ‘n all. One of them gorrup and read the reading, didn't she, see?  That tall one, it were.” Bill  made a fist and motioned over his shoulder, pointing with his thumb behind him. “The beaky one.”  Then he leaned in and beckoned Jim to come nearer and he lowered his voice. “Now, I remember that because of what she read aaht.  It were a right … mystifying… thing what she read. I weren't sure it were even from the Bible at all. It fair stuck in my mind for weeks.  It were all about the Words of God or something.  I wrote some of it down, at time, what I could remember of it.”

“So…what yer sayin’ Bill, is they’re here now, they were here 7 years back, and seven year afore that.”

“And I’d stake me life it were seven year before that again, and I’ll tell thee for why!”

Jim started to laugh in disbelief.

“Hold on, lad, hear me out,” said Bill, setting his empty glass down “See that painting up there, over fireplace?”

“What, the Askrigg Friendly Society Portrait 1996?  It’s 12 foot wide, Bill, of course I can see it”

“Notice owt odd about it?”

Jim looked at the painting - row upon row of dark suited men arranged like an old school photograph, but rendered in paint. A little bit childish in the execution, but Jim could recognise a good few faces on the canvas as regulars at the George and other folk that lived across the Dale.

“Well, nothing, Bill. It's just Dales folk in’t it?”

“And how many women do you see?”

Jim looked again. “Well, one Bill. There’s just the one in front row, in’t middle…”  a sense of realisation came over him.  “the Vicar?”

“Reyt enough!”

“So what’s your point, Bill?”

“Its ‘er…in’t it Jim”  Bill jabbed his thumb back over his shoulder again, more urgently “ ‘t beaky one… she were the vicar, here, in 1996!”

Jim didn’t look convinced and shook his head.

“Have a close look at that paintin’ then go over and clear their glasses, have a good look at her and tell me I’m not wrong.”

Jim, who was not a church going sort, didn't recall there ever being a woman vicar in the Dale, and wasn't too sure who the vicar was now.  “Don’t be daft, Bill, I’m not doing that!”

“Go on, just go past table with breadbasket or summat, and have a glance. She’s got that beak. She ‘as!”

“But what’s the point you're getting at here Bill, with all this?”

“There’s just something… not reyt about it, Jim. Can’t put me finger on it, lad, but there’s somethin’ afoot.”

“You’re mekkin it sound like a right mystery, Bill, but it's something and nothing if you ask me.”

to be continued…

If you enjoyed this, part II is here The Concurrencies Part II and The Concurrencies Part III will soon be there - Part IV on friday 6th.