Episode 3
The Flock That Christendom Forgot:
Or an animal padre’s uphill pilgrimage
John Taylor, Bishop of Sheffield and former principal
of my last college: Wycliffe Hall, Oxford, had certainly shown marked
kindness to me. Here I was, in the late 1960s, being transported from
living in the midst of a veritable slum into a most picturesque rural
setting where it was suggested I take life easier and keep an eye on the
spacious rectory garden and small orchard.
Indeed, Trixie, the mongrel dog whom I’d prayerfully
singled out, many years previously, from the Bradford RSPCA kennels
would be in her element; and so, indeed, would our four children;
particularly the youngest child, so seriously deformed yet encouraged to
play by the lovely half-Asian child we battled to adopt: our beloved
Anne Yes, I remember it well. That large, weird and spacious rectory; a
spiral staircase which went down into a fully flooded cellar and upwards
to the top of the building into a separated granny flat, once a
servant’s quarters.
If ever there were a rectory suited for a horror
story then Letwell rectory was. Indeed, within the granny flat was a
room covered in cobwebs and to one side a massive tank. On lifting the
dusty cover of it I was horrified to discover the largest fungi I'd ever
witnessed which was partly submerged in the water. Need one wonder that
I emptied a whole bottle of Dettol within it! But then worse suspicions
were confirmed the next morning. On partaking of an early morning drink
of water, from our bedroom washbasin, the water came out rather white
and scented!
As for my first church council meeting within this
rural parish, it too sticks in my mind as if only yesterday. Indeed,
several weeks before my curacy in Doncaster ended - during the three
months' notice served there - an extremely self- opinionated lady (a
veterinary surgeon!) called to drive us across to meet the assembled
church council as they were all very anxious to meet their rector-
designate along with his wife.
If I remember correctly, the lady looked round at our
humble curate’s dining room - in the midst of an almost slum-like mining
locality - as if to non-verbally imply that she was wondering what the
bishop was thinking about in offering me the post of rector within her
rural, affluent setting. Her car was a bright red new Jaguar, the number
plate of which was Vet 2. Indeed, her husband's car, I was to discover,
was identical except for number plate. His was Vet I! Indeed, I was
later to get the impression that both of them, who had trained at
Liverpool together, had risen from quite humble backgrounds and that
affluence had seemingly gone to their heads. Nevertheless, I may well
have been quite wrong!
Meeting Vet Number One
It needs to be said that Vet 1 was a most cordial
fellow at our first meeting of the church council. Though forced to use
two sticks because of a creeping paralysis that he bravely fought
against - the perspiration often appearing on his forehead - he hinted
of how the parish had been left to some-what decay under the previous
Incumbent’s reign. The past cleric had received some criticism for
sucking up to the more affluent clientele of the parish and ignoring the
less prosperous members.
Indeed I assured both him and the rest of the
gathered parochial church council that evening that they had no need to
fear! The Vet also mentioned to the gathering, which'd turned out to
assess us, that a parish magazine needed to be started; and though this
venture would be run by them (the church council), a letter from myself,
once I’d been duly installed as their rector, would also be welcome!
‘Big deal!’ I said to myself, smiled and remained mute.
However, after being duly inducted in to the
benefice, and in consultation with my bishop the next month, I was
advised to the contrary. ‘As rector you would be very wise to hold the
editorship in your own hands; this is part of your commission and
responsibility as priest of the parish!’ Consequently, once inducted -
and having learnt much from far-off days as an apprentice printer - I
soon brought out an attractive parish magazine; and, in a sense, I
suppose, over their heads! Nevertheless, I had learned from the past
never to become a puppet to a few but rather a prophet to the masses. I
determined to publish - after much prayer - what God wanted me to say
rather than man.
It was, indeed, round about this time that I visited
a young couple; the husband having been largely left a smallish farm.
“Come round. I’ve something to show you!” he said, and we made our way
to an outhouse very much like a garage. ‘I know!’ I said to myself;
‘when he opens this door – pulling it up on the top hinges - he’ll have
a flashy new, low built open sports car!’ Well, what a shock confronted
me, because ‘out of the pitch darkness’ peering up at me from the end of
long straggly necks were birds literally crammed together.
A strange humming kind of sound; and a feeling that I
was witnessing something from a horror movie took hold of me. “What do
you think?”, he excitedly asked as he looked towards my eyes. “Well – no
disrespects – but don’t you think it’s rather a bit cruel?” I asked; “-
and particularly, as you’ve said, your birds were previously outside?”
He shrugged off my comment as hardly worthy of a second thought. “No.
It’s the latest up to date innovation, and I’m in on it!” he said: “The
Vet assures me that everything is OK; Come and meet my Wife; have a cup
of tea, or something stronger!” Well, such was the gist of that
conversation as I seek to review and recall it from the late nineteen
sixties.
Later that afternoon, I said goodbye to such a most affable young
couple, and it would not have been without a prayer for their home and
their business. But during at least four days that followed – I remember
it as if yesterday! - a battle was waging in my mind and eventually, on
a sunny afternoon, I returned when the young husband was out and – after
discussing the possibility of them returning to their previous practice
of rearing turkeys out of doors – seemed to have very much won
the support of the young and vivacious farmer’s wife. However, within a
fortnight and repercussions followed that reverberated throughout - what
outwardly appeared - a peaceful and most idyllic parish. It began with a
horrific visit from ‘Vet Number: 1’ .
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