David Wilbourne - The Helmsley Chronicles

Title Page

THE HELMSLEY CHRONICLES

A diary celebrating rural and church life... a remedy for the uncertainties of the modern world

David Wilbourne

Publisher Information

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

Darton, Longman and Todd Ltd

1 Spencer Court

140 - 142 Wandsworth High Street

London

SW18 4JJ

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2012 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

2012 David Wilbourne

The right of David Wilbourne to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

The author and the publishers would like to thank Gwydion Thomas of the R. S. Thomas estate for permission to reproduce the extract from Residues by R. S. Thomas (Bloodaxe Books, 2002).

Dedication

The Helmsley Chronicles is dedicated to our daughters, Ruth, Hannah and Clare, for bringing us all such cheer.

Part One: 1997

Thursday, 1 st May

I cycled down to the primary school-cum-polling station and voted, the bright Mayday sunshine compounding the air of utter optimism. I hummed Things can only get better as I pedalled into York along the snaking River Ouse, past Terrys chocolate factory belching out delicious aromas, a chocolate box in every breath. I dodged numerous tourists as I rode through the city, Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate packed to the hyphens. I sped past the majestic Minster, where both my dad and I had been ordained decades back, parking my bike by the Purey Custs stone wall, careful not to scratch the Mercs and Jaguars jammed into this private hospitals car park.

The matron greeted me warmly. The last time I had seen her was when we had used the top floor of the hospital as a vestry for Archbishop David Hopes enthronement just over a year before. Peter Tatchell had threatened to disrupt proceedings, so Special Branch had singled out the hospital as a base whose security they could guarantee. Each of York Dioceses bishops had been given a whole ward to robe in, and then had descended en masse in their coped and mitred splendour in the lift. They emerged opposite the operating theatre, only to terrify some poor soul who was just being wheeled out, who must have thought he was having the strangest glimpse of heaven. We told him it was just the after-effects of the morphine, Matron laughed as we recalled the event. Now let me take you to Lord Feversham.

A ruddy-faced Lord Feversham was sitting up in bed, a linen tent over his gammy leg. Im sorry about your leg, sir, I began. But my studied pastoral concern was dismissed by a wave of a hand which had all the chill of Henry VIII about it. Dont worry about that, boy, itll heal like its healed before. But theres been some rum goings on at Helmsley, what with our vicar and his mistress appearing in flagrante delicto in the News of the World on Easter Day, of all days. Nor have we been helped by you lot at the Diocese fining us a couple o thousand for nailing a few Stations of the Cross to the wall. What are you going to do about it?

Well, Id like to come and be your vicar, get things running smoothly again, I replied, my brusque matching his.

You mean like Martin Bells going to sort out Tatton after the Hamiltons - providing, of course, he gets elected? Have you voted yet?

Yes.

Who did you vote for? Clearly this guy wasnt afraid of straight talking.

I voted New Labour, I admitted shyly, although Im actually a Bennite.

Good for you. They screened Brassed Off at Helmsleys little cinema last night - I heard there wasnt a dry eye in the place, so Labourll romp home for sure. But Tony Benns a queer old stick, yet talks a lot of good sense. Though why he gave up his seat in the House of Lords defeats me. But enough of politics; you want me to vote you in as our new vicar?

Well, as patron yours is the only vote that counts.

He suddenly winced with pain. No need to flatter me, he said gruffly. So what have you got to offer us? Whats your manifesto? Lord Feversham chuckled at his own election-day joke, a fiendish chuckle worthy of a Henry VIII-cum-Herod.

I know the Church of England, the Diocese of York, Helmsley like the back of my hand. Id get you running on the right tracks again, but with a bit of oomph thrown in.

What do you think of the Book of Common Prayer? The questions were coming staccato fashion, but I was ready for them.

Ive known it since I was a boy. Its a book with some beautiful words, but useless as a tool for evangelism and mission.

Im not sure the folk of Helmsley will agree with you about the last bit.

Well, read the BCP Epistle for Trinity 13 out to them, with all that seed and not seeds stuff, and ask any of them listening to make any sense of it whatsoever!

I couldnt agree more, some bits of it are total gobbledegook! But the last bloke promised to use nothing but the BCP, and then hardly ever used the thing. What do you promise?

That I will use only the forms of worship permitted by

Canon.

The ward filled with gales of lordly laughter. Youre a slippery sod - ever thought of a career in politics? No, dont answer that! Whats your view of Remembrance Sunday? Last bloke upset em all.

I think theres still a lot of wounds, a lot of hurt memories around, and our job is to heal them and move people on.

Fair enough. And what about all this high church business? I think weve gone too extreme at Helmsley - all these bells and smells are putting folk off.

I think a lot of Catholic ritual brings drama and colour to worship, but I cant be doing with all the excesses, which seem nonsense.

Couldnt agree more! Lady Feversham is a Roman Catholic and she claims our church faffs around over the ritual more than hers. Suddenly Lord Feversham looked at his watch. Right, Ill ring for lunch.You can pedal back to Bishopthorpe and tell the Archbishop youll do. I was summarily dismissed and appointed in one fell swoop.

As I cycled home, I recalled the advert Lord Feversham had placed in the Church Times , when the parish was vacant three years before, following the death of the elderly incumbent whod become vicar there in the year Id been born. The blurb accompanying the advert bizarrely included the following comment: How wise of the previous vicar not to shake hands at the church door following a service. Of shaking hands inside the church, we will not speak. It reminded me of the fiercely conservative Wolds parish, where the churchwarden had angrily scored through each section in the modern communion service where the Peace is shared, writing in red, THERE IS NO PEACE, HERE! I suspected bringing peace to Helmsley wasnt going to be the easiest of jobs. But surely, things could only get better...

Thursday, 28 th August

Helmsley nestles at the southern edge of the NorthYork Moors, 30 miles north of York. Though it can be reached from every compass point, on our moving-in day we choose the spectacular approach from the west, across the Vale of Mowbray, the low point, the hated flatlands of Wainwrights Coast to Coast walk. Driving through James Herriots Thirsk on the A170, a veritable mountain range looms to the east. We must climb that one day, a stranger might think, little realising that his stuttering car will have to climb it today, as the road snakes up the infamous Sutton Bank, with a 1:4 gradient and hairpin bends for mile after mile. The cars temperature gauge swings perilously close to the red zone as it mercifully reaches the top. We gasp as we look at Yorkshire in all its panorama, the Dales, the Pennines, the industrial west and south, with York Minster, just a toy church from this distance, mediating between us and the cooling towers belching out their toxic vapours, bound for Scandinavia with our love. Often in winter while the rest of Yorkshire is green, Sutton Banks top surprises you with a couple of feet of snow.