Artwork: The Thirst of Buttonholes by Bill Wolak

Attenborough
Andrew Hart

 

Monday, 2nd January 1922
The days are short and my confusion grows. I have started writing this diary to try and keep a track of my thoughts and to keep some order in my brain.

Being the first week day of the year I went through the parish records from 1921, to remember all that happened; those who were born, married and died. At first all seemed as it should be, so clearly my memory was not as failing as I thought it was. But then I looked at the marriage between Donna Hirst and John Williams, both of this parish, a marriage I clearly remembered taking. And yet the register had Donna as married to Peter Williams, John’s younger brother.

I looked again, confused, but the register said Peter, the handwriting clear and bold. The wedding was back in March – a cold day with still a touch of ice in the air. John had shivered throughout the service, although with the cold or nerves, I don’t know. His good natured face glowed red, whilst Donna had looked shy and nervous, but also happy. Peter had been there, his brother’s best man, less ill at ease than his brother, joking with those around him, and pretending to lose the ring. And then afterwards getting very drunk and falling asleep in the barn where the celebration was held.

How could the wrong name have been written? I must have been confused when I wrote it, but I am surprised nobody had said anything when they signed the registers. I quickly crossed out “Peter” and substituted his brother’s name and then blotted it.

Then I went through the rest of the registers for the year. Attenborough is only a village, and therefore St. Anne’s is far less busy than the church where I was curate over in Nottingham, but even so there were at least two baptisms a month, and a dozen more marriages and then there were the deaths. The cold winter had done for several of my older parishioners, although thank goodness it was a little warmer now and we had not had any deaths since October.

All seemed to be in order, but then I remembered little Brandon Jackson. I remembered his baptism in the summer, late August, his mother Mary and proud (and also slightly drunk) father Amos standing by the font. But I looked twice but there was no baptismal record for him in August, so I continued to look throughout the year, but nothing. And yet I remembered it so clearly. And then there was his brother Henry, baptised almost exactly a year earlier in 1920, but again no baptismal record for him either. I searched back for his parents’ marriage, one of the first marriages I had taken after arriving at Attenborough, but no record at all. I sat confused in the cold vestry, wondering if I was going mad.

Perhaps I should have a word with Ken the Church Warden, there might be a simple explanation, but I do not want the whole parish to think I am losing my mind; and in truth I know that he will not be able explain it. I had noticed strange looks recently and did not want any more. So I put the register away and returned to the vicarage, trying to forget it, and spent the rest of the evening in prayer.

Wednesday, 4th January
Matthew Tinker visited me early this morning, with a young woman by his side. Matthew has a small farm on the other side of the village, and attends St. Anne’s regularly. I remember taking his wedding three years ago. He is a Southerner from Hertfordshire, so far as I remember, and reputedly from a wealthy family.

“I understand you need a maid” he told me, as he and his companion stood in my study; I nodded, and he pushed the young woman forward.

“This is my sister Fi, she has been living with me since father died, but farm work is not for her apparently. But she looked after our parents and she is a good girl heart, and she will make a good maid.”

Fi looked at me with a small smile. I had not asked for a maid, but the house was becoming more and more untidy. My housekeeper Annie was getting on and whilst her cooking was satisfactory she was lax otherwise, and it was she I suspected who had put the word out that I needed more help.

We worked out wages, and agreed that Fi would be at the vicarage for five each morning and stay until the evening.

“I will send a boy to bring her and take her away” he told me and we agreed that she should start the following day.

“Despite her fine ways she is a good girl” he told me, although whether this was as a warning or a recommendation I could not tell.

When they had gone I sat at the piano and played some Mendelssohn, losing myself in the music, until Annie came into the music room and bustled about and eventually I took the hint and left. She had looked after my predecessor the Rev. Adamson, who has now gone onto better things in Derby. He had been a proper vicar according to her lights, with a large family, a patronising manner who spent most of his time in his study. I was clearly not what she thought of as a vicar at all and she did not bother hiding this.

Sunday, 8th January
At the morning service St Anne’s seemed half empty; or certainly less full than when I arrived here. It took me a while to realise there were barely any young men: a few, including Matthew, who was sat with his wife, and my new maid Fi, but there were few others. Where had they gone? Surely when I started there had been more young families, not all these women on their own.

I had been looking forward to preaching my sermon. I had been working on it for most of the week and thought it was one of my best, discussing the Messianic prophecies in Isaiah. But as I spoke to the congregation I realised that the subject was too abstruse and I wondered what I was doing. The people in front of me did not need a lesson in Greek or Hebrew, they wanted to know how to live in peace with their neighbours, how to live in hope in a world that was confusing and often brutal.

I stood there looking at the congregation in front of me. Some were clearly daydreaming, or bored, but others – including Fi – were hanging on my every word, and I did not know what to say. My years at Cambridge and then working in a wealthy parish in Nottingham had not prepared me for this. In the end I brought the sermon to a premature close and recited the Lord’s Prayer, before stepping down from the pulpit. Nobody seemed to notice that I had finished the sermon prematurely, which suggested I was probably right.

That afternoon I went for a walk. I realised how lonely I was. I had been at Attenborough for over three years but had made no friends. The farmers, their families and their workers held me too much in awe to have any kind of intimacy with me, whilst the only educated man in the village, Doctor Halford, was a Baptist, who took great pleasure in mocking the Church of England, so whilst we were the two most educated people in the village, we had little to do with each other. Lord Beeston, who lived at nearby Clifton Hall, was rarely at home and when he was, he showed little inclination to talk to “his” vicar.

I walked along the River Trent heading towards Long Eaton and Derbyshire, hitting at the trees with my stick and shivering in the cold, waiting for a voice from God. Surely here amongst his creation he would talk to me, but there was just the sound of birds and the river, whilst in my heart there was only blankness.

Monday 13th February
I was out with Mrs Samson, who was dying. At three in the morning she eventually closed her eyes and stopped breathing. Her son John wept and I made him a cup of tea.

“She had her moments, but she was my mother and I don’t know what I will do now.”

“You were a good son to her,” I told him, not knowing whether that was true or not.

“I disappointed her, she always wanted me to marry but it was not for me. I have just no interest in women, not like that….” He shrugged and looked embarrassed.

“Marriage is not for everyone,” I told him.

“During the war…I had my comrades. That was love but there is nothing here to match that,” and he sat staring into space.

When I got back to the vicarage Fi had just arrived. She looked frozen and her breath was visible in the icy vicarage. Her face was red with cold and I longed to kiss her, but instead I helped her take off her coat and scarf, feeling her body against me briefly as I did so. Our eyes met. Her eyes were blue and looked at me curiously.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled before getting on with her duties.

I had never thought of Fi in a romantic light before, but she was beautiful and seemed clever. Perhaps that was what I needed, somebody to talk to in the evenings and to hold me. The only love I had in my life was spiritual love, and love that was too insubstantial and left me cold and wanting something more tangible.

Wednesday 15th February
I walked into Nottingham first thing this morning; I was feeling restless and had some shopping to do. Once there I looked in the shops on Angel Row. I had need for new boots because the recent snow had exposed a hole in my present ones. After purchasing a sturdy looking pair I went to the music shop, which I knew well, and leafed through sheet music. I made a selection and the shopkeeper said he would drop it off later in the week.

As I was leaving a man called my name. It was Charles Fairbrother, someone I had known at Cambridge. I was bemused, as for some reason I thought he had left the area, or was abroad. He looked pale and unwell but was pleased to see me, although there was a sadness about him, and when he shook my hand, he felt deathly cold.

We found a café nearby and ordered tea and buns.

“How is life in Attenborough? You are quite isolated, especially after the war.”

I shrugged, “I don’t remember anything about the war, nor afterwards really. Everything is confused. Parishioners disappear, someone has messed with the church records.”

He looked at me.

“Yes everything is strange, Nottingham has also changed. I feel so lost.”

“I did not even know you were back in Nottingham,” I told him, “I was very surprised to see you.”

He looked at me for a moment. “I am not sure myself. I find myself wandering through the streets of the city. The people seem shadows so it is difficult to tell who is real and who is a ghost.”

We finished our tea and I ordered another pot.

“What happened to Molly?” he asked. “You were going to get married weren’t you?”

“I am not sure. Suddenly she was no longer there. She did not visit. I believe that she is engaged to another young fellow now, or perhaps they are married by now. I don’t think she was happy with me, not after the war. I remember her crying, we were sat together in a room, I don’t know where, and she was shedding tears.”

“I am sorry.”

“It is okay,” I told him, “it doesn’t seem to matter. I have a maid called Fi, perhaps….”

He looked at me shocked, “a maid.”

I shrugged, “Things are changing and she is….well perhaps you should come to Attenborough and meet her.”

Soon afterwards he got up without a word, leaving me to pay for our refreshments. When I walked out of the café he had disappeared without even saying goodbye or shaking my hand, gone into the mist which had descended upon the city. And so I sat by the canal and wrote notes for this diary, and will now head home, through the fields.

Later….
Fi served me dinner; apparently Annie was in bed feeling unwell.

“Are you hungry?” I asked her, feeling the need for company and enjoying the thought of some conversation, but she refused to sit with me, saying she would eat with her family later that evening. After I had eaten, I caught her eating some pie in the kitchen whilst cleaning the plates.

“Are you happy here?” I asked her.

“It is better than working on the farm, but I am not sure what I want to do. I thirst for knowledge and adventure…but here in Attenborough….” And she laughed. But it was a sad laugh, and I walked to her and for a moment I held her just to comfort her, she smelt of sweat and apples, but I was overpowered by her, and I bent over her and kissed her lips, which were hard and cold. She said nothing, but after a moment pulled herself away and retreated to behind the table.

I left her in the kitchen, hoping that she would come to me but also hoping that she wouldn’t. But after a few moments I heard the front door slam and I knelt and prayed.

Thursday
A most extraordinary thing. My new maid Fi knocked on my study door. She looked red in the face and distracted.

“What you did to me yesterday, it wasn’t kind….” I tried to interrupt but she ploughed on, “no sir, it wasn’t kind. My reputation is all I have. You would not treat one of your own kind like this. I know you are a gentleman, and a priest…but it was not fair.”

“But what did I do?” I asked in surprise.

“Don’t make a game of me. I know gentlemen have fancies; and I had to fend off various gentlemen when I was in Derby, but if I have to leave this job…then I will be back to working on the farm or have to leave here. I need to be able to trust you sir.”

We looked at each other, and then she walked out leaving me to my books. And then I read this journal and realised what I had done, but I had no memory of it. I remember meeting my friend in Nottingham, who I thought was dead, and walking home along the canal, but that was all.

Once I realised my mistake I sought her out. She was polishing the cutlery.

“Fi, I am so very sorry. Please believe me that I have no memory of it. I must…well I don’t know what happened, but I am truly sorry. It will not happen again.”

She curtsied, “I didn’t tell my brother because he would insist I leave, but if you molest me again…”

“Of course,” and after standing there for a few moments looking awkward I left her and played the piano.

As I played the music of Bach, I wondered if I was going mad. I had no recollection of kissing my maid, nothing at all. Yet I have continual visions of guns and death. Screams and fog descending upon me. I wake up in tears, and yet what do I have to worry about?

Tuesday/Wednesday
I woke up after dreaming of Fi. She was naked and wanton. At first I was not sure whether it was real. I could still feel her sweat upon me, and the warmth of her beside me. Surely it was too powerful to be a dream. But the bed was empty, and when she came in the next morning she looked at me as usual, bashful and yet knowing. I felt myself blush, knowing what I had imagined.

Saturday, February
I saw Fairbrother. He was standing in my garden, just staring over at the vicarage.

“Charles,” I called, but he affected to ignore me and continued to stare, and then he walked off towards the church. I started to run after him, calling his name. But he was faster than me and as he reached the church door he faded away.

And then as I stood there wondering where my friend had gone, I saw Lisa Mayo with a child in a pram. She curtsied.

“Ah Lisa” I was still shaken but wanted to appear as a clergyman, “and how is little Nathaniel?”

“He sleeps very well; he is a bonny baby. Gary will sort out his baptism shortly, he has just been busy.”

“Gary? I thought your husband was Nat.”

She looked at me, “I was engaged to Nat, but he died….”

“I am sorry, I had completely forgotten.”

And I hurried home, in turmoil, feeling her gaze upon me.

Friday 3rd March
I have been neglecting this journal, but have felt better of late, and will start it afresh. Earlier Fi was in the kitchen, sweeping the floor.

“Oh sir, how are you?”

I smiled at her, and then incredibly she was in my arms and we kissed passionately, such a passion I have never felt, but surely such love was from God.

“I love you” I told her.

“I love you too,” and she rubbed my back as she kissed me, her body soft against me.

And that night she came to me and it was more than my dreams. Her body so bright and pink, and she held me tight throughout the spring night. I hardly slept, but must have done so, because when I awoke she had disappeared, although her smell was still there amongst the sheets.

Saturday 4th March
And yet now she ignores me, well, not ignores me but no mention of our love. Has she changed her mind? When I taxed her with it she looked scared. Perhaps she was worried that I would turn her away, but I have no intention of doing that, quite the contrary. She is all I want in life, surely we must marry now.

She was cleaning my boots in the vestibule, sweating as she scrubbed them with a cloth. I walked over to her, and tried to embrace her, but she wouldn’t let me, sensible in case Annie came down and saw us.

“I love you Fi,” I told her, “let us get married.”

She looked at me as if I were mad, and after a moment, pushed past me and hurried out of the closet. And then she had gone, the front door slamming behind her, and I watched her hurrying across the fields.

She was only young and perhaps scared of what had happened, it was all too much for her I imagine. But I love her and want her to be my wife, and there will be an end to misunderstandings and anger. Only the purest love. Perhaps my unhappiness and confusion came from God so that I would meet Fi and we would unite.

Sunday
I lie in bed, trying to understand what happened today. My room seems strange, and there is shouting outside, uncouth and loud.

When I woke this morning I felt happier than I had for a while, and I knew what I had to do. Even the early morning rain failed to annoy me, after all we need rain for us to thrive. I knew that I was loved, and I loved in return, and soon we would be together. I could imagine us sitting together, her doing embroidery or knitting whilst I wrote my sermon. And then, praying to God, children around us so that the vicarage would have the sound of happy, childish voices.

As I walked into church and stood at the front I could see her, looking shy, her eyes failing to meet mine. I smiled, knowing that soon she would be looking at me with joy and content.

The congregation has continued to diminish, and yes I do hear muttered comments as I walk in the village. And even Annie has told me she will leave at the end of the month. I have lost congregants to the Baptist church and some even worship in the city. But those that remain are true Christian folk, and I stood there, looking out at my flock, loving each and every one of them.

As I stood there, waiting for them to settle I started to speak.

“I have an announcement,” there was silence and I could feel them looking at me, and I could not help but smile as I continued with what I had to say. “I hope that you will share my joy. You will all know that Fi has been my maid since the beginning of the year….” She was looking at me now, but her expression was not of love, but something like horror, but I had to carry on… “and now she has agreed to be my wife and the vicarage will soon have a happy, joyous family. I hope that you will all pray for us and our future here amongst you.”

“No” she cried and ran weeping from the church, whilst I stood there like a fool.

And then Matthew her brother was coming for me.

“What have you done to my sister? You are no clergyman, and you don’t belong here.”

Before he could lay hands upon me, I was helped into the vestry. Two men I had not seen before me had hold of me and walked with me to the vicarage, whilst people stood around and stared at me. They pushed me into my room, and locked the door, leaving me here to write and ponder.

And then a man who calls himself a doctor comes in and tries to talk to me but I howl with rage and sadness and in the end they lock my door and leave me to thoughts.

__________________________________
Attenborough Hospital for the insane.
“How is the patient?”

Doctor Shields looked tired and smiled wearily at his colleague.

“I thought that he was making progress, but the way he was today. Sundays are the worst of course, but today….”

“Does he still think that he is a vicar?”

“Yes, and now he thinks that Nurse Roberts, Fi, is going to marry him. He tried to kiss her again. Fortunately she is tough and fought him off, some of the others would have left if he had tried to embrace them.”

“Why a vicar?”

“Before the war he studied theology at Cambridge. He was a clever man and probably would have ended up ordained, but the war, so many young men crippled and maimed. The physical wounds they normally can be healed or dealt with, but the mental ones….”

“Do you think he will ever leave?”

“His parents want him but I doubt they would know how to deal with him, they struggle when they visit. Perhaps one day he will come out back into the world but whilst he still mourns his lost comrades and the fiancée who left him, I don’t know how he would cope.”

The two men sipped their tea ignoring the sound of broken hearts and souls all around them. And then once they had finished, they got on with their work.

 

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