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Leaving

 

 

Rev. Maurice Jackson had been the vicar at Heppleton for over 40 years.  It had become his home.  The ideal spot, a rural parish, friendly people, all of which he knew and saw regularly, beautiful Dorset countryside.

 

Over the last forty years he had seen many changes; women and rules now seem to dominate the church, the church he had served for all that time.  Faith did not seem to be an essential part of community life he reflected, and this was the biggest change of all.  It used to be that his church was crowded every Sunday with people wearing their Sunday best.  Now congregations had dwindled so much he had to oversee five churches.  It meant a lot of organisation and it meant a lot of physical mobility.  Maurice considered that he was too old for both these qualities.  He was happy to retire.

 

It was a tremendous send-off for Rev. Jackson.  The ladies of the parish (mostly elderly) had gone to great lengths to decorate the village hall.  Bunting, streamers and balloons were festooned around the walls and photographs of Rev. Jackson throughout the years at garden fetes, Easter parades and memorial services decked any available shelf space.

 

Even the men were happy when the Reverend agreed that they could purchase some beer from the local brewery and some cider from the family in the village who still continued the tradition.  Men who had not seen the inside of a church for years, apart from Christmas and Easter, now hurried to the celebration.  Maurice did not mind; he liked the fuss.  He liked to see large numbers wishing him well.  He was a vain man.

 

Maurice Jackson seemed reluctant to make a speech and had to be cajoled.  He had been secretly practising it for weeks, practising to make sure it sounded spontaneous.

The old ladies feared that his replacement would be a woman.  Of course, they could never say that aloud - saying that they would welcome anyone into their fold but when Rev. Maurice Jackson made the announcement you could almost hear the sound of their relief.  And when he told them his replacement was a young vicar in his thirties, one hopefully young and fit enough to run such a job (this was a nod to how hard he had worked, he wanted to let everyone know and everyone knew how to nod and smile and agree with the old man) the ladies were positively dizzy.  They were all in love with him already.

 

The replacement.

 

His name was Clifton Maybank.

 

The ladies swooned.  It was a handsome name.  Already they were thinking about recipes.  Already they were planning how they would win him round.  Already they were thinking of the competition - their friends.

                                                                                                                                    

Rev. Maurice Jackson left to live in Winchester, in a town removed from the quiet village life of Heppleton.  After forty years he left his congregation and never saw any of them again.  Despite receiving many letters, he did not keep in touch.  He never replied.

 

 

Interim

 

 

It was unclear when Clifton Maybank would be arriving.  Apparently, he had to fulfil his commitment at his last parish.  This fact only filled the ladies with more anticipation.  He must be diligent, he must be hard-working.  They all had a picture of him in their mind’s eye and in all of them he was handsome, gentle and courteous.  He had to be with a name like Clifton Maybank.

 

In reality they only knew what Rev. Jackson had told them in his leaving speech.  He had departed that very evening and all attempts at contacting him met with no response.  They presumed they had the wrong address.  They presumed wrong.

 

The bishop was not much help either.  He was difficult to contact and they were simply told that when there was news they would be informed.  He made it clear that this was his final word on the matter so they had to wait.  They had to wait for Clifton Maybank.

 

In the interim they had a succession of relief and retired vicars serving the five parishes.  There was no sense of continuity and therefore no sense of community.  The parishioners felt adrift.  The sermons given were general and god-fearing, nothing seemed to represent their lives, because none of the clergy knew them.  It was a week here, a week there for the priests.  There was no opportunity to create bonds.

 

They just wanted their own vicar again.

 

When would he come?

 

 

Message

 

 

Mrs Forbes was the Parish Secretary. She had worked alongside Rev. Jackson for many years.  She was the go-to person.  When the five parishes needed support, everyone assumed that Rev. Jackson was the efficient one.  He was never late and was always prepared.  He was widely admired for this.  If truth be known, it was Mrs Forbes who organised the rotas and services. 

 

With vicars varying from week to week it was Mrs Forbes at the helm.  But something about working with Rev. Jackson had rubbed off.  Mrs Forbes was the Queen Bee in Heppleton.  She considered that the parish could not run without her and she let everyone (especially the ladies) know this.

 

It was only right and proper therefore, in her mind, that when the Bishop sent the message it came to her.  If she had pomposity and pride before, she had them even more so now.  She knew when he was going to arrive.  Clifton Maybank.

 

Mrs Forbes treated the information like it was a sacred jewel, something on a need to know basis.  But all the ladies needed to know and she told them all separately, telling them she had confided in them because of their trustworthiness.  So, all the ladies felt special and did not divulge the secret, the secret that everyone knew, to each other.

 

Mrs Forbes was still Queen Bee.

 

Clifton Maybank was due to arrive on 23 September.

 

 

 

Preparation

 

 

Family recipes, celebrity chef recipes, magazine recipes were all hidden from each other.  They told each other they were not going to make a fuss, they wouldn’t bother.  Husbands and families were tired of trying the same meals every night so that they could be perfected.

 

Dresses were bought and newly creased shirts just taken out of the packages for the men.  The men talked about the fuss in the pub, the hub of the community, and laughed about the antics of their wives, but they were curious too.  No-one knew anything about him except he was in his thirties and his name was Clifton Maybank.

 

Almost like opening an advent calendar, they counted the days until his arrival. 

 

They would give him time to settle but each lady wanted to be the first.  Mrs Forbes made it quite clear, that in her capacity as parish secretary, it was her responsibility to greet the new vicar first.  They were all disappointed, but nobody argued with Mrs Forbes.

 

 

 

Arrival

 

 

The van must have arrived at the crack of dawn because, when even the first of the congregation peered out of their windows before breakfast, the white van was parked in the driveway.  So, they never caught the glimpse they wanted.  Everyone would have to wait.  They had waited for a month but the next few hours would seemingly drag by.

 

Mrs Forbes, the Parish Secretary, had ordered strict instructions that the young vicar was to be given a few hours grace, a few hours to settle in and then she would perform the official welcome – although nobody could really see what was official about it.  Mrs Forbes had been a voluntary helper to Rev. Jackson and they were sure her title was one that they had concocted between them to make them both look important.

 

Hungarian Goulash was the dish that Mrs Forbes selected.  It would show she was adventurous and worldly, not confined to the small limits of Hepppleton.  She was a cosmopolitan lady. 

 

Mrs Forbes had never been to Hungary.

 

With absolute concentration she stepped down the path to the vicarage.  Mrs Forbes was careful; she didn’t want to spill a drop.  She knew it was impractical to wear her kitten heels but she wanted to look her best, to make a good impression.  Mrs Forbes had tried on almost her whole wardrobe before selecting what she thought was appropriate and telling, telling about her.  She was fully co-ordinated and the outfit was topped off by her mother’s pearls, only taken out for very special occasions.  This was to be a special occasion.  She was going to meet Clifton Maybank.

 

The casserole dish was heavy and she struggled down the path but she was determined to use her cast-iron best Le Creuset.  It was the mark of her.  It was also hot.  Mrs Forbes had just taken it out of the oven.  It was ready to eat.  Perhaps Clifton Maybank would invite her to share this meal with him.  That would really get one over on the other ladies she thought.

 

There was no response from the bell.  After trying three times Mrs Forbes realised that there was no sound from the bell.  She made a mental note to get the battery replaced.  She would add it to her list when she returned home.

 

Mrs Forbes was in a quandary.  She could just about ring the bell holding the casserole dish but there was no way she could use the knocker without putting the dish down.  So carefully and precisely she did just that.  Mrs Forbes was aware this was not an elegant move.  She had to stick out her bottom and move her legs astride to complete this.  She looked around, there was no-one to witness her discomfort so she completed her mission and knocked loudly on the door.

 

There was a noise, a scuffling – Clifton Maybank was coming.

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*

**

 

When he opened the door, he was everything that she had expected, had hoped for.  Young, tall with a hint of red through his blonde hair – strawberry blonde.  His clothes were a bit dishevelled but Mrs Forbes put that down to the task of moving. 

 

The thing that struck her the most were his glasses – certainly not the traditional sort that Rev. Jackson wore for reading.  These glasses were smart and trendy, they had blue frames and he had piercing blue eyes.  Mrs Forbes liked his glasses.  She was sure that they were designer.

 

Clifton Maybank held up his hands as if to express his apologies for his untidy demeanour.  That was how Mrs Forbes read it.  He stooped down and picked up the casserole dish as if it was a feather and beckoned her in. 

 

Despite boxes still being unpacked Mrs Forbes could see that he had already started to move in his possessions.  A beautiful picture of Jesus on the cross was hung in the hallway.  It was sad but poignant she thought.  Mrs Forbes thought to herself that he had good taste – that he would fit in well in Heppleton.

 

 

 

 

Colours

 

 

He was forceful, he led the way and she entered the lounge, the lounge where she had been numerous times, organising files, writing schedules, briefing Rev. Jackson on members of the congregation.  The room was different.

 

The room was red.

 

There were banners, scarfs and flags everywhere, a sea of red.  He spoke to Mrs Forbes.

 

“Came out to help you.  You were struggling with that pot.  But you had a real go – you looked like a giraffe with your legs splayed like that”.  Clifton Maybank laughed, chortled.  Mrs Forbes knew the accent.  She knew before he opened his mouth.

 

The red banners and scarfs and flags were red.  They were for Liverpool FC.

 

Clifton Maybank was a scouser.

 

“Great, I love a stew” he said.  “You will join me?”

 

“Thank you, but I have a previous appointment” replied Mrs Forbes.

 

If she walked patiently and carefully up to the vicarage, she hurried down as quickly as she could.

 

It was not as she expected it to be.  Her expectations were dashed.

 

The thought that prevailed in her mind – it’s not stew, it’s Hungarian Goulash.

 

Mrs Forbes had never been to Hungary.

 

Mrs Forbes had certainly never been to Liverpool.

 

 

Queue

 

 

Mrs Forbes had one of her migraines so could not (or would not) entertain the other ladies of the parish.  They were delighted.  It meant the path, the path to the vicarage was open to them.

 

So, they arrived, arrived with their cakes and casseroles.  Strawberry topped, whipped cream, apples from the orchard, spices bought in town, cows slaughtered for beef, sheep slaughtered for lamb, pig slaughtered for pork.  Every ingredient, in every conceivable way was brought to the door of Clifton Maybank. 

 

The ladies, one by one marched with anticipation up to see him.  One by one they were disappointed and scurried away.  The room was red and so were their faces.

 

The men tried a different tact, they invited him to the pub.  The men felt they had the upper hand when he accepted and especially when he accepted a pint, a pint of real ale.  What do men talk about when they do not know each other - what is their common ground?  Sport.  They enquired whether he was a good sport and Clifton could not stop talking, talking about his beloved Liverpool FC.  This was not the sport they had in mind.  The men enquired whether he would like to join in the local hunt.  Clifton gave them short shrift.  He was a man of God, he could not kill fellow creatures for sport, that wasn’t real sport. 

 

The men never invited him again.

 

He was not one of them.

 

 

 

Attendance

 

 

At first, they came.  It was curiosity.  He painted a picture.  He was young but his voice betrayed all.  He was not one of them.

 

Curiosity was what first stirred them to attend services.

 

Clifton’s first sermon compared Jesus to a football coach.  The apostles were all about being a team.  Judas was the substitute.  Clifton tried to say how he was just as important as the rest of the quad.  His jokes fell on stony ground.  They did not understand his jokes, they did not understand him.

 

So, week by week the congregation dwindled.  There were only a handful listening to Clifton’s stories, his stories of football.  They didn’t understand him.

 

He was an outsider.  He was the reserve.

 

 

Visitations

 

 

He was a different person.  He was a volunteer.  The dog-collar remained in the car.  He was not Clifton Maybank – he was just Cliff.

 

He did not want to be near home.  He drove 60 miles there and 60 miles back.  They did not ask too many questions, they were just grateful for the support.  Clifton Maybank visited every week on his day off.  Do vicars have a day off?  Does God have a day off?

 

Children with emotional and behavioural issues they said.  To Clifton they were simply children.  Children who had problems.  He was an adult and he had problems.  Perhaps he could learn from them?

 

There was one child who could not be helped.  His name was Daniel.

 

 

Daniel

 

 

Daniel was an elective mute.  He could talk, he just didn’t want to.  He did not want to communicate with the world outside, outside his own world.  Daniel’s parents had died in a road accident.  He had been there – he saw them die.  Daniel had not spoken a word since.

 

Every week Cliff spoke to him, he rambled on for ages.  There was never a response.  He drove the 60 miles there and the 60 miles back to talk to a child who did not talk.

 

Mrs Duncan ran the institution and she appreciated the visits from Cliff but she did not hold out much hope for Cliff or for Daniel.  They simply did not know what to do.

 

Clifton resorted to the only thing he knew about, the one thing he was passionate about.  He spoke to Daniel about football – he spoke to him of Liverpool FC.

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*

**

 

It was something Clifton had had for years – forgotten in a corner, nearly forgotten in his memory, in his childhood.  So, he brought him along for his next meeting with Daniel.

 

He was a tired old teddy bear, dressed in red, dressed in the kit of Liverpool FC.  He brought him along to meet Daniel.  They were never introduced.

 

His name was Kop.

 

Cliff did not speak to Daniel.  He spent the whole time talking to Kop.  He told him his fears, his worries, how he felt that he was disappointing so many people, that he had let them down.

 

Daniel never spoke, he never spoke but he looked at Kop – he could not take his eyes off him.  Cliff only spoke to Kop.  Kop was the friend you needed.

 

One day Clifton was in a hurry and he forgot to bring Kop.

 

Daniel was distraught.

 

 

 

 

Mistake

 

 

If Daniel did not talk, he still communicated.  This was lost.  Cliff had driven 60 miles.  He drove 60 miles home.  He drove 60 miles back.  He had Kop with him.  But he had made a mistake.  He had been in a panic, in a rush and he had left something behind.  He had left his wallet.  Mrs Duncan saw it.  She was not being nosey.  She did not understand why the young helper had suddenly dashed off. 

 

There was the evidence.  He was not Cliff, he was Cliff.  He was Clifton Maybank and he was a vicar.  He had never said.  He had just been a volunteer.  Can you just be a volunteer?

 

He drove 60 miles home.  He drove 60 miles back.  Daniel was crying so much he couldn’t sleep.  He was rocking and rocking.  Cliff knew that approaching him wasn’t right.  He did not need a hug.  Daniel did not need him.

 

Cliff talked to Kop for hours, telling him his problems, asking his advice.

 

When Daniel fell asleep Kop was accidentally left by his side.  Daniel did not sleep for long.

 

They had strict rules about bedtime in the home.  But rules are meant to be broken.

 

Daniel woke up in the early hours.

 

They did not disturb him.

 

He talked to Kop for hours and hours.

 

 

Services No Longer Required

 

 

He did not consider himself to be the best priest in the world.  Clifton Maybank considered that life was about learning.  Learning to be yourself, recognising what your strengths are and overcoming your weaknesses.

Clifton was not the best vicar in the world, but he was an organiser.  Schedules, rotas and routines defined his life.  There were five churches; not a service in every church every Sunday but there was so much more activity in the parish, things that needed to be done.  Things he kept to himself but he was confident that he could organise everything himself – and he could.  That was what he was good at.

 

Clifton told her he could manage.  He enjoyed the administration, enjoyed meeting all the people.

 

Mrs Forbes was devastated.  She had been essential to Rev. Jackson and she felt she was needed.  She felt she was losing her standing with the community.  Mrs Forbes would not go down without a fight and Clifton Maybank was the opposition.

 

He was not.

 

He never thought for a second that he had offended her.

 

It was his weakness.

 

He did not think.  He would never hurt anyone on purpose, he thought he was just doing his best.

 

It wasn’t the best side of him.

 

 

Advent Calendar

 

 

Everyone goes to church at Christmas - more so than at Easter, which was much more important.  The numbers dwindled but everyone went to church on Christmas Day.  Clifton Maybank was prepared.  They would come.  Everyone goes to church on Christmas Day.  He was prepared.

 

They did not come.

 

He had five services on Christmas Day.

 

A mountain of commitment but he had organised everything down to the last second.  He would have to finish up and speed away from each of the services but he knew he could do it.

 

They did not come.  A handful of people in each service.  He had prepared eucharists and wine for each service, he was sure they would arrive.  Everyone goes to church on Christmas Day.

 

They did not come.

 

It was a ritual.  He had to consume all the left-over hosts, all the left-over wine.

 

He was disappointed because they did not come.

 

 

Blood of God

 

 

He was organised.  It was his routine.  It was what made him Clifton Maybank.  He rushed from one empty church to the next, but he still kept to his schedule.

 

Then he saw the light.

 

The blue light that reflected in his rear-view mirror.

 

It was the police.

 

There was nothing to argue against.  He had drunk all the remaining communion wine as was in his brief, his role.  Clifton Maybank was over the limit.  The pews had been empty.  There were few to celebrate the host, there were few to drink the wine, the blood of God.  He thought they would come.  He thought they would come at Christmas.  But they did not.  And he had had to swallow everything that was left.  He was over the limit.

 

 

The Tip Off

 

 

The police had known where to find him.  The reporters were outside the vicarage the next day. They knew.  How did they know?

 

She felt needed once more, in the limelight once more.  Mrs Forbes.  Once a right-hand woman she did not stand at his right-hand side she now only stood behind him, where she could stab him in the back.

 

It made sensational news.  And his picture was everywhere.  He did not know how they had obtained the photograph.  He was barely over the limit but he was a vicar and it had been Christmas Day.  The papers were ecstatic, a coup.  Life for Clifton Maybank would never be the same.

 

 

Recognition

 

 

It was a grainy photograph but she knew it was him.  It was him in his uniform, a dog-collar.  Mrs Duncan had never seen him dressed like that.  He was just the volunteer who was scruffy and came to help with the children.  He was just Cliff.  He was Clifton Maybank.

 

He was the one who had given Kop to Daniel.

 

He was the one who had given Daniel a voice.

 

Mrs Duncan was not a worldly woman, she was not a detective.  But Mrs Duncan was a woman of virtue and recognised virtue when she saw it.  Mrs Duncan looked on the map.  It was 60 miles to Heppleton and 60 miles home.  It was no distance.

 

She had two weeks to save him, two weeks to find out more information.  The information she knew was at the heart of this.

 

Mrs Duncan was not a worldly woman and she was not a strong woman by nature.  Sometimes the weakest are the strongest.  Belief and faith are not restricted to religion.

 

She believed in Cliff.  She believed in Clifton Maybank.

 

 

The Parish Council

 

 

Mrs Forbes was only too glad to organise the meeting.  It meant she had power again.  The attention was on her.  The village hall was packed, packed like the village churches never were.  Trial without jury, one judge in residence.

 

They could not hear Mrs Duncan when she tried to speak.  She was not a worldly woman, if anything she was timid.  But, if she could not stand up for herself, she had the strength to stand up for others, to stand up to injustice.

 

A simple story, the best ones are.  A soul who volunteered and helped, who never let them know who he was.  She could feel her words were in vain.  They were not prepared to listen.  She had only one weapon in her armoury.  She had borrowed it.  It was his favourite possession in the world but he had sacrificed it to help Uncle Cliff.

 

Mrs Duncan took out Kop and told the story.

 

At the end she simply walked away.  There was nothing more she could do and a little boy, who didn’t speak, was waiting for the return of his best friend.  The only one he would talk to.

 

 

 

Trial

 

 

There was no contention.  Clifton Maybank would not lie.  He would not claim extenuating circumstances.  It was what it was.  It was the magistrates court.  It was packed – more people than he knew, more people than had ever attended his services.

 

Daniel could not be in court, he was too young and Daniel didn’t speak.  Mrs Duncan had done what all responsible adults do, she had told him the truth.  So, they made a video with Mrs Duncan as the responsible adult in the background.  Daniel held tightly onto Kop and ony spoke to him.

 

“I know you belong to Uncle Cliff and I know he left you with me.  I knew I should give you back but I wanted you for myself, I wanted to share you.  Only you and Uncle Cliff can hear what I say when I don’t say anything”.

 

The clip was, in total, only about two minutes.  In two minutes, a little boy had said volumes. 

 

The judge asked if the defence had any other witnesses to show the nature of the defendant. Clifton Maybank hung his head.  He knew they all despised the scouser, the one whose walls were red.  He was not one of them.

 

 

 

Testimony

 

 

“He visited my sister every week when she was in hospital.  They did not speak, they simply prayed.  She only told me two days before she died.  She said he didn’t want it to be known.  I didn’t attend the church, even after I knew.  He seemed so unpopular and I didn’t want to be”.

 

“He couldn’t sew for toffee but I knew the rag dolls for the Village Fete came from him, I knew because I saw him buy the cloth from the local charity shop.  I didn’t attend the church, even after I knew.  He seemed so unpopular and I didn’t want to be”.

 

“People laughed at the affection an adult can have for an animal.  But my dog was my friend and after I lost her he came around and offered me comfort.  I didn’t attend the church, even after I knew.  He seemed so unpopular and I didn’t want to be”.

 

“He only ever talks about football.  It is not the thing in these parts, but I have always loved the sport.  We talked tactics, we talked players, we talked God.  I didn’t attend the church, even after I knew.  He seemed so unpopular and I didn’t want to be”.

 

“He took my pride.  I wanted to be the most important, and now he was.  The thing is he didn’t intend to be.  I am dying.  He is the only one who has known.  It was him I turned to for comfort, but I did not give him any comfort.   He never told my secret, my secrets, my desire to be the most important person in the village.  It was not me and it was not him, it was Him.  I didn’t attend the church and I discouraged others from attending.  He knew.  He was so unpopular.  He was the man I made him”. 

 

Mrs Forbes.

 

 

Retribution

 

 

Clifton Maybank lost his driving licence for 12 months and was sentenced to community service based on the accounts of his good character.

 

Even he saw the irony in his commitment to uphold the standards and gardening of the local graveyards.  He tended one grave in particular.

 

If truth be known he didn’t really have to work very hard.  Each time he went to a placement the men would be there to help.  If this was community service it was certainly bringing the community together.

 

The ladies came.  They were perhaps too old to help.  But they came every time.  They came with their cakes and casseroles.  And every time each of them wore a Liverpool FC scarf.

 

 

 

 

 

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