for himself, Sankey gave up ale. Though it made him sorrowful to do so, he emerged a better, cleaner, godlier man. He took his large, kindly face, with its lumpy nose and dome of a forehead, to house, woodland, farm, anywhere they did not serve ale. He walked spryly, up on his toes, in any direction salvation was required and blessings prayed for. A few were charmed by his melancholy tone, friendly advice, and quick intelligent eyes that threw glances and squeezed together when he smiled. He was not too holy for jokes or sponge cake, and his long pale hands rested warmly on the palms of those in need or trouble.
Harry Blagdon, however, was the official lay preacher. He walked many miles on his circuit to Bourne End, Lacey Green, Flackwell Heath and Bledlow Ridge, and was envied by Charles Sankey, who begrudged him every step of his mission, every handshake, every cup of tea with parkin slice. At first Sankey had attempted a friendship, walking alongside him, sometimes all the way to Little Missenden, always joining him in worshipful singing as they travelled through sleet and rain and wind. But at every destination it was Father Harry they hurried out to greet, Father Harry who must come in after such a long journey and wash and get warm and take tea with cake, Father Harry who must suffer the fussing attentions of the womenfolk and the mindful solicitude of the men. It wasn't just the tea breads – Sankey could hear the jab of piano keys and bursts of song from inside the houses as he waited outside, he could hear the women's voices and the respectful silence that fell as the preacher spoke.
Sankey reckoned God was as much in his heart as in Harry's and He guided his tongue as mindfully too, but nobody else seemed to see it that way, and particularly not Father Harry as he handed Sankey his hat to hold while he comforted a grieving woman with unusually beautiful hair.
One day Sankey had his shotgun by him as he hoped to take a bird or two at dawn at the Hughenden estate before anyone else was about. A bright disc of sun had hung itself over St Mary's Church, the place it auspiciously began each day with the melting of the churchyard dew. Then there it was: Harry's black hat skimming the hedge, a phlegmy version of The Lord Taketh Care of Me', and before he was able to give it careful consideration, Sankey found that he had fired.
The shot was not accurate. And though Sankey knew he had not actually killed the preacher this time, he felt sufficiently afraid of himself, of what he might do next, to run away and hide in a lightning tree until noon. He hid the gun in a dry ditch where nettles grew, until it was safe to retrieve it.
Father Harry Blagdon suffered no physical injury other than mortal fright, which repaired well enough after the ministrations of local ladies, and was aided ably by generous amounts of tea, perhaps gin, and cake. Afterwards, however, Harry's story grew tall with telling until only those closest to God were able to believe it. These enrichments (garnishings you might say), sprinkled upon the truth to better explain to his flock the everyday miracles performed by God, were not in Harry's mind in any way related to actual sinful untruths. In any case he told the story, richly embroidered, for many years to come. He had been walking by Millfield Wood, he pronounced, when a blackened creature more than ten feet high with terrible sharpened horns appeared before him. Father Harry knew right away it was the Devil. He preached the word to the beast until, terrified, it turned on its hairy hocks and ran. And though it took a swipe or two at the preacher, brave Father Harry pursued it, chasing it back into the woods with its tail on fire.
Father Harry Blagdon was a celebrated hit after that. Sankey had inadvertently boosted Blagdon's reputation and spoiled his only opportunity for apprenticeship. Blagdon's circuit increased as his reputation grew. His triumphs over the beast meant he became increasingly
Harry Blagdon, however, was the official lay preacher. He walked many miles on his circuit to Bourne End, Lacey Green, Flackwell Heath and Bledlow Ridge, and was envied by Charles Sankey, who begrudged him every step of his mission, every handshake, every cup of tea with parkin slice. At first Sankey had attempted a friendship, walking alongside him, sometimes all the way to Little Missenden, always joining him in worshipful singing as they travelled through sleet and rain and wind. But at every destination it was Father Harry they hurried out to greet, Father Harry who must come in after such a long journey and wash and get warm and take tea with cake, Father Harry who must suffer the fussing attentions of the womenfolk and the mindful solicitude of the men. It wasn't just the tea breads – Sankey could hear the jab of piano keys and bursts of song from inside the houses as he waited outside, he could hear the women's voices and the respectful silence that fell as the preacher spoke.
Sankey reckoned God was as much in his heart as in Harry's and He guided his tongue as mindfully too, but nobody else seemed to see it that way, and particularly not Father Harry as he handed Sankey his hat to hold while he comforted a grieving woman with unusually beautiful hair.
One day Sankey had his shotgun by him as he hoped to take a bird or two at dawn at the Hughenden estate before anyone else was about. A bright disc of sun had hung itself over St Mary's Church, the place it auspiciously began each day with the melting of the churchyard dew. Then there it was: Harry's black hat skimming the hedge, a phlegmy version of The Lord Taketh Care of Me', and before he was able to give it careful consideration, Sankey found that he had fired.
The shot was not accurate. And though Sankey knew he had not actually killed the preacher this time, he felt sufficiently afraid of himself, of what he might do next, to run away and hide in a lightning tree until noon. He hid the gun in a dry ditch where nettles grew, until it was safe to retrieve it.
Father Harry Blagdon suffered no physical injury other than mortal fright, which repaired well enough after the ministrations of local ladies, and was aided ably by generous amounts of tea, perhaps gin, and cake. Afterwards, however, Harry's story grew tall with telling until only those closest to God were able to believe it. These enrichments (garnishings you might say), sprinkled upon the truth to better explain to his flock the everyday miracles performed by God, were not in Harry's mind in any way related to actual sinful untruths. In any case he told the story, richly embroidered, for many years to come. He had been walking by Millfield Wood, he pronounced, when a blackened creature more than ten feet high with terrible sharpened horns appeared before him. Father Harry knew right away it was the Devil. He preached the word to the beast until, terrified, it turned on its hairy hocks and ran. And though it took a swipe or two at the preacher, brave Father Harry pursued it, chasing it back into the woods with its tail on fire.
Father Harry Blagdon was a celebrated hit after that. Sankey had inadvertently boosted Blagdon's reputation and spoiled his only opportunity for apprenticeship. Blagdon's circuit increased as his reputation grew. His triumphs over the beast meant he became increasingly
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