cottages and sloping green meadows substance. Actually, it does happen to be the birthplace of...”
“Will you please stop interrupting! Such a jolly little group we were—I don’t remember when I last saw a heartier throng of middle-aged women in grey berets and navy blue blazers. We broke our journey for morning coffee at a wizened little Tudor cafe just inside Flaxby Meade. Nothing exceptional about the place except the really terrific Chelsea buns, but it was while we sitting at the tables with their blue-and-white-check cloths that something momentous happened. The coach driver was taken deathly ill.”
“What fun for one and all,” said Harry.
“I don’t mean to sound heartless, but it wasn’t as though the poor man died, and it was all so providential. You know what Fergy would have said. ‘It was meant.’ One minute he was fine—jolly and fat—swilling down his tea at a corner table, chatting to a sweet white-haired old lady, a local, not a member of our group, and the next thing he was crawling on his hands and knees to the Gents. Only the Ladies was closer. He almost fell through the door, nearly getting trampled by a stampede of frantic women.”
“What’s the punch line? Had the sweet old lady stirred a teaspoon of arsenic in his tea? Okay, I’m sorry—continue your tale.”
“Thank you. I don’t know the cause of the man’s indisposition—maybe eating smelly kippers for breakfast—but it gave us, the passengers, an hour to kill before his replacement arrived. One of the women in the grey berets, an enormous creature exhaling command, suggested we take a look at ...”
“Ah-ha, let me guess.” Harry closed his eyes. “The monastery ruins?”
“Clever! We do know our guide to Warwickshire, don’t we? You’d think with my vicarage background I’d be all het up about Gothic relics, wouldn’t you? But, Harry, they sort of scare me. Much more so than graveyards where you can feel fairly secure the remains are safely underground. Then, when I got there, I remarked to one of the rubble buffs—just to be chatty—that had those pillars of stone been five instead of five hundred years old, the town council would have ordered them carted away. I nearly got murdered. Only in the very nick of time was I rescued by one of Dad’s soul mates. Bump! Bump! Down the lane that ran in front of the Ruins came this bubble car ... up it pulled, and the driver hopped out, introducing himself as the Reverend Egrinon Snapper.”
“Odd name.”
“He was an odd little man altogether. Not at all like any clergyman I ever met. Fergy declares you can tell one by his walk, and this one didn’t walk anything like Dad. He kind of slithered. He also had frizzy orange hair and a nose that could pick locks, but he certainly was ...”
“Charming?” Harry enquired.
“Let’s say convivial. Spotting a mini-congregation he leapt right into the pulpit. He couldn’t stop talking about those old Gilbertese monks.”
“Gilbertine.”
“Probably. He told us he was on holiday from Kent and spent part of every day sitting in what had been the refectory, soaking up atmosphere. Communing with the spirits, which according to him beat communing with the natives—a sullen, close-mouthed lot, he said.”
“Even the local clergy?”
“I don’t know.” I took a sip of tea and munched down thoughtfully on a forkful of pie. “But I could imagine Egrinon rubbing my placid Dad the wrong way. Even for a Protestant there was something overly enthusiastic in his recounting the excesses of monastic life. Seven-course dinners off gold plates, lurid ambition, monks slothing on their bunks all day reading dirty Geoffrey Chaucer. Henry the Eighth should have had Reverend Snapper on the payroll at the Dissolution. You should have seen how his nose quivered when he said the brothers didn’t get their sensual thrills only from books. His topper was a Scandal Most Sordid!”
“The monk who impregnated the village virgin
“Will you please stop interrupting! Such a jolly little group we were—I don’t remember when I last saw a heartier throng of middle-aged women in grey berets and navy blue blazers. We broke our journey for morning coffee at a wizened little Tudor cafe just inside Flaxby Meade. Nothing exceptional about the place except the really terrific Chelsea buns, but it was while we sitting at the tables with their blue-and-white-check cloths that something momentous happened. The coach driver was taken deathly ill.”
“What fun for one and all,” said Harry.
“I don’t mean to sound heartless, but it wasn’t as though the poor man died, and it was all so providential. You know what Fergy would have said. ‘It was meant.’ One minute he was fine—jolly and fat—swilling down his tea at a corner table, chatting to a sweet white-haired old lady, a local, not a member of our group, and the next thing he was crawling on his hands and knees to the Gents. Only the Ladies was closer. He almost fell through the door, nearly getting trampled by a stampede of frantic women.”
“What’s the punch line? Had the sweet old lady stirred a teaspoon of arsenic in his tea? Okay, I’m sorry—continue your tale.”
“Thank you. I don’t know the cause of the man’s indisposition—maybe eating smelly kippers for breakfast—but it gave us, the passengers, an hour to kill before his replacement arrived. One of the women in the grey berets, an enormous creature exhaling command, suggested we take a look at ...”
“Ah-ha, let me guess.” Harry closed his eyes. “The monastery ruins?”
“Clever! We do know our guide to Warwickshire, don’t we? You’d think with my vicarage background I’d be all het up about Gothic relics, wouldn’t you? But, Harry, they sort of scare me. Much more so than graveyards where you can feel fairly secure the remains are safely underground. Then, when I got there, I remarked to one of the rubble buffs—just to be chatty—that had those pillars of stone been five instead of five hundred years old, the town council would have ordered them carted away. I nearly got murdered. Only in the very nick of time was I rescued by one of Dad’s soul mates. Bump! Bump! Down the lane that ran in front of the Ruins came this bubble car ... up it pulled, and the driver hopped out, introducing himself as the Reverend Egrinon Snapper.”
“Odd name.”
“He was an odd little man altogether. Not at all like any clergyman I ever met. Fergy declares you can tell one by his walk, and this one didn’t walk anything like Dad. He kind of slithered. He also had frizzy orange hair and a nose that could pick locks, but he certainly was ...”
“Charming?” Harry enquired.
“Let’s say convivial. Spotting a mini-congregation he leapt right into the pulpit. He couldn’t stop talking about those old Gilbertese monks.”
“Gilbertine.”
“Probably. He told us he was on holiday from Kent and spent part of every day sitting in what had been the refectory, soaking up atmosphere. Communing with the spirits, which according to him beat communing with the natives—a sullen, close-mouthed lot, he said.”
“Even the local clergy?”
“I don’t know.” I took a sip of tea and munched down thoughtfully on a forkful of pie. “But I could imagine Egrinon rubbing my placid Dad the wrong way. Even for a Protestant there was something overly enthusiastic in his recounting the excesses of monastic life. Seven-course dinners off gold plates, lurid ambition, monks slothing on their bunks all day reading dirty Geoffrey Chaucer. Henry the Eighth should have had Reverend Snapper on the payroll at the Dissolution. You should have seen how his nose quivered when he said the brothers didn’t get their sensual thrills only from books. His topper was a Scandal Most Sordid!”
“The monk who impregnated the village virgin
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