put herselfthere; out of the corner of his eye, like it or not, he could see her long trousered flanks disappearing under the vicarage dining-room table.
“Well,” said John Coggan, clearing his throat, “since you ask, I'd be hard put to it to suggest a figure. Not a thing that's ever come my way.” He laughed, a touch embarrassed. “We had a Methodist chapel once, very bad state of repair. But something like St. Peter's …” He shook his head.
Miss Bellingham observed that in Norfolk there were churches quite derelict and run down, not used at all, and it was a crying shame. She also thought it was neither here nor there, there were things you couldn't put a price on. Shooting a look at Mrs. Paling; a moneyed young woman, you could tell, never mind the clothes, and there was always something just a mite vulgar about moneyed people.
Harry Taylor stoked his pipe and inquired (jovially} if Mrs. Paling was suggesting they sell off the chancel.
“It wasn't entirely a frivolous thought,” said Clare. “It struck me that since we can't possibly rely on churchgoers to give us enough to meet the Appeal, as I'm sure Mr. Radwell would agree, in this day and age…”
George broke in to agree fervently, and for too long.
“…then in that case we have to strike a chord generally. We've got to think of what it is the church has got that most people might feel they wanted to do something for. And what the church has got is age. It's a very old building. And old buildings are well-regarded just at the moment. They have a scarcity value. You know that, Mr. Coggan, well enough; antiquity has its price.”
John Coggan agreed that there was always a market for a period house.
“Exactly. So I wasn't meaning that we sell the church. Just that we cash in on its greatest asset. Use it.”
“It's a historical monument,” said Miss Bellingham. “It says so somewhere. Grade I. Of course some of us,” she went on, not looking at Mrs. Paling, “would feel that that comes second. But still.”
“All churches, virtually,” said Clare, “are of some interest. This one rather more than most. The wall painting alone…”
“It's the Day of Judgment,” instructed Miss Bellingham. “You've got the saved going up to heaven on one side and the—the unsaved—going down to hell on the other.”
“The damned,” said Clare. “Quite.” She lit a cigarette.
There was a silence, during which Miss Bellingham could be felt to retract, glower, and gather herself. Sydney Porter, hitherto silent, spoke. He said that he didn't know a lot about that kind of thing, but he'd been looking up one or two books in the library, because he'd been thinking a bit along the same lines as Mrs. Paling, since you had to be realistic, and church attendance wasn't that high these days, and it seemed that the church had had quite a bit of history.
“Well, it would, wouldn't it,” snapped Miss Bellingham.
“All that time.”
Harry Taylor came in to say that he thought Mr. Porter had a point there, quite a point. There might indeed be something that could be done by way of using the church's historical associations. They had to bear in mind the size of the tourist industry nowadays and while admittedly Laddenham wasn't exactly on the Stratford run it might well be that they could put on something that would pull in a few visitors. We mustn't underrate history.
Miss Bellingham moved in. “I think that's a very nice idea, Mr. Taylor. Very nice. It's what I was just about to suggest myself. A masque, that kind of thing—costume and Good Queen Bess and the schoolchildren could do some maypole dancing. People are very keen on that. I saw the most delightful son et lumiere last year at—dear me, I forget exactly, it was a county house somewhere, a very historical place—with lovely music and the actors having a medieval banquet and then dancing and so on, all in costume.”
“That's not history,” said Clare. “History is ghastly. Nothing but
“Well,” said John Coggan, clearing his throat, “since you ask, I'd be hard put to it to suggest a figure. Not a thing that's ever come my way.” He laughed, a touch embarrassed. “We had a Methodist chapel once, very bad state of repair. But something like St. Peter's …” He shook his head.
Miss Bellingham observed that in Norfolk there were churches quite derelict and run down, not used at all, and it was a crying shame. She also thought it was neither here nor there, there were things you couldn't put a price on. Shooting a look at Mrs. Paling; a moneyed young woman, you could tell, never mind the clothes, and there was always something just a mite vulgar about moneyed people.
Harry Taylor stoked his pipe and inquired (jovially} if Mrs. Paling was suggesting they sell off the chancel.
“It wasn't entirely a frivolous thought,” said Clare. “It struck me that since we can't possibly rely on churchgoers to give us enough to meet the Appeal, as I'm sure Mr. Radwell would agree, in this day and age…”
George broke in to agree fervently, and for too long.
“…then in that case we have to strike a chord generally. We've got to think of what it is the church has got that most people might feel they wanted to do something for. And what the church has got is age. It's a very old building. And old buildings are well-regarded just at the moment. They have a scarcity value. You know that, Mr. Coggan, well enough; antiquity has its price.”
John Coggan agreed that there was always a market for a period house.
“Exactly. So I wasn't meaning that we sell the church. Just that we cash in on its greatest asset. Use it.”
“It's a historical monument,” said Miss Bellingham. “It says so somewhere. Grade I. Of course some of us,” she went on, not looking at Mrs. Paling, “would feel that that comes second. But still.”
“All churches, virtually,” said Clare, “are of some interest. This one rather more than most. The wall painting alone…”
“It's the Day of Judgment,” instructed Miss Bellingham. “You've got the saved going up to heaven on one side and the—the unsaved—going down to hell on the other.”
“The damned,” said Clare. “Quite.” She lit a cigarette.
There was a silence, during which Miss Bellingham could be felt to retract, glower, and gather herself. Sydney Porter, hitherto silent, spoke. He said that he didn't know a lot about that kind of thing, but he'd been looking up one or two books in the library, because he'd been thinking a bit along the same lines as Mrs. Paling, since you had to be realistic, and church attendance wasn't that high these days, and it seemed that the church had had quite a bit of history.
“Well, it would, wouldn't it,” snapped Miss Bellingham.
“All that time.”
Harry Taylor came in to say that he thought Mr. Porter had a point there, quite a point. There might indeed be something that could be done by way of using the church's historical associations. They had to bear in mind the size of the tourist industry nowadays and while admittedly Laddenham wasn't exactly on the Stratford run it might well be that they could put on something that would pull in a few visitors. We mustn't underrate history.
Miss Bellingham moved in. “I think that's a very nice idea, Mr. Taylor. Very nice. It's what I was just about to suggest myself. A masque, that kind of thing—costume and Good Queen Bess and the schoolchildren could do some maypole dancing. People are very keen on that. I saw the most delightful son et lumiere last year at—dear me, I forget exactly, it was a county house somewhere, a very historical place—with lovely music and the actors having a medieval banquet and then dancing and so on, all in costume.”
“That's not history,” said Clare. “History is ghastly. Nothing but
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