that...'
Her voice trails off, a melancholic quality to it. I've been looking at her as she spoke. The whole time she's been staring up at the window at the back of the church.
'This place was originally selected?' I ask. I know this stuff.
She smiles, affords me a brief glance.
'Well, you'd like to think that everyone had seen some sense right at the beginning, but to be honest, we had the biggest congregation so we had the highest number of votes. So we won. Unfortunately, in trying to be corporate, the various church positions were handed round, and that cunt from down the road got the position as property convenor.'
In all I end up spending over an hour in the company of Mrs Buttler. That's the only time she swears. A bluntly effective denunciation of the man who remains property convenor at St Mungo's. Perhaps I should try that. Only swearing every now and again, so that it's really effective and powerful when I do it.
I can add that to the list of aspirational items that I'll never get around to.
'Excuse my language,' she says.
'It's fine.'
'He came up here and picked this place apart with a toothcomb. The nerve of the man, as if St Mungo's is perfect. Every little.... every single little thing he could think to say about the building. Everything. The long list of expenditure that was needed to meet health and safety this, and health and safety that. We'd already passed all that stuff! And then he found the rot in the roof of the halls.'
She shakes her head. Her gaze has dropped and she's staring at the floor. She's not sounding so sanguine and peaceful anymore.
'This is Paul Cartwright you're talking about?'
She snorts. I didn't even need to ask. Every time this guy's name is mentioned you know you're going to get some sort of reaction.
'And just look at what they've done down there,' she says. 'They twisted the vote, said that we couldn't use the Old Kirk because of the amount of money that'd be required, and then they've gone and spent all our money, our money, repairing their church.'
Another shake of the head.
I look back at the stained glass Jesus looking down on us from the rear of the church.
'I'm sorry, Sergeant, I shouldn't be getting annoyed. Take a look around if you like, I'll just wait here for you to finish. We can talk further over a cup of tea.'
I get up and walk down to the front. The pulpit is set low, and I'm tempted to climb the few stairs up there and stand and look down over the rows of empty pews. I'd probably do it if she wasn't here. Instead I stand at the lectern and look at the open Bible.
Revelation 9.
And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions...
OK, so let's get this straight. We've got locusts that look like horses, with women's hair, men's faces and lion's teeth. Well, that makes sense. No doubt there's some of that metaphor going on in there.
I glance up and contemplate reading some of this shit out, but if I did that I'd probably end up sliding into Sean Connery. Mrs Buttler looks upset enough as it is, what with me getting the conversation round to Paul Cartwright. It's not going to be helped by my saying, 'And the name of the shtar ish called Wormwood: and the third part of the watersh became wormwood; and many men died of the watersh, and they too had blackened fingersh and blackened tonguesh.'
11
––––––––
M y original intention had been to get around as many parishioners as possible, a broad spectrum, and then if there were any that I thought needed adding to the list, to seek them out tomorrow. However, it seems pretty obvious that I really need to speak to this Cartwright character to find out if he's as much of a bell-end as everyone implies. Given that I tend to have a low view of pretty much everybody, it's a fair bet that I'm going
Her voice trails off, a melancholic quality to it. I've been looking at her as she spoke. The whole time she's been staring up at the window at the back of the church.
'This place was originally selected?' I ask. I know this stuff.
She smiles, affords me a brief glance.
'Well, you'd like to think that everyone had seen some sense right at the beginning, but to be honest, we had the biggest congregation so we had the highest number of votes. So we won. Unfortunately, in trying to be corporate, the various church positions were handed round, and that cunt from down the road got the position as property convenor.'
In all I end up spending over an hour in the company of Mrs Buttler. That's the only time she swears. A bluntly effective denunciation of the man who remains property convenor at St Mungo's. Perhaps I should try that. Only swearing every now and again, so that it's really effective and powerful when I do it.
I can add that to the list of aspirational items that I'll never get around to.
'Excuse my language,' she says.
'It's fine.'
'He came up here and picked this place apart with a toothcomb. The nerve of the man, as if St Mungo's is perfect. Every little.... every single little thing he could think to say about the building. Everything. The long list of expenditure that was needed to meet health and safety this, and health and safety that. We'd already passed all that stuff! And then he found the rot in the roof of the halls.'
She shakes her head. Her gaze has dropped and she's staring at the floor. She's not sounding so sanguine and peaceful anymore.
'This is Paul Cartwright you're talking about?'
She snorts. I didn't even need to ask. Every time this guy's name is mentioned you know you're going to get some sort of reaction.
'And just look at what they've done down there,' she says. 'They twisted the vote, said that we couldn't use the Old Kirk because of the amount of money that'd be required, and then they've gone and spent all our money, our money, repairing their church.'
Another shake of the head.
I look back at the stained glass Jesus looking down on us from the rear of the church.
'I'm sorry, Sergeant, I shouldn't be getting annoyed. Take a look around if you like, I'll just wait here for you to finish. We can talk further over a cup of tea.'
I get up and walk down to the front. The pulpit is set low, and I'm tempted to climb the few stairs up there and stand and look down over the rows of empty pews. I'd probably do it if she wasn't here. Instead I stand at the lectern and look at the open Bible.
Revelation 9.
And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men. And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions...
OK, so let's get this straight. We've got locusts that look like horses, with women's hair, men's faces and lion's teeth. Well, that makes sense. No doubt there's some of that metaphor going on in there.
I glance up and contemplate reading some of this shit out, but if I did that I'd probably end up sliding into Sean Connery. Mrs Buttler looks upset enough as it is, what with me getting the conversation round to Paul Cartwright. It's not going to be helped by my saying, 'And the name of the shtar ish called Wormwood: and the third part of the watersh became wormwood; and many men died of the watersh, and they too had blackened fingersh and blackened tonguesh.'
11
––––––––
M y original intention had been to get around as many parishioners as possible, a broad spectrum, and then if there were any that I thought needed adding to the list, to seek them out tomorrow. However, it seems pretty obvious that I really need to speak to this Cartwright character to find out if he's as much of a bell-end as everyone implies. Given that I tend to have a low view of pretty much everybody, it's a fair bet that I'm going
Similar Books
