as I could remember. He was a widower and, it was hinted, lived a good deal more peacefully since the departure to a better world of his ambitious and lively wife. Mrs.
Bryanston had seen Ashley merely as a stepping-stone to preferment and a town living or a place in the Close, and thither, with the relentless efficiency of an earthmover, she would have transferred her gentle husband, who asked nothing better from life than what he found at Ashley and his other parishes of One Ash and Hangman's End. But fifteen years ago he had buried her in the churchyard, and now he would no doubt be a peaceful permanency, plodding happily from church to garden and back again, gently delivering Sunday after Sunday an address from notes on suspiciously yellowed pages, and keeping the whole parish supplied with seedlings grown in the Court gardens, of which he had the run. He and my father had got on very well together; they seldom discussed anything more spiritual than chess, but I had heard Daddy say that Mr. Bryanston's faith was the kind of rock on which any Church could be built. At any rate, the Vicar suited Ashley as well as Ashley suited him.
He was talking now to me, with an ease quite unlike Mr. Emerson's hesitant kindness, about my father's death. Comfort, you might say, was his profession, but he had a way of offering it, not as if it were his daily stock-in-trade, but as if he really cared, not only about my father, which I knew, but about me. To me—as indeed it had been to Daddy—churchgoing had always been so much a part of country life that it was something one never even thought about, as much a part of Sunday's order of the day as the ritual sherry before lunch (which also invariably included the Vicar); the Church's feast days and holy days were ways to chalk the year off on the calendar, so that Michaelmas was the time of bonfire smoke and purple flowers and getting one's woollies out again, and Easter was lilies and spring cleaning, and Lady Day was high time to prune the roses. But now, coming with trouble in my hands, I saw a little of what was behind the sober yearly ritual. There were things one grew away from and, I knew, would never again see one's way to believing, but I listened and felt the better for knowing that the Vicar believed as literally as might be in the resurrection of the dead.
"You said you were going back into Worcester for the night?" he asked finally.
"Yes, but I'll be here again in the morning. I'll come first thing, so that I won't get in anyone's way."
"You won't do that, my dear. Come as early as you wish; you'll want the world to yourself, I have no doubt." He fished a thin old half hunter out of a pocket and peered at it. "Dear me, you've just missed a bus. I shouldn't have kept you so long . . . the next one doesn't go for an hour and a half.
Perhaps you'd like to come across to the vicarage? I don't know what Mrs. Henderson has left for my supper, but no doubt we could stretch it a little."
"That's awfully good of you, but no, thank you, Vicar. I wasn't planning to catch the bus anyway; my Lambretta's at the farm, and I'm going across to get it now. They've got it stored for me in the barn there."
"Ah. Well, take care. The roads get busier every day, and it's dark already. Dear me, and it will soon be summer, will it not? If you see Rob will you tell him that I'll be down in the old orchard tomorrow, not in the greenhouse? I must finish the spraying before it's too late."
"Of course. Well, thank you for everything, Vicar. I'll go out by the south door. If you want to put the main switch off again, don't wait for me. I can see quite well."
"Main switch?" He looked about him vaguely, as if the thing should be to hand. "What do you mean? Why should I put it off?"
"I thought you had, just before I got here. You mean it wasn't you who was in the church when I arrived?"
"Certainly not. I haven't been over here since about three o'clock. When was this?"
"About an hour ago, I
Bryanston had seen Ashley merely as a stepping-stone to preferment and a town living or a place in the Close, and thither, with the relentless efficiency of an earthmover, she would have transferred her gentle husband, who asked nothing better from life than what he found at Ashley and his other parishes of One Ash and Hangman's End. But fifteen years ago he had buried her in the churchyard, and now he would no doubt be a peaceful permanency, plodding happily from church to garden and back again, gently delivering Sunday after Sunday an address from notes on suspiciously yellowed pages, and keeping the whole parish supplied with seedlings grown in the Court gardens, of which he had the run. He and my father had got on very well together; they seldom discussed anything more spiritual than chess, but I had heard Daddy say that Mr. Bryanston's faith was the kind of rock on which any Church could be built. At any rate, the Vicar suited Ashley as well as Ashley suited him.
He was talking now to me, with an ease quite unlike Mr. Emerson's hesitant kindness, about my father's death. Comfort, you might say, was his profession, but he had a way of offering it, not as if it were his daily stock-in-trade, but as if he really cared, not only about my father, which I knew, but about me. To me—as indeed it had been to Daddy—churchgoing had always been so much a part of country life that it was something one never even thought about, as much a part of Sunday's order of the day as the ritual sherry before lunch (which also invariably included the Vicar); the Church's feast days and holy days were ways to chalk the year off on the calendar, so that Michaelmas was the time of bonfire smoke and purple flowers and getting one's woollies out again, and Easter was lilies and spring cleaning, and Lady Day was high time to prune the roses. But now, coming with trouble in my hands, I saw a little of what was behind the sober yearly ritual. There were things one grew away from and, I knew, would never again see one's way to believing, but I listened and felt the better for knowing that the Vicar believed as literally as might be in the resurrection of the dead.
"You said you were going back into Worcester for the night?" he asked finally.
"Yes, but I'll be here again in the morning. I'll come first thing, so that I won't get in anyone's way."
"You won't do that, my dear. Come as early as you wish; you'll want the world to yourself, I have no doubt." He fished a thin old half hunter out of a pocket and peered at it. "Dear me, you've just missed a bus. I shouldn't have kept you so long . . . the next one doesn't go for an hour and a half.
Perhaps you'd like to come across to the vicarage? I don't know what Mrs. Henderson has left for my supper, but no doubt we could stretch it a little."
"That's awfully good of you, but no, thank you, Vicar. I wasn't planning to catch the bus anyway; my Lambretta's at the farm, and I'm going across to get it now. They've got it stored for me in the barn there."
"Ah. Well, take care. The roads get busier every day, and it's dark already. Dear me, and it will soon be summer, will it not? If you see Rob will you tell him that I'll be down in the old orchard tomorrow, not in the greenhouse? I must finish the spraying before it's too late."
"Of course. Well, thank you for everything, Vicar. I'll go out by the south door. If you want to put the main switch off again, don't wait for me. I can see quite well."
"Main switch?" He looked about him vaguely, as if the thing should be to hand. "What do you mean? Why should I put it off?"
"I thought you had, just before I got here. You mean it wasn't you who was in the church when I arrived?"
"Certainly not. I haven't been over here since about three o'clock. When was this?"
"About an hour ago, I
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