Caroline Minuscule by Andrew Taylor

Author:Andrew Taylor [Andrew Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2012-09-12T16:00:00+00:00

13

‘Quite frankly,’ said the Reverend H. B. Black, BD, to the plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches which he held protectively to his broad, black-fronted chest, ‘I don’t hold with this sort of goings-on at all. Apart from all the Romish tendencies of the service, all these middle-class trappings aren’t entirely what I call Christianity.’ He put down the plate of sandwiches and downed his glass of sherry with one defiant swallow. The mournful, Mancunian voice droned on: ‘I wanted a city parish, of course – some sort of chance to open a valid dialogue with the secular lower-income bracket . . .’

Dougal and Amanda sighed sympathetically and continued to eat and drink. Mr Black represented security: he guarded them in one corner of the large, elegant dining room, while Lee was across the other side of the room, blocking the only exit.

It had been extremely embarrassing in the church, though Dougal realized that the unexpected congregation had saved them, for the moment, from Lee. During the hymn a black-gowned personage, who radiated ineffable superiority, had swept them into a pew beside the Morris Traveller woman. The latter had glared at them and said ‘Shush!’ before they had had time to say anything. There had been nothing for it but to fumble through the hymnals with which their guide had thoughtfully provided them. Then Lee had come crashing through the door and had been immediately deflected into another pew.

Gradually the jungle of impressions had sorted themselves out. The godlike beings in black and purple gowns were public schoolboys; one or two girls, similarly attired, were among them. They looked like sixth formers. There were several masters and mistresses, distinguishable, from the rear, by the hoods on their gowns and the greyness of their hair. In the chancel of the little church, two priests, assisted by a pair of servers in surplices, were conducting the service.

Dougal fumbled through the prayer book and discovered that they were in the middle of Matins. He calculated, with the aid of childhood memories, that they were in for Holy Eucharist after this. And probably a sermon at some point. It was a quarter to eleven and it seemed unlikely that Lee would be able to do anything until midday at least, as long as they stayed where they were.

The service lasted for an eternity. They mechanically knelt, stood and sat when appropriate. The sermon, delivered by Mr Black’s colleague, a wiry, square-faced priest with flashing teeth and reptilian sibilants, explained what was happening. They were in the middle of a service in commemoration of the foundation of Rosington School.

Tradition claimed, it seemed, that the school had been founded by St Tumwulf himself at Charleston Parva, and had moved to Rosington in the twelfth century to swell the ranks of the Abbey choir school. After generations of medieval obscurity and post-Reformation sloth, the vision of a Victorian headmaster had moved the school’s site outside Rosington again and turned it into the major public school it was today.

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