Another Man's Shoes - only a three word prompt, but it is always interesting to see where such a simple thing can take you, if you let the pen have its way..... And, no, I have never been ordained, or even studied for such a vocation.
Edward hurried along the uneven paving stones towards the
arched wooden door. Ahead, Mrs
Tompkins and Miss Bray were waiting stoically where the morning sum warmed the angle between
the stone wall and its flying buttress.
Edward fossicked in his trouser pocket for his key ring, and
had to snatch to stop his robes from sliding off his other arm. He didn't need the ostentatiously neutral
looks the two women hurled at him to know that he was late.
"Morning ladies; lovely morning, isn't it? Too nice to be inside"
He regretted saying it before the last syllable had passed
his lips. Mrs Tompkins's eyes
narrowed. The corners of Miss Bray's
mouth turned downwards.
"Good Morning Father" was all the reply he got as
he fumbled at the lock. The key went
home and he turned it. The old wooden
door seemed stiffer on its hinges than ever.
A bump from his shoulder set it moving. He stood, feeling his ears burn, as two
bundles of flowers were carried past him.
Both women had their noses ever so slightly in the air and Miss Bray's
eyes had swept across him, lingering briefly on the shirt he knew was not
tucked in properly, and the tie that was too loosely knotted.
He slipped into the vestry as the two old ladies began
placing the flowers. They were silent at
the altar, but by the time they reached the middle pews, low murmurings were
drifting back to him.
Father Jenkins had owned this church for almost four
decades, and was now buried in the adjacent graveyard. Edward felt certain that more than a few of
his dour, aging congregation would happily sign up if the Devil offered to swap
the old priest for the new.
By rights, he should have had a few years as an assistant
curate to an experienced minister at some larger church. He was finding out the hard way that Honours
in Divinities and Theology did little to prepare a young priest for pastoral
work.
"Hallooo?"
The round tones of Harald, the organist, echoed through a space meant for
hundreds. The greying, stooped old man had come quietly in through the open door, wearing his usual shabby suit, and clutching an armful of sheet music.
Edward wondered if there would
even be dozens to hear Harald's heavy handed renditions of the ancient hymns and
psalms.
Not so ancient, Edward supposed, to someone as grey and
antique as Harald. He gave himself a
mental rap over the knuckles. How could
he entertain such thoughts when he was about to present a sermon on charity? And Harald at least brought a few extra bums on
pews, a couple of them quite shapely – how did that man produce such pretty
daughters? Edward ordered himself to
take a longer penance after the service was over, and waited for the organist
to shuffle through his papers.
Which raised another question, would Harald have managed to
pick the right music for this week's readings and lessons, or would he be a
month out, again? And, would asking to
preview the music selection result in Edward having to endure another cloud of last night's whisky
fumes? Edward wondered, as the old man suddenly dropped half his papers on the floor, if there was a way to tell
the difference between the whisky fumes of last night, and those of more recent origin.
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