Out of breath from chasing Delia’s rabbit around the cabbage patch, I managed to make it to the Chapel just in time for Evensong or whatever mediaeval ceremony the faithful few were celebrating.
Margery, as always, was kneeling in a pew nearest the memorial window featuring Saint Cuthbert the Dozy Scattering Pomegranates Among the Forty Children of Ethel the Brood Mare.
“Get up you stupid slag.” I hissed. “Your hairline is visible from the pulpit and the vicar can see the join.”
I had spotted his beady eye and arched brow staring down at the top of Margery’s head from his lofty perch the minute I flung the door open.
“We shall now sing Hymn 362.” he announced as if someone had just farted in the font.
Old Mrs Peachum began kneading the organ, and on cue Margery, creaking and groaning, finally rose to her feet: “Sweet Jesu Maileth In My Rebate Oh Great Redeemer,” we sang, always a difficult one for bass-baritones like Margery. Poor cow.
Poor me, for that matter; it was no fun being married to the bum note in the choir, if you get my drift.
And so, while Margery was still enthralled in song, I was able to fold my secret epistle into a paper airplane and send it flying across the apse to be caught Miss Prym’s warm, caressing hands. It said: “I’ve laid on tea for two in the Parsonage garden. Meet me after the service and I’ll butter your scones.”
My spectacles began to steam up as I watched Miss Prym adjust her girdle as she read my letter. I was already sweating with anticipation beneath my wooly cardigan, the green and beige one that Miss Prym had remarked very favorably upon that June afternoon twelve years earlier. Racked with nerves, I glanced over at Miss Pym’s divine form once more. Had it been wise to strike while the iron was still so hot?
…. To be continued in seventeen years time.
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