“Surely they’ll all come to meet the bishop?” I said.

  “Ah, yes, they’ll come, the regulars. But no one else. Well, I’m lying there—one or two extra people have expressed a desire to come, but I’ll have more clergy there than lay congregation if I’m not careful. I would have liked a full church that day….”

  “Is it just a social visit?” I asked, wondering whether this came under the heading of ecumenism, or whether it was a confirmation visit.

  “Not really. It’s an official inspection really, disguised as a social ‘meet the people’ outing. Bishops go around checking on us, very discreetly, to make sure we do our job. My God, Mr Rhea, I’ve worked, but I never seem to make headway …”

  “If it was an ecumenical service, Father O’Malley’s lot would come,” I smiled. “They would fill your empty seats.”

  He rubbed his chin and smiled at me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to convince me that Catholicism was the answer to everything.”

  “It’s not the answer to everything, Mr Hamilton, but it might be the answer to your immediate problem.”

  “You’re not serious?” he cried, staring at me over his coffee-cup.

  “Why not?” I returned. “Why not fill your church with Catholics?”

  “The bishop would object…. he’d know….”

  “Not if you didn’t tell him, not if Father O’Malley provided them with…. er…. how shall I put it…. their terms of reference.”

  “But suppose the bishop talked to a Catholic who let the cat out of the bag and said he was from St Francis’ across the road….”

  “Then you talk to the bishop about the spirit of ecumenism. You tell him how the faiths mingle in the village and quote the Catholic presence as an example of the interest in his work by the Catholic community….”

  “My church will seat nearly three hundred,” he mused. “With a handful of locals and a few clergy hangers-on, it will look deserted. How many Catholics could he muster?”

  “A churchful,” I smiled. “If you issue that as a challenge to Father O’Malley, he’ll fill your church with religious folk who will listen to your bishop and eat your sandwiches like good Anglicans.”

  He smiled, “You know, Mr Rhea, I find this very tempting. I would not wish to lie to the bishop, but a churchful of worshippers would look fine, and it would be impressive.”

  “Shall I intercede with Father O’Malley?” I suggested.

  “No,” he said. “No, I think this had better come from me. Look, I’ll talk to him and let you know what transpires. Can I be in touch again about the car-parking?”

  “Of course,” and I left him.

  Hardly had I got outside when I saw Sergeant Blaketon sitting in his official car with the window down. He was looking up and down the High Street and when he saw me emerge from the vicarage he left the car. He strode stiffly towards me.

  “Good afternoon, Rhea,” he greeted me. “I saw your bike. Busy?”

  “I’ve been to a meeting with the vicar,” I told him. “He’s got an official visit by his bishop shortly, and wanted me to help with car parking.”

  “Do you anticipate problems?” he asked. “We can fix you up with parking cones or another constable if you wish.”

  “No, I’ll manage,” I said and added thoughtlessly, “I don’t anticipate a lot of cars.”

  “Oh, does that mean a poor congregation?” he asked me. “Even for a bishop’s visit?”

  “He’s working on ideas for filling the church,” I said. “He’s a man of great imagination, is our vicar.”

  “What he needs is a few Methodists to help out,” I heard him say. “Now, I’m a keen chapel-goer, and in these days of ecumenism it’s good for the faiths to mingle.”

  I began to wish I’d accepted his cones and additional policeman.

  “I’m sure he will fill the church.” I tried to steer him away from his topic, but he was not to be swayed.

  “Not with Catholics?” he looked at the modern outline of the St Francis of Assisi Church just behind.

  “I think there are enough Anglicans hereabouts to provide him with a full house,” I said.

  “Not on your life,” he retorted. “I’ll speak to our local minister at the chapel. We might come along to support him. When did you say it was?”

  I provided him with the date and groaned inwardly. I hoped he’d stay out of this. We went for a long walk around Elsinby, with Sergeant Blaketon expounding the merits of inter-religious exchanges and the need for more discipline among the young. I wondered if the two were connected, but he lost me in a sea of hazy words as I worried about the possible outcome of his idea. I tried to deter him but he was not to be deflected.

  A week later, I was back in Elsinby and decided to call upon Father O’Malley. I found him making wine in his kitchen and he invited me to sample a glassful of last year’s vintage. It was beetroot wine, a beautiful red colour, and it tasted like fine port.

  “Your health, Nicholas.” He raised his own glass. “What brings you here?”

  “I was passing,” I said, “and thought I’d pop in.”

  “You did right, so you did,” he smiled through his strong teeth. He looked a typical Irishman, with bushy black hair and firm eyebrows set in a strong face, full of character. “How’s the wine?”

  “Fine.” I sipped appreciatively. “Father, has Mr Hamilton seen you about a service at the parish church?”

  “He has, yes he has. And a nice idea too.”

  He paused and sipped the wine, then added, “He tells me it was your idea.”

  “Well, I thought we might do a little for ecumenism.”

  “And so we will. I’ve already mentioned it to some of the faithful here and we’ll fill the church for him, to be sure. It’s a challenge to these people, Nicholas, and it’s a way for them to get their own back for Jimmy Bathurst’s funeral. But I’ve asked them all to behave like good Anglicans that day.”

  “I hope it doesn’t backfire on him.”

  “No, it won’t. I’ll see to that. I’ll be there too.”

  “In your collar?”

  “No, I will dress as an Irish labourer that day, so help me. Never you worry, Nicholas. We’ll give his bishop a day to remember. We’ve already agreed on the hymns that will be sung, and my lot are in full training. They’ll sing some lovely Anglican hymns, mark my words.”

  So far as the arrangements for the service were concerned, I knew I had no worries. The two clergymen had come to a fine, sensible agreement and my next involvement was on the actual day of the bishop’s visit.

  The service was to begin at 3 p.m. that Sunday and it would last for an hour, with twenty minutes being allowed for an address by the bishop. Tea had been arranged in the parish rooms during which the bishop would mingle with the faithful on an informal basis. Those Catholics who felt they might behave erratically need not attend, for the tiny room could not accommodate everyone.

  On the big day, I took my motor-cycle into the grounds of the Hopbind Inn and left it there with George’s permission, replacing my helmet with a uniform cap. At two-thirty, I took up my position outside the St Andrew’s church gate to keep a space free for the visiting dignitary. Cars began to arrive about twenty minutes to three and all greeted me warmly. Mr Hamilton came out to check that all was well, and the sun shone upon his little castle. I bade “good-afternoon” to many good Anglicans and lots of equally good Catholics, all filing into the sombre walls of the church to be issued with hymn-books upon entry. Father O’Malley was there too, dressed in rough clothes but beaming all over his rugged face.

  “’Tis good to understand the ways of the Lord, Nicholas,” he smiled as he strode towards the imposing entrance.

  I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to three. The bishop was due in five minutes.

  Mr Hamilton came along the path ready to meet him and we stood together, looking anxiously along the High Street.

  “Will he be on time?” I asked.

  “I’m sure he will, he’s been to a morning service south of York, and he lunched in the city with the archbishop. He’ll be on time.”

  “The last bishop never visited Elsinby?” I put to him as we waited.

  “No,” he said. “All those occasions when a bishop was needed, like confirmations, were held in Aidensfield, so we never got a visit. But this chap’s changed all that, he’s visiting every church in his diocese.”

  At five minutes to three I heard an approaching vehicle.

  A large, luxury coach materialised around the corner and I was horrified to see Sergeant Blaketon’s huge figure standing near the front door. The bus halted right before us with a squeal of brakes and Sergeant Blaketon, in full uniform, clambered down. It had parked right in the bishop’s place.

  “Afternoon, Vicar, afternoon, Rhea,” he beamed at us.

  “Mr Hamilton, this is Sergeant Blaketon from Ashfordly, my section station. Sergeant, the Reverend Simon Hamilton, the vicar of Elsinby.”

  They shook hands, and Blaketon said, “I heard you needed a congregation, Vicar, so I’ve got a bus-load of Methodists with me, all from Ashfordly.”

  “A congregation, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, young Rhea let it drop that you couldn’t fill the church, so I thought it would be a nice gesture of working Christianity if I brought along a few of my friends, just to fill the gaps, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Er, it’s very kind of you, Sergeant, but I think you’ll find my church is full. But go in, please—it might be standing room only.”

  “Come along, you lot,” bawled Sergeant Blaketon in a good-humoured way. “Fill up that church like good Anglicans.”

  And as they descended from their coach I saw the oncoming procession with its Austin Princess at the lead. The bishop was here.

  “Sarge!” I cried. “That bus is on the bishop’s parking-place.”

  “We won’t be a minute, lad.”

  “But he’s here, coming up the village now!”

  There was a moment of confusion, as Sergeant Blaketon tried to get the driver to move before everyone was out, but he failed. The slow-moving stream of Methodists held up the coach and the result was that the bishop’s car had to park a few yards away. I was upset but the bishop didn’t seem to mind.

  He and his attendants dismounted and I saw he was a little, jovial man with a round happy face and dancing eyes.

  “Full house, eh?” he beamed, looking at the coach. “Am I early?”

  “No, Your Grace,” smiled Mr Hamilton. “When they get inside, I will take you in.”

  “Let us not hurry those good people,” the bishop said, looking at me. “And this is your local policeman?”

  “P.C. Rhea, from Ashfordly, Your Grace.” I extended my hand and he shook it warmly with a firm grip.

  “It’s nice of you to help us out,” smiled the bishop as he watched the last of Blaketon’s faithful enter the church. The bus moved away and the bishop’s chauffeur slid into his correct position. Everything was just as it should be.

  “Are you going in?” asked the bishop of me.

  “I am, Your Grace,” and I went ahead, leaving the bishop and the vicar to enter last. As I edged my way into the packed church, I could see people everywhere. The place was packed and Sergeant Blaketon’s Methodists were standing in the aisles down the side and at the rear. It was a wonderful sight.

  Sergeant Blaketon saw me enter and I was compelled to stand close to him. “Rhea,” he whispered hoarsely, “This place is full of bloody papists.”

  “Is it, Sergeant?” I smiled as the organ struck up with the first hymn.

  As the bishop walked down the aisle, the Anglicans, Catholics and Methodists burst into a rousing hymn of welcome, each faith trying to outsing the other. The harmonious Methodists sang with their usual blend of religious fervour and elegance and perhaps theirs was the better music. But it was a joyful welcome and everyone settled down for the start of this memorable service.

  It was a splendid occasion by any standards. The singing was good enough to lift the ancient roof of this church, and everyone joined in with the utmost enthusiasm. The Catholics almost forgot to add the tailpiece at the end of the “Our Father”, but Father O’Malley’s stentorian tones led them into that final act of homage. By four o’clock it was all over, and the congregation reckoned the bishop’s address had been first rate. He had talked wholeheartedly of harmony between Christians and I wondered if he knew how apt his words were on this occasion.

  During the tea afterwards, everyone mingled and ate happily, and I was pleased to see local Catholics chatting with local Methodists interspaced with Anglicans. The bishop in his purple mingled too and I saw him chatting earnestly with several of the catholics of St Francis. But it all went very, very well indeed. Mr Hamilton beamed benevolently upon everyone.

  His Grace was scheduled to leave at five fifteen and I positioned myself near his car to ensure a smooth departure. He was five or ten minutes late leaving and I saluted him as he came through the door. There he paused a moment, and said, “You know, Officer, the Pope would have been proud of that turn-out, eh?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” I smiled as he departed. As the car swept along the village High Street, I turned to find Sergeant Blaketon standing at my elbow.

  “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this, Rhea?” he growled.

  “With what, Sergeant?”

  “Packing that church with papists?”

  “If I was an insurance agent, Sergeant, I would record it as an Act of God,” I said, turning back to find another cup of tea.

  I never really knew whether Sergeant Blaketon disliked members of the Roman Catholic Church, or whether his remarks were deep-seated jokes understood only by himself. In truth, there were few occasions when religion entered my work as a village policeman, but I must confess that on one occasion the rigid faith of a little old lady completely thwarted me.

  To put the story in perspective, it began with the death of a Mr Abraham Potter whose home was a lovely cottage in Aidensfield, just up the street from the pub. Awd Abe, as everyone affectionately called him, had been a lifelong Methodist of the strictest kind, never drinking liquor, never smoking, never swearing, never gambling and never working on Sundays. He led an exemplary life and was a true pillar of the chapel. There, he cleaned and gardened, painted and decorated and wrote the notices for Sunday in his beautiful copper-plate handwriting. Then he died.

  My arrival at Aidensfield coincided with his death, so I never met Awd Abe. From his reputation, I guessed his name would live on as an example of righteousness and Christian standards. His death meant that his little cottage would be sold and, within a few weeks, the “For Sale” signs appeared in the garden. His relatives had been traced and had agreed to sell the house, but no one had foreseen the conditions he’d imposed upon the sale.

  I learned of these by pure chance, for I was patrolling the village street as the estate agents were erecting their “For Sale” boards. As village constables are wont to do, I stopped for a chat.

  “Will it sell?” I asked, for rural properties at that time were not fetching very high prices. It was before the boom in country cottages.

  “It would, if it wasn’t for Awd Abe,” said the man.

  “He’s dead,” I remarked, wondering if he knew.

  “Aye, we know, but he’s left a will saying what’s got to be done with this spot, if his nephews sell it.”

  “Has he? What’s he said?” I was interested now.

  “You knew him?” the man put to me.

  I shook my head. “No, he died just before I was posted here.”

  “Big chapel man, he was,” I was told. “Very straight sort of a chap. Lived by the Bible, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Awd Abe’s reputation lived on.

  “Well, he’s put conditions on the sale of this spot,” the man told me guardedly. “I reckon we’ll have a job selling it.”

  “What sort of conditions?”

  “Well,” he said. “First, it mustn’t be sold to or occupied by a Roman Catholic. And the person that buys it must not read Sunday papers, mustn’t play cards, mustn’t drink alcohol, mustn’t have children, mustn’t keep animals, mustn’t smoke, mustn’t gamble and mustn’t work on Sundays. And they must be regular attenders at chapel, not church.”

  “He will have a job selling it here!” I laughed. “Practically every other family is Catholic and I imagine most folks nowadays read Sunday papers…. why the Sunday papers bit?”

  “He didn’t believe in working on the Sabbath,” said the estate agent’s man. “Anything that had been created on the Sabbath must not enter his house. He didn’t even wash up on Sundays, he was that pernickety about his faith.”

  “But the papers are printed on Saturdays,” I said.

  “Aye, lots of folk told him that, and they told him about factories making furniture on Sunday, or canning food, farmers working, doctors and so on….”

  “But he wouldn’t give?”

  “Not him,” said the man. “And when we got this house to sell, well, we all laughed. I mean, who’s going to buy it? Who can truthfully agree to those conditions?”

  “Search me!” I smiled and went on my way. Lots of the locals would have loved his cottage for it was pleasantly located and well-built, but Awd Abe’s conditions immediately placed it beyond the reach of local folks.

  But it did sell.

  Word must have spread far afield because a little old lady called Miss Sarah Prudom arrived to inspect the cottage. I didn’t see her arrival, but learned she came from the Doncaster area and was seeking a place in the country for retirement. She’d worked as a laundry manageress, I was told.

  As things turned out, Miss Prudom perfectly fitted Awd Abe’s specification. Furthermore, she was an unmarried lady of spotless virtue, and we all felt Abe would have been proud of her. I wondered if they might have married, had they met in life, but perhaps such associations could lead to sins of the flesh. Anyway, Miss Prudom bought Awd Abe’s cottage.