A SWEET DECEIT(Jane Lockyer Willis) A SWEET DECEIT
By Jane Lockyer Willis



My mother baked very good flapjacks. It was this simple Scottish oat biscuit that saved the day in tea-time emergencies. Flapjacks could be hastily mixed and baked when an unexpected visitor dropped by. We were never without cakes in our household. My father always insisted on an extra cup and saucer being laid just in case someone unexpected turned up at the door. It was not unusual for our vicarage front door bell to ring any time of the day and especially around four o'clock. My father was a Church of England vicar of a large country parish and quite often people would just walk into the vicarage without ringing the bell. Those were the days when you could safely leave your door unlocked. Not that it was always wise to do so, as my story will illustrate.

One day my father warned me that a rather eccentric archdeacon had made a vague promise to pay a visit, probably around tea-time, however he was unsure on what day this would be. So, in case he arrived while my parents were out, would I do the honours and offer him a cup of tea. As I'd recently left home to go to college in London, I was only back in the holidays. I'd never met the archdeacon so apart from my father's vague description, had little idea what he might look like. All I'd been told was that he was rather scruffy, eccentric, never knew which day of the week it was, but was musical and engaging company..

About a week passed by. I had just returned from taking Pippa our spaniel round the block for her daily walk. It was quiet indoors, so I guessed that my parents were out somewhere or other. Having dried the dog's muddy paws I wandered towards the dining room intent on doing some revision in preparation for a forthcoming exam. I opened the door with Pippa at my heels. She at once began wagging her tail, her nose close to the ground, and then made for the corner of the room that housed our ancient, upright piano. There, sitting on the piano stool, shoulders hunched, eyes starring at the keys, was a late middle aged man wearing a thick grey, shabby overcoat. His white hair was wispy and thin and there was about him a vague odour that I couldn't quite place. He looked up, nodded quite unperturbed by my presence and began to play. It was the hymn, Lead Kindly Light. I stared. Who was he? I could have kicked myself for having left the front door on the latch when I took the dog out. My heart pounded as I now plucked up the courage to speak. Pippa, who appeared to have formed a firm attachment to this stranger, sat at the man's feet, her tail thumping against his leg. After several verses the man stopped playing, patted the dog, turned to me and smiled, revealing black teeth.

'Are you the piano tuner?' I asked, my mind in turmoil. He said that he wasn't but that he loved the hymns and what a joy it was to have the opportunity to play one on our piano.

I tried again, 'Have you seen my mother?' Perhaps she'd come in via the back door and was in the kitchen preparing tea. It was past four o'clock but there was not a cup and saucer in sight and certainly no flapjacks. His response was to shake his head and shrug his thin shoulders. I rang the phone extension to my father's study. No answer. It was very many years before mobile phones, so there was no way of my contacting him.

Now my visitor began to play another hymn, this time Abide with Me. That clinched it. Of course! He must be the archdeacon.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' I beamed, relieved at finally reaching this comfortable conclusion.

'If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer a drop of whiskey,' he said, whilst sliding his long slim fingered hand down his back and giving it a scratch.

I was a bit taken aback by this request, it being a little early in the day, but there was no accounting for taste and the archdeacon was an eccentric after-all. I knew that my father kept a bottle in our Welsh dresser so I found a glass and poured him a neat double.

'That's wonderful kind of you,' he said downing the contents in one. His eyes, blue as the sky, rested on the bottle of Irish malt that I'd laid on the table. I asked him if he would like another.

'Bless you, ma'am. Bless you!'

Well, I thought, the clergy are full of blessings, nothing strange there, although I did rather question the Irish accent. Wasn't the archdeacon from Shropshire? This disquieting thought I decided not to dwell on and instead refilled his outstretched glass. By this time I wondered if I should join him as it was all a bit of a strain, conversation being thin on the ground. I suggested he play another hymn and he was about to oblige when the front doorbell rang. I dashed to answer glad of the opportunity to get away from an increasingly pungent smell. Breathless, I flung open the door and there, standing before me, his heavily lined face beaming, was a tall thin man, shoulders stooped, wearing a large, shabby grey overcoat tied round the middle with a piece of thick string. Tucked behind his woolly scarf I could just detect a none too clean clerical collar.

Almost dumbfounded, I asked him if he was the archdeacon.

'The very same,' he announced, giving my hand a knuckle crunching shake. 'Come to sample one of Gwennie's flapjacks.' There was not a trace of an Irish brogue.

When I returned to the dining room my latest visitor in tow, the previous one had gone and so had the somewhat depleted bottle of whiskey. Both had disappeared via the now open French windows, never, I thought, to be seen again.

My parents returned soon after. Profuse greetings and apologies were made, tea and flapjacks served and I said not a word about the stranger at my gate. I decided that when in doubt t'is best to say nowt; but for a long time I was left wondering about that uninvited guest, his love of the hymns and his gift for playing them.

The following summer, home from college, I saw him again. To my amazement there he was, giving our overgrown vegetable garden a much needed dig: Sleeves rolled up scrawny arms, his narrow back bent double over our rusty spade, he attacked the job with verve. Occasionally, he would pause, wipe his forehead and take a swig from a small bottle kept in his trouser pocket.

I asked my father about the gardener. He told me that Steve had become a frequent caller at the vicarage, and from time to time was given odd jobs for which he was paid a fair wage and a bit extra. He had cleaned their drains, sharpened the kitchen knives and gardened. Apparently, he was saving his money so as he could return home to see his mother. God bless her!

THE END


c: Jane Lockyer Willis

https://playsbyjanelockyerwillis.co.uk/
Picture: From original acrylic - 'Rose in the Breeze,' by Jane.

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