Bringing in the sheaves

Archbishop Lovemore surfaced at around 07:30. Later than usual perhaps, but Mavis Trollop, his esteemed housekeeper-cum-general factotum, had won at Bingo the previous night, and had been a little overindulgent with her favours, while celebrating her good fortune.

Bending over the pile of bed clothing, and attempting to unravel either one of the Archbishop`s extremities was not a wise thing to do while holding a tray of hot coffee, and feeling a little indisposed at the same time.

Nature being what it is, took a hand in the accident, and the cup and saucer, filled with the best of Brazil, slipped off the polished surface of the tray, and poured itself neatly somewhere in the region of the Archbishop`s central intelligence department.

It was a rude awakening for Lovemore, who cursed in several foreign languages, including Latin, for some four minutes, until Mavis, who had been struck dumb, suddenly caught on to the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh my Gawd!” she gasped, somewhat irreverently.
“I `ope I ain`t ruined `yer Crown Jewels. `yer Grace!”

Lovemore flung back the bedclothes in one swift movement, grabbing his indisposition at the same time. “Don`t just stand there girl, fetch a cold, damp cloth for Heaven`s sake, it might stop the swelling.”

Mavis flew out of the bedroom muttering, “It`ll take more than a damp cloth to do that.” When she returned the Archbishop was busy with a mirror, examining the extent of his injury.

Mavis apologised profusely, “It were an accident `yer Grace, honest, I hope I haven`t ruined `yer extracurricular activities?”
Lovemore groaned, “What`s today?”
“Friday, `yer Grace.”
“The date girl, the date?” yelled the Archbishop, handing the cloth back for more reinforcements of cold water.
“Thirteenth, oh my Gawd, you best stay in bed, a start like this could easily get some poor girl pregnant.”

“Hardly likely with a scalded scrotum child, now let me get up, there`s a meeting of the Harvest Festival committee at nine, if I hurry, I might just be in time.”
Lovemore`s first step onto the royal-blue carpeting at his feet brought about a scream of agony, “My toe, my big toe, it’s… it’s… aflame… I can`t bear to walk on it, Mavis… Mavis… help!”

“What`s up?” she asked casually, handing him the wet cloth.
“My toe, the big one on the left, it’s excruciating, I cannot bear to touch it.”
Mavis smiled smugly, “Which one `yer Grace, this one here?”

Giving the toe a flick with her forefinger and thumb, sent Lovemore screaming with pain. “Don`t do that you imbecile, I`m doomed… I… I can`t walk… I`ll have to spend the rest of my day in bed!”
Mavis was without compassion, “Whatever`s wrong with that, you spend the nights there don`t `yer?”

“I have a calling my child, remember that!”
“And a followin`, if I may remind you… you followed me all the way home, on that first night.”
“Phone Dean Soulsby, tell him I am indisposed and need his assistance, and Mavis…”
“Yes `yer Grace?”
“The Dean is not a ladies’ man!”
Mavis curtsied. “And I ain`t no lady, `yer Grace!”

Soulsby parked his car beneath the shade of a great yew tree, just outside the Archbishop`s palace, and walked towards the front door. There had been a sense of urgency in the young lady`s voice, and he was apprehensive regarding the purpose of his visit.

Ringing the doorbell, he waited for a response, and was surprised to hear a window open above him. He turned and was delighted to see a pretty young girl gazing down at him.

“Are you Dean Soulsby?” she asked politely.
He nodded, “That`s right, Cecil to my friends.”
The young lady placed a finger to her lips, and whispered, “Come on up, his Grace is under the weather!”

Soulsby made his way up the marbled staircase to the upper floor. Mavis explained the situation.”He`s in the state bedroom with a throbbing big toe and scalded crotch!”
“Good Heavens, are you sure?” ventured Soulsby more than a little worried.
Mavis smiled, “I spilt hot coffee on his privates, first thing this morning, then, when he tried to get up, he couldn`t walk.”

“Whatever happened?”
“Gout! Betchya life that`s what it is, my old Dad had the same affliction, only he was a beer man.”
“I`ll go and see what he wants,” said Soulsby, opening the bedroom door and peering inside.

Archbishop Lovemore feigned sleep, yet kept a weather eye open for the Dean, who approached cautiously. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said pleasantly, “And how is your throbbing crotch and scalded toe this morning?”

Lovemore came awake with a howl, “My what, Soulsby?”
Dean Cecil took a step back, not wanting to get caught up in the Archbishop`s wrath and foul breath. “Your… er… throbbing… er… toe perhaps?”

“That`s better,” said Lovemore.
“Oh, I`m so glad Your Grace, so that just leaves you with a nagging crotch?”
“Forget about my crotch Soulsby, I am indisposed until the swelling goes down, and it`s Harvest Festival Thanksgiving coming up in a week’s time, you`ll have to help me.”

Soulsby thought quickly, Harvest Festival was a dirty word to him, from a bitter past experience. “My duties in the Prison Services, Your Grace, I have a full calendar.”
“Hang the Prison Services Soulsby, we have a duty to our parishioners dammit, the poor, the weak, the destitute must go and bring in the sheaves, or we`ll all be starving come wintertime!”

“…’Er yes Your Grace.”
“Now in my trouser’s pocket, you`ll find a list of farmers who may, or may not wish to subscribe, I want you to round `em up Soulsby, we`ll take anything that`s marketable, and if they`ll deliver, all the better.”
“Anything?” queried Soulsby, whose knowledge of the festival industry was minimal.
“Anything Cecil, just as long as it`s resaleable, and we get a fair return!”

The list of active farmers was longer than Soulsby had expected, two pages of dedicated Christians, who worked the land by the sweat of their brow, and the blisters on their hands… this was going to be a tall order.

“This farmer Shanksbury who heads the list, isn`t he the one with the Jersey bull, Your Grace?” asked Soulsby, remembering a previous incident.
“Yes that`s the one, you can`t get near him with a barge pole!” said Lovemore, lighting up a fresh cigar.

“Dear me! He has a nasty temper, I suspect?”
Lovemore frowned, “Not him, he`s as docile as a kitten, it`s the bull that has the temper, do your best dear boy.”

It was a bad start to the day. “Any suggestions?” he asked.
Lovemore blew a great cloud of suffocating smoke towards the plaster cherub that appeared to be flying high above his bedside. “Best take the bull by the horns Soulsby, just as the good Lord asks of us all.”

Killing two birds with one stone, Soulsby decided to pay New Horizons Correctional Institute a visit before driving into the countryside canvassing for farm produce.
Warden Peabody greeted him at the main gate. “And what is the purpose of your visit today, Reverend?”

Soulsby suddenly remembered the veggie patch that he had seen around the back of the institute – perhaps a turnip or two, the odd carrot, and some armfuls of comfrey might help with the fruit-and-veggie section..

“I am collecting for our annual Harvest Festival, and remembered seeing some very healthy-looking comfrey at the back of the building during my last visit, and I wondered whether you might like to subscribe a little for a very good cause?”

“Comfrey?” queried Peabody, who knew little about horticulture.
“That`s right, it`s round the back, where the ablution blocks are, there`s quite a lot.”
“Why of course Your Reverence, take as much as you like! To be quite honest, I thought that it was just a weed… although the inmates seem to go for it in a big way, I`ll get someone to cut it whenever you are ready for it!”

Soulsby`s car headed towards Shanksbury Farm. The morning had gone well so far, and Soulsby hummed a tune as he drove through the Hertfordshire countryside, in search of farm produce. Farmyards were evil smelly places to him, for despite his many years within the rural community of Lower Woodbury, terms like “mucking out”, “muck spreadin`”, “rutting and covering”, and “hedging and ditchin'” were not commensurate with sipping Ceylon tea with the ladies of the Women`s Guild, or gently patting a baby`s bottom at a christening.

Shanksbury Farm was no exception to the rule, for the yard was awash with a ripe-smelling muck that seemed to extend right up to the front door. A sow lay across his pathway suckling a litter of piglets, and a mangy-looking dog lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce at any moment.

Somewhere a cow mooed, Soulsby winced. “Could perchance that cow be a massive bull?” he thought, remembering the Archbishop’s advice.

The mangy dog suddenly took umbrage, and with its hackles raised, barked around Soulsby`s cassock and ecclesiastical boots until Farmer Shanksbury came to investigate the commotion.
“Mornin` `yer Reverence, you after `yer usual like?”
Soulsby was nonplussed, “My usual, and pray what is that?”

Shanksbury laughed, and extending a dirty-looking finger, poked Soulsby in the ribs.
“You don`t have to be `uppity’ with me Reverend, a rumble in the barn never did no one no harm, I`d be there myself if it weren`t for my Alice, she`d nigh crucify me if she found me with another gal.”

“Good Heaven`s Mister Shanksbury, you don`t mean to tell me that members of the clergy drive all this way for a… a… a… a… tumble in the hay?”

The twinkle in the farmer`s eye confirmed Soulsby`s suspicions. “Best 10 bob`s worth around, I make more on that there barn than I do on poultry!”
Soulsby was shocked, “Could you call your dog off, he`s tearing the hem of my cassock to shreds!”

“That he`s a her `yer Grace, but I`ll be obliged if `yer hold Cedric for a moment, while I fetch Daisy.”
“Cedric, who is…?”

Shanksbury disappeared for just a moment, then hauled the cloven monster from its straw-bound pen. The Jersey bull needed no introduction, its massive bulk and swinging testicles filled the farmyard, and all in it scattered in all directions in order to steer clear of the beast! Chickens, ducks, pigeons and piglets scattered far and wide.

Closing his eyes, Soulsby grasped the animals tether.
“Mister… Shanks… dear God, let this creature not run amok!”
“Won`t be a jiff,” shouted Shanksbury, who promptly disappeared around the corner of the barn. “Keep hold of his nose rope and `ang on fer `yer life!”
“But… but Mr Shanksbury… don`t leave me…”

The farmer scraped a cowpat off his Wellington boot and nodded, “Gonna get Daisy `yer Grace, she be fair pawing the ground for young Cedric.”

Grappling with Cedric, the Jersey bull, who stood a good 17 hands, and weighed a couple of tons, was the kind of challenge that no ordinary member of the clergy would attempt, unless he were a mite inebriated. Soulsby stood his ground, and grabbed the rope that was tied around the ring set in Cedric`s snorting nostrils, and prayed.

The bull trembled, and drew back against its captor, withers twitching, it sniffed the morning air now slightly laced with Soulsby`s aftershave lotion. Then it gave one tremendous bellow! The creature`s enormous head reared, and 14 inches of pink tongue slurped against Soulsby`s pallid cheek… then slurped again.
“F… F…. F… Farmer Shanksbury,” yelled Soulsby, as the warm wet tongue slid beneath his clerical collar, “Help!”

A look of rejection registered clearly on Daisy`s brown-and-white face. Ready, willing and waiting, as any feminine member of the bovine family might be, she pawed the ground around her feet in protest.

Shanksbury dropped Daisy`s tether and scratched his scrawny chin. “What the `ell have you done to Cedric?” he shouted.

“Can`t you call him off, Mr Shanksbury,” yelled Soulsby, completely overpowered by the bull`s amorous attack, “He seems to have taken a liking to me and he`s slobbered all over my cassock.”

Then, quite out of the blue, Daisy mooed coyly, causing Cedric`s head to turn. Downwind of the amorous cow, another delicate, yet subtle perfume wafted on the morning breeze.

Inevitably, nature called! Head down, and horns almost touching the ground, Cedric charged towards Daisy, who fluttered her eyelids and moved her rear section into position, hoping for the best! Wham! The two met, locked, then fell apart. The union was complete.

Shanksbury gripped Soulsby`s hand. “You can `ave wot you like fer the Harvest Festival, Reverend, just give me a couple a`days warning, so that I can shut Cedric out of harm’s way!”

Soulsby agreed, “I just don`t know what came over him?” The farmer walked Soulsby to the car. Sniffing suspiciously, he asked casually. “`Ere wot aftershave are you using?”

The Dean thought for a while, it had been a birthday present from a maiden aunt. “El Toro dos Santos,” he stuttered. Shanksbury shook his head, “I thought so, that ruddy bull`s as queer as a pork pie in a synagogue!” Archbishop Lovemore remained indisposed.

Ably assisted by Novice Roger Frigwell to the Harvest Festival scene, he surveyed the motley collection of skateboards, cycle innertubes, and frisbees with a few misgivings. There were offerings of fruit and veg, as well and Frigwell, true to his style, had already helped himself to a bunch of fine-looking grapes.

Looking at his watch, Lovemore shook his head. “Where is he…? He should be back from town with the evening papers by now.”

He helped himself to a Victoria plum, crunching into its sweet, soft centre, savouring the juice. “Hope he`s brought my winnings, I`m 30 quid up, so far this week, and I`m doing a doubles at Newmarket on Saturday!”

The sound of Soulsby`s footsteps echoed through the empty cathedral. Flushed, and out of breath, Soulsby made his way towards the Lady Mary Font, and the pile of fruit and veg.

Clearly he was agitated. Wiping his brow with the arm of his cassock, he began his confession.  “Chalky White wasn`t there so I had handed the betting slips over to this new chap who was standing there.”

Lovemore smiled. “So?” “Then he… he told me that he was a policeman!”
Lovemore exploded. “A what?
“P… p… p… policeman!”

Frigwell, who had been eating plums, swallowed the stone and began to choke uncontrollably! “Quick Soulsby, fetch some wine, the man`s choking!”
Dazed at his reception, Dean Soulsby`s mouth dropped, “Wine, where`s it kept Your Grace?”

Springing from the stone steps, the Archbishop hopped some five yards to the tomb of an unknown Bishop, and pushing the heavy stone slab to one side, he extracted a carafe of red wine and handed it to Frigwell.

“How in the name of goodness did you know he was a policeman?” uttered Lovemore, taking a quick swig himself.

Thinking back to the incident seemed to make things worse for Soulsby, who could only remember the size of the man`s boots.
“He had very large, flat feet?”
“Dammit Soulsby, what else?”
“He also wanted to know my address!”

Beside himself, Lovemore raised his eyes towards Heaven. “Oh Lord, Brother Soulsby, thou hast better start praying in real earnest to get out of this one!”
Soulsby attempted a smile. “I think not Your Grace, you see, I gave him your address!”

Frigwell, now fully recovered, lit a cigarette.
“Surely there`s no crime in a couple of honest clergymen making a bet?” he queried.
Lovemore retaliated, “I`m no ordinary clergyman Frigwell, I`m the Archbishop of the county!”

Frigwell nonchalantly blew smoke rings, “Hmm, you`re right about that, but let`s face it… you`re not particularly honest” At last, the joyous day arrived, Harvest Festival Sunday, the one day in the year when men, women and children gave thanks for the wonders of nature, and shared in the abundant gifts send by Gods Almighty Hand.

Soulsby was helping to stack the three bales of comfrey sent by the New Horizons Correctional Institute, when Archbishop Lovemore gave him the good news. “Hope you don`t mind taking the service Cecil, I`ll never be able to get up the steps to the pulpit with this foot of mine!”

Soulsby dropped the bale neatly onto the lower step of the alter.
“But… but… I haven`t got anything prepared Your Grace, what can I say?”
The Archbishop was busy sniffing at the bale. “Smells a bit high if you ask me Soulsby, did you say it was comfrey?”
“`Er yes, from New Horizons!”

Lovemore sniffed again, “Something vaguely familiar about this lot, but it escapes me at the present time, now about your service.”
Soulsby leaned closer to the Archbishop, hoping to glean some knowledge of the ceremony. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Lovemore grasped a handful of comfrey and thrust it somewhere into the folds of his purple gown.

Smiling pleasantly, he whispered two words, “Good luck!” When the congregation was assembled, and with a fair amount of trepidation, Soulsby mounted the stone steps that led to the pulpit, “All rise.” he began.

“Let us give thanks to the Lord and sing `All Good Things Around us are Sent from Heaven Above’. Page 64 in Ancient and Modern, and Heaven knows what in the Songs of Praise for Modern Living!”

The colourful service continued for most of the morning, ending with the traditional Harvest Festival hymn, “Bringing in the Sheaves”. The offertory boxes were filled to overflowing, each was then duly emptied and passed around for a second time, a novel idea from Novice Priest Frigwell, who was reputed to be able to get blood from a stone, were it absolutely essential.

At the end of the service, Soulsby stood beneath the Gothic arch, now white, and laced with pigeon droppings, and bade farewell to his enthusiastic congregation. He shook each and every one`s hand in turn, men, women and children.
With the thinning of the crowd, a lone Chief Const Grubble walked slowly towards Soulsby, clearly he held something in his hand.

Grubble had held back for as long as possible, not wishing to make an ugly scene on such a joyous occasion. As a member of the constabulary he had a duty to perform, one that might not go down well with the majority of worshippers present in the cathedral.

Recognising the constable, Soulsby thrust both hands eagerly towards him.
“May the good Lord Bless and comfort you constable,” he said, smiling radiantly.
Grubble winced, then slipped a pair of handcuffs around Soulsby`s slender wrists.

“Don`t look round `nor make a fuss `yer Reverence, `yer under arrest for possessing and harvesting 110 pounds of Grade 3 marijuana, and I`ll be obliged if you`ll come along with me quietly like!”

Archbishop Lovemore attended the police van as Soulsby clambered in. “I knew I`d smelled that cloying smell somewhere Cecil, but couldn`t put me finger on it!”
Remonstrating his innocence, Soulsby began to shout through the grid of the window. “They told me it was comfrey Your Grace, there has been a dreadful mistake!”

Jumping in beside Soulsby, Grubble gave the order to the driver of the van. “Police cells Clarence, and make it snappy. It seems you just can`t keep out of trouble, Your Grace, this little lot should get `yer a good five years!”
“Five years?”

“That`s right Sir, street value, some `undred thousand quid!”
Soulsby sighed, once more, it seemed that his entire world had just gone to “pot”!