Amen by Johnny Barclay
AMEN
I’m all of a tizz today. It’s the same every year. Tomorrow is the Annual Village Show and today it’s a cricket match between Clemstock-under-Barton (Us) and Steeple-by-Wickford (Them). That’s what my husband Martin calls them – ‘Us and Them’ (he’s the captain). I just call them a bloody nuisance as I not only have to conjure up the teas but am also expected to do pretty well everything in preparation for the show.
I married Martin in Oxford days, soon after he graduated from Wycliffe Hall – many hours spent strolling arm in arm around the Parks, reading poetry to each other.
I’m Rachel and we have three children – Joshua, Ruth and Noah (just 2). But now poetry and holding hands have been replaced by teas around which cricket and fetes appear to hinge. My chief qualification as a vicar’s wife is my ability to run a successful show and raise the flag for bloody Clemstock (excuse the language) … and make tea.
Surely dropping out of one match might have shown some Christian forbearance? But no, I spend all day with children running about my feet, planning egg and spoon, sack and three-legged races – all neatly timed to coincide with his bloody cricket and the Middle Sunday of Wimbledon (when Sir Cliff once gave an impromptu concert on a wet day).
No chance of rain this weekend and when Martin finally gets home after a few beers with the boys, I’m flaked out on the sofa and all he can do is complain about some declaration.
“How’s it going?” he says later that evening, before pottering off to write his sermon. “All done!” I can’t help shouting. “Sorted the entertainment and set up the fly-casting competition on the pond, when I wasn’t fishing out Noah. Couldn’t get the Wurzels, so I booked the Cheesegraters instead. Popular enough.”
“Any targets for the fishermen?”
“I threw in some of your old dog-collars. Should do the trick.”
I lie back on the sofa seething, while there’s Martin who can’t even fry an egg and hold a sensible conversation at the same time, sitting next door and writing his sermon.
Predictably enough he does his “Fishers of Men” thing. I’ve heard it before and, although I don’t actually doze off this time, my mind embarks upon a journey around the village pond and all the activities. Noah comes to mind. Yesterday he somehow took off his clothes, including his nappy, which Ruth then hurled into the pond amidst the floating dog-collars. An extra target perhaps, had it not sunk.
Although I can’t find any money for the collection, I feel I’ve earned my keep on this, the Sixth Sunday after Trinity; Sir Cliff’s Day, as well as the Lord’s, or perhaps they are the same thing.
*****
The Cheesegraters didn’t turn up. In truth I never booked them, though I didn’t tell Martin that. It’s quite easy to lie convincingly to someone who’s absorbed by a bad declaration.
Amen
Her seething resentment comes over with clarity; she’s a timebomb ready to go off! She shows all the resignation of the cricket/golf/fishing widow. Love the final sentence.
From Simon: This is a strong piece of character writing. I like the directness and humour of the narrator’s no-nonsense approach. We get an inkling of her husband’s future career from the mention of Wycliffe Hall, but it is only in the next paragraph that our story-teller is identified as a vicar’s wife. What is good about the character is that, although she clearly resents all the demands on her time, she doesn’t whinge. Nor does she suggest she has a bad marriage. It is just one in which she is expected to make all the practical arrangements, like preparing the ‘teas around which cricket and fetes appear to hinge.’ She does not actually describe her husband as selfish, but there’s a lot of information in a sentence like: ‘“How’s it going?” he says later that evening, before pottering off to write his sermon. There is also the hint that he is doubly armed against criticism by the sanctity of his vocation. And the three required elements are seamlessly integrated into the story. I love the invention of a band called ‘the Cheesegraters’ and the reference to the Wurzels tells me exactly the kind of music they would play. What I particularly like about this piece is the description of a marriage, like many marriages, which is not under serious threat, but in which small resentments continue to fester.