The flock grew larger with every passing month. What did it matter that these people had grabbed their gas masks and ration books before they’d given a thought to embracing religion, so long as they had ended up here?
I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance …
Time, he thought, was man’s greatest enemy. Time passes, and time destroys. There was a time when he had been a young man brimming with self-belief and optimism, before the trenches of Flanders. There was, too, a later time when he had gathered the pieces of that lost happiness through his love for Jennie, yet God seemed unshakable in His plan that Henry Chichester’s days were not to be spent in a state of contentment. Jennie had died giving birth, and had taken with her the last flakes of colour in his life. He had found many other things to fill the void – duty, obligation, ritual, the son – yet still it was a void. And it felt timeless, without end, a life surrounded by so many people, yet spent so much alone.
Behind his back they called him Bishop Brimstone in recognition of the strength of his faith. Henry Chichester was a good man, a strong and awe-inspiring preacher for these hard times, which is why they crowded into his pews, placed money upon the plate, filled the churchyard with flowers and left his surplice whiter than any summer cloud. All for faith. Yet none of the eager faces now raised in front of him could comprehend how, alongside his faith, sat failure. His life had been a litany of failure. He had failed in the trenches, simply by surviving. He had failed Jennie, too, by letting her die, and then failed as a father by letting Don go. He had even failed his God. The Reverend Chichester was not a wicked man but he knew he was a dishonest man, for while he preached duty as being the way to salvation he was aware that the only thing duty had delivered unto him these past years was unhappiness and a feeling that his soul had been placed on a bed of ice, where it had somehow become frozen, unable to move.
‘Today – Whit Sunday – we celebrate a time of accomplishment,’ he began from the pulpit. ‘When men shall go forth and do great deeds.’
It wasn’t the standard Whit Sunday sermon, but present circumstances called for something a little different. Many years ago his college principal had told him that while the Word may be eternal, a congregation’s attention span never was, so Henry Chichester had developed a reputation for his vivid sermons. But how could he inspire others when his words had long ago ceased to inspire him? He raised his eyes heavenward, but all he saw was a large patch of damp above his head that was growing steadily worse in the salt-wind storms. The roof was long overdue for repair, but what was the point when the entire building might be blown away by a single bomb? Dear God, what was the point?
‘The Whit Sunday story began a little while after Our Lord’s ascension into heaven, when the Apostles had come together to celebrate the day of Pentecost. They were alone, uncertain, worried about what the future held in store for them. And as they assembled in their small room, from the sky came a noise like that of a whirlwind and they were surrounded on all sides by leaping tongues of fire. Imagine that. Imagine how those men must have felt. In just a few weeks their Lord had been crucified, then resurrected, after which he had disappeared. And now this. Fire and chaos on all sides. Those poor Apostles must have been terrified.’ He cast his arms wide to gather in all the concerns his congregation were wearing so openly. ‘O Lord, how many of our young men in France must share that fear today.’
They wouldn’t fall asleep today. Nowhere in the country was closer to the war than this place and not a family in the town could escape it. The town was the port, and the port was the highway to a battlefield that was being fought over for the third time in seventy years. Like it or not, it was Dover’s war. All the newspapers carried large maps of Flanders, and the Reverend Chichester had cut out the map from The Times and pinned it on the notice-board in the porch alongside the brass-cleaning roster. Something to help focus their prayers.
‘Before his ascension Jesus had told the Apostles, “I leave behind with you – peace. I give you my own peace, but my gift is nothing like the peace of this world.”’ The vicar stared over his reading glasses and repeated the words for emphasis. ‘Nothing like the peace of this world. Our Lord knew that peace didn’t come naturally to this world; his message was that it would have to be laboured for – yes, even fought for. He was telling us that the crusade for Christ might involve much hardship.’
Eyes gazed up at him, the majority female, anxious, all desperate for reassurance.
‘And he told us this. In his own words, Jesus said: “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” That’s what he told the Apostles. And that is what he is telling us today.’
Mrs Parnell had seen him post up the map as she arrived for flower duty. There seemed to be more flowers this year than ever. Her eyes had brimmed as she saw what he was doing. ‘My youngest, Harry,’ she said, fighting her tears. ‘Just got his call-up papers this morning.’ She had made no complaint, simply grabbed her flowers and began cutting and arranging them with even more care than usual. It was only later he had found her sobbing in a rear pew. ‘I know, I know’ – she waved away his awkward attempt to comfort her – ‘he’s got to do his bit. But as a mother it’s so … well, you understand, of course. With your Donald.’
Reverend Chichester had smiled grimly and nodded. When his son had left, his parishioners assumed that he had gone off to fight like all the rest. It was an impression his father had done nothing to dispel. It wasn’t a lie, not at first, but it had taken root and grown to the point where his silence screamed of falsehood. But what was he to do? Admit the truth and lose the respect of all the Mrs Parnells in his congregation, just at the time they needed him most?
Or lose his self-respect, by admitting that every time he looked at his son he was reminded of Jennie and everything he had lost, and acknowledging that, in spite of a lifetime of faith and duty, he still couldn’t cope? He’d spent three years in a tunic constantly spattered with blood and he’d survived, yet inside he felt … a coward. Which is why the word had sprung so easily to his lips and been hurled at his only son.
‘Our young men are like the Apostles,’ he told them. ‘Sent out to follow in the footsteps of Our Lord and to cleanse the world from sin. May the Holy Spirit be with them, too.’
A chorus of ‘amens’ rippled through the congregation. The sun shone through the south windows into the nave, filling the church with warmth and comfort. He hoped it was an omen.
‘And let us take the words of Our Lord as our message today, when he said: “I am going away and I am coming back to you.” Coming back to you. Jesus passed through many trials and tribulations, but he came back to us – as we pray with all our hearts that our loved ones shall. May the Holy Spirit be with them, to bring them courage in all they do and victory in their task. May the Lord comfort them, keep them in His care and deliver them from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory …’
As he offered the sign of the cross and bade his flock to stand for the next hymn, his mind went back to the map on the board. He’d noticed there were no battle fronts or lines of trenches marked on it, not like last time, just the outline of a chunk of northern France and Belgium. But that was understandable, he decided. The Reverend Chichester, like so many others, concluded that the BEF was probably advancing too fast for the cartographers to keep up.
The morning had burst forth most gloriously, filled with birdsong and with the aroma of fresh spring grass still carried on the breeze. The clouds stood high and like gauze – an excellent day for cricket, Don thought, or some other game the Germans were no good at.
The old brewery in which the 6th had landed turned out to be rancid, full of pigeons and other pestilence. The task of transforming it into a Casualty Clearing Station was Herculean, and to be finished by the end of
