Morag Joss - Half Broken Things

‘You see, it’s Jeff, you said, isn’t it, you see, Jeff, I think the vicar would say it’s not the value so much as the fragility. Do you know, nobody’s even meant to touch them without gloves? I couldn’t take it upon myself, you see. But the vicar might let you handle them, if you came back when he’s here.’

Michael pressed his eyebrows into an angle of scholarly disappointment. ‘Yes, yes, that would be marvellous, except I’m due back in Norfolk by the weekend, you see. And one does so need to examine them. The main idea for my little book revolves round certain dating uncertainties, as I said, and only close examination gets one any further forward…’

‘Oh, but we’re quite confident they’re genuine sixteenth century, because-’ Michael was too taken up with noticing how hamstery she looked to hear the details. Her hair might have been red once, and was still abundant. Twisted wires of it were held under a knitted hat and a gingery down surrounded her small mouth, which worked too quickly. Michael took a deep breath for one last effort and interrupted her to explain that his hypothesis, based on his understanding (imperfect, of course, just a little interest of his, though a publisher may be getting keen) of the religious iconography of Northern Europe, the details of which he would spare her, was that the figures might be much older.

‘They might, in fact, even be twelfth century. Though one must get them in one’s hands, you see, as the weight and density of the material is key. And a little scrape test on the base would confirm, and so on. But if I’m right, they’d be so rare you could say they were priceless. Immensely valuable.’

This had worked before. It was extraordinary how the unwillingness of some people to put their important and valuable objects into his hands could suddenly evaporate at the suggestion that a closer examination might reveal even more importance and value. But infuriatingly, inexplicably, it was not working now with Hamster Woman. Was she simple?

‘Oh my goodness! That would be something for the PCC, wouldn’t it! But oh, you should have telephoned the vicarage first, it’s too bad you’ve missed the vicar! Though to be honest I’m not sure if he’d have been up to it, he’s exhausted . It’s only four and half weeks since she finally went and such terrible timing, just in the run-up to Christmas and you can imagine Christmas nearly finished him but no, he wouldn’t bow out of a single service, he’s like that, throws himself into everything, too hard if you ask me. And oh, he did need the break, we could all see that. She was only fifty-nine and towards the end, you see, with the nursing, well. The bishop’s quite good about things like that. The new bishop I mean, the last one wasn’t quite so aware , not at the grass roots. Though as a parish, we all try to be terribly-’

‘No, well! Sadly, I didn’t know. Ah well, very sad. Another time. Well, I won’t…’

Michael was not finding the right words in the way he had once been able to, and his face was definitely ticking now. Why was it calling for greater effort each time? This part of it, the part of the whole business that should be fun, that might even in a strange way have been the point of it once, was now becoming more and more difficult. His attention tended to wander, and that was dangerous. Or perhaps, Michael considered, pulling a hand across his face, he was allowing his attention to wander because it was dangerous, because the fire he was playing with had been cooling over the course of the last few trips and a little more danger might generate a little more heat from it. Or was he just tired, tired beyond words, like the vicar, exhausted ?

Michael bestowed his curatey smile on the woman once more and concentrated hard. He was not Michael, he was Jeffrey ‘everyone calls me Jeff’ Stevenson. He adjusted his voice to reveal his gratitude, his smile to show his regret, his eyes to leave her in no doubt about his sincerity. He ran it over again in his mind. He, Jeff, was a Church of England curate taking a few days’ holiday, researching his special interest in devotional objects. He was a curate; disappointed and philosophical, but (because they all were) demonstrably, quintessentially nice .

Nicely, he said, ‘It’s my own fault, I should have planned better, but sometimes it’s good to wander whither one wilt, so to speak, and just drop in. Ah well, back to Norfolk, disappointed! Unless we can prevail upon someone else…’

‘Oh, Norfolk! I’m very fond of Norfolk! So where is your church, exactly?’

Michael swallowed and tried not to stare at her with the naked hatred he was beginning to feel.

‘St Margaret’s, Burnham Norton,’ he told her, also reminding himself that today he was Jeff Stevenson of St Margaret’s, Burnham Norton, and that there was no need to panic. He could, if required, reel off the biographical details of Jeff Stevenson that he had memorised from Crockford’s Directory of the Clergy. Part of Michael’s brain now pictured the real Jeff Stevenson going about his pathetic business in Norfolk, unaware that he was being impersonated (and rather well) on the other side of the country. Michael knew that whatever the day might hold in the line of duty for Jeff Stevenson, it would include a little light comforting of the old, the lonely, the sick: jollying up, calming down, smoothing over the truth that most people’s lives stank whether there was a God or not. Michael believed that comforting was just another form of lying, which made Jeff Stevenson no better than he was.

‘Oh, yes, but just where is that?’ asked the woman, her voice squeaking with what sounded, unbelievably, like genuine interest. How was it possible? Michael wondered. Really, how was it done? And most of all, why, why this curiosity, this caring about details in the lives of strangers? Then the thrill that had been missing from the day stole over him. Beyond its being in Norfolk, Michael had not a clue where Burnham Norton was. And it would be such an exquisite disaster if, by one of those coincidences that were so common, he was about to be found out. He waited, perhaps half wanting it, to hear the ‘because my sister lives there, you must know her!’ or the ‘but the curate of St Margaret’s is my goddaughter’s nephew. You’re not the curate of St Margaret’s!’ One day it was bound to happen. Was it to be today? The more little trips he made the more he risked it, and with every time he got away with it, the closer came the day when he would not.

‘Is it on the coast?’

The question seemed to ring off the walls of the church and eddy round the display case where the pair of effigies stood smug behind the glass. Michael moved casually towards the door.

‘Well, if you know where Norwich is it’s not so far from there, I suppose. Look, I think I’d better-’

‘But in what direction? How many miles? Is it anywhere near oh, what’s it called… I can picture the place, I went there as a girl- twice in fact-’

‘Oh, is this your leaflet?’ Michael blurted. ‘May I take one?’

‘Oh, do! Here, take a few and you can hand some on,’ she said, pushing a wad of pale green leaflets at him. ‘There’s quite a bit there about our effigies, we are rather proud of them! And we do like our visitors!’

‘Oh, may I? Thank you.’

‘Take plenty, do. Well, remember where we are, won’t you? The vicar’ll be back by the end of this week. Have you signed our visitors’ book? There should be a pen but they do walk!

‘Oh, not to worry! It’s been lovely just to see the church. Yes, I’ve signed the book,’ Michael gushed back. ‘As soon as I arrived, before you came in. Thanks so much!’