Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

“Yee,” said Mrs. Wang-Wang, “yee” being the way that the members of the eccentric Wang-Wang clan stated the affirmative.

“What brings you here, Trimmers, in the middle of an afternoon?” asked Graham, as Mrs. Wang-Wang toddled away.

“Or rather ,” I laughed, “‘why aren’t you back in your garret above that dress shop, Trimmers, writing about all things Dinglian?’ I should ask the same of you , Graham.”

Upwitch answered for his friend: “We’ve been discussing, amongst other things, an article that I have been deputed by Graham to write for his Dinglian History for Young Readers. ”

“Ah, Graham,” said I, “you have returned to the History. I thought that you had abandoned it.”

“It needs to be written now more than ever,” said Graham. “And Upwitch is just the man to put down the chapter on the All Souls Church. Nothing so lengthy a treatment as to comprehend the entire structure, but merely a few enlightening paragraphs on the history of the bell tower itself, for this is what would most fascinate a young reader.”

“It really is the only thing about that disproportional building that anyone — forgive my candour — much cares to know,” I opined.

“No offence taken, Trimmers. It’s rather an architectural anomaly, now isn’t it?” laughed the vicar.

“Upwitch was telling me of the campaniles of old,” struck in Graham. “Places of refuge and asylum for religious and political dissidents.”

“I recall a little school paper that my brother Gus wrote upon that very topic. Ever thereafter when he found himself at the insalubrious end of my father’s disciplining ferule, he would vow to go to that very place for safe harbourage from the man’s patriarchal wrath.”

“And did he ever have cause as a young lad to make good upon that vow?” asked Graham.

“Not that I’m aware. Besides, here in Dingley Dell, there is no law on the books that gives a cleric leave to take a fugitive into his custody in the manner of the medievals.”

With a smile from my weekly philosophical sparring partner Upwitch: “Nor is there a law upon the books, Trimmers, which expressly forbids it.”

I lounged back in my chair and threw my arm over the top rail in a show of relaxed engagement. “My dear most reverend Upwitch, should I come now, so late in our friendship, to regard you as insurgent, a, hum, provocateur ?”

“However do you mean?” asked Upwitch, plucking a gooseberry jam biscuit from the generous platter of pastries and sweet-breads proffered by Mrs. Wang-Wang — snatching it, in fact, before the good woman had even the chance to set the platter down upon the table (placement there being temporarily delayed as Graham quickly sought to retrieve the spread-out map so that our hostess wouldn’t think it a tablecloth of cartographic design).

“I’ll tell you my meaning, Upwitch,” I returned. “That there are those in this valley who have stood in historic opposition to the powers that be, but cannot act to overthrow the government for want of sufficient ammunition.”

Upwitch nodded. “Now by ammunition do you mean the literal arming of ourselves with — what have we at our disposal here? — sticks and stones and a few sharp-ended implements from the Iron Age, or do you mean by the term ‘ammunition,’ sir, the lack of a seasoned and reasoned rationale for toppling the state in a sort of bloodless coup?”

I thought for a moment, stroking my chin in a way that I had taken from my often-cerebrating father. “To be sure, Upwitch, there are a significant number of reasons for changing the administrative guard however we may wish to make the change. Permit me to give you two such reasons.”

“By all means, give us two!” replied Graham with uncharacteristic animation. (Was there something potent within his tea? I wondered, given this leave-taking of the librarian’s customarily composed and coolly selfpossessed demeanour.)

“The refusal of Mr. Pawkins of the Trade Ministry earlier this week to allow my brother and me to surmount the Summit to ask questions of the tradesmen that would give us some idea of the fate of my nephew Newman. I understand the reason for the law, as I apprehend the reasons behind most of the laws that the Petit-Parliament passes, but there is never an allowance for extenuating circumstance or any other form of exception. Here would have been a very good occasion for invoking both.”

“Oh, but sir,” said Graham, taking up this thread, “there are exceptions abounding. Throughout our history. Yet it is only the governing class that receives consistent exemption. It is an entirely lopsided system. I’ve studied it for years. Do you not agree, Slingo?”

Slingo — also known as Vicar Upwitch — nodded. Then Slingo coloured.

“Is that your new name, Upwitch?” I asked, whilst enduring the throes of subduing a hardy chuckle.

“It is not the name I selected for myself at the Bureau of Appellations, but rather a pet term that Uriah has selected for me.”

I composed myself and resumed, “There are other matters as well with respect to personal liberties that go wanting. The restrictions, for example, put upon visitors to Bedlam. You would think the place as it presently exists under the heavy-handed rule of Dr. Towlinson to be more a prison than an asylum for the insane and mentally-infirmed. Is it written in the laws of the Petit-Parliament that all who pass through its admitting gate should be so inhumanely demeaned?”

The two men shook their heads as Graham tutted.

Confided Upwitch, continuing that same train: “A great many of my parishioners have come to me seeking my intercession with respect to this very matter. They seek so very little from Towlinson, really: only that they should have a few minutes more to visit with their loved ones who have been incarcerated in that dismal place. Heretofore my efforts have been to no avail and the visits remain painfully brief. As for the Returnees, it is even worse, for they are permitted no contact with their families whatsoever!”

“They say it is the mental affliction,” said Graham in a skeptical tone.

“And I call that swine-milk!” howled Upwitch, slamming the flat of his hand upon the tabletop. “No, it’s absolute roguery, that’s what it is. I cannot put my finger on it, Uriah, but I know I’m right. And it makes it quite difficult for me to stand behind my pulpit and speak the word of our most compassionate Lord and Saviour, and to expound upon the Golden Rule and everything else pertaining to the lifting up of the least amongst us, whilst those bloody Bashaws who sit before me with every advantage— to such an extent as is allowable by our constrained circumstances — think only of how to self-aggrandise and expand their base of power and privilege — sit before me in their gated pews and nod and sing and pray and put a coin or two into the collection basket in parsimonious hypocrisy, and frankly, I’m losing all patience for it.”

“My word, Slingo!” exclaimed Graham in mock distress. “You’ve become quite the clerical Communist!”

“I tire of it — that is all that I’m saying,” said Upwitch.“Trimmers would grow weary to see it, too, if he ever cast his shadow over the threshold of my church. But I know his heart on the matter. I’ve read what he’s written in the Dingley Delver .”

“I dare say,” I replied, “that Bishop Tollimglower is presently rolling over in his grave, to hear so much disrespect being directed toward our Patrician class. He was one of them, you know.”

“I am sometimes given to wonder about his true allegiance,”said Upwitch, looking off into the distance as if Tollimglower were standing somewhere out there himself, and commanding his thoughts from a distance.