Charlie Flindt: Vicar’s visit prompts ‘vision’ of praying in the hay
Charlie Flindt © Kathy Horniblow As usual, I didn’t hear the vicar arrive. I don’t know how he does it – he just materialises at the back door.
The dogs were also taken by surprise and were on the cusp of tearing him limb from limb when they realised he represented no threat and fell silent.
I was tempted to make a biblical reference, but couldn’t decide whether Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego or Daniel was the right name.
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“I’ve come with a letter for Hazel,” he said, interrupting my “Search the Scriptures” nostalgia. I explained that she was out turning hay, and offered to pass it on to her.
His face suggested that the letter was too important to be left with me, so I suggested we pop out to the back meadow and find her.
There’s a shortcut to the meadow through the new barn, which happens to be full of calves and orphan lambs, all fat as butter.
They’re all extremely noisy, too, so I couldn’t quite tell if he was blessing them as we passed through. (He blesses everything, you see. I suppose it goes with the job.)
Hazel was just reaching the far end of a long turn as we arrived in the field, so we had time for a quick lesson on how to make hay; all about how it’s a six-day bet with the Good Lord, but we can load the odds slightly with lots of preparation.
We’d put plenty of fertiliser on it, scarified it twice, rolled it and been over it with the slitter. “The what?” asked the vicar.
“It’s a roller with blades, and it makes slits in the ground to help drainage and aeration in the roots,” I explained, and we had a quick kneel to look (somewhat in vain) for evidence.
Hazel finally made it to our headland – and she didn’t look happy. In fact, she looked downright terrified. “What’s on earth’s happened?” she asked.
It took her a few moments to shake the panic. As she’d rounded the turn at the far end, she’d seen two figures at this end of the field.
As she’d drawn closer, she’d realised it was me and the vicar, apparently in intense and solemn discussion.
And as she’d got closer still, the two of us had briefly appeared to pray. It looked – from her cab – as if the vicar and I were united in being bringers of bad tidings.
By the time she reached us, she was steeling herself for catastrophic news.
It seemed wise to make myself scarce round the back of the tractor while the letter was handed over and earnestly analysed.
It turned out to be nothing more than a resignation note from a committee member of a local charitable trust that Hazel and the vicar help run – hardly earth-shattering, but still vital in the world of village politics.
I greased the haybob and checked for broken tines – only a couple, which made all that rolling worthwhile.
I didn’t quite trust the vicar to make his own way back through the barn; there are lots of idiosyncratic gates, and he’d probably be there all day blessing each animal individually.
So once he and Hazel had finished, and she’d set off across the hay again, I steered him home.
The dogs ignored him this time; they were enjoying their own fiery furnace at the back door, soaking up the June sun. He thanked me for the guided tour and was gone. And I didn’t hear him go.