Coronation Chicken. Nigel Barley

always carefully monitored in the village shop. There was no anonymous supermarket where they could be made. So the Reverend must be deliberately channelling his trade outside to the detriment of the local economy. Now that showed a downright lack of fellow feeling. In Weylands, thrift often lay behind the condemnation of vice so that wives disapproved of husbands' adultery largely on the grounds of 'wasting money.'

      In his innocence, the Rev. Maclehose was unaware of these doubts of his flock, indeed, he even seemed to sense a quickening of their miraculous faith in the close attention they all paid nowadays as he sipped the communion wine as if expecting a bolt of divine lightning. Every week, he swung himself up into the Sunday lectern with a stiffness that suggested less old age than the conscious burden of his own authority and the weight of their sin and sometimes stumbled on the worn top step which led some of the congregation to smirk at inner knowledge. Occasionally, he cursed passionately under his breath, ‘Oh bread and butter!’ or on a bad day, ‘Oh, armholes!’ and fixed them with an acid stare and let it roll slowly, corroding their smirks, over them, as if looking for a known suspect who might be able to assist him with his enquiries. It was a bit of business that never failed. Guilt was the fuel that primed the pump of Weylands people. Today, his eye rested on Jack, sitting in the choirstalls, surpliced and beruffed, a vision of innocence. Jack blushed. Religion was still mainly a social act in Weylands and it was no impediment to choristry that he had never been baptised. Mum and Dad, had omitted it not as a defiant statement of their agnosticism but more because baptism was seen as some fine-tuning of the ritual apparatus, a technicality that had yet to be mastered outside the middle class or a poetic elaboration that went beyond the dingy, utilitarian symbolism of the state and was therefore just showing off. In the army, on church parade, the men were ordered to sort themselves into ‘Normal C of E, Catholics and Fancy Buggers.’ People who held christenings, with silver spoons, cakes and embroidered smocks, were Very Fancy Buggers.

      ‘According to the ten commandments,’ roared the vicar, stoking up their fires of guilt, ‘you're all damned! Listen to the list of your sins.’ He breathed in, suggesting the length of the list that now had to be read. ‘Heathendom, idolatry, swearing, scorning the Sabbath, contempt for parents, killing, adultery...’

      He looked up and glared. Someone was creeping from the church, face averted - Dick Moore.

      ‘Just remembered where he left his bike,’ came a stage whisper, followed by titters.

      ’..stealing, bearing false witness...’

      There came a rhythmic squeak. He looked up again in outrage. Now, someone fat was creeping out after him in creaking shoes. With the sun shining in his eyes, he could not quite see who it was.

      ***