Loving Kindness?

Sir Richard Arcos here again... Last Sunday saw my visit to St. Horace's, Much Wailing in the Bath, Salop, at the request of some relative or other. I think it was a niece, but it might have been a granddaughter. Anyway, female and related to me in some manner.

The service was what passes for 'traditional' in some circles of the Anglican Church. That is to say, we were presented with hymnbooks at the entrance, and sat down at the front. After which we were told not to sit on the altar rail, so sat down somewhere else.

The congregation, which consisted of several elderly to middle aged people, proceeded to rise on the entry of the (female) vicar, and choir. The latter consisted of three men, two women, and a cat, who appeared to be in charge. The organist played a couple of wrong notes, apologised, and hummed the tune instead.

At the greeting, we were all asked to share a sign of peace. I stuck my tongue out at the woman opposite me, a traditional Nepali greeting, and she ran away. The lass with me made a 'V' sign and muttered 'peace, man...' to the chap opposite her, who just looked confused. Some chap then grabbed her and kissed her. His wife laid him out with a straight left to the jaw, before berating the lass for leading him astray. I had to separate the pair before something happened. I'm sure the couple in front of us were up to something. Well, until someone in the choir threw the cat at them.

Memberships

Sir Richard Arcos reports... After my glorious role in the General Election, where I tried to stand as Unionist candidate for Cork County, only to discover Cork has not been part of the United Kingdon since the 1920s, and thus does not elect a Member of Parliament, I resumed my role as roving reporter for this blog. So, having convinced my granddaughter to come with me, we decided to visit the Ebenezer church, Pontwen, in Mid-Wales. This church, operating in the fashion of an American independent Fundamentalist Baptist church, boats a membership of almost ten thousand, a remarkable figure in this day of small things.

On the Sunday, we set off from my holiday cottage in Mid-Wales, an old chapel called Ichabod (the manor house was rather inconsiderately being used by my son-in law, some excuse about having seven children and the cottage only sleeping three and a half), for the chapel. Naturally, we wore our best Sunday clothes. I took the Range Rover rather than the Rolls, not wishing to be too ostentatious.

On arriving at the church we found a vacant car park, big enough to fit the car in, but not much else, and a sunken lane leading to the chapel. There was a noticeboard, but it did not seem to have been repainted for a good many years. Proceeding along the lane, we found what is best described as a small jungle, so we returned to the car for a machete. With the aid of this tool, we slashed our way through the undergrowth to the chapel, which is depicted. It appeared to have fallen down a long time prior to our visit.

Further research disclosed that the almost ten thousand members included people born in 1750, and the membership figure was arrived at by the simple expedient of never removing people from the membership lists.

England Expects...

Sir Richard Arcos writes: If you can vote, do so. I remember when I stood for the County Council once, and had my grandaughters wear sweaters with my name on them. I did not tell them to swap votes for kisses, however. That was their own idea. Still won with 92% of the vote, mind...

Remember Me? Part Five

The little boat was pulled onto the beach by three burly sailors, Lady Sylvia watching with interest. Sir Richard Arcos stood in the prow, looking up at the ancient fortress which overlooked the harbour. While Lady Sylvia allowed one of the men to hold her at the waist, lowering her down onto the sand, Sir Richard refused offers of help, leaping down onto the sand with a lightness of step which belied his years. Adjusting his black bowler hat, Sir Richard drew a cross in the sand with his cane, handed each of the sailors a substantial tip, and strode off towards the little fishing town, somewhere on the Balkan coast, Lady Sylvia hurrying after him, her travelling clothes blowing in a chill breeze.

"Sir Richard!" she exclaimed, "where are we?"

"Best you didn't know, lassie," he drawled urbanely. "After all, if this all goes wrong, the less you know the better. Suffice it to say, we are in a country friendly to ours, with a Minister of the Interior who owes me a few favours. The least he could do was facilitate our undetected entry into the country."

"So this isn't our target?" Lady Sylvia was slightly breathless.

"Right first time!" Sir Richard gestured towards the town with his cane. "We hire a car here and prepare to cross the border. Do you think you could be Alice Caine, dear?"

"False papers?" Lady Sylvia smiled.

"Well, how else does one enter a country to bump off a septic wart?" Sir Richard laughed "-of course, lass. Mostly as people might pay a little too much attention to an English knight and the daughter of an earl, if they just turned up in a little Balkan country."

"Of course," Lady Sylvia shook her her head. "Where now?"

"The car hire place and the hotel," Sir Richard nodded. "After which we are going to climb a couple of mountains."

Lady Sylvia sighed deeply.

Remember Me? Part Four

Lady Sylvia walked with Sir Richard, away from the church, towards the little old house where the aged widower, formerly pastor of the chapel, lived, listening intently to Sir Richard's tale. He swung his cane, rather than leaning on it, shaking his head as he retailed some information.

"Are you ready to get your brother in trouble, my dear Sylvia?" he smiled mischievously "- I mean, swanning off to somewhere distant with a fairly notorious character..."

"I don't have a reputation," she laughed "-and you won't be able to do this alone, Sir Richard. How old are you?"

"Not apparently old enough to know better," he sighed. "You know, I used to think I was. That the world I lived in back then had changed for the better. But the more I hear today, the more I realise that the struggle between good and evil goes on, and I have no way of dealing with it. All I can do is fight, as I have always fought, trying to adjust the balance where I can. And in the case of Oulton, I can do that."

"When?" Lady Sylvia breathed the words softly "-Sir Richard, I..."

"Well, I hear Central Europe is wonderful this time of year." Sir Richard drawled urbanely. "I thought we might hire a car in Austria and drive about in what used to be the Austro-Hungarian Empire - how does that strike you?"

"If he's there," Lady Sylvia laid a hand on the old warrior's arm, "then I'll go with you. Whatever happens to me after that."

She cast a last, lingering gaze back to the graveyard, where the spring flowers were starting to bloom.

The Return of the Green Man: Part Two

Robinson Way looked at the card, scarcely able to believe his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, as he looked to the card, to his guests, and back to the card. His mouth opened and closed, no sound escaping it.

"The Green Man!" He gasped in horror, as breath returned to him "-it can't be!"

"I heard," the whisky exporter joined him. "You said he was dead."

"We all heard," the young woman concurred "-but how can you know?"

Way shook his head, pale as death. He stumbled forward, causing the guests and footman to make to stop him from falling. But the rich man did not fall. Taking a pull at himself, he strightened up, crossing to the window, looking out at the snow.

"The Green Man is dead", Way at last announced. "No-one has heard of him for months. Almost a year. He is dead. How, I don't know, but he is dead. This is a joke played by one of my guests."

"If it's a joke," the whisky man observed, "why is no-one laughing?"

The Return of the Green Man: Part One

The winter was unusually harsh, with snow just before Christmas. And that snow stayed, being renewed in early January by further falls, rendering the lanes around the isolated mansion impassable. Food, however, was not a problem, given the fully stocked freezers. Even so, there were some in the house party who were less than pleased when, a week after New Year's Day, the house was still isolated. There were city types who wanted to be back in the office, and models who would have liked to go off to the South of France. Even their host, the resclusive Robinson Way, was less than happy, after someone decided that this was an emergency and drank a great deal of his best claret. But beggars cannot be choosers, and there was little of the less expensive wine left.

An elegantly-dressed female looked out over the frozen landscape from the warmth of the the house and shuddered, looking at the snow. It had been fun the first few days, but now the sight of it was starting to bore her.

"Is there no way of getting a helipcopter or something out here?" she demanded testilty.

"It can be done, Miss Powell," her companion, a bearded man in a tweed suit who was usually involved in the whisky export business, in spite of his old Etonian accent, replied, "but would you take the risk in this visibility?"

She made a face, and turned back to the fire, where Mr. Way say, a glass of vintage brandy in his hand, watching the flames dance in the grate. He seemed lost in thought, and had missed the conversation. Only the approach of a footman caused him to look up. The man carried a silver tray, on which rested a card. While the young woman looked confused, windering how a card could have been delivered, Way read the card idly.


The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor. Way rose to his feet, pale and trembling. The guests rushed to attend to him. The young woman saw the card on the tray, on which the milionaire's eyes were fixed. She gasped, reading words which she could scarecely credit.

"Surely this is a joke?" she looked up at him, then back at the card.

"No..." the man shook his head, his voice faltering. "No... no... c... c...can't b...b...be - dead! The G...G...G...Gr...Green M...M...Man is DEAD!"