In her regular feature in the Pharisaios Journal, "The Word From Wormingdale", Canon Daphne Pullover reflects on the season:
Easters that fall after the start of British Summer Time give us lighter mornings in which to contemplate the encounter in the garden between a weeping woman and a stranger. It always reminds me of a walk I took one early morning across the meadows at the back of the village and adjacent to the river. The mist was rising and the usual path looked unfamiliar. As I came down to the old footbridge I sensed rather than saw a figure standing on it, but I still jumped with fright when it turned round and lifted its arms above its head. “Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed as I fell backwards on to the grass. The figure advanced towards me as I lay spread-eagled on the damp sod. I felt a warm flush as it reached out a gnarled hand towards me to help me up. “Morin’ Reverend,” said a familiar voice. “Did oi startle ‘ee?” Recognition was instant, and I gently cuffed Sam Pharlap round the ear. “What are you doing down here you old beggar?” I said. “You frightened me half out of my wits.” It turned out that Sam was engaged in his usual pursuit of pheasant boggling, an old Wenchostershire tradition dating back to the 16th century.
Down in the church the aisles are heavy with scent from the arum lilies, and the tower damp with the perspiration of the ringers. Warm spring breezes blow across the churchyard, stirring the small posies of flowers that people have laid on the graves of their loved ones. Homely Easter traditions – flowers and bells and remembrance and feasting. The Gospels speak of the same things – the women bringing scented spices and oils to the tomb, the feast of fish and honeycomb in the Upper Room, bread and wine at Emmaus, no doubt with flowers placed on the table by the innkeeper’s wife. In the vestry the choir practice their celebratory anthem, and I hear the steady clicking of the organist’s metronome atop the piano.
William Wordsworth’s wild daffodils spread themselves in the new churchyard grass and on the Village Green. Seagulls winging inland from the coast swoop and wheel low above the greening crops, ever looking for their Easter feast. I can see them still from my bedroom window. Such energy – the flying of miles for a small snack, so unlike human energy, exhausted after a day’s hike from Jerusalem to Emmaus – just one thing on their mind – refreshment, and then maybe more conversation with their odd companion. Then after the disappearance such renewed vigour in their hurrying back to the city. The Easter tales are all go, scurrying hither and thither, such tales to tell.
Low Sunday is always an anti-climax, but this year I shall be busy for there is to be a family reunion in Wenchoster. Second cousins I have not seen for decades will meet me in the Thorpe Hotel for lunch. Aunt Phoebe is coming all the way from Nantucket to be with us, and Aunt Geraldine is flying in from new Zealand. We will be a merry gathering, and as it is to take place in a respectable County hotel, we will, of course, be wearing hats.
Aunt Phoebe, my mother’s youngest sister, always reminds me of Aunt Ada Doom in Cold Comfort Farm, who took to her bed after seeing something nasty in the woodshed. Phoebe took to her bed for a year following the break-up of her marriage to Grigori Stanislaus. She had been warned about his predilection for vodka, but when she came home one evening to find him in bed with a goat it was all too much for her. Even now she cannot abide vodka. To my mother she was always the proverbial black sheep of the family. The following day I shall take them on a tour of the sights of Wenchostershire. We shall wander through the Gussetts and explore Balldrop Down.
I am always exhausted after the liturgical round of Holy Week and Easter, and I look forward to a few days off afterwards. There will be time to attend to the garden, recovering after the harsh winter. Kevin will turn up with his implements and together we will turn over the beds.
MAUNDY THURSDAY
In the merry month of May, I shall be visiting the Diocese of Wenchoster. Bishop Roderick Codpiecium invited me to be his guest, and I simply could not refuse his gracious invitation.
