Trouble with Toads

By Peter L. Ward

Bigotry, selfishness, and lust for position and power thrive in a sleepy twenty-first-century rural English village. The quietude of the surrounding rolling hills and woodlands is not all it seems. Self-appointed busybodies from the upper ranks of the community take it upon themselves to direct the lives of others. But they are amateurs at the game. At the same time, foreign investors move in to exploit mineral wealth potential that lies buried not too deeply in the strata beneath the quaint cottages and old church. The whole area of East Sussex is ripe for gas development. Local democracy is abolished on a go it alone whim of the new right-wing British government. Each community must now earn its own keep. The village of Denbridgehurst swiftly evolves into a place of fear and intimidation. Four elderly power women take over and connive with Russian oligarchs keen to exploit the riches underground. Meanwhile, the national government threatens to run a new motorway past the village, taking out the fourteenth-century church. Enormous opposition is formed and led by the women. Conservation organizations are called in to scour the area for rare or endangered species. These could hold up the planners. The Russians have other ideas. Their true intent is to build a hidden Hadron Collider beneath the village.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466983281

Peter L. Ward

Peter L. Ward is a former chief producer in BBC Education who happens to live in a sleepy Sussex village. His trilogy for children (Trafford Books) Freedom of the Waves has been awarded glowing comments from top critics from The American Review of Books, ForeWord Reviews, Kirkus Reviews, and BlueInk Reviews. Ward’s first book, The Adventures of Charles Darwin (Cambridge University Press) has been translated and published in seven languages.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

FALLEN ANGELS

T here was trouble at St Wayne the Celibate. Happy-clappy was one thing. A gay young curate quite another. Ed Valence upset his parishioners. His earring was not thought to be in the best of taste. And the tattoo protruding above the dog collar at the back of his neck rivalled that of David Beckham. He also brought ‘radical ideas’ to the stultified minds of the local Tory Party at prayer. Befriending the few druggies on the council estate was deemed out of order, especially when they were to be found hard-lining in the choir vestry. Even though Rev. ‘Call me Ed’ Valence had gone to the trouble of providing a clinical waste bin that he emptied personally on a regular basis.

Equally disturbing was the YUMUMS Club meeting on Thursday afternoons. What they had to do with gay vicars was beyond the comprehension of closed minds. Church funds provided tea, orange juice, and cakes for the young unmarried mothers of the parish and their mewling infants. It was rumoured they swapped advice on how to obtain council accommodation and claim maximum benefits. The sight of bosomy young women in T-shirts and jeans sprawling on gravestones and enjoying a quick fag tested the stoutest advocates of tolerance and understanding. And could they not end their session with a hymn rather than monkey music on their iPlayers?

Ed Valence was unrepentant. Upon deaf ears he had advanced the argument of Christ the saviour, Jesus the forgiver. But to little avail. His vicar and church wardens had made it clear that since 1662, the prescribed ethos of the Church of England had been clearly delineated. They were supported by the bishop—a homophobe known for his views in the national media. At the curate’s interview, Bishop Cuthbert’s short-sighted vision had failed to pick up the earring and tattoo. He found the young man ‘charming’ and looked forward to the minor changes his new appointee might bring. Liaison with the church primary school being the first priority with the established head, a proclaimed atheist who refused to carry out statutory acts of worship.

The popular and otherwise-highly-successful head teacher rode out her luck and won the school governors’ vote of confidence with a ringing majority. She got on splendidly with the new curate and was happy to appoint him to run the football team and junior choir. The boys had recently run rings round bigger schools and won with the County 7-a-Side Soccer trophy. Valence’s new choir surpassed itself, coming in joint second in the Eastbourne Junior Singers Festival. He was the best thing the school had come across in a long time. The unusual curate was admired by children and parents alike.

The scramble for places at his Sunday morning services at St Wayne’s had to be seen to be believed. It was important to get in early to get a good place. Only the back three rows were normally left unfilled by 10.30. The priest in jeans, wearing no dog collar, performed wonders before his admiring throng. Many had never stepped inside a church in their lives. But on pets’ Sunday, he somewhat overstepped the mark. The old building rang to the gruff barks of mangy hounds who, with their owners, waited impatiently to be blessed. Les Arnold’s pit bull, Arthur, snarled at the altar challenging lesser breeds to approach. Caged budgerigars, hamsters, gerbils, and guinea pigs arrived by the dozen. Ed Valence was unfazed by the four-metre anaconda draped around eight-year-old Melanie’s neck as it eyed fluffy rabbits. They were all God’s creations. But it was Dolores, Farmer Gorringe’s favourite milking cow, who stole the show. The charming old Guernsey chewed her way through the fresh flower arrangements of the Ladies’ Guild. It was all too much, and action had to be taken.

As the pets’ parade to the altar continued, the remaining empty back pews began to fill with rival worshippers. Led by the Reverend Canon Wynde-Bag, the old faithfuls shuffled through the west door, bearing their King James bibles and copies of the 1662 prayer book. Their shrill bleating of the selected psalm echoed over the cacophony of animal sounds. They knelt on their kneelers as best they could, mumbling the responses and repeating their prayers. But was their God listening, or was he down at the far end of the church? The reverend canon clambered up on a pew to deliver his sermon only to be instantly drowned out by a close outburst of electric guitars and cymbals. Attempting not to show his fury, he struggled on, sermonising upon the denigration of standards and disrespect for tradition shown by the younger generation. Gays were singled out for special mention. He beseeched his Lord to send a mighty thunderbolt from heaven to wipe out these sacrilegious acts. In his desperation, the canon was prepared to take this calculated risk, knowing the sacred missile would plunge through the restored fourteenth-century roof. If fire and brimstone were to save the day and the souls of the iniquitous, it was a hazard worth taking. Yet he had to bear in mind the mean-spirited insurance company who would likely regard it as an act of God and not pay up.

This unique double Sunday worship had been going on for some time, but the old guard had run out of patience. Having ruled the village for several decades without opposition and ensuring no changes were ever adopted, they liked things the way they were and always had been. What was good enough for their forefathers was more than good enough for today. It was simply a matter of standards. Meerkatly simple. This was the fixed view taken by the church warden, a feisty old dame and chief representative of the Tory Party at prayer. Penelope ‘Pish’ McFarquar did not take prisoners. Having despatched her military husband to an early grave, Pish had the means and political clout to insist on having things her own way. Her bridge afternoons at Clouds View at the upper end of Friars Mead were legendary and renowned for their bloodletting. She still swung a healthy number 3 iron on the nearby exclusive golf course.

A small gathering of like-minded souls, including Jo Croak-Roberts, met to discuss the previous Sunday’s fiasco. Pish was in a fury.

‘That dreadful man has to go. It’s as simple as that. He’s a dangerous influence on our youth. We shall hound him out. Rid our community of this virus!’

A select cabal of ageing grey-haired females sided with her over parsnip wine and canapés. Elizabeth Parker agreed enthusiastically.

‘Once I’ve seen to my cat problem,’ she told the assembly, ‘and rid the village of the creatures for all time, I can promise you I’ll make the church’s affairs my first priority. It’s time for action.’

Pish approved.

‘Good to have you on board, Elizabeth. You too, Jo. How is Jeremy, by the way? I meant to pop into the orthopaedic ward last week, but what with the Club Ladies’ Foursomes, it was out of the question. And I have my family coming. When’s the plaster coming off?’

‘Off’ was pronounced ‘orf’ as in ‘tee orf’. The question was rhetorical. Pish drew the meeting to a close.

‘Thank you for coming. I had hoped one or two men would join us, but you know what they’re like. At least the vicar will be popping in later. He’s had to attend a meeting at county offices. Some planning nonsense. Why it should involve the church I can’t imagine. Half-useless officials and grossly overpaid, the lot of them. All at the expense of the council taxpayer!’

There was a reluctant sigh of agreement. The women were practiced and professional moaners, rarely discovering the bright side of life and growing more morose as they increased in years. Pish peered sternly over her rimmed glasses.

‘I’ve had words with the bishop, and we both agree this dreadful curate has to go. Of course, unseating him will be difficult, but Bishop Cuthbert is relying on us. As church warden, I’m more than happy to oblige. He would rather we do this between ourselves, not wishing to make his involvement official.’

The fourth woman in the room, seated upon the comfortable beige sofa, cleared her throat and coughed nervously. Margot de Vere, a long-time crony of Pish, still smarted over the bovine ruination of her church flower arrangements. Angry about various messes left on the floor, she was not prepared to take prisoners.

‘I’m sure we can dig up some dirt on him. He claims he’s celibate, but I don’t believe that for a moment. He’s far too young, and his hormones will be running riot. His complexion’s certainly nothing to write home about.’

She was acutely aware that the hormones of the group as a whole were largely redundant.

‘We need to draw up a battle plan. Keep a close eye on his movements and watch his every step. He’s bound to slip up at some point. They always do, these sorts of people.’

Her companions approved. As the meeting wound on, it became clear they were swiftly forming themselves into a self-appointed action group. By the end of the evening, roles and tasks were assigned. Pish to be leader; Elizabeth Parker, minutes; Jo Croak-Roberts, diocese liaison; and Margot De Vere, action. But just before they broke up, the doorbell rang. Pish rose to let in a late and considerably flustered vicar. The Reverend Canon Wynde-Bag accepted the offer of a small whisky and fought to calm his fevered brow. He sweated profusely, streams pouring down his fulsome red cheeks. A second whisky was organised to steady his nerves.

‘I come with disastrous news,’ he informed the four vigilantes. ‘The county planning authorities propose building a bypass for the village.’

This scheme had long been proposed by the Parish Council and had the backing of the majority of inhabitants. It came as no surprise to Pish’s companions. Jo Croak-Roberts spoke first.

‘Jolly good! How long have we waited? Twenty years? More, I believe. So about time. That’s what I say.’

Her friends muttered agreement, failing to see why the vicar appeared so flustered. Draining his glass and hoping for more, the religious leader explained the latest situation.

‘The brutish bureaucrats intend demolishing our church!’ he announced. ‘Bypass, I ask you, have you ever heard of anything so monstrous?’

The ladies were aghast. Unusually, not a single one spoke. They sat rigid in their seats, clutching glasses with any remaining wine. It took some time for the awful news to sink in. Penelope McFarquar spoke first, her blood rising.

‘Demolish the church?’ she queried. ‘What nonsense. I shall go to the barricades.’

She paused to calm herself and sipped the dregs of her medium-priced Rioja.

‘The church has stood on that spot for over seven hundred years. They can’t possibly knock it down. For God’s sake, Canon, did you not tell them it’s protected?’

The good man winced.

‘I did my best,’ he explained lamely. ‘But they claim the Church of England doesn’t own the land. Never has done. They claim their information has been checked through medieval lawyers and it’s watertight.’

He ran his hand through his receding white hair.

‘Obviously, I shall raise the matter with the bishop. We have two months to respond. If we fail to overturn this diabolical proposal, the bulldozers start work in early July.’

The gathering sat in profound shock. Jo Croak-Roberts rose unsteadily to her feet.

‘I shall speak to God at our next intercession,’ she announced. ‘I feel he has rather let us down. Simply not good enough. So here’s an ideal opportunity for him to reassert his authority and get back in our good books. I feel confident he’ll welcome the opportunity. It’s not as though we give him problems, other than Mr Macoby. He’s very lucky to have a village like Denbridgehurst with honest Christian people. Just think if he had to look after Manchester or Glasgow!’

The phone rang. Pish moved over to take the call. She listened carefully, nodding earnestly, then glanced grimly over to her friends.

‘We’ll be over right away!’

Replacing the receiver, she turned to her colleagues with an ashen face.

‘There’s a man up on the church roof,’ she announced quietly. ‘It could be Edward Valence. Have we pushed him too far?’

It was not the best metaphor.

‘God save us!’

The old canon struggled out of his seat.

‘Not Edward! We must get there at once. There’s not a moment to lose. Follow!’

Tumbling out into the darkness, the anxious party of village elders hurried towards the ancient building. It was difficult finding their way along the unlit lane. But at the gates of the churchyard, they spotted distant torchlights. One or two thin beams picked out the slight figure of a man sitting high on the nave. Pish assumed immediate command.

‘We’re here! Don’t panic. The canon’s with us.’

All beams concentrated on the unfortunate man up on the roof. It took Pish back to her younger days when army searchlights pierced the skies for German bombers. She stared hard at the unfortunate man in his precarious position. One slip and he was a goner.

‘That’s not Edward Valence,’ she snorted. ‘It’s Erky Collins. We all know his tricks. He’s after the lead again, if you ask me!’

She turned back to the small throng huddled in the gloom.

‘Call for the police!’ she commanded. ‘Tell them we have a thief on the roof. Caught red-handed. And tell them to get a move on.’

From his privileged perch, Erky was not giving up that easily. He knew his number was up. Struggling to stand, one foot either side of the end pinnacle, he called down to the baying mob.

‘I’ll jump! Anyone try to come and get me and I’ll jump… I mean it.’

There were no volunteers. The canon, red bulbous nose already put out by Penelope McFarquar’s assumption of control, turned to his Maker.

‘I think we should all pray,’ he advised meekly, raising