The Magic Canopy

By William Paley

A novel set in the Downs of southern England where a picturesque village, far from modernity, has declined into obscurity. The lives of several residents, some poor, some affluent, but all with aspirations, are portrayed. They have love and the dilemmas it poses, ambitions thwarted by poverty, and the psychological disturbance of self-repression. But they also have the determination to stumble onward in hope of fulfilling their dreams.



The main characters are a young couple longing for marriage, one afflicted by a damaged childhood, her fiancé of small resources unable to rent or buy; an affluent young couple finding that love has its travails and does not run smooth; a middle aged couple finding fulfilment in village activities centred on the church; another who resolve their own failings by solving the problems of others. But also a widower’s obsession to seek revenge for the death of his wife and child.



Numerous other characters include the village historian who plays a key role in safeguarding the village amenities, a young couple who benefit from his investigations, and the older residents who bring their wisdom to the resolution of turmoil and tribulation thereby also contributing to village renewal.



The fundamental decency and good sense of the residents ensures the continuance of peace and harmony as if a veil of comfort and security had descended over the village.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishing Partnership
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839524455

Book preview

Chapter 1

A village with a mild climate twenty miles from the nearest town could be said to be idyllic as, truly, it was; but, to some, it was also a backwater despite its station on the main line and its few shops on the square. There was more to life than farming, these days. The world had moved on and the austerity of office blocks in the town had replaced the appeal of haystacks in the countryside but, for those who could afford the gentility of the rolling hills, its seclusion and remoteness from modernity had proved a blessing.

Durnley, pleasantly situated among the Downs of southern England, was a delight to those inhabitants now happily retired. The ladies, whose interests revolved around the church and the several societies that eked out an existence with their few members, found their lives greatly enriched by the secluded mode of life offered by the unchanging tenor of their ways. Several more prosperous residents, however, could choose to commute to Halford Streep or even, like Farley and Stanford, to London by rail.

Edward Perivale was, likewise, happy in his chosen profession as vicar of the community having acceded to the living several decades before. The church was a vocation that offered satisfaction to an educated and intelligent man who had begun his ministry in a fervour of ambition but who had succumbed over the years to the rural charm of a village serving a parish that offered several families of intellect and prosperity. It was true that he had not progressed to the high offices he had once wished to occupy, but he had, long since, become inured to a rather pleasant fate of slowly coasting to retirement in congenial circumstances and, meanwhile, of being well regarded by his neighbours for the sagacity of his sermons at Trinity and for his participation in the life of the community.

As he drove to the cathedral town of Skettering for his biannual discussion on pastoral affairs with the bishop, he could be reasonably pleased with his parish and could spare a thought for the change of season in the autumn gold through which he passed. He knew that the bishop would not be in the least critical or censorious of his administration; they had known each other since their curate days and each had always found the other a good foil for discussion.

Humphrey was a well-upholstered man of genial disposition, two years younger than Edward, but, in contrast, boasting a full head of dark brown hair against Edward’s white and thinning crown. His advancement was attributable not only to his liturgical mastery but also to a facility to deploy tact and diplomacy in resolving the great issues that arose in these times of change. The decline in applicants for curate positions, including the long-standing vacancy in Edward’s parish, was his only worry but he knew that his old colleague, whom he now greeted with his usual broad smile and gentle handshake, was a valuable and capable man.

Good to see you again, Edward. How are your numerous commitments these days?

I think I can claim some faint success, Edward replied with a modest smile. Unfortunately, my congregation is still shrinking. I conducted a funeral last month of one of our regulars. They pass into the next world and are not easily replaced by newcomers. The village is too remote for most people and it’s often difficult to find new purchasers or tenants.

I hear similar tales from most of our brothers, Humphrey responded, adopting his most sympathetic tone. But we must all be in good heart. After all, this area of the country has no desperate poverty and no open wickedness. I think we can all claim some contribution towards that state of affairs.

Yes, replied Edward. It is fortunate that the local business climate is reasonably conducive to employment, in Halford, at least, if not in Durnley, and thereby to good pastoral relations.

And one where our forefathers have played no little role, insisted Humphrey, generously. But you have coped well with the changing circumstances of our world. I hear that your various pastoral activities are still well received even if congregations continue to diminish.

Yes. I’m quite pleased with the development of our little societies. They have proved quite popular in the village – and, he added with a conspiratorial smile, they sometimes bring additions to the church services.

After these opening pleasantries, the bishop’s next words struck a slight chill in Edward’s mind. You’ll be anxious about the retirement that must be looming in your mind. It is some five years distant but the benefits of early planning cannot go amiss. In that regard, I thought I should give you some indication of pension, he announced, My own retirement will follow just a few years later and I must also consider a change in lifestyle. Having diplomatically hinted at the substantial impact he was about to deliver, he presented Edward with a page of figures. Your pension is likely to be in this region, he revealed. It is not entirely firm at this stage. It will change slightly as the retirement date approaches.

Hmm, Edward responded. I knew it would be a big cut but this is helpful, Humphrey. We shall have to think of an entirely different existence.

You will also be entitled to the state pension, of course, and to any private pension you may have, Humphrey added in an attempt to relieve the blow.

Very little, I’m afraid. Still, he shrugged, We knew it would come at some time; and we are but grass.

Somewhat less content on his homeward drive than on his outward journey, Edward wondered how Frances would take the news. She would make the best of it, he knew, but he could not but be a little disconsolate. His wife of thirty-five years had been a great comfort to him and a stimulus around the village for all of the societies, from bell-ringing to amateur dramatics, but he felt that he owed her a better life than, at present, could be expected in retirement.

Frances, however, was one of life’s stoics who accepted with equanimity almost all that transpired. She was equally as concerned as Edward at their impending retirement but that was some way off, she said, comfortingly, and they resolved, as usual, to make the best of a poor outlook.

Next evening, however, in her weekly telephone conversation with her elderly mother she confided her secret feelings of dread at retirement and the inevitable move to a less congenial residence far removed from the friends she had made over the decades. Her equally stoical mother sympathised as only a widow of ten years could. At least, you will have Edward; and that will be a blessing.

A world away from Durnley, where the busy streets vibrated with a sound unknown in that sequestered spot, Paul Ranger left his London office and walked the short distance to his Barbican flat, inwardly dreading the conflict yet to come as he announced his next assignment. Paul was in his early thirties and had a tall, athletic build and short, dark hair with a complexion a little travel tanned. His job as a senior analyst at Brand Seidel Partners was demanding, well salaried and came with all expenses paid but it tended to kill relationships and, after a few years jetting around the world, it was starting to lose its charm. He was always away, head down, devoted to work but he had no idea what else he was fit for even if, with his experience, an alternative job could easily be found. But what?

He turned the key and entered his flat calling out, Rose! I’m back.

Rose called out from the study, in reply, I’m in here. Just a second. She came out to greet him with a kiss on the cheek and saying, Just finishing my translation. How’s business?

Fine, he replied. I’ve got another assignment. Some company in America, again. I’ll need to leave this weekend.

Oh, not again! Rose responded, immediately deflated. You’ve only just got back from the last trip. How long will this one take?

I can’t say at the moment. Probably not more than a week.

That’s what you said before but you’re hardly ever here, these days. We used to spend all our time together, but now I’m nearly always alone. Can’t you get assignments somewhere else? she pleaded.

‘Not again,’ Paul sighed, inwardly, having faced this scene several times, already, and feared its repetition. It’s my job, he continued aloud. Most investigations are of US companies because they are the ones most businesses wish to know about. I’m sorry, but you knew that when you moved in.

Rose heaved an audible sigh. All right. I’ll just have to put up with it, as usual, I suppose. But it’s a bore on my own. She spent the evening sulking and almost in silence but Paul was only too well aware that Rose was right. She was alone too much. Rose was thinking that Paul had all the freedoms whereas she was stuck in the centre of a maze from which she could never escape unless she grew wings. Her hopes for a future together were fading.

The next Sunday, Paul packed his travelling bag, prepared for an absence of a week and took the tube to Heathrow. Another week, another trip, another Sunday ruined. He was almost as bored as Rose even if he was able to engage his brain more than Rose was able, left alone, as usual, with little opportunity for diversion.

Rupert Stanford was a well-groomed City manager of middle years and equable temperament who was a relative newcomer to Durnley, having moved there from Halford Streep about two years previously. He had come to dislike the constant bustle of the town and had exchanged it for the peace and quiet of the village with its view of the green and the old church from his sitting room. Halford had more shops and better connections to the City, but some fast services from Skettering stopped at the village because it was also the junction for the Halford local trains. Now, he did not even have to change but could walk to the station, buy his FT at the kiosk and still catch his usual train to the office.

He valued the independence that success in his career had brought him and was grateful that the slight acquaintances he had made were pleasant enough but not too intrusive. His privacy was valuable because he had confined his interests over the decades almost totally to his profession and he had little in common with his neighbours whose interests centred mainly upon their families. In contrast, he had been single all his life and the pressure of his success in business had crowded out all other activities. He was, therefore, sensitive to the inadequacies he perceived in his life and had become somewhat defensive in revealing his limitations, preferring to take refuge among the company of the fund-management fraternity where he was greatly respected.

At Durnley, he kept a very private persona and did not seek society but was friendly enough and happy to exchange a few words with the residents whom he encountered. The village societies of which he was aware were not those in which he wished to participate but, more out of duty than conviction, he had joined the Village Preservation Society and had visited the fête that year, but his life was that of a benevolent onlooker who was happier attending the occasional stock market presentation and meeting his associates in the fund-management world rather than getting involved in the trivia of village affairs.

For several months, the stock market had annoyingly chosen to enter one of its inexplicable moods of gradual decline. Analysts shrugged it off as seasonal lack of interest but, whatever the cause, a falling market was just what Rupert did not want. He had been in the business for decades and had seen them before. They were not good for preserving his sanity because he had to think even harder in order to sustain investor interest.

Having brooded all through his journey to the City on the consequences of difficult times ahead, he sat at his desk faced with the knowledge that, with the increasing number of withdrawals from his fund, his stock sales over recent weeks had merely accelerated the downward tendency. Making profits in a rising market was easy but, in a declining market, it was difficult, even risky. The demand on cash resources had meant that some investments had had to be sold at unhealthily low prices and, if the market slide continued, his reputation would sink to that of all the other fund managers. However much that could be claimed as market movement, he was, nonetheless, irked at the prospect of losing the respect of a community that had, hitherto, held him in high regard.

For the last fifteen years, his fund had attracted an increasing number of small investors whom, by reason of his scent for investment opportunities, he had been able to reward with fairly lucrative returns. He had enjoyed the adulation of the investment press that had often praised his financial acumen but, with the general downturn in the markets over the previous twelve months, he had found that new opportunities were dwindling. His star fund that he and his staff had successfully managed for years might even suffer the indignity of being downgraded as a result.

He studied the list of investments on the screen. Most of them were declining despite their underlying value, but, if the current movement continued, he would be forced to sell below levels compliant with his oft-reiterated forecasts of substantial returns. That would be embarrassing, see even fewer new investors, a higher number of withdrawals and, possibly, tarnish his otherwise high reputation among his associates. Even if their funds were also experiencing identical conditions, his pride would have been injured and his record ruined.

Some holdings were stable but only Berkman was continuing to rise against the trend. That was heartening. Thank heaven he had some good investments left. He bought more Berkman, reluctantly selling some of his poorer performers to do so; but that was good practice, at least.

Stanford’s neighbour, Isobel Winton, a grandmother and, like so many others in the village, a widow and remnant of the glory formerly possessed by Durnley, sought to integrate him into village affairs, without much success. She had been a parish councillor for several years and had now been elevated to the position of Chairman, not so much because of her administrative capabilities but rather because few others in the village cared to add that responsibility to their unhurried existence. On those occasions when introductions at formal gatherings were necessary, Isobel had a way with words that touched a depth of feeling in the residents who were thereby confirmed in their opinion that she served them well. With Catherine Seaton of Sheep Street, Stanley Askard of Heliotrope Way and Frederick Hardman of Bluebell Walk as councillors, she had fulfilled her onerous task to the commendation of the residents and had, therefore, been repeatedly re-elected.

From her cottage opposite Stanford, Isobel could observe few arrivals at his house and, after her initial welcome of him to the village, had confined herself to only occasional visits and invitations to tea; but she felt it incumbent upon herself, somehow, to draw him more deeply into society. She understood that he was ‘something in the City’ but did not enquire further. It was a little beyond her understanding why anybody would wish to spend half the day travelling to and from London, of all places. She could have understood Halford or possibly Skettering but what drew one that far away from the attractions of Durnley was incomprehensible.

Her realisation that he was a lifelong bachelor stirred her imagination. His house was far too big for a single occupant but even her fertile mind was inadequate to identify a possible introduction. A few months after his arrival she had been startled to see a woman arrive and stay overnight at his house but her equanimity was quickly restored when he introduced her, next day, as his sister, Annabelle, a general practitioner, who had come for only a fleeting visit and who, against all entreaties to stay, had to return up north, somewhere, where her presence was essential to their parents’ peace of mind. Isobel was reminded, once more, of the realities of Durnley that, having become a backwater in her lifetime, the village had not only suffered the consequential loss of almost all its younger residents, but also had no power to attract them back.

The fountain of youth had dried up and the population had passed its prime but, at least, she could be thankful that Stanford had moved from Halford to Durnley and was younger than most. He had found the village a haven of rest from his hectic life in the City and was likely to stay. ‘Patience is a virtue’, she thought, and Durnley had an inexhaustible supply of time. Sooner or later, something would happen.

At the weekend, Edward set the hymn numbers he had selected for the Sunday service into the hymn board. He could rely on Frances attending and they both enjoyed choosing the hymns for the service; but the congregation was usually very thin except on feast days ‒ and Advent had not yet started. He was happy to lend a strong voice of encouragement to the singers, having always regarded that obligation as rightfully belonging to a vicar’s duty in leading his flock. He could also rely on Geoffrey Meryton, who had been organist for a year, now, since he had moved into the village after selling his business and devoting himself to his hobby that he had cherished for nearly three decades since he had heard the Skettering organ in his twenties. He was comfortably situated, financially, but the occasional fee for weddings which, these days, were mostly confined to the villages round about, was, nonetheless, added to his not inconsiderable bank balance.

I’ll have to practise that one, he told Edward as he sat at the console of two manuals. I haven’t played it for years. He sorted the music and began to play a little uncertainly, but devotedly, soon gathering fluency and ending well satisfied that he had not lost his touch. They smiled their enjoyment at the recovery of a dimly remembered melody.

Frances will enjoy that, Edward said. It was her choice.

I played it, years ago, at a wedding in Great Slattery. Lovely tune! But there are not that many connoisseurs about these days.

You’re right. They don’t know what they’re missing, Edward replied. But we’re here to educate them as well as to elevate them. Whatever the future may hold, his abode was the present and he was pleased with his role.

Chapter 2

Lydia Nelson, as tower captain, was reviewing the content of the next ringing contest scheduled for the end of the following month. In her late-forties, and having become head teacher at a school in Halford Streep, she had chosen to stay with her mother in Durnley who had been one of the few teachers at the village school before it had closed down fifteen years previously. They had always been very close but she could not deny that her interest in campanology had been awakened when she had won a badge in the Brownies that had sparked a fondness for the church with its ring of six bells. To her, they were melodious and she had fond memories from childhood of their peal when they were rung at the several weddings that seemed to be a regular feature of those days.

But times had changed, and, in order to forestall complaints from neighbours, whom she wished not to antagonise, she had half muffled the bells and reduced practice sessions to a single Tuesday evening per month from seven o’clock for one hour. She had a core of keen ringers but, in recent years, had found it difficult to recruit new members owing to the steadily declining population in the drift to the town, but she had recently secured one of the few young men from nearby Lower Doulton, Martin Benton, a well-regarded builder, who seemed to prefer Trinity to St. Aldates.

With her usual capacity for objective judgement, Lydia concluded, much against her own wishes, that her band of ringers was too inexperienced to have any chance in the forthcoming competition. The ringers were disappointed at her decision, however valid, being only too well aware that it was difficult to build up team skills when so few newcomers were available to fill the places of the leavers.

Martin evidently enjoyed the camaraderie of the team as much as the opportunity it gave to sense new building projects. He also had an eye for Jane Simpson, an attractive young lady on the team, whom he included in his admiring smile as she pulled on her rope well aware that she was the object of his scrutiny. She now lived in the cottage previously owned by her great-aunt Dora who had been one of Edward’s regulars but who, by way of the lych-gate that opened into the churchyard, had, two years before, passed through on her journey into the next world.

Jane had taken the opportunity to establish her independence by moving against the tide to Durnley from Halford Streep where her not very demanding job at her father’s business did not require her permanent presence but still provided a small income. She had sought to integrate herself into village life by joining the amateur dramatic society and the campanology team, thinking that she owed some service to her great-aunt for providing her with this idyllic setting. She didn’t even need to buy any furniture. With Dora’s passing she had inherited ‘All my real and personal property’ and she liked the old- fashioned furniture even if the kitchen and bathroom needed modernisation.

Lydia ended the session with the hope that they would all meet again the following month for almost the last practice before the holidays and, except for Jane and Martin, they went their separate ways.

I’d better walk you home, he told her with a cheeky smile. You never know what will happen in a place like this.

Oh, yes, she responded, entering into the conspiracy. It’s a dangerous place. They don’t even have street lamps, here.

What! Not even in daylight? he joked, and, as they walked slowly to her home, continued, I wonder how they judge a competition in campanology.

Perhaps some expert comes along and listens, she replied, a little coquettishly.

Martin took the opportunity to clasp her by the waist. I’m an expert, he told her. Not in bell-ringing, though; but if anyone wants any building, I’m their man.

I see your van around, sometimes, she replied without any attempt to extricate herself. Is there much building going on around here, these days?

Some. But I go where the site is. There’s plenty in Halford and a bit in Doulton. Plenty of competition but I’m making a good living, nonetheless. Quality is my best recommendation.

If you want a new van, try my dad’s firm, Simpsons, in Halford. You never know, he might give you a discount.

I’d better keep in with you, then, he smiled. It’s who you know that matters. How about going to Doulton on Sunday? I’ll show you one of my current projects. It’s a new cottage for somebody from London.

All right, she responded. How many projects do you have?

An enormous number. Three, actually. The other two are in Halford. But enquiries are always flooding in. The trouble is that I have to spend time on quotations, which is time-consuming and doesn’t always result in a contract.

I can help on computers if you like. I do that for my dad’s job.

Ah! I knew you were the right girl, he told her, holding her firmly to him without protest from her. After several minutes, she tore herself away from his grasp only slightly dishevelled and, as she went into the cottage, he said, See you about two o’clock on Sunday. Wear old clothes.

With an eye well-practised from her years of student relations, Lydia had noticed the two walk off together. ‘Oh, well,’ she thought. ‘That’s how the world turns round, I suppose.’ She wondered for the hundredth time whether seeking advancement as a professional woman, rather than accepting a simpler life as a housewife like most of the other ladies in the village, had not been disadvantageous. No pressure, no awkward confrontations with accusing parents, no disciplinary problems with recalcitrant staff or desperately having to seek replacements during sickness or maternity leave or how to replace the annual donation from the City investors if it ceased, or the dread of the upcoming inspectors’ visit. A salary, a position in society, self-respect, were not all that life had to offer, surely. What about somebody to share her fondness for music, what about love, what about children, although she had always shrunk away from that prospect. But it was too late now. Campanology kept her sane, these days; but what about the next few decades? She closed the church door and walked home, alone.

On Sunday Geoffrey played out the congregation to the music of Bach whilst Edward, wreathed in smiles, greeted his parishioners as they left through the south door.

Miles Redford who, for several decades, had acted as a kind of local historian, was looking idly about the church for another topic of interest. He was a rather elderly, slimly built and unassuming man who had lived in the village for most of his life where he had amused himself and his fellow residents with his skills on the accordion. After disposing of his bookshop in Halford, he had devoted his days to a study of the church and the manorial origins of the village and was currently engaged in finalising an article for the village magazine on the tomb and effigy of Sir Thomas Berrit, a prominent citizen from the sixteenth century. Having focused almost entirely upon church matters, however, he had almost exhausted the supply offered by Trinity and was keen to find another project that would fill his otherwise empty days.

Lydia smiled at him as he looked vaguely about for a new idea, but he had found few other possibilities. She hooked the rope to the wall and turned to see Geoffrey performing to an empty church. As he finished, she expressed her unhappiness at his being left to play alone. You always play such lovely music, she told him. Why can’t the congregation stay to listen?

It’s important not to let the service end too abruptly and, anyway, I play for myself if nobody else is there. I enjoy it, he replied. I’ve loved this sort of music for most of my life. When I moved here, I bought a big electric organ with three manuals and had it installed in my house. Japanese. Any type of music at the flick of a switch. Church, fairground, opera. Any genre. Best thing I’ve ever bought.

I like opera but there can’t be many pieces for that, can there?

I don’t think so. But how about Bach or Handel? And there are plenty more.

Yes. I like Bach. I have several oratorios and cantatas on CD but they’re mostly choral and orchestral.

If you pop over to my place, I can play you some, if you like.

All right, she responded. How about now? I’d like to see this marvel.

Delighted. Let’s go, he agreed with a sudden enthusiasm that was always kindled by interest in his favourite hobby. They walked to his rather large house in substantial gardens at the edge of the village. I also installed a cinema room next door but this is the organ room, he said, showing the rather large apparatus with the pride of a boy with a new toy. I can use headphones but I’ll play full blast for you. Here’s some Bach, he announced, taking out a sheet of music, switched to Cathedral and played for several minutes, almost lost in his little recital.

That’s amazing, she said at the close. And just like a cathedral organ.

He was obviously pleased that he had found a like-minded soul. There’s nothing better than this, he replied, beaming at her. I go to organ concerts at Skettering and elsewhere. Anywhere where there’s a concert. I love organ music.

I can see that, she responded. How did you learn to play like that?

I attended music lessons with a local piano teacher for a few years then joined a music society. We took turns at the church organ where we lived and followed the music at concerts. We all practised and criticised one another. Some of us are still in touch and I practise during the week just for fun; but I’m still an amateur and no expert.

You could have fooled me, she said. It sounded totally professional. What did you do before you moved here?

I had a business selling fastenings for the building industry. Anything from nuts and bolts to all-weather insulated fixings. I started by advertising in construction magazines and ended with a big warehouse shipping by parcel post to builders all over the country; but some American company made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I’d had two decades in the business, so I sold up and bought this place. Now, I’m happy to play in church or at weddings, but there are not so many funerals, these days, because crematoria are turning to CD. I’m free during the week, which gives me time for a bit of reading or I just take the car somewhere.

I wish a business could take over my school, she commented, enviously. It used to be a delight to go to work and see students develop, but it’s becoming so regimented now. Reports, policies, meetings but not much initiative; and I’m still expected to be a cheerleader. And I still have years to go.

He