THE HARE AND HOUNDS DEBATE

The Reverend Josiah Pyke gets to know the lady vicar Beryl Faith on a summery drive into the country

“I think,” suggested the Reverend Beryl Faith as Josiah Pyke (equally Reverend by name but less certain by intellect and nature) “I think that it would be a good idea to pull in at this little pub and see if they do food.”

They were out on a casual drive through the beautiful countryside that spread out to the South of Brumpton, taking in a fine and heady mixture of scents and sights and all things rural, though some of the scents had a distinctly rancid whiff to them, as you might expect in the country.

“The Hare and Hounds,” murmured Josiah, reading the swinging sign that depicted a hare gleefully leading a pack of hounds on a fine old dance towards who knew what, though it did look as if the hare was on a winner, “it looks all right to me, and don’t all pubs these days do food?”

“Most,” agreed Beryl, “and I’m feeling somewhat peckish.”

Josiah pulled his small runabout into the car park and switched off the engine. He turned to face his companion.

“I don’t think I’ve called here before,” he said, smiling at her, “I hope they don’t have an aversion to our collars!”

“If they have I’ll soon put them straight!” declared Beryl, “of all the cheek, just because we’re in uniform!”

“I have heard that the constable in many a village feels uncomfortable sitting at the bar of his local with his helmet perched on his head,” replied Josiah pointedly, “it’s just that quite a lot of people think that uniforms are for work and pubs are for pleasure.”

“Ours is a twenty-four hour, seven day calling,” replied Beryl. “Come on, in we go, and I hope they do steak and kidney pies!”

They went into the Hare and Hounds and found seats in a quiet corner near a window that looked out on the open countryside and Josiah bought himself a glass of alcohol-free shandy whilst providing his companion with a large gin and a small bottle of tonic water.

“You’re very respectful of the law, then?” asked Beryl, eyeing his glass with a touch on contempt.

“Not exactly, but I am respectful of the right of people to expect to live without being mown down by an alcoholic vicar,” he replied, frowning at the implied criticism.

“Sorry! You are a little touchy today,” she responded, staring at him, “I wasn’t being serious!”

“What are we doing here, Beryl?” he asked.

“Sitting in a pub wondering what’s on the menu,” replied Beryl.

“No, I mean on this planet, all of us and not just you and me, and not just in this pub either,” he said thoughtfully.

“Our Lord put us here,” almost intoned Beryl, wondering what the man she was with, the man she incidentally found herself rather fancying in much the way that any middle-aged woman who sees the fading lusts of her younger years gradually evaporating and drifting from her leaving a future as a long featureless plateau of joyless preaching about the wonders of celibacy, might fancy any respectable person in trousers.

“Did he?” asked Josiah.

“Of course he did! It’s in the Bible!” retorted Beryl.

“Is it?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, “is there a chapter or a verse that describes two individuals sitting in a building by a window and gazing out at fields of ripening corn on a wonderful summer’s day?”

“Of course not! That would be silly!” laughed Beryl.

“It would?” sighed Josiah, “would it?” he added.

“Are you expressing doubts about your calling?” asked Beryl, prepared to be shocked if the conversation became any more interesting.

“Doubts? Of course I am!” said Josiah fiercely, “it’s what people with more than half a brain cell do! We question! We ask whether our life-experiences support the continuation of previously sincerely held views! And that’s not always easy if those views are the sort of things that bring in our daily bread!”

“And you’re questioning the good book?” asked a horrified Beryl.

“Don’t you ever?”

She looked at him, and sighed. “Of course not,” she said simply.

“Then the bit about the first woman being crafted, in the night when he wasn’t looking, from one of Adam’s ribs rings perfectly true to you?” asked Josiah.

It was a trap, and she knew it, but what could she do? “It’s in the Bible and was recorded so close to the event that it’s hard to see how the author made a mistake,” she said, knowing her words were little more than gobbledegook, but needing to say them anyway.

“And what about Adam and Eve’s sons, who fathered an entire nation if we’re to believe the good book. Where did they get their womenfolk who were going to have the babies from, or was it a serious case of incest?” asked Josiah.

“That’s a disgusting thought!” snapped Beryl, “suggesting such a thing! They went into another country and found them, of course...”

“Where there were already people? People living ordinary other-country lives, in towns and villages? With spare young ladies ready to leap into bed with the sons of the first man on Earth? It doesn’t add up! And tell me about talking snakes!”

“Look, Josiah, I don’t want a philosophical debate, I want pie!” said Beryl, “that is, if a pub this size does pie!”

“I’ll see what they do,” replied Josiah, “and I’m sorry if I made you think.”

He went to the bar where he was told yes, they do meals, and yes, he could order two home-made steak and kidney pies and yes, they even came with chips and peas. So he ordered meals for himself and Beryl and rejoined her.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he suggested, “it’s not always rewarding when two clerics find themselves falling out over the faith they both supposedly share.”

“Do we?” asked Beryl, “share the faith, I mean?”

“If depends on what part of Christianity you believe in,” replied Josiah warily.

“You mean, you don’t take it all, lock stock and barrel?” asked Beryl.

“I don’t buy the god-part, and the Jesus bit is based on much earlier Greek and Roman mythology, pinched from it if you like. No, my faith is in people and hoping, in my small way, to guiding them to live better lives.”

“You mean, better because the Bible tells us to be better?” asked Beryl.

“No. Not al all. Better for the planet. Better for Mother Earth. The Father in Heaven has nothing to do with it except as a spur to the kind cruelties my own father subjected me to in his name when I was a kid,” said Josiah quietly, “and even though I’ve lived my life the way I have and loved the way men should, I reject fairy stories and fanciful myths completely because they are exactly that: myths and part of the rich accumulation of fiction created by mankind. You see, I’ve got my own faith and I preach according to that!”

“But the church...” sighed Beryl, “the church is God!”

Josiah nodded as the waitress brought their meals to them. The pie looked absolutely delicious and Beryl sighed her pleasure when she saw hers.

“That’s the trouble,” agreed Josiah, smiling at her, “men designed and built the church, men created the myths that supports it, and that’s the whole trouble...”

The pies were as good as they looked, the chips cooked to perfection, the peas sweet and green, and Josiah had to conclude it was the best meal he’d had in more years than he cared to recall.

“Since Ophelia cooked for me,” he added sadly when he explained to Beryl, “since then.”

© Peter Rogerson 17.04.18