Mrs Cartwright's Blackberries.

I write this account now as my mind is at present lucid, I do not know how much time I have before I descend once more into confusion. You will be sceptical of my account, I would have been myself, but I must write as I perceive. Only I can recount what has happened, otherwise all that will remain is the well meaning but misguided reports of those who have sought to cure me of a malady they do not even begin to understand.

The vicarage in which I lived is next to the church in which I served, and between the garden and churchyard there is a boundary wall. This wall is of an ancient stone construction that time has crumbled and cracked. In places briars, thistles, and nettles have grown up against it, and even over the old wall. It is an extensive churchyard and so, hard to keep orderly. While numerous dead lie constant beneath the ground, only a few of the living work to tame nature's growing claim on God's acre. The tidiest part is where the latest burials are situated, there faithful friends and family garden their lost loved one's little plot, not even supposing they have a responsibility to the wider community of the dead. The oldest part of the Churchyard, by the Vicarage wall, is the most overgrown, obscured by long grasses in the summer, and all year round draped in quietly advancing ivy that reaches over the broken and leaning gravestones. In a place that definitively displays nature's mastery over our fate it seems to me futile to resist with presumptuous mowing and pruning the thicket's inexorable assault on that territory; one can make a stand for a season or two, but that is all.

Where the oldest burials are located, that is the ground on which the briars have made most progress, extending their thorny tentacles over the wall, and reaching into the land of the living in the Vicarage garden.

When I first arrived in the Parish it was late in the summer, and as I was walking through the graveyard with Bill, a venerable and long serving Church Warden, I commented on the abundance of blackberries. He thought I was being critical, and gave me a list of reasons why the briars could not be cut back, so I assured him I was not looking to make more work, rather that I was thinking of having blackberries in my porridge. The blackberries were such a luxuriant, deep and juicy black, they offered themselves in promiscuous whirls of writhing thorny tendrils, it seemed to me an offence against the generosity of nature to just leave them there unpicked.

I enquired if anyone gathered them?

Bill looked doubtful.

He said no one did, at least not to his knowledge.

He then returned to his quiet considerations, before further sharing his thoughts on the matter, saying that as the briars drew their sustenance from the ground in which our ancestors are buried, folk in the village are probably put off by the idea of cannibalism.

I couldn't tell if he was joking. Bill was from the old village. Like the churchyard, the village consisted of an old and a new part, the old cottages and former farms around the Green formed the old village, and the developments from the last few decades formed the new village, and there was a regrettable social divide between the two. What was once a village was a now small town that had merged into the neighbouring market town, but the residents around the Green held on to their identity as a villagers, and adopted suitably rustic attitudes. So was this squeamish prohibition on churchyard blackberries a genuine superstitious sentiment, or an amusing affectation?

“Surely you don't believe its cannibalism?”

“What I believe is my own business,” came the reply, “but you'd do well to respect the ways of the village, even if them folks in the new plastic houses don't. You'll find most of us in the pews come from the old village, and hold to the old ways. Speaking of the old ways, you might as well meet Mrs Cartwright while we're here.”

With that he strode over to the edge of the thicket, and heaved back with the crook of his cane a substantial welter of briars to reveal a recent burial and memorial.

Sacred

To the Memory of

Mr James Andrew Cartwright 1921 – 2003

Electrician

Mrs Maud Cecilia Cartwright 1922 – 2014

For 53 years Church Warden of St Peter's

For 42 years Chairman of the Parish Council

Well done good and faithful servant

enter into your rest

I expressed my greetings to James and Maud Cartwright, but Bill objected,

“There's no point in talking to Jimmy, he always feigned deafness, he didn't like speaking with people, and anyway, most everyone wanted to speak with Mrs Cartwright, and even those that didn't ended up speaking with her whether they wanted to or not. Mrs Cartwright was a power in the land. We may have buried her, but you'll come across her, she still determines goings on at the church, and on the Parish Council. A lot of what you see in the church was done by her, and in the village, though she fought against most things, at least anything that wasn't her idea! As Church Wardens we were a good team, she said what needed doing, and I saw to it. Things'll go down hill now we've buried her. I'm sorry to say that, but they will”

I asked why Mr and Mrs Cartwright had been buried under a bush? Bill explained,

“She was a Wendson before she married, the Wendsons are an old farming family, not many none of them left now, they're mostly in this corner of the churchyard. She's buried with her forebears. I think, if I remember right, there are Wendsons in London they're related to.”

The tangle of briars that had over-run the Wendson graves had also grown over the Vicarage wall, and that's where I intended to collect the blackberries for my porridge. I thought I might have them in yoghurt as well. As it turned out, I couldn't persuade my wife to partake of nature's bounty, she shared Bill's reluctance to eat the dead, so I ate them alone, dismissive of the morbid instincts of those around me.

Bill was right, I did find Mrs Cartwright's ghostly presence at work in the Parish. She had formed the opinions of the Church Council, they were against every innovation in liturgy and mission from the last few decades, and were firmly in favour of cleaning rotas, flower rotas, the church fete, and old hymns. Everything in the church was polished to within an inch of it's existence; the place smelled of religious practices associated with beeswax and brasso, not those practices associated with candle wax and incense. The church carpet, purchased in 'fond memory of Mr James Andrew Cartwright,' was regarded with sacred reverence. No tea and coffee after the service lest a profane drop should fall and stain the blessed carpet, and certainly no biscuits lest the pile become besmirched with crumbs. The Church Council was focused on two matters, to bemoan the dwindling numbers of parishioners willing to participate on the various rotas, and to censure the lax and erroneous practices of the few volunteers who recently had been misguided enough to offer help.

To be fair there was a problem with filling the rotas, it seems Mrs Cartwright had sufficient sway in the old village to commandeer assistance, but in her last years of illness, and now she had passed, her practice of enlisting volunteers had ceased.

It is difficult to know for sure, but I suspect Mrs Cartwright had been a bigger influence on shaping the Christian beliefs of the congregation than the accumulated efforts of all the Vicars in her long reign. It seemed to me the congregation did not believe in 'one holy catholic and Apostolic Church', but rather, 'one holy local and Cartwrightian church.' Although, I have to say, they were not unkind to me, or to each other, and if they thought the cause worthy, they could be generous.

I should also say that Mrs Cartwright proved herself to be an able and spirited leader, no more so than when one stormy November night a tree crashed through the chancel roof. Her response to this calamity had become legendary, and was retold at any and every opportunity as the very touchstone of old village values.

The story goes that Mrs Cartwright heard the tree fall, and rushed to the scene dressed in only in her nightgown, an overcoat, and a pair of wellies. On discovering the terrible breach in the chancel roof and walls she returned home to fetch Mr Cartwright, and the tarpaulin off their caravan, and the tarpaulin from his traction engine. Then, in the midst of the howling gale and driving rain she fought her way up through the branches of the fallen tree, on to what remained of the smashed chancel walls, and hauled up both tarpaulins, and with the assistance of her husband, managed to cover the chasm, and tie down the tarpaulins, thus preventing further damage to the interior of the building.

The next morning, bruised and lacerated from her battle with the branches, and still be soaked by the rain, she rounded up every local who owned a chainsaw, and superintended the removal of the fallen tree. She would have commenced rebuilding the walls, like a later-day Nehemiah restoring the fortifications of Jerusalem, had it not been for the Archdeacon, who came down to scrutinize the scene and take charge.

He pronounced a solemn litany of his judgements; the tree had been removed precipitously and without consultation with the Diocese, so a Retrospective Faculty must be applied for; further, before any works could take place a Tree Survey was needed to determine if any of the other trees were in danger of falling, and also a Surveyor's Structural Report on the fabric of the building must be completed, during which time the entire church yard was to be secured; a Diocesan approved architect should then be commissioned to draw up detailed plans for the repairs, after consulting all the relevant heritage bodies, this should then be submitted to the Diocesan Advisory Committee who would in due time produce a carefully considered response; a Bat Survey would also be required to ascertain if there were any resident bats, and to determine if any damage had been to done to their habitat, or may be caused by the repairs; finally, there would need to be an Archaeological Survey as this was an important historic site.

The Archdeacon impressed upon Mrs Cartwright the need to proceed at pace with all these tasks as it would be detrimental to the life of the church not to meet together for regular worship, so the sooner this was all cleared up – the better. Mrs Cartwright said that they could meet in the Village Hall until the repairs were completed. The Archdeacon objected that before such a thing could happen a formal request would need to be submitted to the Bishop for worship to be held for an extended period of time in a place other than the Parish Church; he thought the Bishop would look favourably on such a request, given the circumstances, however she should know the Bishop was on a two week silent retreat in the Hebrides, and had left strict instructions not to be disturbed, so there would be some delay in his response.

He then reflected on the wisdom of the Bishop in seeking spiritual self-renewel, and the importance of maintaining the vitality of the Senior Clergy of the Diocese, and concluded by explaining he was now off to visit the Vicar to comfort him on the distressing damage done to his church, explaining, “Archdeacons aren't just about rules and regulations, they are about pastoral care too,” he then added an encouraging benediction, raising his hand and saying, “God bless and Godspeed on the repair and restoration of this church building!” He added, “If there's anything I can do to help, be sure to message my secretary.”

I know this story in large part to be true as I have heard it told with only minor variations on several different occasions, by several different people, but I also know because there is in the chancel a framed newspaper article with the headline, 'Save our Church,” that chronicles these events. “Hero local woman takes on storm and fallen tree to save historic church, only to be blocked by red tape.” The Archdeacon, described as the “belligerent boss of the region's vicars,” did not come out at all well in the piece. They had managed to find a photograph of him scowling to set alongside a picture of Mrs Cartwright pointing dejectedly at the ruinous chasm.

This report hangs above another framed newspaper article, this one with the headline, “Local Woman Beats Bureaucracy to Restore Church.” Alongside the text, there is a photograph of the assembled congregation and dignitaries lined up in front of the exterior of the newly repaired chancel wall, with the Bishop, grinning like someone in a hostage video, the Archdeacon, looking like he is being held at gunpoint, and Mrs Cartwright front and centre, looking like a victorious prize fighter. Apparently the attention of the national press brought in offers of help from several building firms, and several significant donations from wealthy benefactors.

I have not been able to find out if all the Archdeacon's instructions were carried out to the letter, but I doubt it given the speed of reconstruction. It seems the Bishop did not appreciate being described in that first article as being, “on a holiday paid for by the Diocese,” and as, “refusing to answer the desperate pleas for help from the devastated parishioners.” No doubt he could have taken a principled stand and argued he had been misrepresented, and have backed his beleaguered Archdeacon, and have insisted his retreat to the Hebrides was most necessary, and very good value for money, but instead he decided on damage limitation, and put his personal authority publicly behind getting the job done as quickly as possible. To be honest, I doubt the usual procedures and checks were followed, especially as the chancel has been restored in a manner I can only describe as reminiscent of the interior of caravan, or of a visit to an affectedly quaint tea shop. Still, the Church Council, and all the parishioners, are exceedingly proud of it all, and I felt sure they had reason to be so. Indeed, the more time I spent in that church, coupled with the powerful effect on my psyche of Mrs Cartwright's blackberries, the more I began to see things their way. Only now, in these rare moments of calm lucidity, do I look back and wonder at my loss of judgement. I must now write of that difficult truth.

My first task in the Parish had been to recruit a Church Warden to replace Mrs Cartwright, and to work alongside Bill. I explained to that we were looking for a replacement Church Warden, not a replacement Mrs Cartwright, and that while we were thankful for her legacy there was now an opportunity to work in new and creative ways. Reading from the minutes of that first meeting, I said that, “as a church we needed to harness synergistic team energies so as to foster inclusive decision making, such that we may co-create a dynamic mission strategy, and adopt a distributed leadership model that decentralises power for true collaboration.” I then went on to say, “that we should be mindful of the opportunities presented by the new housing developments in the parish, and that we must practice cultural humility in order to better hear the marginalised voices of those new to our community.” As I recall, these ideas were not greeted with applause, however, I consoled myself with the thought that Prophetic words very rarely are. That's what I saw myself as, a Prophet battling to speak new ways of being into reality, but even than I could begin hear a voice in my mind sceptical of my own words.

Of course, nobody was either willing or able to take on Mrs Cartwright's mantel, and despite my prophetic words nobody could imagine the role of Church Warden conforming to a decentralised, collaborative, synergistic and distributive model of inclusive leadership. In a way Mrs Cartwright's sad demise had proved only a partial set back to her work in the village, clearly she was no longer around to organise matters, but her ethos continued to shape the attitudes and agendas of both the village and church councils. The only difficulty for Mrs Cartwright was that there was nobody with sufficient force of character to carry out her posthumous intentions. I couldn't help feeling she was disappointed in the new Vicar, not only did she think he lacked sufficient backbone to get things done, she could see he did not understand the needs of the village and church as she did. Previous Vicars had been ineffectual, and that was fine, they didn't stand in her way, but this Vicar being effectual was her best chance of carrying forward her agenda. Her disapproval from over the churchyard wall amused me at first, I told myself I was a rebel defying the old monarch, but as time past, and I struggled to bring about meaningful change, I began to wonder if I did need to be more forceful, to be more like Mrs Cartwright.

The transformation of my mind began almost imperceptibly, like a small cloud, no bigger than a fist, rising from the horizon over the sea. I recall I asked Bill about those briars over the Wendson graves, should we not clear them out of respect for Mrs Cartwright and her forbears? He never spoke without first pausing for thought, but on that occasion I wondered if he actually was going to speak, until at length he began,

“To be honest we could clear them, but it wouldn't be right. Mrs Cartwright always reckoned those briars were like Samson's hair, that while they were profuse she and her family would be strong.”

In the long quiet before he spoke I knew what his answer would be. I think he paused because he was weighing up whether to explain this rustic superstition to a sceptical outsider, but he need not have worried, Mrs Cartwright had already put me right, “the briars stay.” That was the first time I noticed the cloud.

That incident later mislead me into thinking the briars were the problem, so in an act of desperation I went out and cut them down. I then burnt the mass of brambles on a bonfire, but it was late spring by then, and my freezer was full of blackberries that I had picked in the Autumn, and that I ate daily. I had not as yet understood their invasive influence on my mind.

I found myself disproving of the new estates in the village, there was no good reason for this, at first I just started disliking their modern architectural styles, from the monumental chimneys and white weatherboarding of the sixties estates, to the bland blending of faux traditional features with plastic modernism of the more recent houses. These things had never bothered me before, but they did now. Then I noticed I was disappointed if I had to visit the new estates, even if it was for some good reason such as to see the next of kin for a funeral. I began to resent that these people didn't seem to value the parish church the way we did, and that they didn't seem to want to be a part of village life. I dismissed the idea I once would have held, that they didn't participate because they were not welcomed by the old village community; it was not because we as a church community didn't seek to hear what marginalised communities were saying, it was because those other communities held to different values and ways of life, ways that had no place for church flower rotas, or tombolas, or polishing the lectern. I had never been concerned about flower rotas, or tombolas, or polishing the lectern, I had been concerned with social justice, and inclusion, and innovative liturgy, but now I was discovering different priorities; who was on the flower rota? What part of the church were they decorating? Did we have enough tombola prizes? Had the lectern tarnished? These things mattered.

A few people from the new estates did actually attend church, mainly people who imagined that by moving to a suburb they had retired to the countryside. There was once an enthusiast couple who had come from the city, they had attended a big modern church there, but thought they ought to 'give us a go as we were local.' They didn't last long.

My wife didn't find it easy being married to Mrs Cartwright. Her husband had stopped reading Science Fiction and started reading Historical Romances, he had given up cycling and taken up visiting Garden Centres, out went jeans and trainers, in came slacks and slip-on shoes. At first she joked about it all, then complained about it all, finally she became worried about it all. I was not the man she married. As I look back, that's what I regret most. At the time I thought she was being unreasonable, that I was actually improving myself, but in these times of clarity I now realise I caused her pain, even if it was unintentional, for that I am deeply sorry. That small dark cloud on the horizon had imperceptibly drawn near and spread out in all directions, it had enveloped me.

I think Mrs Cartwright assumed that now she was back at the helm, church life would resume it's proper course, however, it was not working out like that. Without Mrs Cartwright's physical presence some members of the congregation were beginning to have there own thoughts about the church. I tried to put a stop to it, but that just made matters worse. The congregation had become accustomed to the idea that the Vicar's opinions should be listened politely to, and then completely ignored. The more I insisted we keep to tried and tested ways, the more key people in the congregation began to question, and to propose new ways. I had Mrs Cartwright's will, but not her command of people and circumstances. In my body and soul I felt her rising frustration, we tried harder to enforce our views, and in proportion the momentum for change grew stronger yet. Mrs Cartwright became vexed. I ate blackberries compulsively straight from the freezer. Oh why had I picked so many?! If only I had known then what I know now.

Mrs Cartwright's intentions were good but this was an unnatural association. It's one thing for the deceased's influence to reach out from the grave, it is another thing, deeply uncanny, for their will to reach out from the grave. Her vexation certainly grew at my inability to command the life of the church, but it also increased because, although she believed her posthumous cause was righteous, she was troubled by the dark means she was utilising.

I think Mrs Cartwright remained rational, but I did not. In response to her anxiety I ratcheted up my efforts. I became absurdly insistent about which furniture polish was to be used in maintaining the sheen on the pews, denouncing from the pulpit other brands as “wholly ungodly.” I so alienated the grave digger for making a muddy mess that he refused to dig in our churchyard. I set poor Bill to dig the next grave, he wasn't really up to it, and by the day of the funeral had only descended a couple of feet. On Mrs Cartwright's advice, I rearranged my wife's wardrobe according to the seasons, carefully grouping her clothes by summer, autumn, winter, and spring. I also replaced all her fashionable underwear with practical comfortable, durable, floral, high wasted knickers and big supportive bras. That was the last straw for my wife, she moved out.

At about that time I attended Diocesan Synod specifically to berate the Bishop for not accepting an invitation to open our Church Fete, it all got a bit out of hand and I had to be escorted from the premises. I think I may have called him a “heretic” and a “usurper.” That was the last straw for him, I was under disciplinary measures.

That's when the crises came that brought me to this institution.

Going to the media had worked the last time a Senior Clergyman had gotten in the way of progress at the church, so we tried that again. Perhaps Mrs Cartwright should have known better than to trust our unholy alliance on this, but she is not one to bend to unfavourable circumstances. A journalist agreed to meet with me to explore why I had written to the Editor to say the Bishop and all his staff were “conspiring with dark forces to destroy the church.” When I went to the meeting I was wearing a clerical shirt, and a practical but smart elasticated skirt. Discretion may be the better part of valour, but not for journalists, I featured in a full page article that only had to repeat my words, and display my attire, to ensure my doom.

After that, my memory becomes unclear. I am told I broke into the house Mrs Cartwright used to live in and instructed the new owners to leave, I may have threatened them, I may also have threatened the Bishop, and the journalist who interviewed me, and also the grave digger, and apparently also a Council Workman who complimented me on my skirt. I doubt these things, though I am told they happened, I doubt them because Mrs Cartwright would not have me do such things. However, I suppose I was not Mrs Cartwright, and neither was I myself.

Who I actually am has become rather a hard question to answer. I am not the man I was, the affable, people pleasing, management speaking Vicar who hoped to change the world by writing aspirational policy documents. In these calm moments, I know I am not Mrs Cartwright, even if she is never far away. She comes to visit me, she sits in the chair by my bed, and does her best to console me. I think she feels a little guilty about how all this has turned out.

The medics say I have 'Dissociative Identity Disorder', I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget. However, Mrs Cartwright says she has never heard of it, so it can't be true. In any case, how would I know how to be Mrs Cartwright? I didn't meet the woman before I started eating those blackberries.

The alternative explanation I have been offered, from one of my fellow patients who claims to be an expert, is that I am possessed. That's just medieval hokum, and with that Mrs Cartwright firmly agrees.

The only rational explanation is that by eating Mrs Cartwright's blackberries I have unintentionally ingested her essence. If DNA is carried in cells, them could not some of those cells been carried by the action of rain and root to the berries? I no longer have access to the store of blackberries, so maybe the effect will wear off. I do wonder if I should warn someone about the remaining blackberries in the freezer, I doubt Mrs Cartwright could resist the temptation to interfere once more.

She should be allowed to rest in peace.

I pray the Good Lord may be able to engage her attention in the task of maintaining the mansions of heaven, so that fully occupied she may forever abide on the eternal side of the great divide between this world and the next. Amen.