It’s Hump Day, folks. And that means lots of fab ‘Hooks’ to read by following This Link .
Following on from last week, Stephen has met a stranger in the church yard who warns him of the dangers of standing under a tree during a storm.
He then takes a slightly bemused Stephen away from the tree and towards the church.
Now read on…….
His touch is light but firm as he steers me down the gravel path towards the church door. Rain is teeming down in a heavy silver curtain hiding the distant view of the sea, and we quicken our pace the last few feet.
And, once inside the tiled porch and out of the rain, my would-be rescuer reaches into his coat pocket and brings forth a large, iron key.
‘You’re the vicar?’ I ask; though its more of a statement than a question. The fact that he has a key and appears so wholly familiar and at home here is answer enough.
‘Lets get out of the cold and wet’, he says, pushing open the heavy oak door, ‘plenty of time for questions and answers then I think’.
The silence inside the church is accentuated by the sound of the rain as it beats against the windows and the walls; and the thunder rolling and rumbling above us. The only other sound is that of our echoing footfalls as we move slowly down the tiled central aisle towards the back of the building.
He doesn’t speak another word until we arrive at the door of what I assume is the vestry. Opening the door,he steps aside, gesturing with his outstretched arm for me to enter.
‘Take off your wet coat and take a seat’ he says, ‘and I’ll make us some tea. I’m sure you’d welcome a cup’.
Warmth and comfort are my immediate impressions. But the comfort is of a basic, welcoming sort; not of the rich and opulent variety. No plush furnishings, just a battered desk underneath a small bay window, a richly patterned but threadbare carpet which had seen better days, and one wall lined with well-read tomes. But most welcoming of all, a blazing log fire and two cushioned arm chairs placed either side of a carved stone hearth.
‘I’m Alwyn Davy by the way’, he offers me his hand, ‘or Reverend Davy if you prefer’. Then he smiles, ‘But I’d sooner you call me Alwyn. Much friendlier I think’.
I take his outstretched hand, ‘Stephen Metcalf.
I shrug off my coat and sit down as The Reverend disappears behind a curtained alcove to make our tea.