By Matthew Dodd
Evensong at St. Dismas’ begins at 6.15pm on Mondays, Wednesdays and alternate Sundays. It did, at least, begin then between the years 1980 and 2024: the years in which Rosemary and Albert Watkins made a point of attending at least twice weekly. In her youth, Mary – Albert always called her Mary – had been a most dutiful stalwart of Lady Ann-Bennett’s school choir, earning a specially embroidered school tie for her fidelity in the lower sixth form. Albert had shown her how to do the tie countless times over the years, all to minimal lasting avail. On leaving Lady Ann’s, Rosemary’s warbling alto had done little to impress the conductor of her village choral society and so her singing fell resolutely into the domain of the kitchen, shower and – of a Friday evening – the sitting room after her weekly tipple of Sherry. Nevertheless, her love for the choral never faded. Evensong was her special treat – a biweekly recession into the divine. Cold nights beaten back by hymns and melody. Howells was her favourite – his Collegium Regale as close to paradise as she could conceive. She first took Albert with her the Christmas before Thatcher came to power. She remembered arguing with him in the snug of the Dog and Sparrow about matters of economic policy neither of them really grasped. It didn’t much matter, she loved to argue, Albert loved to indulge her.
St Dismas’ became their local parish as soon as the couple moved into Ambling Vale. As she was setting a painting of two Westies up over the mantle, Rosemary had heard the choir rehearsing from the nearby church and, leaving the dogs cockeyed, sat off at a sprint down the street towards the music. She never did get around to fixing the painting. For their third anniversary, Albert had surprised Rosemary by, through a private donation to the chaplaincy, having the choir perform a narrative of their marriage through the medium of psalmody. She’d never been more embarrassed, and held nothing back in chastising Albert for his gross corruption – no, invasion – of this most sacred event. After a week’s sulking, she forgave him – she usually did, eventually.
The Director of Music, a portly embodiment of tweed and teatime, gave Benny piano lessons as a personal favour to Rosemary for her enduring patronage. Indeed, he’d offered the choir’s services at Benny’s christening, but Rosemary was sure they needn’t go through all that trouble. Benny, for a time, sang treble in the choir – Rosemary’s great pride – but strayed from the musical as his voice broke and girls began to exist to him. Around the time Benny was sitting sixth form entrance exams, the choir got a new conductor – a brutish fellow with hair like a shoe brush and arms like cabers. As he conducted, flailing his arms in violent counterclockwise fits, Rosemary feared that the choir might get blown away. She found him detestable, and – though she’d never tell him – was somewhat pleased that Benny had stopped singing before he arrived. Nonetheless, she couldn’t deny he was a brilliant conductor, and evensong remained her solace. She would sit, arm wrapped in Albert’s, and disappear into a communion with music, faith, humanity. All was one in her revery, if only for a little under an hour. Light streamed across the quire, the mangy cobbles of St. Dismas transfigured into ebullient vessels of love. At every command to stand, sit, kneel, respond in like fashion, Rosemary felt herself ever more a part of the world’s four-part harmony.
Benny held his father’s hand – he had not done so since boyhood – in the front pew of St. Dismas’ as the Vicar read the names of those whose recently departed souls warranted especial prayer. For a moment, Albert didn’t recognise the name – unused as he was to its unabridged usage. Sandpaper fingers rose to his eye, dabbing at an errant tear. He had never before been to evensong without Rosemary, but supposed that she wouldn’t want him missing it on her account. After a moment’s silent reflection, the Vicar got up and intoned loftily, ‘now, if you’ll join the choir in singing this evening’s hymn, which can be found at number 381 in the green books.’ Albert escaped Benny’s grip and reached under the pew for his hymnal; his son matched the action. Together, the pair stood up and began to sing.
Featured Image: Joseph Hornsby