‘Goodness me! You are Ian Carmichael’

parishioner after such a daily repast? And second, what precisely was going on between him and Margaret? Whatever it was, I thought, God bless them. THEY say a vicar’s life is never predictable. I’d only been in the job a few weeks when there was a knock at the door and there on the step stood the actor Ian Carmichael — he of I’m All Right Jack, Lord Peter Wimsey and Jeeves fame, all roles in which he’d played the perfect English gent.

Once I had recovered from the shock and said inane things such as, ‘Goodness me, you’re Ian Carmichael!’ I invited him in.

Over a cup of tea he explained how he’d served in Helmsley during World War II as a commissioned officer in the local regiment, the Dragoons, having been seconded ‘ to lend the chaps a bit of a hand’.

Like me, he came from Hull. But he now lived in a beautiful hilltop village on the edge of the North York Moors, with stunning views over to Whitby’s red-roofed town and ancient abbey, and the North Sea.

Ian told me how one of the Dragoons’ tasks had been to help the local voluntary firemen put out moorland fires caused by the dry heather spontaneously combusting. He made it sound like an episode from Dad’s Army, with his men positively fanning the flames with their brooms rather than extinguishing them.

Steering a course between Henry V and Captain Mainwaring, Ian had given his men the stiffest lecture.

‘Now look here, chaps,’ he’d commanded. ‘If we can’t lick these bally moorland fires, how the hell will we ever lick the Nazis?’

His men had, notwithstanding, played a crucial role in the war effort, and suffered a large number of losses. And Ian’s ‘ Pip, pip, old bean’ facade suddenly gave way to a more serious tone.

‘I’m sorry to bother you with this in your early days, David,’ he said. ‘But for a long time I’ve been feeling that my old regiment has been treated shabbily by the church.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, absolutely appalled if these heroes hadn’t been treated with the respect they deserved.

‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s not your fault,’ Ian replied. ‘But since the war, the Dragoons’ battle standard has been hidden away in a corner beneath the church tower. I feel it deserves a more prominent position, worthy of the sacrifice so many of my band of brothers made.’

He told me how time and again he’d tried to get previous vicars to do something about it, but had been repeatedly told that the proposal would never get past the cumbersome regulations governing what could and couldn’t be installed in ancient church buildings.

There and then I decided to right the wrong. Not wanting to do anything by halves, I boldly proposed moving the standard to the sanctuary — centre stage at Helmsley Church’s east end.

That night I contacted my old boss David Hope, the Archbishop of York. He listened sympathetically, asked lots of questions and promised to pursue our cause with the diocesan authorities.

‘But you know what these legal people are like, David,’ he said. ‘Even with me behind you, I’d only give us an evens chance, if that. But I’ll do my best.’ JUST

three weeks after Ian’s visit, an official-looking letter landed on the vicarage doormat. Against all expectations, permission to move the Dragoons’ standard to a more prominent position was granted, with a full week to spare before Remembrance Sunday.

Ian was so thrilled when I rang and told him the good news that the very next day he drove over and helped me install the standard in its new position.

Our labours coincided with a coach trip from Liverpool, whose members were seeking shelter in the church on this rainy November day.

Eventually, one elderly Liver Bird, ignoring the vicar on the top of the ladder, asked the man below: ‘ Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind uz askin’, but are you Ian Carmichael, luv?’

‘I am indeed,’ Ian replied, Lord Peter Wimsey to a tee.

‘I’m proud to meet you. You’ve given uz such pleasure,’ said the lady, shaking him warmly by the hand.

Our DIY then had to be abandoned as a queue of Boxing Day sale proportions developed down the church, all eager to shake the hand of the man himself.

Ian gallantly brushed the drops of rain off the shoulders of one admirer. ‘We don’t want you catching your death,’ he said.

She coloured up; he had not just made her day, but her life. ‘What yur doing here then? I didn’t know you worked for the church,’ she asked.

‘I’m just helping my good friend the vicar hang the standard of the regiment I served in in the war,’ Ian explained. ‘We were among the first to land on the beaches at Normandy.’

‘ Oo, you brave things. Did you get injured?’ the woman asked, chatting as if the actor were a long-lost friend.

‘Afraid I lost the tip of this finger when we had to close the hatch of my tank in a bit of a hurry,’ replied Ian. ‘Those bloody Nazis were throwing everything they’d got at us. But I did get back home, so there we are.’

The woman laughed. ‘Thank God you did, sir. I can’t imagine anybody else playing Peter Wimsey as well as you do.’

‘Oh, I say, how tremendously kind of you,’ Ian replied, giving her a beaming smile. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, don’t you know. Thank you so much for dropping in.’

I sensed it wasn’t so much Ian Carmichael who played Bertie Wooster and Lord Peter Wimsey, but rather Bertie Wooster and Lord Peter Wimsey who played Ian Carmichael. The very best of men.