White Socks On Sunday

Investigation was our current game. We considered ourselves as the ‘Famous Two’. Enid Blyton, God bless her, had a lot to answer for

Dad said the angels could hear Mr Church all the way up in heaven

Mum wouldn’t let me wear my favourite pink socks to chapel, she said they were disrespectful. I had to wear white ones for Sunday school and my best dress too. Sunday school was in the mornings and the adult services were in the evenings. Dad had to stay at home, though, to look after me while Mum went to chapel with her sisters.

Sometimes on special occasions, like Easter, we were allowed to go with Mum and Dad in the evening to hear the sermon.

Our minister was called Mr Johnson, although we children always called him ‘Mr Church’. He was a short, round man who had a voice that Dad said the angels could hear all the way up in Heaven.

Chapel was an important part of our lives in those days.

Things changed when I was about seven or eight. Mr Church announced that there were plans afoot to close our chapel and sell the land to a builder. The village was up in arms about it, but in those days no one had heard of petitions.

Even as children we realised that the old building was slowly decaying. Mum told us we had to walk down the sides of the aisle when we went to Sunday school, because the floor in the middle was sagging. We thought it exciting; a touch of perceived danger on Sundays was thrilling when you were only young.

Walking home from school one afternoon, my friend Mandy and I heard strange noises coming from the chapel.

‘Annie,’ said Mandy, as we stood there, ‘can you hear that?’ ‘What?’

‘A voice,’ she said, tipping her head on one side.

She grabbed my arm and dragged me through the chapel gate. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’ll investigate.’

Investigation was our current game. We considered ourselves as the ‘Famous Two’. Enid Blyton had a lot to answer for.

I allowed myself to be pulled to the chapel window, which luckily was slightly ajar.

‘Hark,’ she said, appropriately for the situation, I thought.

‘Is it an angel?’ I whispered.

Mandy shook her head.

‘Just listen.’

We stood there, holding hands and holding our breath. Mandy always had better hearing than me and the look on her face was intense.

‘There,’ she said, ‘you must have heard that.’

I did. ‘Someone’s in there,’ I announced. ‘Maybe it’s the man come to sell the chapel off.’

‘Maybe it’s a burglar, nicking the...’ That’s when Mandy’s imagination failed her.

‘Stuff,’ I said to help although I couldn’t think of anything in our chapel that would have been worth nicking.

‘We must stop them,’ she said, pulling herself up to her full height of 4ft something.

I agreed. We crept to the door and Mandy, brave soul, pushed it open. It was unlocked and she gave me a significant look with lots of eyebrow action.

We slipped inside. ‘Keep to the sides,’ I whispered.

I had my eyes closed – I wasn’t as brave as my friend. I heard a strange sound coming from some feet away. Mandy shrieked. ‘It’s Mr Church,’

‘Help,’ he moaned.

We saw immediately what had happened. He’d forgotten the golden rule about sticking to the sides of the aisle. His foot had disappeared through the rotten floorboards in the middle and he was stuck there, frozen.

‘Help?’ he asked. Poor man, he was in shock. We knew about shock from TV, if we’d had a clever dog or horse with us we’d have sent it for help.

‘Get your mum,’ said Mandy. ‘I’ll stay here and hold Mr Church’s hand.’ She marched up the sides until she reached him.

‘Hello, Mr Church,’ I heard her say, ‘Help is on its way.’

And it was. I ran as fast as I could and screamed at my mum. ‘Mr Church is stuck in the chapel floor.’

Fortunately, my mother understood the urgency of the situation and an ambulance was summoned. Mandy and I were removed from the scene, which I thought was a bit unfair since we were the heroines.

Two weeks later, Mr Church was back in chapel for the very last service. His accident had moved things along towards the demolition. As he struggled towards the front, he kept to the sides, although it must have been difficult on crutches. He tapped his cast and used it to illustrate his sermon, which was about calling on Heaven for help in times of trouble.

The congregation nodded in agreement as he explained how angels had saved him.

‘I am a man of faith,’ he said, ‘I called and I was answered.’

‘I always said he had a big voice,’ my dad whispered.

I threw a glance at Mandy who sat behind me with her mum. I tried to wriggle my eyebrows the way she did, but I wasn’t too good at it and she sniggered. We knew we were the angels, although I’m not sure if Mr Church did.

And I do believe l heard a soft echo to Mandy’s voice, as if a real angel was also amused by the sermon. Of course if there was one, it hadn’t been present at the rescue. But I waved a foot in acknowledgement, just in case, hoping they might appreciate my clean white socks.

THE END