The Right Reverend James Kingston had been seconded to Chester Cathedral from Lichfield. He regarded it as promotion and both he and his accountant wife, Sybil, were delighted to discover the fine red sandstone house close by the cathedral that came with the appointment.
Tradition demanded the new Right Reverend should hold his house-warming meeting and greeting party within one month of taking office, a busy affair where most of the people who helped and ran the cathedral would be invited. That included Harry and Bethan Wilkinson, who soon became close friends of the Kingstons. Harry was a regular worshipper in the cathedral and would donate his spare time to overseeing and cutting the fine lawns and grounds surrounding Saint Werbergh’s, as the cathedral was sometimes known.
The party began at noon and ran until four o’clock in the afternoon, during which time legions of helpers would pop in, some briefly, and shake the hand of the upright fellow who had joined them. Some, but not all, took advantage of the chilled white wine Sybil had chosen from Waitrose’s extensive catalogue. James enjoyed a glass or two, though paced himself, knowing it would be a long day. Even their only son, Michael, had put in an appearance, a tall and handsome twenty-something, studying tropical medicine at Liverpool University, a young man who charmed the ladies, young and old alike.
At close of play two elderly sisters, Amy and Harriet Bull, who provided many of the cathedral flowers, had become stranded. The arrangement had been their even older brother, Robert, would collect them in his Jaguar. Robert had fallen in the garden that afternoon while pruning roses, and had broken two fingers, and could not oblige.
The Right Reverend James, eager to please on his public debut, jumped into the conversation and volunteered to run them back the seven miles to Parkgate on the west Wirral coast.
‘You’ve had a few drinks,’ warned Sybil.
‘No! Don’t worry, darling. Only a couple spread over the whole of the afternoon, and I’ve had plenty to eat. I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Course I am. I wouldn’t take a risk on something like that.’
The Bull sisters eased into the back seat of the Right Reverend’s four-year-old blue BMW and zipped along the Chester High Road, northward to Parkgate, and home for the now tiring and yawning ladies.
‘Thank you so much,’ they said at the house, ‘Are you sure you won’t come in for a coffee?’
‘Thank you but no, perhaps another time, it’s been so nice to meet you, give my love and best wishes to Robert, and tell him I shall meet him another day,’ and with that, minutes later James was heading south again... too quickly.
The police shot out of a quiet turnoff and were on him like an angry hornet on a wasp.
The first police officer stepped from the blue light-flashing car and headed toward the Beemer.
‘Do you know what speed you were travelling at, sir?’
‘Just on seventy,’ mumbled James.
The officer shook his head and revealed the handheld device that displayed 82mph.
‘Really?’ said James. ‘That much? It must be this car. I am so sorry.’ And he added, ‘I am the new vicar attached to the cathedral; I am on my way back there now.’
The police officer had clocked the white collar, and that was, to the best of his knowledge, a first, a speeding priest... with humming breath.
‘Have you been drinking, sir?’
‘No-ooo, well yes, just the one. It was my inauguration party today, and I had to take a couple of elderly ladies home.’
‘Would you mind blowing into this device?’
James appeared crestfallen. He’d already guessed the result, and he was right.
The new Right Reverend at Chester Cathedral was prosecuted for driving whilst under the influence of drink, found guilty, one and a half times over the legal limit, and fined four hundred and fifty pounds, no exceptions for anyone, and especially for someone like you, said the magistrate. You should have known better, and worse still, James lost his driving licence for eighteen months.
The press had a field day.
The London redtops screamed CANNED VICAR BANNED, and RIGHT REVEREND WRONG, while the more conservative Chester Chronicle contented itself with: New Right Reverend Will Not Be Giving Lifts.
There was something of a public outcry, especially amongst the teetotalling temperance mob who had been campaigning for drink to be banned from all areas of the city centre for years, and to think that our new Vicar has behaved like that!
Harry and Bethan, who weren’t above a glass or two themselves, supported James through and through, and that strengthened their burgeoning friendship. Despite that, feelings ran high. There was a weighty faction demanding the new man and his simpering wife be packed off to Lichfield on the first available train. It was rumoured the final decision went to the Bishop himself, who in the spirit of forgiveness, came down on the side of James and Sybil Kingston. James would take his punishment like a man, carry on with his duties, and be required to apologise as part of his next public address.
Come the day in question, the paparazzi camped on the green outside the cathedral, watching, listening and hoping for more juicy church gossip.
The Bishop intimated that James Kingston would be expected to never again be seen with an alcoholic drink in his hand, a stipulation that, though bothersome, mattered little when put into context of the wonderful house they enjoyed. He could do what he liked behind closed doors and did.
The telephone rang at half-past nine in the morning.
Sybil answered. She was working at home that day.
‘It’s Harry Wilkinson,’ she hissed to James, ‘and he sounds awfully upset.’
An hour later James found himself on the stopping train loping along the North Wales coast, heading for Mostyn station where Harry would collect him in the car. James would much have preferred to have driven there, but didn’t dare.
He spent a good chunk of the day in the ancient bungalow praying with, and comforting his friend, before Harry drove him
