Chapter 6: The Rectory at Laverton

On my return from the overnight stay at Devizes I re-joined my men in the abandoned school house that lay just a stone's throw away from the Rectory itself. There were two large classrooms that easily accommodated the 60 or so men of the company, a headmaster's office, which I used for the company office, and two smaller rooms, one used as my bedroom, and the other used by James McMurdoe. There were privies, and a water pump, in the courtyard, and the place was a perfect billet for me and my men.

You might ask why this school house lay derelict and unused, and the reason throws a strong light on the character of the Rector of St Martin's in Market Laverton, the Reverend George Proctor.
He had been made incumbent of the parish some ten years previously, when he was about forty years old, and unmarried. Proctor was a red faced belligerent and portly man, who paid scant heed to the New Testament's teaching of turning the other cheek but rather cleaved to the Old Testament standards, of smiting the hips and thighs of the ungodly, and removing eyes for eyes. Twice a week he rode to hounds with the Pewsey Vale Hunt, and God help any fox or poacher he ever found on 'his' land.

Reverend Proctor belonged to a branch of the Church of England (C of E) that was considered to be High Anglican. These High Churchmen looked on Methodists, Baptists, and the other non-conformist sects, as little more than heretics. When the Reverend Proctor found out that children of these 'heretics' were attending the church school he forbade their attendance. The Methodists promptly opened their own school, charging considerably lower fees than had been paid at the Cof E school. Unfortunately for the Rector he hadn't realised that the children from non-conformist families far out out numbered those from Church of England families in the parish. With the reduction in numbers of children attending the church school of St Martin the diocesan education committee were eventually forced to close the school, as the up keep of the building was draining their funds, now that there was less money accruing. All the children of the parish now attend the Methodist school, where not only are they tolerated whatever branch of the Christian religion their parents follow, but also pay less fees.

So there you have the Rector of St Martin's at Market Laverton: a man who would cut off his nose to spite his face. The Reverend George Proctor had married his shy looking wife about four years ago, but whether that change in his circumstance had improved his temper, or his intelligence, I would not know.

As I have already said the meals provided at the Rectory were of the finest quality, and of great quantity, as the Rector was a trencherman of some considerable appetite, and I found myself attending dinner there several times in a week. I often had to grit my teeth when the Rector started on his many tirades, and just waited for the food to arrive. Even he stopped talking when this manna from heaven appeared before us. The maid with the cast in her eye did the serving, and I was intrigued to see how, with her wandering eyeball, she managed to get the food from tureen onto plate without spillage. I surmised that she must 'aim off' to allow for drift, as do the sharpshooters of the 95th Rifles.

The Rector always held forth, at considerable length, on some topic close to his heart when at table, seldom troubling to ask me of my opinions on the subject, and if he did he soon dismissed any of my views that did not chime with his own. His wife kept her eyes downcast on her plate for much of his discourse; she rarely spoke, but when she did her voice was of an educated tone, and I would think she had been a governess, or a ladies companion, before joining the Reverend George Proctor in Holy Wedlock. From time to time my mind would wander, as the Rector ranted on about the government, the local population, the weather, the state of the roads, the price of port, or any of the many other subjects that raised his ire, and caused his already red face to go puce with barely concealed fury.
I wondered if the two Proctors ever lay together. I assumed they slept in separate bedrooms; the Rectory had at least six, as it had been built some fifty years previously when the then incumbent had ten children living in the house. I imagined George, creeping down the hallway to indulge in conjugal connection with the shy, timid wife; or did she tiptoe along to red faced George's room, and then mount and gallop him, like he galloped his hunter with the Pewsey Hunt? Both vignettes seemed to be equally preposterous, given the nature of the two protagonists.

After my return from furlough in Lincolnshire I had recommenced my visits to the Proctors' dinner table, and I became aware of some slight change to the atmosphere in the dining room. One evening George excelled himself in a bitter tirade against the ungodly. I can't remember how it started, or indeed all the arguments he employed, but I do remember him saying.

"Of course, Greenaway, what has led to the ruination of this country is that we no longer send heretics to the stake. The smell of burning flesh had a strong effect on any backsliding Christian!"

I could well believe that it did, but kept shut my mouth. His wife shot him a look of pure horror, and we then exchanged glances. I think it was the first time we had actually looked into each others' eyes. She gave me a slow, secret smile, and an unfathomable look.

Then Proctor asked me why I wasn't doing 'God's Work' in the neighbourhood of Market Laverton, as Captain Braxton-Clark was doing in Wedhampton. I asked what 'God's Work' entailed. --By the way, the locals referred to the village simply as 'Laverton'. A market was held on every Thursday of the year, except Maundy Thursday.

"Smiting the ungodly, casting out evil, hounding the malcontents and ne'er-do-wells." Proctor replied to my question, his eyes blazing with fanaticism, and an overabundance of port. We were sat in the dining room, after consuming a spread that would have fed an average local family for a week. Before he could work himself up to his usual volume of ranting, his wife stood up and excused herself.