THE Epiphany, the time for poets. Wild journeys, travelling
light, destination, great gifts. And roses still in bloom. The
white cat sleeping it off - the non-existent winter. The cards have
tumbled down; the wreckage of an iced cake calls for appetite; the
bottles wink. Two funerals: a lad of 19, and Bobby the lorry
driver, in his eighties.
Leading the procession to Bobby's grave, I am anxious not to
tread on the daffodil shoots. The gravedigger with windblown curls
takes the shine off his spade with a bit of sackcloth. All is as it
should be - except for teenage Matthew. Fat blackbirds hop about in
the bare hedges.
Colin brings his little boy to see me, plus their happy dog.
Both - the boy and the dog, that is - make a beeline for the
stairs. We hear them crashing about in the ancient rooms. For some
reason unknown to me, there is always this rush to the top of the
house.
The boy is half Belgian, and chatters in a flood of two
languages. Colin is half Scottish; I am most Suffolk. Colin's
chickens are so free-range that we have to slow down so as not to
slaughter them as we drive to church.
Having a moment to spare, I visit the monuments. These are
amazing. Proustian. Such obsequies! Not a bit like those that I
perform for Bobby. Although he was lowered in to depths of fine
language; for we are "not to be sorry as men without hope. .
.".
Waiting for Sunday lunch with the neighbours, I enter the
glorious world of the Little Horkesley dead. First, there is
Richard Knight, a relation of the Thomas Knight who, in 1783,
adopted Jane Austen's father, Edward, and whose excellent character
was given to Mr Knightley in Emma. Serving at the altar,
my feet are firmly placed on the riven memorial to one who set the
standard for a gentleman.
Startlingly, by the entrance to the church lie three enormous
wooden people. These are the de Horkesleys, no less: Robert,
William, and Emma. And then, further inside, is the battered brass
of the Mayor of Bourdeaux and captain of Fronsac, in Guinne. We
sing evensong in great company.
What dust these fine folk left was blown to the winds on 21
September 1940, when a German parachute-mine fell into the church,
fragmenting its past. No one was killed or injured. Everything
disappeared, then returned in a later guise. And Major-General de
Havilland - Olivia's cousin - who lived at the Hall, insisting that
what had vanished must be replicated. Our little parish contains
the plots of a dozen blockbusters. They sing well there, too.
Climbing the pulpit, I say: "When we open a door, a box, or
ourselves, what lies inside becomes manifest. Something that was
hidden shows itself." For centuries, the prophets have spoken of a
spiritual force that would stay hidden until it would manifest
itself in a newborn child, in a precocious boy, in a poor homeless
young man, in a welcome guest at Bethany, in a marvellous
storyteller, in the Christ.
But it is three very grand people who arrive at the Epiphany:
King Gaspar, King Melchior, and King Balthasar - monarchs you will
not find in scripture.