UNDER HALLWOOD
Murdoch and Anne MacKenzie
May 1988 (with apologies to Dylan Thomas)
To begin at the beginning. There was Brian the Social and Ray the Health Service and Keith the Copse and Ian the Glen – all of them painting away at the Manse, trying to make straight lines, to cut grass which they didn’t like cutting, screwing screws and wondering, always wondering, what the new minister would be like. Would his wife wear a hat I wonder – coming from Scotland and all?
And so it began, the first night, the honeymoon, on the bare boards, with the fresh paint choking them to sleep on Gina’s extended deck chair beds. Gina of the BB (Boys’ Brigade), Anchor Boys and Juniors and Camps and what not.
Everything was abbreviated to baffle the sinful and the simple – GB, BB, URC, CofE, LEP, YF, JSG, R&R, BCP, PCC, ASB! It sounded like swearing a bit – but in shorthand – if you see what I mean.
Even the Bethesda was called the Bethseda and Mr MacKenzie was Mr Murdoch and if you asked the baptism callers if they were Anglican they said “No, Church of England”. And they called you ‘Vicar’ – whoever you were – sort of like promotion, even that first week.
So much that was new to be learned so quickly – the Methodist circus – no, no Circuit – making you dizzy and then virgin territory across the great divide – venturing across the roaring expressway into Beechwood, where east is east and west is west. St Mark – the roaring lion – seeking a Free Church Minister to devour.
Murdoch and Anne MacKenzie
May 1988 (with apologies to Dylan Thomas)
To begin at the beginning. There was Brian the Social and Ray the Health Service and Keith the Copse and Ian the Glen – all of them painting away at the Manse, trying to make straight lines, to cut grass which they didn’t like cutting, screwing screws and wondering, always wondering, what the new minister would be like. Would his wife wear a hat I wonder – coming from Scotland and all?
And so it began, the first night, the honeymoon, on the bare boards, with the fresh paint choking them to sleep on Gina’s extended deck chair beds. Gina of the BB (Boys’ Brigade), Anchor Boys and Juniors and Camps and what not.
Everything was abbreviated to baffle the sinful and the simple – GB, BB, URC, CofE, LEP, YF, JSG, R&R, BCP, PCC, ASB! It sounded like swearing a bit – but in shorthand – if you see what I mean.
Even the Bethesda was called the Bethseda and Mr MacKenzie was Mr Murdoch and if you asked the baptism callers if they were Anglican they said “No, Church of England”. And they called you ‘Vicar’ – whoever you were – sort of like promotion, even that first week.
So much that was new to be learned so quickly – the Methodist circus – no, no Circuit – making you dizzy and then virgin territory across the great divide – venturing across the roaring expressway into Beechwood, where east is east and west is west. St Mark – the roaring lion – seeking a Free Church Minister to devour.
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Magnificent Maurice needing all his faculties to care for the building.
Dave the Walker with knuckles bleeding from pushing magazines through the fiendish letter boxes of the private developers. Pat the Flowers, seeking a colour here and there to match Alison and Kath of the banners. Paul the Steward and Norman the Page (he never told us which book he was from but we think it was Widnes – the French-speaking bit behind the rugby ground – rugby league, you know – very common in Widnes). |
And Paul. Well . . .
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There was a young fellow named Paul
And sure he was not very tall. He knew cars to the letter The older the better But on Sundays they all seemed to stall! |
And Kath – Kath of the tinkling fingers – well, they’re all ‘Kaths’ at St Mark’s – just like in Bethesda they’re all Smiths! Kath the Piano, Kath the Kitchen, Kath the Banners and Kath the Jams and Cakes and anything else she can make a few bob on – if you see what I mean.
And then there’s Les – late of Bethesda – and now late at St Mark’s. Les the Biscuits – always looking for a lift, and shaking your hand several times during the Peace, hoping against hope that by some miracle the Home Group would come to Southgate – but it never did. It did once.
And then there’s Les – late of Bethesda – and now late at St Mark’s. Les the Biscuits – always looking for a lift, and shaking your hand several times during the Peace, hoping against hope that by some miracle the Home Group would come to Southgate – but it never did. It did once.
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And Dolly – well the name says it all, doesn’t it?
And Don, of the rent and the rates And Edna, the Harris back from the Welsh Riviera And Sharon the School And Warburtons Bread of the long hair and the guitar and the cars ‘extraordinaire’ And marvellous Maureen with Sunday Schools – morning, noon and night! |
What more shall I say? For the time would fail me to tell of Anita and Alan and Catherine, of Margaret and Geraldine, of Gareth and Sharon, of Jean and Albert, of George, of Les, of Rita, of Myra, of Pauline, of Joan, of John and Wendy, of Lis and Jenny and David – who through faith have kept rabbits and edited magazines, womanned the kitchen and wined and dined the clergy, counted envelopes and hoovered the carpet, organised parties and inspired Christian Aid, prayed on Wednesdays and sold plants and run fayres on Saturdays, written minutes and registers and called out the Banns – all those who have discovered that in Christ there is no east or west – even in Beechwood.
Meanwhile the Reverend Eli Jenkins (alias Terry Oakley), in Bethesda House, gropes out of bed into his preacher’s black, combs back his bard’s white hair, forgets to wash, pads barefoot downstairs, opens the front door, stands in the doorway and, looking at the day and up at the Runcorn Bridge, breathes in the sweet air from Widnes.
But that was in the Old Bethesda – red sandstone and iron railings, big pulpit and the gallery; the organ and the choir – that was a choir – which could be heard all the way to Fiddler’s Ferry. And so for the last time the Rev Eli Jenkins closes the front door. His morning service is over.
Meanwhile, almost under the bridge, Ada the Tea is washing the dishes. Always washing the dishes. And others from the old church, Phyllis and Dorothy and Annie Morgan, taking off the old corsets of Congregationalism, find it’s nice to be comfy with the Anglicans and the Methodists – bowing and scraping and clapping your hands; candles and alleluias instead of gloves and hat-pins.
But some things remained familiar – the jumble sales and Congregational Praise, Edna of the Saturday Market and the flower rota:
Meanwhile the Reverend Eli Jenkins (alias Terry Oakley), in Bethesda House, gropes out of bed into his preacher’s black, combs back his bard’s white hair, forgets to wash, pads barefoot downstairs, opens the front door, stands in the doorway and, looking at the day and up at the Runcorn Bridge, breathes in the sweet air from Widnes.
But that was in the Old Bethesda – red sandstone and iron railings, big pulpit and the gallery; the organ and the choir – that was a choir – which could be heard all the way to Fiddler’s Ferry. And so for the last time the Rev Eli Jenkins closes the front door. His morning service is over.
Meanwhile, almost under the bridge, Ada the Tea is washing the dishes. Always washing the dishes. And others from the old church, Phyllis and Dorothy and Annie Morgan, taking off the old corsets of Congregationalism, find it’s nice to be comfy with the Anglicans and the Methodists – bowing and scraping and clapping your hands; candles and alleluias instead of gloves and hat-pins.
But some things remained familiar – the jumble sales and Congregational Praise, Edna of the Saturday Market and the flower rota:
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The Ednas and Ethel the Flowers
On Fridays they’re at it for hours At worship next morning The table adorning We’re inspired by those good friends of ours. Then there is Peggy the Purse When offerings are down she does curse But when envelopes are full As they are, as a rule A bright smile on her face she does nurse. |
And the Reverend, busy on his morning calls, hears and sees it all.
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Brian having a cup of coffee in the shoppo
Gwen of the Webb Ivory and Ken pounding away on the organ Bob and Hilary, moving for the umpteenth time Tim, like Abraham father of a multitude, using his great learning to make mushroom pies out of North Sea oil Chris, saying a prayer before she engages the clutch Keith and Ros looking for each other’s diaries Penny, magistrating on the bench Liz of the home helps and the Laird of Blair Phil the Probation, with the car with the hole in the middle, lying in wait in the car park to catch the followers of the beastie boys Holly-in-the-bed-Ann, now putting toothpaste on the door handles of Windmill Hill The pensioners – Rene and May and Doris and others, dashing from one club to the other And Horace, the Latin scholar, busily combing his hair in front of the mirror and day-dreaming about all the money in the lunch club account And Ena waving her stick at them all While Betty and Marion console Hilda the Knoll over the fortunes of Everton Football Club Tracy - stacking them up at the hospital Hazel wondering if the clergy will be the death of her husband And Claire praying that Christopher and Jonathan will be good boys passing the manse Celia – rounding them up in the Guinness Trust With Grace and Hannah stapling their fingers to the magazine And Joan still wondering every morning if there’s a speed limit through Preston Brook While Mary the Copse encourages with her lovely smile And Bill of that Ilk ponders the stresses and strains of the Runcorn Bridge on the one hand and the heresies in the Minister’s sermon on the other Meanwhile the Youth Fellowship giggles through it all And Lynn asks if she can read a lesson While Sylvia crosses herself and says “Bless me Father” |
And the Reverend hurries on through the town to clean the church with Julie and Val, to visit the sick and catch up with the Vicar.
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And what can we say of the Vicar?
His computer has made things much slicker. His work in our Team Meant our Covenant dream Was realised very much quicker. Then there’s the sweet Lady Jane Still reaping God’s harvest through pain. At the Clergy Wives’ tea She says “Oh dearie me! Surely my living has not been in vain”. When in need we’ve had dear Arthur Birch Who not once has left us in the lurch. With smile beatific His eyes – they’re terrific We love him within the One Church. And last but not least there is Val Who has soon become everyone’s pal. She can play the guitar And she sings like a star Contacts mums, eats club lunches and all. There are many more folk we could name But the time is too short – it’s a shame. Jean the Waitress and Dorothy too There is Rosy and Sandie and crew Betty Woollam, Ann Martin and Sue Geraldine and a fellow named Banks To one and all we must now offer thanks. |
As the thin night darkens, and the vandals set about their work of enhancing the graffiti on the gates and walls under Hallwood. To God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit you. We cannot do more, but should never do less.
With love from
Anne and Murdoch
28 May 1988
For further information and photos about Hallwood today, please Google www.hallwoodparish.org.uk
With love from
Anne and Murdoch
28 May 1988
For further information and photos about Hallwood today, please Google www.hallwoodparish.org.uk