What I Could See

 

There was a line of trees I could see from the train window. I admired their different shapes, and the spacing between them. Someone had carefully planted them between those two fields, with thought for not how they would appear in their own lifetime, but for how they would appear in someone else’s. Perhaps they’d also had a passing thought too for the pleasure they might occasion someone from the valley below, who just happened to look up from the book they were reading and gaze out of a passing train window.

We are a light-hearted pair when we travel, my son and I. I’m always trying to think of witty and insightful things to say whenever we journey anywhere. This line of trees fleetingly seen had impressed me, and I commented on them, saying that whoever had planted them most certainly deserved their place in heaven. Then I added provocatively that I thought that entry into heaven should be solely reserved for people who had planted trees in their lifetime.

Our subsequent discussion, as I defended this extreme position, culminated as usual in laughter; and upon seeing a wood, as the train sped through a railway station, it was no surprise when we declared it to be The Great Rain Forest of Tring.

I had never been to St Martin’s in the Fields before. The church was on the other side of Trafalgar Square from where I’d expected it to be. I must have walked past it many, many times without ever ‘seeing’ it. Suddenly, there it was, and I wondered why I had never noticed it before. Perhaps it was because my eyes had always been drawn towards Nelson’s column, or that my feet had generally been taking me in the direction of the National Gallery: a place I’d once known like the back of my hand.

As I tried to re-orientate myself and comprehend St Martin’s in the Fields’ stout white lines, I was put in mind of a story I’d once heard about perception. How natives standing upon a shore could not ‘see’ the first wooden ships that had just appeared upon their horizon. Apparently, they couldn’t see the tall masts and billowing sails for they were beyond their visual experience. All they could see was an empty ocean. I felt like such a native as I gazed towards St Martin’s in the Fields, whilst behind me upon the fourth plinth was a ship in a bottle set with African cloth sails.

“How long has that been there?”

There were groups of people standing just outside the church. My son, in a whisper informed me that he’d just glimpsed the actors who play the parts of Pat and Tony Archer.

“Don’t look,” he hissed, after I’d just paused in my step to scan faces with the embarrassing squinting slowness of myopia and astigmatism. Perhaps similar poor eyesight had prevented those natives from seeing tall sailing ships all those years ago. Or, more likely, they too had a teenager standing next to them whose heightened sensitivity forbade their parents from staring out to sea for too long.

“Don’t look!”

Thus chastised, I entered the church.

Our tickets were labelled SS, and I had earlier joked that this meant that we’d be sat on a row of seats reserved for Nazi posters on the web board. We were surprised and delighted to discover that ‘SS’ demarked not a pew but a box set against the wall, or a ‘booth’, as the usher called it. There was plenty of room for others to have joined us, but nobody did in the end. Which I guess indicated that I was the only Nazi poster on the board.

This rectangular-shaped booth was slightly elevated, and faced the pews in the main body of the church. To my great delight we discovered we had an excellent view, and I could now gaze at the incoming congregation with impunity. I’d hoped to see the faces of fellow addicts; though I must admit to being slightly distracted by an urgent need to eat a cheese sandwich.

As the church filled, I could recognise no one in the sea of faces, though I had been wondering if one kindly looking old man with white hair and beguiling warm smile might actually be Bert Fry escorting his wife Freda to her seat. He seemed familiar.

“That’s John Major, and his wife Norma,” my son proclaimed with the delight of a politics student.

And there I’d been for a fraction of a second, imagining John Major driving that old tractor of Bert’s, having just given Freda Fry a face!

Other heads were now turning in John Major’s direction and I realised what a curse it must be to be so easily recognised, and how lucky the Archers actors were to have such precious anonymity, so that even an addict like me could not easily distinguish their sails no matter how hard they stared.

St Martins in the Fields has a light and airy feel. The walls are painted white and the windows have clear transparent glass. The curves and gentle arches near the ceiling are gilded with gold from which hang grand golden chandeliers.

The dark wooden pews, devoid of kneelers, creaked. It seemed there was no row I or O and the usher upon discovering that the church was a couple of vowels short of an alphabet was having to reseat people.

Then when all were settled it began: I was in tears as soon as the choir began to sing. I found the readings describing a hall in which a sparrow flew and the poem by Thomas Hardy hauntingly moving and beautiful, especially the line, 'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'.

The highlight for me was ‘The Lark Ascending’. Which I expected would reach yet one more note higher towards the end; and when it didn’t, I had to realise that the lark had done enough, and it was unfair to expect more of it.

There was a touch of humour amongst the reminiscences; and also a moment of realisation when clips were played from The Archers. How old-fashioned and quirky some of them sounded with their stilted voices and background music. They were extracts from scenes I remembered well: such as Jill challenging Phil’s love for Grace’s ‘ghost’ and asserting that he could love her too.

Most poignant for me was the final extract featuring Norman Painting’s last words as Phil Archer during the ‘Stir-up Sunday’ episode. We had sat there that evening on our settee with our stir-up bowl in hand taking turns to stir up the mixture as we’d listened, inevitably adding the extra ingredient of a tear or two.

Even when different actors stood up and spoke in the church, I barely knew them by their appearance. Even their voices sounded different in that emotionally charged setting, with the exception of Alison Dowling.

At the end of the service, as the congregation exited the organist played Barwick Green which was rounded with applause.

As we left a tall woman approached us like a tall ship and said, ‘Hello’.

“Hello,” I replied, wondering in her wake who she was. I hadn’t noticed her approach upon my horizon.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Only Linda Snell,” my son replied, amused by my lack of vision.

We did manage to see Hedli outside the church, and were able to thank her for our tickets, and then worry a little about her Alta ego Kathy.

On the train going back we passed once again, ‘The Great Rain Forest of Tring’, having just discovered that Norman Painting also loved trees, and had helped to plant many in his lifetime, thus undoubtedly assuring his place in heaven. And I’m guessing that before his tall ship sailed beyond the horizon that he also saw things ever so slightly differently.

The Norman Painting memorial service can hopefully be found at the link below.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/archers/backstage/painting_celebration_audio.shtml