J L Carr

By now the rioters had rallied to throw back the police who (lacking the excellent early training of my new friend) had fled in less than good order. Even their superintendent abandoned his loud-hailer ('Hold firm you lads at the front') and took to his heels until halted by a new platoon bussed up from Handsworth, a notably tough lot recruited in the Black Country. These advanced menacingly, their first wave banging upon plastic shields whilst following ranks held theirs above their heads - an interesting and impressive recreation of the Roman Army's testudo.

But clashing dustbin lids, the yobs still came on until, like medieval armies, both were locked in hand to hand combat.
And then I spied Matthew.
It was his custom to lead the choir in procession down the main aisle, then through the west door, out round the south side's exterior and thence back into the vestry. Now, emerging from the porch, he was brought face to face with his erupting mission-field. And halted in astonishment. But for no more than a moment. Turning to wrest the ornate Sir Ninian Comper-designed processional cross from Old Father Time (his Verger) and holding it on high, he plunged downstairs into the heat of battle.
Then, when he had buffeted and bashed a way to the middle of the road, like a lollipop man he raised a free hand to halt the police whilst presenting his cross at the other lot. It was the most dramatically stupid act of valour I shall ever witness.

I was not the only one to gawp. Hubbub and bricks diminished and a great silence reigned. (If there was ever a time for the Angel of Mons to reappear, this was it.) Then he lifted up his voice and cried passionately, "My house is the House of God and ye have made it a den of thieves." Which was hardly fair on the city police.
But this bizarre interlude was momentary. In fact, the screams and drumming rose to a new pitch of violence because, not unnaturally, this pronouncement had incensed both sides. And down he went and once more the battle was joined over him.
But then there was a most extroadinary intervention. the rest of the Procession, who, in great dread of spirit had huddled in the porch, thus penning in their following congregation who suddenly burst out like a cork from a bottle and poured tumultuously down the steps to their pastor's succour and, under covering fire from a rain of hymns and prayer books hurled by choir boys, set about both mobs.

This flank attack (as students of our island story, recalling Colonol Ireton's ambushed dragoons at Naseby, will understand) confused the issue and both lots drew back in baffled disorder. Thus with Father Time dragging one ankle and the Choirmaster the other, Matthew was pulled clear of no-man's-land and laid out under the porch with a beautifully forgiving smile smeared across his theatrically bloody face.
"Hetty, dear," he murmered, "be kind enough to mention to Mrs Gilpin-Jones that I shall be late for supper and will she keep it in the oven. I shall remove it and take care to turn off the gas before going to my room."

- What Hetty Did