latter days of Mr Jones, The

Spectator, The, Dec 13-Dec 20, 2003 by Gardam, Jane

'The QC is very good,' said the vicar. 'So we hear.'

Mr Jones thought that she hadn't looked particularly 'good', but certainly strong and determined. Obviously she found him a tedious client because he was finding speaking more and more difficult. At one point the magistrates asked if he was deaf. It was the vicar who stood near him in the dock and answered questions, Mr Jones simply observing the scene in silent and bewildered dignity.

The legal steps went forward steadily for several more months before the trial. The press came and went at the gate. At each court appearance there was now a report in the Surrey newspapers and a footnote or two in the Guardian where he was described as a pensioner, grey-haired and tall. The year drew to its end.

Mr Jones still walked on the Common but now went round two sides of a triangle to avoid the pond and the long seat. He walked out beyond the pine trees and the site of the old Roman fort where he could hear the steady throb of the motorway along Ermine Street. As a sort of comfort and passport he carried the dogs' lead. He avoided people with children. Sometimes a child who had known him ran up to him and he would turn his back and shout into the distance, 'Yeoman? Farmer? Here, boys, here.' People with dogs smiled at him and on the far tracks through the woods riders on horseback sometimes reined up and spoke to him. 'Take care out here on your own. It's getting late. You can easily get lost. There are nasty people about.'

'I know every inch of the Common,' said Mr Jones. Tm never afraid.'

But most days he was invisible, lurking inside his house. Sometimes he even missed Sunday church, which was why it was not until Christmas-time that he caught on to the news that his vicar was moving to a parish in the north. He said nothing, but after Evensong that dark night he was seen by the vicar's wife standing across the road from the vicarage in the rain. She ran out without her coat, pulled him into the house and in the little hallway held his cold, gloveless hands. The vicar appeared and said, 'Oh God! We've prayed, we're still praying that this ridiculous business will be dropped before we leave. We didn't want you to know we were going until you're settled again. Mr Jones, we shall not ever desert you. I shall be at your trial. I promise.'

'Trial?'

He told Mr Jones (yet again) the date fixed at Quarter Sessions. He reminded him there would be a jury. He said that his Counsel was excellent. That there was money enough to pay her. That everyone was totally supporting him.

'I'm not sure,' said Mr Jones.

'Stay with us tonight.'

But Mr Jones preferred to go back home.

In the rain, now turned to sleet, he went padding away and as he came to the church he saw that there were lights inside it. The Christmas lights, for it was still Epiphany, the feast of the Three Wise Men at Bethlehem. Church lights had been his dominion for half a century and his reaction was immediate and automatic. This was somebody else's disgraceful negligence. He turned into his house where there was still a church key behind the front door next to the dogs' lead and hurried back again. He unlocked the church, switched on the light inside so that he would be able to see his way out again, as he had done a thousand times. He walked down the south aisle to switch off the tree. How very careless. How dangerous. Never happened before. And the light inside the Christmas crib was on, too, and the usual torch hidden in the hay around the Holy Family. The whole church could be ablaze by morning.