The altar was a small wooden table, solidly made, and covered with a thin whitish blanket. On it stood the two wooden candlesticks holding the thin tallow candles with their wavering flames, the earthenware dish holding the bread to be consecrated, and the communion chalice. This was a small horn vessel, conical in shape, its rim bound by a strip of metal which shone with a faint gleam, and which Marion believed, on no evidence, to be gold. It was possibly the only bit of bronze in the village. Sometimes this gold gleam was dulled to a greenish tinge when the acid of the ‘wine’ corroded the copper in the metal. There was also a small granite cross, grey with a hint of sparkle about it. It was carved on its upright part with an intertwining pattern. Its real origin had long since been forgotten, but it was generally believed to have been brought to the village by St Paul to whom the church was dedicated. Beside it on the altar lay what Father John called his ‘missal’. Marion knew it was in some way holy and confused it in her mind with the strange green white-berried plant which sometimes hung in lumps in the apple trees in the Hall’s orchard, and which was also, but vaguely, considered to have mysterious, perhaps holy, powers. Father John’s ‘missal’ was a board with a handle like a butter-making hand, on which had been stuck a sheet of vellum, over which a brown gummy varnish had been spread. It was very old. Just discernible on the vellum were a large red A and some lines of black writing. The whole object was blackened and shiny with age.

It was uncertain whether Father John could ever read. He often told stories of his going to a great church, called Rochester, by a river wider than the whole village. He was a boy then, and there were many other boys too, being taught to be priests. The great books of vellum sheets covered with black marks and sometimes tiny jewel-coloured pictures, were often before his eyes and the repeated intonings of the priests in his ears. He learnt everything by ear, and, like a child, knew when to turn over the large vellum pages as he repeated the strange words. Perhaps he had been able to recognize a few words, none, of course, in his native language, but it was doubtful if he ever understood any of the Latin words he learnt to repeat. In any case all this was many years ago and since leaving the great church at Rochester he had never had any opportunity to practise this strange reading. Understanding the words was of no importance; the correct performance of the rituals was all.

The vellum sheet with Ave Maria written on it had been given to the church long before his time, and he venerated it as a holy object and could not say Mass without it. It was an object of great familiarity to everyone in the village, who saw it in the priest’s hands every week of their lives. It, if not an idol, was certainly part of their religion.