Deeply Shocked...part the first

Good cheer is, it must be acknowledged, somewhat lacking for most if not all in these troubled times. Although we in The Wolds are hardly banking folk by and large, with City positions to take and maintain, we do still fear for our rural livelihoods, our homes and our pensions as we helplessly watch the meltdown of financial institutions the world over.

Indeed, the only broad grin to be seen in the streets abroad these days has rested on the otherwise unappealing face of Farmer Burdock. Not one of nature's charmers, Farmer B makes it clear from one year end to the other that he cares as little for the company of others as he does about their respective fates and fortunes. (There was, long ago, a Mrs Farmer Burdock about the place, but she scarpered with an itinerant harvester - man not machine - preferring, it seems, the uncertainty of a traveller's life to the dread certainty of living with her grim husband. I judge not. Our Lord did not and nor shall I.)

Anyways, not ever disposed to group-hugs, spontaneous love-fests or other charismatic signs of bonding with his fellow creatures, it can be reasonably assumed that the desertion of his wife merely served to confirm Farmer Burdock in his distrust of humans and all their dark ways.

Among such dark ways he would pour particular and regular scorn on banks qua banks and on bankers qua bankers. "Rogues and thieves the lot of 'em," he did aver if - or indeed if not - asked, and though at the time his admonitions might be thought a bit strong it might be allowed that his is perhaps currently the majority view.

I do indeed feel quite sorry for poor Mr Potter, who holds sway at our one and only local banking emporium. A figure more particular in his probity one could not imagine. Imagine a Captain Mainwairing preserved in aspic and you have some idea of the man. No 'Master of the Universe' he, just a decent cove doing a difficult job in hard times. To see now, almost, skirts being drawn in and eyes of babes sheltered as he passes - mournfully - down High Street of a morning is as great a sorrow to witness as it must be to bear.

Needless to say perhaps that Burdock and Potter would never have batted for the same team. Farmer B has indeed long boasted that his cash - rumoured by many to be not an insubstantial pile - would as soon be cremated on an open fire as buried in the vaults of Potter's bank. Potter for his part has kept his counsel: the bank door stands open ready to receive Burdock's doubloons, but he - Potter - will not demean himself by touting for their trade.

Long years this stand-off has maintained, and of little note or consequence to any has it been. The Wolds moves on - albeit slowly - and if Farmer B's millions (the rumour would but grow of course over time) did not move with them then that was not our business or concern.

Hence of course the recent, rather unlovely, grin adhering to the Burdock countenance. Not one he to suffer with his fellow men; whilst we fret and stew that our pounds in Potter's place might just vanish overnight, Farmer B has been smirking - no other less hostile word will suffice - at our dismay. "Mine be safe if'en yourn be not" he positively crows.

Safe quite where we cannot but begin to wonder? Under the proverbial mattress seems hardly sufficient for such a mountain of moolah. Buried ten paces from the equally proverbial old oak tree is a goer. One has, it must be 'fessed, occasionally idly speculated.

Deeply shocking though now to reveal, some villains about the place have passed from probing thought to plundering act. For message comes today that Farmer Burdock's remote gaff has been burgled in the night, and he bound and bundled into his cellar as the thieves rampaged through the farmhouse in search of illicit booty.

Constable Tim, who brought this dreadful news to the Rectory, was quite unable - or perhaps professional lips were sealed - to say what precisely has been looted or who were the prime suspects in the case. He did though - the reason for his call - say that the 'old goat' (his phrase not mine naturally!) had been quite shaken up by his ordeal and that perhaps a soothing parsonic visit might be just pick-him-up required.

Hmm I briefly pondered. That duty called was not in doubt, though the efficacy of the purpose most certainly was. Not once in my twenty year tenure has Farmer B illumined Saint Dominic's with his presence, and although no firm word had ever been uttered by him on the subject it has been my reasonable opinion throughout that he holds clerics as a life-form no worthier or loftier than oft-abused bank managers.

But loins girded off I naturally set to administer such succour as I might to a fellow creature, expecting largely to be greeted with both a low and a dismissive countenance by my beloved parishioner. Wonder then my surprise when Farmer Burdock greeted my arrival with the broadest of broad grins and a fine indeed welcome to his humble home.

Odd or what? Yes, he said, he had howled at the moon for the very temerity of the rogues who had disturbed his night, his home and his person. But the humour of the man, not merely robust enough to survive such a multiple trespass was positively chuckling.

"Be like this Vicar. Mayhap I don't care for Potters and their Banks. Why should they make money from my money after all? 'Tis me that earned it and if there is gain to be had from the having of it, I'll make that my gain not their. But I ain't silly in the head. There is growth to be had and I have ensured it be the very first growth indeed. Come see."

So the old man - for such he is - led me down to his captive cellar and by torchlight showed me his vast and unraided treasure house. Rack upon rack of the finest vintage wines from around the world lay before me. Dusty dozens of bottles of golden and of crimson liqueur within startled my very being. Line upon line of the heavenliest harvests entranced my soul.

"No malts I fear Vicar, though I know that be thy tipple." (Canny goat then as well as an ancient!) "They do nicely from time to time, but the real return on investment has always been from wines. Was my father returning from the War who brought some Chateaux Petrus with him that started this business. He didn't know what he had, but I looked it up and bided my time. Thirty years gone and the wine not drunk, the selling of it paid for that lower meadow I bought from Widow Milner after her husband fell into the timber shredder never to be seen again."

The remembrance of Farmer Milner's awkward funeral filled my mind for a moment. There really hadn't been anything discernibly human left to bury. Such corpse as there was to be found had been spewed onto and into the woodchip pile. More pagan souls than mine had suggested to Widow Milner that she burn the lot as a magnificent sky cremation. Indeed, had not Tom the Bish interposed with a strict 'Non est', I might have been moved to agree to the solemn beauty of the thing. Unorthodox maybe, but a neat solution to a tricky matter. But no, we had to shovel - no other word - a representative sample of chip and bone and blood into a coffin for a proper church affair. The rest of the pile was indeed burnt - no other course considered - so Farmer Milner had a double send off really.

Burdock's voice cut through the remembrance. "So when them buggers came pounding through my door and threw me down into my cellar I nearly rocked with laughter. Let them rampage through my pots and pans I thought. If they want my old spoons and that dreadful painting by Great Aunt Maude that has haunted my parlour these decades, let 'em have 'em. I was safe guarding my real treasures!"

We emerged back into the kitchen. Farmer Burdock set me down for one last discourse. "Don't 'ee Vicar be telling folk of my tale. This is a matter of importance and due secrecy between a man and a man of God."

Assuring him of total and proper discretion I made to leave. Thrusting one dark bottle which he had carried up from the cellar into my hand - Tokay Essencia no less, a dessert wine as rare as wondrous and true Godly nectar - old man Burdock bade me farewell.

A bribe for my silence? A gift for my troubles? Uncharitable to say I couldn't tell which it might be. But as I sip a little of this perfect wine tonight I thank him for the deed, whatsoever the motive.

I have also checked the price of the thing and I tell you straight I am shocked, deeply shocked. Have you seen what a small bottle of Essencia will fetch on the open market? Well if you haven't I have and I am stunned. That last sip alone accounted for a parson's monthly stipend I reckon.

Will talk to Potter tomorrow about moving the Palladas Pension Pot, such as it is, out of bonds and into wines. He, solid fellow he is, will doubtless advise against anything so reckless. But I shall insist I believe. I shall say to Potter that I am seeking 'future liquidity'. I expect him to be impressed with my newly found financial nous, if never learning from whence it has come.