The reclusive and enigmatic figure who ascends the creaky stairs to the organ loft each Sunday is bound to be viewed with a certain degree of suspicion by the average parishioner. Certainly any congregant who has ever glimpsed the organ console might be justified in thinking that a person who plays such a beast of an instrument must have sold his soul to someone in exchange for the ability. Clearly this was the subject that two middle-aged gentlemen were discussing over tea in the Parish Hall recently, when one was heard to say...

"It has a keyboard for the feet, you know! And three for the 'ands! Now what use can it be to 'ave three keyboards? A person only 'as two 'ands!"

"But do you know that? I mean, do you know for a fact that 'e only 'as two?" asked the other, adding, "I've never seen 'im without 'is cassock on."

"No, that's very true. There's no telling what 'e might be 'iding underneath there!" There was a thoughtful pause, after which the first man resumed, "And all them knobs and buttons, with strange words on 'em - what d'you suppose they're in aid of?" Here he lowered his voice and leaned in to address his hearer more confidentially. "I saw one knob marked '16-foot faggot' - now that doesn't belong in a Christian church!"

At this point the second chap's tea suddenly reversed direction - what had been going in was now coming out, and at a much higher velocity - but as he spluttered and groped for his handkerchief, the first chap pursued his argument with renewed vigour. "Well," he said, "if 'e's not in league with Beelzebub, tell me this: why can't 'e ever make it to the end of an 'ymn without playing some 'ideous discord? Eh? Tell me that!"

"Why yes, I've noticed that myself!" confirmed the tea-soaked one, between coughs. "It'll be going along fine until the last verse...[cough, cough]... and then suddenly everything will go sideways, as if...[stifled coughs]... as if 'e'd been taken over by..."

And here the poor fellow embarked upon such a lengthy fit of throat-clearing that the first gentleman finally finished the thought for him: "...as if 'e'd been taken over by some malignant power!" This received several energetic nods of assent from the now red-faced gentleman still trying to tease the traces of tea from his trachea.

"And another thing," said the first chap, taking full advantage of the incapacity of his interlocutor to hold forth on his own. "Why do the choir members always look so pale and nervous whenever they go up into that organ loft? What tortures does 'e subject them to at rehearsals, that they're falling all over themselves to get to the pub the minute 'e lets 'em out? I tell you, it's a sad sight - all o' them singers sat there, of a Thursday night, desperately trying to erase the memory of the 'orrors they've witnessed, with pint after pint of best bitter..."

in the silence that followed these morose musings, it seemed that both men had the same thought. Almost before the tea-stained one could emit the single-syllable question, "Pub?" the other replied, "I'll get me 'at!" - and off they went!

Copyright © 2020 Stephen Smith