Road Stress

It looked such an easy win. The vicar of Goremead phoned to tell me Canon John, retired priest there, had died, and that his funeral was tomorrow, and that was partly why she'd phoned, but also, and this was a big ask she knew, but she'd been covid-pinged and could I, possibly, possibly, take the funeral? She'd done all the work and all I needed to do was read the words and everyone in the church who remembered my stint there in 2008-9 would be delighted to see me. Well, I was planning to be out in that bit of Surrey anyway, so magnanimously I would donate a chunk of my day off for the sake of John who was so good to me while I was playing being incumbent of Goremead. It wouldn't take me long to look round the Ashtead churches, and if I was early at Goremead I could buy a sandwich and eat it in the churchyard.

Ashtead, indeed, did not delay me long, and more of that on another occasion, perhaps. I had seen the appalling state of the M25 so thought I'd be better off taking the A-roads to Goremead; an hour and a half to go 20 miles. A sandwich beckoned. 

Then the road between Leatherhead and Cobham was closed. I set off on a diversion to Oxshott, which was jammed with traffic for no readily apparent reason. Cobham was OK, so, a bit flustered but not yet discouraged, I was on my way again. Lunch could wait. Then I hit the roundabout on the A245/A3 junction; from there, thanks to roadworks, all the way to Byfleet, was solid, virtually stationary traffic. That must have taken half an hour, or more, to get through. By now it was necessary to make a frantic call to the undertakers. Janet the isolating vicar could be called in but that would obviate the whole point so I pressed on. 'Let us know if you're going to be more than 15 minutes late', the undertakers said soothingly. At least all the ceremony was going to take place in the church so there was no special time to make at the Crem.

Finally through the roadworks and it seemed as though we were moving. There was no tractor, horsebox, or caravan awaiting me, but all the way through Addlestone I followed an elderly man wearing a kaftan who insisted on cycling so nobody could pass him, painfully slowly and at intervals insouciantly freewheeling, or perhaps it was insolently. 

I arrived that fifteen minutes behind time, barely able to remember my own name, after a journey at an average speed of about 11 miles an hour, at over 30 degrees. Everyone was most understanding. I discovered from his daughter's eulogy that Canon John's wedding started late after the clergyman taking it failed to turn up; there was no indication his baptism had been late starting or that would have made the whole set. 'It happened to me once', Janet told me on the phone later, 'and I was filling in for someone else as well. It's a wonder I didn't have a stroke on the journey'. I suppose I should have more faith in the Lord that everything will be all right, but I am not sure how far to push that. I was reminded of a funeral I once did at Goremead, when I forgot the CDs for the music and had to drive back to Lamford to get them; the lights were in my favour all the way and I got back with a few minutes to spare before the service began. 'The angels were clearing the way', I mentioned to Vera, the sacristan. Vera, who has long since gone to her eternal reward, fixed me with her gimlet eye and stated definitively, 'If the angels had been doing their job you'd never have forgotten the CDs in the first place.'