SIX
The vicarage of St Saviour’s was a run down affair. The crumbling Victorian edifice had been an impressive adjunct to the church in its day but now it was in serious need of repair with damp and mould making a major invasion both inside and out. Father James Sanderson used only a few of the rooms, the rest were closed up and left for the insidious decay to take possession. It crossed my mind that it would almost be a blessing if the building received a direct hit on a Nazi bombing raid – providing no one was hurt – so that the place could be put out of its misery.
When I called that evening, Father Sanderson was just washing up a few dishes from his evening meal. He bade me take a seat by the meagre fire and offered me a cup of tea. Soon I would be awash with the stuff.
‘I didn’t ex
