Small Difficulties with a Mighty Organ

In the small parish church of Wormbrook Reverend Wrashleigh-Whyllinge encounters difficulties with woodlice and sherbet-lemons, whilst Miss Tytte's false teeth are a cause for concern...

The Mighty Wheezewarter Organ of the Parish Church at Wormbrook

Approaching seventy years of age, the Reverend William Wrashleigh-Whyllinge’s devotion to his church and parish remained steadfast. Though not spiritually minded in the least, it was his life in the church that he treasured. The simplicity of the ancient building, with its hushed atmosphere, gave him solace. That it was, even on Sundays, usually entirely unoccupied only added to the peace he found there. Each day, he devoted himself to dutifully maintaining the fabric of the building—a series of tasks both charming in their simplicity and quietly rewarding. The routine distracted him from his anxieties and kept at bay, his worries. After the worrying news received this morning, his work today could hardly be more important.

This morning, by ten o’clock, he had already cleared the bat droppings from their roost in the belfry, dusted the bells, and was preparing to tend to the font. There was always something to be done: airing the vestry to combat mildew, checking the ancient oil boiler, or rearranging crumbling prayer books to protect them from the ravages of damp. Regretfully, he removed spiders’ webs, their intricate artistry stirring bittersweet reverence in him. When he found a butterfly wing, faded and dust-covered, trapped in a web, his heart would sink with a profound sense of loss.

He smiled at the memory of mistakenly distributing sherbet lemon boiled sweets in the vestry closets, believing them to be mothballs. Distracted by their pleasant lemony scent, he hadn’t realised the error until much later. For a moment he was happy to realise that he was not thinking on the difficult task he’d agreed to so energetically - the smile dropped when he realised he had been mistaken….

He took particular pride in the stained-glass windows, which he dusted meticulously with a feather duster tied to the end of a long, pliable bamboo pole. On Tuesdays, he would polish the numerous brass plaques honouring the Wheezewater dynasty—a mark of respect for the family’s generosity as benefactors of the church, as well as their unfortunate knack for early and frequent decease.

Miss Tytte, the organist, would not allow Reverend Willie anywhere near her organ loft or the mighty instrument itself. The beast, as she called it, was her domain alone.

Willie noted the change of angle in the coloured light falling through the stained glass window—it was almost eleven. He had put off the challenge of tending to the font long enough and now resolved to complete the task before allowing himself the indulgence of elevenses: a cup of tea and a custard cream biscuit from his secret stash.

The font was a source of dismay to him on two counts: the memories of some of his more unfortunate christening ceremonies and his aversion to woodlice. The slightest recollection of his christening mishaps brought the familiar flush of redness rising from his Adam’s apple to his forehead and scalp. He shuddered at memories of christenings: the wriggling weight of babies slipping in his unsteady hands, water dribbling unevenly over their foreheads, and his voice stammering through blurred rites and rituals.

Babies and their safe handling were something he had no practical experience with, and their frailty and delicacy frightened him most dreadfully. Some babies were so slight and soft in his hands that they seemed liable to fall apart at any moment, while others were surprisingly recalcitrant—wriggling in the most unexpected ways, particularly when slimed with saliva and swathed in great folds of christening gown.

His missteps were excruciating—baptising infants with the wrong names, stumbling through the liturgy, or, on a few mortifying occasions, dropping a baby into the font. The muttering and awkward shufflings of gathered relatives, their sharp eyes fixed on him as he attempted to navigate the rite, made him feel unbearably exposed.

Still, determined to set these unsettling thoughts aside by keeping himself busy, Willie sought out the dustpan and brush. Lifting the heavy wooden cover of the font, its ornate metalwork weighing it down, he peered into the depths. He was instantly dispirited by the sight of piles of desiccated woodlice husks. But it had to be done. Promising himself two custard creams by way of reward for successfully completing the task, he leaned in and began sweeping.

For a man with Reverend Willie’s exquisitely sensitive sensibilities—who unable to bear the thought of snails squashed on the road and often stopped in the rain to redirect them to safety—the sight of a trodden-on snail left him feeling deeply squirmish. Gentle and precise, he would carefully lift the snail by its shell, turn it in the opposite direction, and place it back down, ensuring it continued with stately progress toward the hedge. On one such unfortunate occasion, after confirming the snail was heading the right way, he stepped backward onto it. The memory of that moment—and the sickening crunchy-squelch—still haunted him.

Willie sighed dispiritedly as he swept up the desiccated woodlice husks from the bottom of the font. Their sheer abundance always puzzled him; he often wondered where they came from, so plentiful in death, yet so rarely seen alive.

Replacing the lid of the font, he paused. The church’s cool air wrapped around him, and his thoughts turned unbidden, once again to Lady Wheezewarter’s request, received at breakfast that morning. It was a delicate matter in which a prickly bush had embroiled the hapless Gillieflower Humbleby. According to Miss Mordred’s sardonic view, Gillieflower had been found in the bushes ‘at it again…’

His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of hurried footsteps coming up the path to the church. Almost immediately, the door banged open, leaving echoes reverberating through Willie’s peaceful sanctuary.

Bursting through, clutching her skirts, panting heavily, and with her face flushed, was Miss Tytte. Her usual composure had given way to visible agitation. Catching sight of Willie, she hurried over. “Oh Reverend, I’m glad I’ve caught you! I need a blessing, I’m sure,” she blurted.

“Miss Tytte!” Willie exclaimed. “What’s the matter? How can I help?”

Miss Tytte turned to him, her eyes wide and her breath still coming in gulps. “It’s my teeth—my best set, Reverend—I’ve lost them… I reckon it’s that beast of an organ that’s had them…”

“Your teeth?” Willie repeated, blinking in confusion. “The organ…?”

“Yes!” she replied. “I was trying to hit a high C—falsetto, you know—on account of…” She held up her right hand to demonstrate her missing index finger. “I can’t always play the notes I intend to. It’s not possible when you’re down a digit like me. So, well, I must have been overzealous, because just as I tried to sing out a mighty high C, they flew right out of my mouth and into the beast’s pipes—right down into its innards, too.”

Willie’s eyebrows shot up. “Into the organ? Oh dear… how distressing. And you said they’re your best set?”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Tytte, nodding grimly. “They’re usually only for special occasions—I don’t generally wear them for everyday use. It was choir practice, you see.”

Willie imagined Miss Tytte’s best false teeth chattering away in the pipework and suppressed a smile.

Regaining his composure, he said, “I see. Shall I assist you in retrieving them?”

Miss Tytte nodded, her gratitude evident. “If you wouldn’t mind, Willie,” she said. “That organ’s a bit of a beast—it can be a right old grumpus. And the thought of getting too close to its innards gives me the shivers, even though I’m used to reigning in its more explosive and wily ways.”

Together, they moved toward the massive organ and the loft holding the console. Miss Tytte climbed onto a stool, steadying herself with a piece of dangling old bell-ringing rope, and stretched to pull a heavy, old-fashioned fuse switch. The large lever, encrusted with years of grime, squeaked like an old crone’s croon as it moved and clicked into place. A shower of sparks popped as she yanked it downward with a sharp clunk.

She stepped nimbly down from the stool and cocked her ear, listening. “There she blows,” she said with a respectful nod of her head. “Right then, we’re off.”

Somewhere deep beneath the church, a low rumble began to rise, sending faint vibrations through the flagstone floor. An enormous and ponderous mechanism stirred, slow at first, but gaining power and determination as it hummed into faster action. Willie’s eyes widened as, moments later, an explosive hiss came from beneath the heavy, carved wooden body. The instrument jerked once, then settled into a shuddering, rattling vibration, life breathed into its ancient, waking being.

“See what I was saying, Willie? It’s got a life of its own—and a mind of its own too, that’s certain. I’m amazed I can cope. Fingering is hard enough with one missing,” she said, wiggling her hand and grinning toothlessly, “and there’s the complication of a few dead keys on the console as well. That’s why I’m always ready to burst forth with the missing note when it’s not there as I expect.”

The organ let out a series of creaks and wheezing groans as it surged into monstrous life, then settled into an even rumbling shake, like an ancient diesel engine idling. The stops on the console began popping themselves in and out with erratic movements, the organ bench vibrated violently, and some of the older, looser pipes rattled percussively against each other.

Like an enormous creature preparing to perform, the organ seemed almost alive. Miss Tytte stood before it, arms crossed, looking on proudly at her beast, her lips curled into a triumphant smile.

“The old beast knows who’s in charge,” she said with a toothless grin, her voice barely audible over the rising cacophony.

Willie looked on with surprised admiration, seeing a whole new side to Miss Tytte. Wormbrook, a village populated entirely with the most quaintly quirky of characters, was full of eccentrics, and clearly Miss Tytte was no exception. To Willie’s mind, her ability to coax ever greater, swelling sounds from the cavernous interior of the beast was impressive enough. The mighty sounds, when unleashed, could stir the few congregants into a state of divine ecstasy—so much so that Mr Mynors had stopped attending services, asserting that the bass of the organ interfered with the smooth function of his pacemaker. Another parishioner (Willie thought it best to maintain their confidence) blamed their intermittent urinary incontinence on the higher registers of the “vox humana.”

With newfound respect, Willie watched as Miss Tytte crouched by the pipes and pedalboard, prodding away at the organ and muttering to herself. “I don’t trust anyone but myself with this organ’s workings. It’s an unpredictable old beast, but once I’ve got it going…” She trailed off, flashing another toothless grin.

Miss Tytte, for the most part the sober and slightly stern epitome of a rural church organist, had a more mischievous side. When a little under the influence of too much boozleberry beer, she could be inveigled into performing her much-admired “party piece.” This involved placing the stub of her missing index finger to her nostril and spreading her other fingers wide, giving the unnervingly convincing impression that she had inserted her finger deep into her brain via her nose. The trick was hilariously disconcerting to adults and utterly terrifying to small children, whom it often reduced to quivering terror.

Miss Tytte must have poked a particularly sensitive place beneath the organ’s wooden case, for it suddenly growled and thudded. Alarmed, Willie stepped back nervously. Miss Tytte withdrew her hand, but in retreat, she accidentally trod on one of the bass pedals. The organ roared to life, releasing a sudden, earth-shaking tone.

Hymnbooks rattled loose from the pews below and clattered to the floor. Willie flinched and stepped back even farther.

“Oh, that’s me, Reverend—that’s not to worry about,” Miss Tytte called cheerfully, glancing over her shoulder. “Pedals are tricky sometimes. They often get the better of me!”

Miss Tytte stood up, cobwebs and dust clinging to her hair, her hands filthy from the organ’s innards. She reappraised the situation before clambering onto the shaking organ bench. Kneeling upon it, she leaned forward, stretching an arm towards the shelf atop the highest of the manuals. As she steadied herself, the organ emitted discordant yelping tones where she inadvertently leaned on part of the keyboard.

With a final straining stretch, she managed to trip a hidden catch, triggering a concealed mechanism. There was a deep click, and a hidden panel slid slowly open. An entire row of smaller pipes shifted aside, revealing the dark, shadowy innards of the mighty beast’s massive body.

Willie gaped. The newly revealed door exposed intricate, complex, and mysterious workings: tangled pipes, gears, pulleys, and endless rows of pipes that stretched deep into the cavernous recesses of the organ.

“Well now, isn’t that handy,” said Miss Tytte delightedly. “I’d forgotten about the access panel! Still works after all these years—quite convenient, really. Though I don’t pay any mind to those silly old rumours about organ tuners clambering inside, never to be seen again,” she chuckled, glancing at Willie’s discomfort.

Willie’s expression faded from unease to awe and admiration as Miss Tytte, with fearless determination, pulled herself up and buried the upper half of her torso deep into the hatch. He struggled to accept the otherworldly manner in which the massive instrument had come to life. His horror grew as Miss Tytte’s legs lifted into the air, her body pivoting forward into the vibrating pipework, whizzing gears, and tangled wires.

Her muffled voice reached him as she grunted with effort, half in and half out of the beast’s belly. “I imagine the little chatterers are in there somewhere,” she said, referring to her false teeth with surprising nonchalance.

Occasionally, a squeak or clatter of pipes erupted from the organ until a sudden, shrill shriek made Willie jump. Miss Tytte pulled herself partially back out, smiling sheepishly as she held up a dusty fragment of indeterminate nature.

“Ah ha—found them!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

Willie squinted as she held it aloft. “Surely that’s not your teeth, Miss Tytte?”

Miss Tytte chuckled at his foolishness. “Oh, Reverend, don’t be silly—I’d know my own teeth, especially my best set. I’d recognise them anywhere.” She inspected the fragment briefly, her nose wrinkling as she looked more closely. “Oh, dash it all—it looks like it’s a bit of ancient pork pie,” she declared disappointedly.

Before Willie could object, she flicked the dry piece of pie back into the shadowy innards of the organ. “No harm done,” she said cheerfully, and clambered back inside to continue her search.

Willie, never wise to the subtle ways of such things, began to wonder if this might be a good moment to ask Miss Tytte, “as a woman of the world,” for her guidance on the Humbleby matter. He worked through several ways to broach the subject in a practical manner, attempting to present himself as a “man about town.” But in truth, he knew little of life’s practicalities beyond the oblique and colourfully allusive references of biblical passages and hymns.

“I wonder, Miss Tytte,” he called out, warbling loudly enough for her to hear him over the hubbub. “I wonder if I might ask you for your thoughts….”

He stopped mid-sentence as Miss Tytte’s wriggling legs suddenly fell still. She let out a whoop of triumph and pulled herself free from the organ’s maw, brandishing a dusty set of false teeth like a trophy caught mid-grimace.

“There we are!” she exclaimed, as though unearthing a priceless relic.

At a loss for words, Willie merely smiled back at the teeth, which seemed to leer at him grotesquely.

Miss Tytte wiped the dust from her teeth on the hem of her apron, held them up to the light for inspection, and popped them back into her mouth with a decisive click.

“Good as new!” she said, her grin wide and toothy once more.

“I’m… I’m so glad you’ve got them back,” he managed, his voice uneven.

Miss Tytte gave the organ an affectionate pat. “See? The old beast knows how to deliver,” she said, her tone full of pride. Brushing the dust off her skirt, she turned back to Willie. “Now, Reverend, what was it you were saying? Didn’t quite catch it all.”

“Miss Tytte,” Willie began, hesitantly clearing his throat, “may I ask for your advice on a delicate matter?”

She paused her tidying and looked up, curiosity lighting her face. “Of course, Reverend,” she said warmly. “What’s troubling you?”

Willie inhaled deeply, weighing his words carefully before speaking. “It concerns Albert and Gillieflower Humbleby,” he began cautiously. “Lady Wheezewarter has asked me to guide them... regarding their expectations.”

Miss Tytte nodded thoughtfully, her hand absently stroking the console. “Ah yes,” she said softly, her voice tinged with understanding. “That little bit of bother with her bush.”

“Yes,” Willie admitted, his face flushing red. “The gooseberry bush. I’m not quite sure how to speak to them such a sensitive topic without causing distress. Lady Wheezewarter’s request you know, she wants me to have a word with them...tonight.”

Miss Tytte paused to think, then started to hum a familiar hymn. “It’s like this, Willie, I believe you’re referring to the ‘good seed bit,’ aren’t you? As in, Plough the Fields and Scatter?”

Willie nodded.

Miss Tytte smiling gently, “Reverend, you’ve always been kind-hearted and wise,” she said. “Just speak from the heart—they’ll know you mean well.”

“And if you’re really struggling,” she added with a mischievous grin, “throw in some gardening metaphors—they’re a farming couple, after all. A bit of pruning here, some fertile soil there, and you’ll have them on their way in no time.”

Willie, fallen to silence and feeling entirely too overextended, nodded his thanks, mumbling his agreement to her advice. He thanked Miss Tytte again and withdrew with as much speed as was tastefully appropriate, still feeling slightly shaky as he made his way to the vestry.

Back in the organ loft, Miss Tytte looked lovingly at the great instrument before her, still vibrating eagerly and bursting with energy, its pipes primed and its bellows fully pumped and ready to blow. Miss Tytte patted its flanks and gently stroked the keys fondly, comforting her loyal companion.

“Well then,” she murmured, her renewed brightly toothy grin widening. “I suppose a little tinkle wouldn’t be out of the question.”

Settling herself onto the organ bench with an air of solemn composure, she adjusted her skirts and placed her hands purposefully on the keys. A moment of silence hung in the air, broken only by the insistent creaks of the wooden bench shuddering away beneath her. Then, her outline blurred by the vibrations, and with a practiced flourish, she struck the opening notes of Handel’s Water Music.

The melody swelled and soared, filling the sanctuary with a grand and glorious sound that belied the instrument’s earlier chaos and advanced decrepitude. Miss Tytte’s expression serene, her body swaying gently as she coaxed the music into life, her earlier travails forgotten in the majesty of the moment and at one with the mighty beast.

Willie, now safe and alone in the vestry, shut the door behind him with a quiet click. The air smelled of wax polish, aged wood and vaguely lemony, the familiar scent coaxing a small sigh of relief as he hung his coat on the peg with practiced care. Never one to feel lonely when solitary and finding his own company entirely sufficient, it was a delight to be alone with his thoughts again.

At the cupboard, Willie unearthed a tin tucked at the very back of the shelf. Inside, his beloved custard cream biscuits waited—hidden, as always, from prying eyes. Despite the mighty organ’s roar, Willie felt at peace with the world. Carefully and with great satisfaction, he took out three custard creams and placed them on the edge of the saucer holding his cup of steaming tea.

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