Introduction

This is the first of half a dozen or more novels in the life of the Reverend Timothy D’orville Twit, a gormless, hapless, helpless, but well meaning individual who is to be inducted to the living(s) of thirty three parishes in the Worcestershire countryside. Flattered and bemused to be given the authority and power over such a vast number of churches, he mistakenly believes that this is an honour, a privilege rather than the enormous burden, as time will tell. An additional, never ending burden is Mummy, who though never exactly expressing disapproval at Tim’s amorous activities, nevertheless has never shown much enthusiasm for any of the various ladies that Tim has courted over the years. One of the problems for the ladies are Tim’s ill-fitting teeth. “Daddy always wants me to wear his so I shall have him as part of me so that wherever he is, I’ll be there too.” Every kiss is extremely uncomfortable not only for Tim but particularly for the young ladies. “Golly, it’s absolutely disgusting, Timmy. And I shall warn Mildred and Constance and that half-nut, who resides in the big house – oh, I can’t for the life of me remember the name, but she is a right dreamer and a drip.” said Kitty Chambers, bursting into tears at the end of the final tiff after an engagement of six years, saliva dripping down her dress.

The story takes place in the present day although, clerical errors, mishaps, odd carrying-ons have always been the ‘normal life of the average parish up and down the land as far as I am aware.

This is the first novel of the series. Tim is forty seven, Mummy is sixty nine. Daddy has retired and is lounging his life away on Clayton-on-sea pier having decided that at his time of life he deserved a holiday – a long one, preferably a year at least away from wife Cynthia and the good time daughter, Kim who as we shall see is a rebel and a loveable wreck.

CHAPTER ONE.

Timmy’s teeth were chattering.  Not simply because Daddy’s mouth was twice as large as he had preached 10,OOO more sermons than Tim but because Bishop Bill Blogg’s hideous gothic pile was open to the four winds.  That morning a right northern gale was blowing through the large jagged opening in the roof.  Blogg had put an iron bath tub under it and was now baling the water out using a jug and pouring the contents into an old rusty tea urn left over from the Second World War.  ‘B…..ed  it,’ he muttered, suddenly aware of the figure shivering before him, water dripping from the brim of a large panama hat. “Oh, it’s you is it? Hold on a sec.  Erm… find yourself a pew.  That deck chair over there will do.  Shove the moggy off it.  Be with you in a sec.  Just when I’ve emptied this b…b…lessed thing.”

Timmy strode across the cavernous hall, his patent leather shoes making little noise across the stone floor, agilely jumping twelve feet over a puddle and carefully lifting Roger the episcopal cat, hugely overweight from his usual breakfast of trout and placing him down then lovingly stroking the mangy fur.

The bishop heaving himself up from his arthritic knees, wincing and, suddenly forgetful of his  visitor’s presence let fly with an oath.  “Bugger. Right you’re a Twit, aren’t you?”

The visitor, unaccustomed it would seem to such a vulgarity from a member of the episcopate, nevertheless recovered his surprise and smiled agreeably,  ‘Oh, yes, My Lord I am a Twit, the D’orville Twits and am greatly honored to be in your presence.’

‘That’s enough of that.  We’re in the 21st Century.  You call me Bill.’ He wheezed asthmatically as he lowered his bulk in the remaining chair, turning his attention to an overloaded desk at his side, picking out a black file from a host of others and rapidly flicking through its contents. ‘Now, know why you’ve gone black?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Know why you Twits are black?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.  I hope it’s nothing detrimental?’

‘Your old man was black.  Means we keep a close watch.  Twits was always black.’

‘I must say green would be preferable.  Suggesting that it means…’get up and go as it were.’ Tim grinned, adding, ‘I would see green as a complimentary color.   Red for danger, green for action.  Black?  Well, it appears that  it doesn’t seem exactly encouraging.’

‘Black is for Twits.’  the Bishop rifled through the pages at express speed. ‘Yah, you Twits are in here right back to the 18th Century.’  Bishop Bill sighed.  ‘You’re like your Dad.  We had a job to fix him with a living.  You’ve been a curate for nine years.  Why’s that?’

‘I think Mummy objected to some of the vicarages on offer.  They were fearfully cold.’

‘Shortage of clergy, got to make the best of a bad job.  I’m giving you thirty three parishes.’

‘Golly, my Lord… I mean Bill.  What an honor.’