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2011: Tuddenham
St Mary was one of the last half dozen or
so Suffolk churches I'd visited back in
2003, and coming back hadn't been a
priority, especially as getting in that
time had been such a palaver. As with a
couple of other accounts on this site
from that time, there is something of a
demob-happy mood to the article: in
truth, I already had the scent of Norfolk
in my nostrils. Over the years, the
Suffolk Churches site has become a
historical blog of kinds, and so I am
reluctant to alter the original entry,
particularly as it made a couple of
general points that I think are still of
relevance, not to mention a couple of
rather idiosyncratic contemporary
references! What I will add here is that
this church was taking part in Open
Churches Week 2011, and I found it very
welcoming. There is a keyholder notice
for other times. 2003:
We fell silent in the car as
we headed out of Cavenham. I was conscious
that we were entering the orbit of Mildenhall, and I could taste
the bad karma in the air. The road
twisted and turned, a sign that we were
still on the edge of the heathland, and
around a wide curve appeared the stubby
west tower of Tuddenham church. We pulled
to a halt on the road immediately to the
west of it, and gazed up at the west
tower, with its fine Decorated detailing.
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I had warned DD
that the chances of us finding a church open in
the Mildenhall area were about the same as those
of Ian Duncan Smith becoming the next Prime
Minister, and my statistical analysis was not to
be skewed by Tuddenham. It was locked, even the
porch, and there was no keyholder and no sign of
any possible welcome for pilgrims and strangers.
The heartily evangelical notices on the board
outside were all of a piece with this. DD
observed that the porch could easily have been
opened with a hefty kick, and we were tempted for
a moment. But that wouldn't get over the problem
of the inner door.
However, I had
expected something along these lines, and had a
cunning plan. From the diocesan
website I
had taken down the names, addresses and telephone
numbers of everyone even remotely connected with
Tuddenham parish - the churchwardens, the
treasurer, the PCC secretary, the representative
on the board of diocesan finance, the lady who
does the flower rota - the lot of them.
Admittedly, many of these people double up, but I
still had a list of four names. I started with
one of the churchwardens.
"Hello, my
name is Simon Knott and I am very interested in
taking some photographs of the inside of
Tuddenham church. I understand that you are one
of the churchwardens, and I'm wondering if you
can tell me where I can borrow a key?" I
earnestly enquired. This is my usual opening
gambit. How could he fail to be charmed?
He then did
something very clever. He explained that he
had the key, while at the same time also making
it clear by the tone of his voice that he was
reluctant to give it to me. I admit I was
flustered. Panicking, I blurted out something
about the Suffolk Churches Site, and he had me
hooked. "So, is that some kind of commercial
organisation then?" he wondered.
Now, this is
partly my fault. I assume any churchwarden in the
east of the county will already know about the
site, but out west, especially in the north west,
the slough of suspicion I so often have to
extricate myself from has put me off having too
much to do with them. My chickens were coming
home to roost. "No", I said, "the
Suffolk Churches Site is a website about Suffolk
churches, about my journey to visit them and
photograph them..." I tailed off lamely,
before I could say anything stupid about art
terrorism or churchcrawling as guerrilla warfare.
There was a pause,
and then So, what youre saying is you
want to photograph the inside of the church and
then put it on the internet? he said. Ooh,
this was clever. This made me sound as if I was
up to no good. I tried a different angle.
Well, so far Ive visited about 630
churches in Suffolk, and almost all of them have
entries. Tuddenham is one of the last.
Silence. I decided to play a high card. The
Rural Dean knows all about it and he thinks
its wonderful. I knew this, because
he had told me so the previous week.
He tried a
different tack. Where have you come from
today? he said.
Now, what could I
say? The question seemed entirely pointless, but
if I wasnt careful I might not get to see
the inside of Tuddenham church. So I did what I
always do. I said I was from Burkino Faso. I
didnt really. Im from Ipswich, I said.
Curiously, this
seemed to satisfy him. Perhaps he was nodding
sagely, as if he knew there was something about
those strange people in Ipswich that makes them do weird
stuff like wanting to see inside Tuddenham
church. Perhaps he was reassured that I
wasnt from Essex or Liverpool or somewhere
rough, intent on stealing his pitch pine benches
and weeing in his font. Well, I could come
down to the church and let you in, he said.
How much time will you need?
Now, I must remind
you that I had DD with me, who is on a mission to
photograph everything that doesnt move, and
some of those that do, inside every parish church
in England. When I'm working out how much time DD
needs, it is best to think of a number and double
it. So I crossed my fingers, thought of a number,
and halved it. Silence.Then
well
.
I
interrupted quickly. If you like, we could
bring the key back when weve finished with
it. We usually do that, I added helpfully.
If
youre going to bring the key back then you
might as well come and get it so that you know
where to bring it back to! he replied, with
a sense of comic timing. I felt that I was being
played like a salmon.
I glanced down at
my piece of paper. Ok, youre at
and I named his address.
well be there in two minutes.
Silence again. It was at this point that I think
he realised he was being stalked. But I had
already switched my phone off triumphantly, and
we leapt into DDs car. Sure enough, a
couple of minutes later I was collecting the key
from a nice man who was very cheery, although
this might just have been because hed seen
DDs Lotus Elise and knew we wouldnt
fit many pitch pine benches in it.
With the key
safely in tow I allowed myself the luxury of a
look around the outside while DD began setting up
his scaffolding tower inside. In a county famed
for the late medieval period, St Mary is that
rare beast; a church with considerable evidence
of the days before the Black Death sobered us all
up. Not only is the tower a delight, but the
decorated tracery in the windows on the south
side and east end is gorgeous. The clerestory is
a later addition; so late, in fact, that the
north aisle that would have gone with it was
never built. The Reformation got there first, but
if it hadnt then we might have lost the
wonderful sequence of Decorated windows in the
north side, some of the finest in Suffolk. Of
course, we did lose the glass. They must
have looked wonderful. One curiosity is that a
beam of the bell frame appears to be wedged in
the south window of the tower.
I always expect
churches like this to be a bit musty and dusty
inside, full of intriguing little details and
forgotten treasures. Monk Soham springs to mind.
Unfortunately, this was not to be. I stepped into
a wide open space that had been almost entirely
scoured. This must have been a fine church
once, observed DD grimly. He was right. The
battlemented entrance to the rood
loft stair
was a sign of what once might have been. The
font, too, survives, on a mismatched base, but
pretty much any other sign of the sacramental and
devotional past life of this building has been
completely lost to us. A great medieval treasure
house destroyed by a combination of Anglicans,
Puritans and Victorians. And it hasnt
stopped yet. Across the expanse of that wonderful
window tracery have been placed aluminium bar
light fixings. They are almost deliberately ugly,
although no doubt well-suited to the
congregational worship these buildings nowadays
host.
High above, a
handful of glum angels looked down, rather
relieved to have survived the 1870 rebuilding of
the roof perhaps, but wondering if it was worth
it as they gaze at the Minton tiles. They were
outnumbered by Victorian replacements, who looked
smugger. The screen has gone, the chancel arch
rebuilt. The pulpit survived the scouring,
although it is rather less elaborate than many
17th century examples, and has been Victorianised
on top. A curious and, under the circumstances,
unlikely survival is the medieval door into the
19th century vestry. But thats about it.
The east end of
the nave was cleared and built up with stage
blocks for a performance, which at least showed a
bit of life in the place. As this was a Saturday,
I assumed the church did not have a service the
following day either that, or the
performance was that night, although I could see
no sign of a poster advertising it. The west end
of the nave was organised for post-service
coffees and teas. I got the impression that the
local parish found the medieval integrity of
their building a hindrance rather than a help.
How much better it
would be if evangelical congregations could be
honest and say something like look, we know
this old building is no longer suitable for the
way we worship now. We know that the main reason
people in a village want an old church is so it
looks nice, they can have weddings in it, and
they can be buried around it. Were going to
give the building to some organisation that will
look after it and maintain its historical
identity. It can still be used for weddings and
plays and concerts and things. All the money we
would have spent on maintaining it is going to be
put towards a modern building near the centre of
the village which is more suitable for our needs.
Well take the light fixings with us.
Were sorry we broke all the coloured
glass.
Well, it is too
late for Tuddenham. I dont suppose the Churches
Conservation Trust would want it now. I stepped
outside for another wander while DD finished up.
I noticed four stone finial crosses lying on the
floor of the porch, being used as doorstops. I
guess that they were 19th century rather than
medieval, but still...
The sky had become
overcast while we were inside. I walked down away
from the road, past the headstone of a young man
who had died on the western front one spring
morning in 1917. Just beyond this, an old man was
quietly arranging flowers on a grave. Anxious not
to intrude, I kept walking down to where the
newer graves were beyond the fence, only to come
across a young woman standing beside one of the
newest headstones, sobbing and smoking a
cigarette. Her grief seemed a mixture of anger
and despair. I walked on; I hope she didn't
notice me.
I walked
along the line of the newest headstones.
It did nothing to cheer me up. There were
plenty of older people lying there who
probably lived rich and fulfilled lives,
but several were to children, and even
sadder were those to men and women cut
off in their thirties and forties,
leaving families and loved ones bereft.
One man had left four young daughters. He
was exactly my age, to the month. Goodbye
Dad, never forget U, love U always
said part of the inscription. The young woman had
gone now, and I wandered along to where
she had been standing. It was a stone for
another young man, dead only for a few
months. Perhaps this is the future for
the Church of England. Sunday gatherings
for the hopeful and faithful few, and the
rest of the energy focused into hosting
best-bib-and-tucker wedding ceremonies
for those who want a fancy setting, and
memorialising the local dead. Most other
visitors I meet in churchyards these days
are there to tend graves, or to stand and
look at them. This modern cult of
the dead seems in a generation or two to
have entirely displaced the way people
used to wander into churches to say a
prayer and perhaps light a candle.
Perhaps we should rename it the Church of
the Dead, and just be done with it.
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