When he tumbled out of the sky and landed on a trundling haycart as it jolted and juddered down a winding lane between high hedges, he heard the meniscus in his right knee tear but he was alive, more alive than poor old soft Mick who was buried last Saturday fortnight by mistake and only dug up five days later when the Churchwarden heard moans rising from the ground only because he hadn't been called to duty as an auxiliary ARP and had time to soak in the setting summer sun's last rays and enjoy a cigarette before cycling home for a good night's kip and had been scratching his wrist where the wristlet on his new watch had been chafing, with not another soul out in the vicinity of St Mary's and the usual chatter in The Bull being far enough that it was masked by grasshoppers and blackbirds, so the sounds were clear in the quiet evening for him to distinguish from the background: "heeeeeeelp! heeeeeeeeeeeelp! heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!" and being neither skittish or fearful, the Churchwarden moved slowly among the headstones until he focussed on the as-yet-unmarked grave of soft Mick, which was where the cries were coming from: "who's that?" asked the Churchwarden, and "me!" was the reply; "who's me?" from the Churchwarden, and "soft Mick's me!" came back: "are you alive Mick?" asked one and: "of course I am, help me, for God's sake!" said the other and dusting the grass from his trousers, the Churchwarden pushed himself upright, swayed indecisively, then knew what he had to do: "don't move, Mick, I'm going for the Sexton, we'll soon have you out!"