Basildon: Town and country man . . .

He is also rector of a vast parish of 18,000 frequently turbulent souls in Basildon. He doesn't have far to travel between the two, as that country church and Basildon parish are one and the same thing.

The country church is Holy Cross, the historic heart of Basildon. The ancient building and surrounding greenery are preserved more or less as they were before the new town descended.

More than a mile away from the modern centre, the original Basildon, oddly, is one of the few quiet and isolated places left in the town.

In the middle of the day human beings are a rare sight. The main exception is the vicar, busy at all times trying to stop his church falling down.

John Carr is well aware of the significance of the place. A gentle man, who came to the Fryerns parish five and a half years ago with a pledge not to stir up any hornets' nests, he did stick his neck out on one occasion.

St Andrew's (the other Fryerns church) wondered why they shouldn't have the Christmas Eve midnight service from time to time.

"But I had to tell them," says the rector, "that Holy Cross is where people want to come on Christmas Eve. People have this romantic idea about Holy Cross, up here on the hill."

Holy Cross is such a significant and symbolic place in Basildon that you might expect a first generation Basildonian to be running it - some erstwhile East End bookie who had taken the cloth late in life, perhaps.

But John hails from polite Surrey, and is resolutely matter-of-fact about the circumstances that brought him here.

"It used to be the case that clergy could have the pick of the parishes they wanted, there were so many parishes and so few vicars. Not any more. It is a case now of going to wherever is available," he relates.

A vicar whose licence has expired cannot, he explains, be too fussy about where he hauls up. So this gentle and courteous man moved from one tough urban Essex parish, Dagenham, to another that wasn't in essence so very different.

"Sometimes I do have this dream about a quiet rural parish with a congregation of old ladies, but I suppose that it wouldn't be so much of a challenge. In any case," he adds, smiling, "I've never had the chance to find out."

Basildon ways do seem to have come as something of a culture shock to begin with. "Local people are very straightforward," he says, choosing his words carefully. "They call a spade a spade. If they don't like you, they let you know. I like that in people."

A parish of 18,000 with more than its fair share of social problems and just one lone vicar to tend them doesn't leave much time for anything except pastoral work. John's wife Wendy commutes to the City to work and he is on his own.

"I don't have much time for theological crusades," he says. "I used to work for Relate (the relationship and marriage counselling organisation). I certainly honed my counselling skills there.

"But the double pressure of that and the parish became just too intense." Even his day off has, at least until recently, been spent clearing weeds and long grass from Holy Cross churchyard - with thick gloves on, to protect against druggies' needles.

It wasn't always like this. John Carr has known and lived a completely different, moneyed and relatively unstressed existence. Before his ordination in 1965 he was a highly-qualified insurance man.

"In one sense, I never wanted to go into the church," he says. "I thoroughly enjoyed insurance work and I saw it as a social service, constructive and helpful to people's lives. It was a clergy friend who said I should go in for it.

"I said 'You've got to be joking. The hours are diabolical and you don't get paid much. Why should I give up my nice job in insurance for a life like that?!' "

Dismissing the idea John carried on with his life, but the idea planted by that priest steadily took effect. "You know, sometimes you just can't get these things out of your mind.

"I thought, just suppose it comes to the end and God says 'John, why weren't you in the ministry when we wanted you?' So John applied for the ministry, though even at that stage he was saying under his breath: "Please, please, turn me down."

God, though, had other ideas.

Retirement beckons in just over five years time, so John is probably here for the duration. After that, he might be expected to head as fast as he can for some picture postcard village or Surrey stockbroker belt villa where you might think that he would be, finally, at home.

Yet, in the best tradition of Basildon settlers, John Carr has gone native. His two grown-up children have made their homes in the area and John and Wendy will do the same. "I like living here," he says simply.

If he has any regret, it relates to the parish's most prominent feature - the church of Holy Cross itself. "You raise all that money, you seem to be on top of things, and then suddenly another black hole opens up.

"I suppose that's the essence of retirement, really, for a rector - not having to worry about the church fabric any longer."

At least the struggle to tend Basildon's most historic building received some acknowledgement in 1999, didn't it? No.

In Basildon's 50th anniversary year, you might expect the historic parish to be at the heart of the celebration, but the Queen visited the Civic Centre and the modern church of St Martin's.

No representative from the ancient parish of Holy Cross even received an invitation.

Still, Christian that he is, John Carr is not one enter into the more smouldering realms of church politics.

"It didn't really worry us. We just got on with the life of the parish as usual," says this most kindly and unassuming example of Basildon Man.

Heeding the call - John Carr, vicar of St Andrew's and Holy Cross

Picture: ROBIN WOOSEY

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