The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  Smiling vacantly, he looked around as the young man approached, pushing the creaking wheelchair with difficulty along the narrow gravel track.

  “It’s easier if you stick to the main path, the graveyard can be a bit rough I’m afraid. Not ideal for anything on wheels. Shall I give you a hand to turn around?”

  Anthony eased himself off the wall, dusted his hands, and nodded at the elderly man slumped in the wheelchair.

  “Lovely day isn’t it, although a bit on the nippy side.”

  The man’s head lolled loosely to one side, and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, yet he stared fixedly at Anthony with unblinking blue eyes. A gloved hand tapped repeatedly on the arm of the wheelchair and his legs moved restlessly beneath the blanket.

  “Here let me.”

  Anthony bent down to grab hold of the chair.

  “Leave it alone,” the younger man said curtly. Anthony withdrew, taken aback at the tone of his voice, “There’s no need to bother.”

  Anthony straightened up, surprised. The older man in the wheelchair was nodding his head vigorously and trying to speak, but as he grew increasingly agitated was having difficulty enunciating his words. Placing a hand gently on his shoulder, the young man spoke softly,

  “Easy Grandad, I understand, calm down, there’s plenty of time.”

  Taking a tissue from his pocket he wiped his grandfather’s mouth and looked at Anthony.

  “It’s you we’ve come to see. You are the Reverend Anthony Coxon-Dyet?”

  Anthony nodded.

  “They told us we’d find you out here. This your wife?”

  He spoke with a mild Birmingham accent. He was rather a good-looking boy, Anthony thought, tall with brown, wavy, shoulder length hair, parted in the middle, piercing blue eyes like his elderly relative and long pale fingers that clutched the handle of the wheelchair. The pair of them looked very similar, long thin faces, with fine features, the only real differences were the wrinkles and receding grey hair of the invalid.

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  Anthony couldn’t stifle his annoyance, the last thing he needed was some convoluted sob story that would take up most of the afternoon. He was already dreaming up an excuse that would allow him to get away. It was uncharitable, he knew, but he felt he could justify it on the grounds that they had not got off to a good start, and he wasn’t inclined to give them a second chance.

  “Look, I’m very sorry, I have to dash, a parishioner has invited me to lunch and then I have to prepare for Evensong. Nice to have met you, goodbye.”

  “Wait, you can’t treat us like this, we’ve come a long way and my Grandfather’s a sick man.”

  “Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. There really is no need to take that tone with me. I’ll be only too willing to see you if you make an appointment, even though you’re not one of my flock. By the way have you tried your own priest? I can’t drop everything just to suit you. I really have got to dash.”

  A car passed the church and blew its horn, sending the flock of pigeons circling the belfry once again. There was silence. The young man stared morosely at Anthony while patting his Grandfather on the shoulder.

  “Fine? Goodbye.”

  Anthony moved to edge past the wheelchair, when he was grabbed firmly by the arm.

  “Excuse me, that hurt.”

  “You haven’t even asked who we are or what we want.”

  “Let go of my arm, now.”

  Reluctantly the man loosened his grip, but didn’t let go.

  “No bloody manners, that’s the trouble with you. Must be a real comfort to your flock, as you call them, Baaaaaa.”

  Anthony angrily shook his arm free.

  “Young man, that’s absolutely no way to speak to me. If you think you’re being clever then you’re mistaken. I feel sorry for your Grandfather.”

  “So you bloody should. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Whatever you want I’ve no time for this. I can see your Grandfather is very sick, but …”

  “Shut up.”

  “That was uncalled for.”

  “Shut up and listen, you’re upsetting him.”

  Anthony turned and began to walk back towards the church, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. High above he noticed the fraying white slipstream of an aircraft. His chest was aching and he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but he was feeling calmer as he congratulated himself on not losing his temper. Suddenly there was an animal sound, a roar, of commanding intensity that spun him round. The two men hadn’t moved and were staring at him. He almost ran back towards them.

  “What’s going on? What are you playing at? You can’t carry on like this.”

  The young man smiled malevolently.

  “My Grandfather’s name is Albert Chalmers.”

  The name meant nothing to Anthony and he stared quizzically at the men.

  “You don’t remember him. Typical isn’t it, Grandad, must piss you off, eh?”

  He looked away, shook his head and then with a look of utter contempt he screamed at Anthony.

  “You bloody well should, you fucker. You did this to him. You made him like he is.”

  Anthony stared open-mouthed, shocked. It was there in an instant, the sweat, the sandy concrete floor, the crunching, sickening blows, Eric’s dead eyes.

  “You a priest, I can’t fucking believe it. How could you? Standing face to face with you, it’s no easier to understand. I still don’t bloody get it.”

  His words spilled out in a confusion of anger and hatred, and he turned and hugged his Grandfather. Anthony lowered himself onto an old weathered timber bench – “In loving memory of Jocasta Evans, who loved this place, 1943” – which moved unsteadily beneath him. He stared at the man in the wheelchair, but recognized nothing, the eyes, nose, hair, were totally unfamiliar. Even after all these years surely there would be something. He began to feel there might be some mistake, that this was not true. It was a misunderstanding. He smiled, tried to move and say something. Then his optimism faded, overwhelmed, he gasped out loud. The young man turned to look at him. Anthony realized he had never known Albert Chalmers, had never met him, never spoken to him, never seen his un-bloodied face, would never, ever recognize him. Yet he knew this was the man he had held in his arms in that basement. He knew it was true.

  “What are you talking about? This is ridiculous. I don’t know where you get such terrible ideas from.”

  He leaned back, throwing his arm over the side of the bench, and looked straight past the crippled man in the wheelchair. He didn’t want to have to deal with this, he had buried it too deep. He believed in the Resurrection, or at least he told himself he did. That was the glorious day he would face up to his past deeds, not now, this was like digging someone up – Emily on her deathbed flashed before his eyes – disinterring them before their time. His faith would see him through. The belief that he could hide from anything, lie, dissemble, cheat, fight the good fight and vanquish the bloodied foe. Anthony winced.

  “What a load of fucking bullshit. I can’t believe you’re a man of the cloth.”

  The words hung in the air. Anthony couldn’t be sure he hadn’t spoken his thoughts out loud and smiled grimly. The young man sneered at the priest.

  “You can tell by your bloody face you know what I’m talking about. Look at that Grandad, a guilty man if you ever saw one.”

  Albert Chalmers grunted in acknowledgement as his agitated body slumped forward, his head almost touching his knees.

  “Take a good look, you did this. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since the war. His condition has got worse if anything. You bastards. And he was one of your lot as well.”

  “I had no … What makes you think it was me?” Anthony said weakly.

  “Oh my God, he fucking recognized you. He’s been searching all his life for the men t
hat did this. Him, his daughter, my mother and me, the whole family have been involved. He’s not always like this you know, he can be quite lucid at times, talks a lot and is quite easy to understand if you’re tuned in.”

  “What do you mean recognized me?”

  “The bloody newspapers, you’ve been all over them with your “Mosley had the right idea on Europe” comments. Bloody clever, if you ask me. Couldn’t resist it after all these years could you? Suits me, you breaking cover like that. I was beginning to believe we’d lost you. Gone to ground, deep cover somewhere. Well fuck me I can tell you. It was bloody deep. A fucking vicar and one living and working not too far away from where we live. You could have knocked me down, but we’ve got you now. Revenge will be sweet I can tell you.”

  “Hold on a minute…”

  “There’ll be no holding on to anything mate, believe me.”

  The bench moved unsettlingly as the young man sat down close to Anthony.

  “You don’t mind do you? Fucking tough if you do.”

  Anthony was speechless, unable to think through the sick pain pulsing between his temples. He was suddenly afraid of the sunshine, open spaces, the fresh air he was breathing and craved the closeness of his snug office in the vestry. The bottle of cognac, normally hidden in the middle drawer of the filing cabinet, open on the sideboard, his feet up on the desk, the ancient iron stove belching delicious wood smoke into the chill air.

  “Look, we obviously have a few things to talk about. Can we go inside? It’s much warmer there and I can, we can have a drink. I’m sure this can be sorted out.”

  “Think on mate, we believe in the Old Testament code of justice, know what I mean?”

  The young man smiled.

  “But of course you do. I assume you’ve got some qualifications for the job?”

  Anthony stared at him, expressionless.

  “That blank look suggests maybe you haven’t.”

  “You can rant on all you like, I’m going inside. Your Grandfather looks cold to me.”

  “Makes no difference to me, we’ll come in if you push him.”

  Grasping the greasy handles of the wheelchair, Anthony noticed a finger on his right hand was bleeding. A splinter of wood from the rickety bench had worked its way deep beneath one of his nails. At the moment of horrified revelation, he had felt nothing, clutching at the rotten frame for support. Now suddenly, it was painful and he hesitated, staring at the ruby flow as it welled upwards, beading briefly in the bright light before trickling down his bent finger to pool in the palm of his hand.

  “I’ve hurt myself,” he blurted out, but they weren’t listening.

  The young man was up ahead, staring at the inscription on a white marble gravestone. Albert Chalmers’ eyes were closed. He looked to be asleep, but Anthony, ever the opportunist, thought maybe the excitement had killed him. For a moment he contemplated sneaking quickly away, through the gate, which he would close quietly, and across the park. Exhilarated at the thought of escape, he glanced over his shoulder, before the grim reality wrenched him to his senses. He violently pushed the wheelchair. It edged forward slightly before its front wheels sunk into the soft gravel of the path and brought it to an abrupt halt. Albert Chalmers jerked forward, grunted and opened his eyes.

  “Sorry,” hissed Anthony guiltily.

  The young man looked up.

  “I realize,” Anthony continued in a voice heavily tinged with false bonhomie, “I don’t know your name.”

  “Cedric Burrows.”

  “Oh, Cedric. That’s not common these days.”

  The young man shook his head in amazement and laughed.

  “You’re obviously a stranger in your own bloody graveyard. I’m standing on dear old Cedric. Before your time, I suppose is the charitable explanation. I’m Peter, Peter Erskine. And don’t say the pleasure’s all yours, because believe me it’s all mine.”

  Grim-faced he turned away and strode purposefully towards the church. Anthony pulled the wheelchair backwards out of the rutted gravel, then manoeuvred it up the slight bank onto level ground. Breathing heavily and with his heart pounding he pushed the heavy load through the long grass. As he laboured, he was assailed by a memory of the bittersweet smell of the terrified man in the Isle of Man basement and he leant forward and sniffed the thinning crown of grey hair in front of him. There was nothing there to orientate him, just the faint hint of sickness – an institutional smell he was familiar with – and hair tonic, nothing of the acrid pungency of a heaving body in mortal terror. Anthony, in growing panic, felt the dam he had carefully constructed over the years creaking under pressure from a rising flood of memories. The colours of his past – the blacks and reds – were there as vivid as ever, as were the sights and sounds: shirts, boots, banners, the songs, screams, curses, the grazed knuckles, the violent body-shaking jolt of the fist striking home, the glazed eyes, the scrabbling, blood gushing, spurting, trickling, solid and glutinous wrenched from the ravaged lungs of his wife and coughed onto crumpled bed sheets. It had always been there. Red and black on white, the script of his life that years of administering the sacraments of the Church had done nothing to erase.

  “Vain hope, vain hope,” he muttered.

  He had believed he was getting away with it, making amends. He had thought that his good works and charitable deeds would in some way counterbalance his other life when the scales came to be weighted on that final day of judgment.

  “Stupid bugger, stupid bugger, stupid bugger.”

  He was certain Albert Chalmers looked up at him then and smiled, even agreed with him.

  “You are Tony, always have been and always will be.”

  “Albert believe me, l thought it was possible to put things right, you know, do a little good.”

  “But you’re a fraud Tony, that’s the problem my old mate.”

  “Maybe at the beginning, but I got better, even came to believe in much of it. That must count for something, surely?”

  “Tony, a fraud is a fraud is a fraud and that’s being kind. Face it, if I was a harder man, words like liar, hypocrite, dishonest, violent, crook, would spring to mind, but I’m not, so fraud will have to do.”

  “You’re a cruel man Albert, there’s good in every one.”

  “Not in your case Tony, you’ve never owned up to anything in your life. Even to your precious wife, your so-called confessor, I bet you didn’t even tell her about us did you? No, I can tell by your expression you didn’t.”

  “No, but…”

  “No buts, Tony. You and I were the most important thing that ever happened to you. The rest, well, was just flim-flam, the excesses of youth, boyish exuberance. You were not the only one to end up on the wrong side of history, I was a follower like you remember. We made our choices. But some of us paid a heavier price than others for our mistakes. You’ll have thought of them all I know Tony, all the excuses, but face it it’s all bollocks and you know it.”

  “Albert, Albert, so it’s down to you?”

  The jolt of the wheelchair as it passed onto the smooth tar macadam surface of the path that circled the church forced him to look up. Peter was waiting for them.

  “It’s no good talking to him, he’s virtually stone deaf without his hearing aid and it’s switched off. Thought we’d save the battery so he could hear your side of the story.”

  Nauseous, Anthony gazed at his church, the gold weathervane moving in the chill north-westerly breeze, the weathered stone heads of a man and a women on either side of the thatched porch, the ornate rusty ironwork on the medieval door into the nave, all reassuringly familiar, yet everything was different. His universe had changed.

  “After you, lead on, as you seem to have forgotten about your lunch.”

  Anthony smiled weakly. As they approached the shadowy covered entrance to St Botolph’s they could hear and feel the rumble of the organ
, the deep resonant bass notes vibrating through the ancient stone flags and rattling the ancient wooden portal. Smooth and cool to the touch, Anthony turned the worn iron handle and heard the familiar metallic clunk as the catch disengaged, the heavy door then swung silently open. He breathed in the redolence of his ministry, dusty old papers, wilting flowers, polish and paraffin, a delectable concoction, which had scented his life for so long. It almost choked him today. Together Anthony and Peter lifted the wheelchair over the abraded stone sill and through the doorway. Albert’s feet knocked against a pile of hymn books stacked along the back of a pew and sent them crashing to the floor. The music stopped and a grey-haired woman turned and peered over the top of the carved wooden organ screen. Catching sight of the Reverend Anthony Coxon-Dyet, she waved and called out.

  “Ah, It’s only you vicar. That noise gave me quite a shock, I can tell you. I’ll soon be finished here. If you’ve got a moment later I’d like to talk to you about the flowers for next week. A problem with the suppliers putting up their prices or something.”

  Anthony limply waved, then smiled and bent down to straighten the books. The organ boomed out in a triumphal flourish that drowned Peter’s words. Forced to repeat himself, he leant over to shout angrily in Anthony’s ear.

  “Which way?”

  “We can talk in the vestry, it’s over there.”

  “Can’t you stop her? It’s giving me a headache and Grandad won’t be able to hear a thing, even with his hearing aid.”

  “You heard her, it’ll be ending in a minute or so. Suits the mood don’t you think?”

  “You can bloody joke about things. A vicar who’s a right bastard, I’d never have believed it.”