Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Aye, there you’ve got it.’ John nodded at the Saint. ‘So he believes. All these chapel-going wallahs think they’re temporary Lord Gods Almighty, and Duckworth there, he’s about the brightest of the bunch—do you know his daughter’s gonna marry my son?’

  The Saint nodded solemnly. ‘That’ll be a sad day, John.’

  ‘Aye, it will, that. I suppose you know an’ all that he’s got his eyes in another quarter.’

  ‘Arthur? Yes, I’ve observed that, John.’

  ‘What d’you think of her?’ John was giving his whole attention to the Saint now. They were both leaning on the top of the gate, their backs turned to the traffic on the road. In fact, the traffic seemed to be forgotten entirely. It could have been a subject that had never arisen, so deeply did they both become engrossed in the subject of Moira McNally.

  Florrie thought that she could not cope with one more thing this morning when Mr Duckworth dashed in through the back door without even knocking. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open to speak when he saw the doctor and the Reverend Collins standing in the kitchen, and it was to them he spoke rather than to her when he blurted out, ‘He’s at the crossroads, waving his arms about and talkin’ to himself. I’ve never seen anything like it. He didn’t know me. He pointed at me but he didn’t know me. I saw McNally further along the road and he said he had been there carrying on for the last hour or more. Something must be done about it.’

  Florrie did not speak; she looked at the doctor picking up his bag from the chair and he was looking at the minister. And when, feeling that she was about to collapse, she murmured, ‘I’ll go an’ fetch him’, it was Gran’s clipped tones that cut off both the doctor’s and the Reverend Collins’ reply as she said, ‘You stay put. Let the doctor handle this. You’ll have enough to do when he comes back.’

  ‘I… That’s right, Mrs Gas… Gascoigne,’ said the Reverend, stuttering in his agitation. ‘The doctor and I will go and see to him.’

  The doctor did not add anything to this but went briskly towards the door followed by Mr Duckworth. But the Reverend Collins paused, and coming back to Florrie, he said, ‘I feel terrible about this, Mrs Gascoigne. I hold myself responsible for what has happened to your husband.’

  The concern on the Reverend’s face could not help but get past Florrie’s own anxiety and she answered comfortingly, ‘You mustn’t do that, sir. These things happen. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘But I do. Lashing out like that, determined that our side should win, striving for applause and self-aggrandisement—these have their penalties and I can assure you, Mrs Gascoigne, that it isn’t only your husband who is suffering at this moment.’

  Gran let out a long drawn sigh that brought the minister’s eyes to her and he coughed and said, ‘Yes, well, I’d better be going. The doctor’s waiting. Don’t worry, we’ll see to him.’ And with one last look, not at Florrie but at Gran, the minister’s long gangling legs took him from the room.

  After the door had closed, Gran, sitting down in her usual place by the table, breathed deeply before saying, ‘Well, it’s an ill wind that blows no apples over the fence. This could be a way out, for one of the family anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Florrie wearily.

  ‘Arthur and the Duckworths. If John’s off his nut, I’ll bet you a shilling they won’t have any of us.’

  ‘Gran!’ Now Florrie’s voice was high and angry. ‘It’s as Linda says, you’re without feeling. You haven’t got a spark of feeling for John; there’s not a drop of mother love in you. You’re a bad old woman.’

  Gran did not immediately answer Florrie for her chin was at its wagging again, and when she did, her eyes were lowered to the table and she said quietly, ‘You’re wrong you know; like all the rest, you’re wrong. But if you can’t see through me ways then I guess nobody can.’ And, getting up from the table and keeping her head turned from Florrie’s face, she shambled out of the kitchen.

  Florrie sat down. On top of all her other troubles, she had to have a feeling of guilt over Gran now. Gran was a dab hand at turning the tables. Oh, where was all this going to end? She looked around her kitchen; her lovely kitchen. If John lost his job they’d have to leave this house. Her thoughts began to leap hither and thither; she didn’t like that doctor, he was too sharp, too abrupt. She wished old Dr Sanderson was back. These young ones didn’t have any patience with men like John. They didn’t understand that people could be just as uppity and off-hand as they were themselves and could have minds of their own an’ all… And Mr Duckworth bouncing in like that, as if John had committed a crime or something; who did he think he was?

  At that instant, the squeaking of brakes brought her out of her chair and to the kitchen window, and she could scarcely believe her eyes to see not only the doctor’s car at the gate again but Duckworth’s van as well. She saw the doctor and minister alight from the car and waited to see John but there was no sight of him. Then she watched the minister and the doctor go to Duckworth’s van, beside which Henry Duckworth was now standing, waving his arms and pointing to himself.

  There was always a slight dusting of flour on Mr Duckworth’s clothes, as there was on Arthur’s, but as Florrie screwed her eyes up to see through the sun, she saw that there was not just a sprinkle of flour on Mr Duckworth, but he seemed to be enveloped in it. And then she realised it couldn’t be flour, for it was much too dark. It looked a greyish-coloured powder. The apprehension in her chest linked up John with this powder, but then she thought, he could have had nothing to do with Duckworth looking like that.

  As Mr Duckworth disappeared up the path and into his house the doctor and the minister made their way towards her. Trembling she went to the door to open it for them.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘You mean John?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I mean… John,’ the doctor snapped as he went past Florrie and into the kitchen without being asked.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ she said to his back.

  The minister, following the doctor, added soothingly, ‘We could hardly expect him back so soon. We were in the car you know.’

  ‘The way he was running he could have beaten any car.’ The doctor was snapping at the minister now.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Florrie in a weak voice, as she looked from one to the other.

  The doctor turned to her now and said, quietly but definitely, ‘Your husband must have attention, Mrs Gascoigne. He’s just knocked Mr Duckworth into a heap of cement. It’s a good job it wasn’t wet, but it was very distressing to your neighbour.’

  ‘It… it wasn’t entirely his fault, not altogether, do you think?’ the minister had one hand on his chest and was rubbing the back of it with the knuckles of his other hand.

  ‘He hit the man, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he did, but then Mr Duckworth had taken hold of his arm, you must remember that, doctor, and he did it in rather a rough manner.’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to knock down everyone who takes hold of our arms things are coming to a pretty pass, aren’t they?’

  ‘There’s a law about laying hands on people and if Duckworth laid his hands on John then he had every right to knock them off.’ They all turned and looked at Gran where she stood in the scullery doorway. ‘Duckworth’s too big for his boots. He’d like to run this village—he thinks he does. If my son doesn’t want to be touched by him, then he was in his rights to push him off… Right?’ The last word was in the form of a demanding question.

  ‘Your son,’ said the doctor quietly, but in a special firm tone that he kept for old ladies such as Gran, ‘your son pushed Mr Duckworth a little harder than was necessary; he did it with his fist under Mr Duckworth’s chin.’

  Florrie lowered her head, gripped her hands together and groaned as Grandma asked, ‘Where’d this come about?’

  It was the minister who answered Gran, moving towards her as he said placatingly, ‘Mr Gascoigne was talking to your neighbour.’ The m
inister nodded his head at the wall that he thought divided the house from the McNallys. ‘You know, Mr McNally—’

  ‘You could hardly call it talking; I would have said he was upbraiding Mr McNally… Anyway’—the doctor turned to Florrie again—‘as soon as he returns, telephone my house and I’ll come over and see him.’

  ‘What are you going to do to him?’ Florrie’s eyes were dry and burning but the quiver of tears was in her voice, and the doctor, a little more kindly now, said, ‘Well, the first thing I must do, Mrs Gascoigne, is see that he has a sedative that will keep him in bed, and if that doesn’t do much good, then I’m afraid we must get him to a hospital, where he’ll have some attention and his head X-rayed.’

  ‘There’s more’n him wants their heads examined.’

  The doctor turned his startled, indignant gaze on Gran. Age to him was no licence for this kind of talk, nor did he treat her with the respect due to an elderly woman, for his parting shot as he went to the door was, ‘You’re right there, Mrs Gascoigne.’ And this statement left Gran in no doubt to whom he referred.

  ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

  The doctor was calling from the front door and the Reverend called back, ‘No, thanks. I’ll be staying a little while, but if I can look in on you sometime this evening.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Now that the doctor was gone, Florrie turned to the minister and asked quickly, ‘What will they do to him?’

  The minister took her hand and pressed her into a chair before saying, ‘They’ll just examine his head.’ Following this statement, the minister cast a wary glance in the direction of Gran, then he coughed and went on. ‘You see, the ball might have fractured some… some small thing that is causing your husband to have a form of hallucination.’

  ‘But, Mr Collins, it’s so real to him, and he only sees the one person, this saint. He’s not getting religious mania, is he?’

  The vicar smiled then shook his head and said, ‘No, Mrs Gascoigne, I don’t think you need fear that. Your husband is not a religious man, not in the sense you are meaning. You see, at the moment the ball hit him he must have been thinking about the Saint in connection with the emblems people carry about with them in cars and such like. St Christopher has reached a popularity in this age that no other saint has acquired, and it’s a very strange thing for there is so little known about him, and what is known we read mostly in the legends written around the thirteenth century. But he has always been the guide of travellers and, as you know, there has never been so much travelling in the world since it was made as there is today. So I suppose one can understand his being made use of. But I’m afraid,’ the vicar shook his head sadly, ‘there is little sanctity attached to the worship of this saint; it has grown into rather a cult, like the material worship of a film star.’

  ‘Well, there’s one thing we can be thankful for: if he’s seein’ saints he’s seein’ a male one.’

  If this remark of Gran’s had been intended to terminate the Reverend’s visit, it succeeded, for he gave a little tickling cough and rose to his feet. Then, bending towards Florrie and patting her shoulder, he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it my business to find him. I’ve left my bike near the green, but if he should return before lunch would you mind phoning the vicarage when you phone the doctor to let me know?’

  Florrie merely nodded—she was weary and beyond words.

  ‘If you want my advice,’ commented Gran to the minister’s departing back, ‘you’ll leave him be. He’ll find his own road home. If you leave him be he’ll likely come to, but if you set a manhunt on him, the end of that’ll be there’ll be more of you lying on your backs.’

  The minister could find nothing to say to this and he left, closing the door quietly behind him. Florrie did not chastise Gran because for once she wholeheartedly agreed with her.

  It was half past five and all the family, with the exception of John, were gathered in the kitchen. But they were not sitting down to tea as was usual at this time—even the table wasn’t laid. Florrie’s face was the colour of lint and her voice had a flat, hopeless sound as she said, ‘If he doesn’t turn up within the next half hour, I’m going to the police.’

  ‘We should look again, Mam,’ said Linda tearfully.

  ‘We’ve looked everywhere,’ said Florrie. ‘Everywhere…’

  At this point Arthur and Frankie exchanged a quick glance. There was the house in Biddleswiddle and ten to one, thought Frankie, that’s where he was, so it was he who said to his mother, ‘Look, Mam, leave it until around nine.’

  ‘Nine!’ exclaimed Florrie. ‘Nine?’ Her voice was almost a squeak. ‘I’ll be stark staring mad by nine o’clock if he’s not in.’

  ‘Look, here’s Moira. She’s just come home but she’s coming in here.’

  As Linda spoke they all moved towards the window. Moira could be the bearer of news for she worked for Dr Spencer at his house in Befumstead, and if anyone could have any inside information it would be her. By the time they had crowded into the scullery, Moira had reached the back door, and it was Florrie she singled out and addressed directly. ‘You’ll never believe what Uncle’s doing, Aunt Florrie.’

  Florrie swallowed hard then asked, ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Moira’s voice was high. ‘I’ve just been talkin’ to him.’

  ‘You have?’

  Moira nodded at Florrie again. ‘He’s in the cemetery at work.’ Her eyes now flashed round the family and she showed a mouthful of white, even teeth as she laughed. ‘All this hullabaloo, looking for him everywhere, and there he is at work as calm as you like. I was riding down by the cemetery wall and I thought I made him out in the distance so I got off me bike and went in, and there he was, cleaning up the graves like he does every day, and the paths on the east side were all new-mown. He must have been there all the time. Oh, I did laugh.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Florrie’s voice was scarcely audible.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Again Florrie was speaking.

  ‘Well, I asked him to buy a raffle ticket.’ Moira patted her pocket. ‘It’s the big raffle, you know. For the hospitals. Dr Spencer’s helping to run it. They’re smashing prizes given by big firms. Look.’

  As Moira brought the book of tickets from her pocket, Florrie said impatiently, ‘I don’t want to know about raffle tickets at the moment.’ She nearly added ‘Have some sense, girl’, but she checked herself and went on, ‘Listen, Moira, tell me; what did he say? How did he talk?’

  ‘Oh, he talked all right. Just as ever he did, only a bit more so, and he bought three tickets. He even laughed when I pointed out what the prizes were.’

  ‘Three?’ said Gran. ‘Well, if anything’s needed to prove he’s not himself, that’s it.’

  Arthur had moved nearer to Moira and he looked down into her face as he asked, ‘How long had he been there, do you know?’

  ‘From what I could make out, I think he’s been there since this morning.’ Moira was returning Arthur’s gaze intently, seemingly oblivious of the lookers-on.

  ‘And never a bite.’ Florrie turned into the kitchen on this and quietly and automatically began to set the table. But in the middle of it, she rounded on her family and, addressing them as a whole, she said, ‘Mind, no questions, just act as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘I don’t see how we’re going to do that, Mam,’ said Arthur quietly. ‘For as soon as he puts his nose in the door, they’ll be on us.’ He indicated the Duckworths.

  ‘Well, we’ll deal with that business when it arises, only don’t ask him any questions. Say nothing, all of you.’ As Florrie finished, she let her eyes linger on Gran. Gran replied to the look by saying, ‘If you all said as little as me there’d be less trouble.’

  On this there came a natural reaction from Frankie in the form of a loud ‘Coo!’ and Florrie turned on him sharply. ‘Stop it! Let’s have none of that.’

  Frankie stopped it and they all sat do
wn, but not at the table.

  When only a few minutes later, the door opened and John walked into the kitchen, Florrie closed her eyes and held her breath a moment before managing to bring out the usual greeting of ‘Hullo’. She felt a little flicker of relief when he did not answer her as he went to hang up his coat. But when, after having deposited the coat in the cupboard, he turned and confronted his family and said in a tone of enquiry, ‘Well?’ the feeling of relief fled.

  Slowly John advanced towards the table and, taking his place at it, he asked, ‘Doesn’t anybody want to eat?’

  When, without a word, they were all seated, John let his eyes travel around them, then as rationally as a judge he said, ‘If a man lays hands on you roughly the natural reaction is to strike out. I did that this mornin’ with Duckworth and I’ll do it again with anybody who attempts the same thing, and I’m neither drunk nor daft. What’s more, I’ve been at work all day, while there’s no doubt they’ve been scouring the lanes for me.’

  Once again John looked from one to the other, but not a word did any one of them say. At that moment there came the click of the back gate and the sound of quick heavy steps on the path, and John raised his hand to indicate that he would deal with the visitor. Rising slowly from the table, and under the fascinated gaze of his family, he went to the kitchen window and, throwing it wide, he looked out at the bristling form of his neighbour. Before that indignant visitor could say anything, he said quite calmly, ‘I’m about to have me tea, Duckworth, if you’ve got a mind to come round later, well and good.’

  ‘I’ll see you now, Gascoigne… This minute. There’s business I want to settle with you and another member of your family.’

  ‘Very well then, you come back later and we’ll settle all you want.’

  ‘We’ll settle it now.’

  As John saw Duckworth make a move nearer to his door, he cried, ‘Go on, you put a foot across me step, Duckworth, and I’ll repeat the dose I gave you this mornin’, and mind you I mean it. I’ll see you in me own time, or not at all, get that.’