Friends of the Dusk

by Phil Rickman

Huw was right, she shouldn’t’ve come. She had no medical knowledge. He didn’t look so bad, but he was clearly far from compos mentis. Whether he was better than he should be after all these years was anybody’s guess. There were always anomalies.

  She tried Dennis Kellow’s name on him again and he repeated it and nodded, but that was all. No sign of recognition. What had she expected? Had she hoped for something revelatory, some sense of an underlife in the Cwmarrow valley, some symptom of… oppression?

  Oppression was the safer word. She felt, for an instant, disgusted with herself, with what she’d become, always attuned to the possibility of otherness. Why couldn’t she have left him alone to be… old?

  The bed, though… that was oppressive. The bed was a piece of Cwmarrow, a constant, stark reminder that he’d traded a house and a castle, a whole valley, for a beautifully carpeted stairway to heaven.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Come along…’ He was leaning back in his chair, his long hands gripping the wooden armrests. ‘Old man, me. A very… old… man. No time to wait. Kee, kee, kee.’

  The room was very dim now and the air, quite suddenly, felt both dense and abrasively frigid. But Mr Kindley-Pryce in his dressing gown, the only lights the distant pinpricks in his eyes, didn’t seem to notice the cold.

  ‘Going to take off your… your things, are you? Relapse?’

  Relax?

  She glanced at the door, had the slightly worrying thought that Donna might have locked it from the other side. She really didn’t want to, but she stood up and took off her coat, hanging it from a wing of the green chair.

  Mr Kindley-Pryce clapped his hands, laughing again, his legs parting the black and red dressing gown and, as she sat down, despite the shadows, she saw too much.

  ‘Kee, kee, kee.’

  Her head jerked away, and she felt dizzy, the fading light fluttering around her like a cascade of grey moths, carrying his soft voice to her as he reached up and patted the bed.

  ‘Merr-il-y… Come along.’

  49

  Before he was mad

  IN THE HALF-LIGHT, she backed into him.

  ‘Steady,’ he said.

  Merrily, still shaking, spun round and stumbled. His hands closed around her arms and she cried out and looked up at him, frozen. The years had fallen shockingly away, he was younger and stronger, his skin firm and tanned, and his hands had seized her shoulders.

  She twisted away, backed away, against a wall with another door in it that opened behind her and she almost fell into the space of what should have been the bedroom, now lined with books and pictures. Grabbing at the air, she saw the old man directly in front of her, still in his red leather chair, knees together under the dressing gown, his eyes blurred, focused on nothing, the bed’s headboard rearing up behind him like some wintry cathedral.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ the man in the main doorway said. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

  Different voice, more than a hint of Herefordshire, and he wasn’t wearing a dressing gown. He had on a dark suit and a tie with a small crest on it. Consternation on his long, smooth face.

  ‘My fault entirely,’ he said. ‘I should’ve knocked.’

  He held the door open and glanced over a shoulder at the old man in the chair.

  ‘Having his nap. Slip out now, I should. He won’t notice you’ve gone.’

  Merrily’s legs felt weak. She looked back at Selwyn Kindley-Pryce. His eyes were closed, but something of the smile remained. She went back and grabbed her coat.

  In the conservatory area outside, he held out a hand. ‘Hector Pryce.’

  ‘Oh…’

  What a powerful emotion embarrassment could be, sometimes stronger than fear.

  ‘I’m… so sorry about this.’

  ‘Nobody expects that bed.’

  ‘No.’

  He was giving her a way out.

  ‘I expect one morning they’ll find him dead in it. Lying in state. Quite a fright for someone.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Nice place this, ennit? I think we did well.’

  We?

  They were standing on stone crazy-paving with what looked like AstroTurf either side, three rustic benches with cushioned seats. Hector Pryce had his hands behind his back. He was fiftyish, with that gym-toned look about him. Shaven-headed and tanned enough to have been abroad quite recently.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. What’s so interesting, suddenly, about my poor old father?’

  In other words, why are you here? She wanted to say why are you here, but then she knew.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit ignorant. You have a stake in this place?’

  ‘I’m a director of the company.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Did the Kellows know this? Probably not.

  ‘We have another spread, over in Warwickshire. More of a gated community there – proximity to Birmingham. This place is more casual. I come in most weeks, stroll around, see how we can improve it even more. We’re opening a little theatre next year. For concerts. Be like… what’s that place?’

  ‘Glyndebourne?’

  ‘Las Vegas.’

  Hector laughed.

  It was a long shot, Jane knew that. She really didn’t think they’d actually have a copy in the bookshop, she told herself she just wanted to talk to someone about it, confirm that she wasn’t imagining connections that weren’t there. Needed to trust herself again.

  ‘De Nugis Curialium. I’ve been asked for this before, Jane, though not recently,’ Gus Staines said. ‘I remember we did once try to obtain an English translation for someone and it proved impossible.’

  ‘M.R. James translated it, I think. Or some of it.’

  ‘Yes, a number of people have, I’m sure, over the centuries, but try to lay your hands on a copy, even second-hand.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It translates as Trifles of the Courtiers. Which Map was – a courtier to Henry II. Also a cleric. Hold on. Yes, here…’ Gus Staines bent to the computer on the counter. ‘Canon at Hereford and St Paul’s and – oh – almost became Bishop of Hereford in 1199.’

  Walter Map, chronicler. Born around the middle of the twelfth century, according to Borderlands.

  ‘Although no one is sure, quite, in which year he died,’ Gus Staines said, reading from the screen. ‘A man from the Welsh border, as his name suggests – not uncommon in the area to this day, as we know, Jane, sometimes spelt with two ps now. Studied at the University of Paris. De Nugis Curialium is his main surviving work… stories and anecdotes he’d picked up on his travels.’

  ‘Not made up?’

  ‘Was anything entirely made up in those days? Yes, they say Geoffrey of Monmouth and his tales of King Arthur were invented and certainly embroidered, but it all came from stories in circulation at the time. There was something there, to build on. This one… well, Walter Map clearly relished ghost stories, tales of revenants, and this is probably his best known. Although, as you say, not that well known today. Certainly the most sinister, though, as I recall.’

  Jane asked if anybody had ever pointed out at the time that Selwyn Kindley-Pryce had clearly used Map’s story, as retold in his own book, as the basis for The Summoner. Gus put this to her partner, Amanda Rubens, who said she hadn’t read it.

  ‘You have to remember,’ Gus said, ‘that Foxy Rowlestone, despite the name, was never really identified as a local author. As for this…’ Picking up the copy of Borderlight Jane had brought back, sliding it under the counter. ‘… it just came and went. Limited edition. I think he just wanted to create a beautiful book to showcase the work of his new friend, Caroline. It was never a talking point.’

  ‘It has to be the source for Foxy, though, doesn’t it?’ Jane said. ‘Could we go through the story – do you have time?’

  She saw Gus and Amanda exchange looks as a man and a woman came in with two children.

  ‘What’s this about, Jane?’ Gus said with her goblin smile. ‘Do you mind my asking?’r />
  ‘Doing some research. For Mum.’

  ‘Let’s go in the back,’ Gus said.

  The room behind the shop was an office and stockroom, not so much for books as the stationery items Ledwardine Livres sold on the side. There was also a sink and a very small wood-stove with a whistling kettle on top and a door to a toilet. Cosy.

  ‘Coffee?’ Gus said.

  ‘No… no, thanks.’

  ‘Well, sit down, Jane.’

  Jane sat on a stool, hands in the pockets of her parka in case they were shaking. Gus went to sit behind the desk, leaned back and scrutinized Jane over her reading glasses.

  ‘You know, the chances of us having a translation of De Nugis Curialium were pretty remote.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I did think you would probably know that. You’re a smart girl. I bet you’d already checked on Amazon and found there wasn’t one anywhere.’

  ‘No. I didn’t. I try to support local shops.’

  ‘Oh, Jane, really… Don’t tell Amanda I said this, but we’re little more than a gift shop.’

  Jane’s fists were clenched inside her pockets. Gus looked serious.

  ‘What is your problem? Can I ask?’

  ‘It’s stupid. It’s naive.’

  Gus looked unconvinced, said nothing.

  ‘It’s just… when did you first realize you were a lesbian?’ Jane said.

  Hector Pryce listened, without comment, to her explanation about Dennis Kellow. Told to someone like Hector, a businessman, it didn’t sound at all convincing. When she was out of here she’d have to phone Dennis and explain what she’d done.

  Add one to the number of times she’d ignored Huw Owen’s advice and regretted it.

  Hector Pryce strolled over to one of the rustic benches, waved Merrily to the one opposite, sat down with his hands linked behind his head.

  ‘Kellow,’ he said. ‘Feeling guilty, is he?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Getting that place for a song. We ought to have waited another year. Property market went up. Another year, we’d’ve had twice what we got from Kellow. But then, it wasn’t mine to sell.’

  ‘You were just your father’s agent in the sale? I’m not sure how these things work when the property owner is…’

  ‘Not fit to manage his own affairs? Well, I’ll tell you. It makes things very, very complicated, Mrs Watkins. Father, he always thought Kellow would be the best man to look after it. Me, I couldn’t understand that. Why not hang on till property prices rose again and let it go to somebody with money to burn? ’Cause that’s what they do these old places – burn all your money, ennit?’

  ‘Your father seems to have regarded it as his life’s work. Maybe Dennis, too.’

  ‘Bloody mad, people who get obsessed with the past. Past is worthless, messes you up. He had a good life in the States, my old man, and he gave it up… for what?’ He eyed her. ‘So you’re a vicar, and Kellow asked you to find out if my father was still alive, did he? Why not come himself?’

  ‘He… told me he came to visit your father once, but your father didn’t recognize him.’

  ‘And that surprised him, did it?’

  ‘I don’t think he felt comfortable coming back. And he’s had a stroke’

  ‘I didn’t know that. What’s he like now?’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Like him?’

  ‘He’s made a good recovery, but…’

  ‘I ’spect you, as a vicar, would think me a bit heartless if I said it was his own fault. But living in the past, it saps you. Me, I got no time for history. Me and that ole cabbage in there, we got nothing in common. He split up with my mother ’fore I could hardly talk, and I made my own way without him. The money he sent, my mother got that. I made my own way.’

  ‘Well, that—’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, we got on all right when he came back from the States. He thought he was quite well off. Bit knocked back when he found I’d more than him. But he’s still my father and I got responsibility to him. Even though I thought he was mad even before he was mad.’

  He laughed. In the picture window behind him, an apple tree vibrated soundlessly in the wind. Something askew here.

  ‘You’re obviously making him comfortable,’ Merrily said. ‘The bed?’

  ‘Oh, aye. He likes old things from his past around. Sentimental stuff. So I get them for him.’

  Merrily smiled.

  ‘I’m told he used to lie in that bed and get a sense that the village of Cwmarrow – the vanished village – was still alive, around him?’

  He didn’t move, but his face altered, became intense, as if something had risen in him like a gas jet. And then he controlled it, leaned back, hands behind his head again.

  ‘You know what it means? Cwmarrow? In the original Welsh?’

  ‘Seems to mean Valley of the Arrow. Which struck me as a bit odd, when the river Arrow’s more than ten miles away.’

  ‘They all think that. My father knew the real meaning, though he never talked about it. Didn’t even tell me till he’d moved out, and I thought, well, he en’t rational, but then I looked it up, and it looked right. Cwm – Welsh for valley, sure enough. But Arrow – that en’t Welsh, is it?’

  ‘Well… sometimes, over time, a Welsh word gets replaced by an English word that sounds similar, phonetically.’

  ‘Aye. Arrow for Marw. You know that word?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Welsh for dead.’

  ‘It means Valley of the Dead?’

  She tried not to look horrified.

  ‘Now you know.’ Hector hunched forward. ‘He’s always been a dreamer. Dreamer.’

  ‘Dreams can be powerful,’ Merrily said without thinking.

  ‘Only if you let them. He’s a bloody children’s storyteller, a fantasist.’

  ‘He was an academic, wasn’t he? A scholar?’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I was just… You said you thought old things weren’t good. Sapped you. But you don’t mind that the bed—’

  ‘He’s an ole man, he en’t got long, I get him what he wants.’

  She felt a coldness. Hector Pryce got his father what he wanted. And yet wasn’t there something close to hatred here? Or something closer to fear. Was that possible?

  ‘I’ll get Donna to show you out, shall I?’ Hector Pryce said. ‘Or can you find your own way?’

  Obviously she could find her own way, but she looked for Donna, asking three attendants, none of whom had a local accent or knew where Donna was. She hung around by the reception desk. A stick-thin elderly lady with bright red hair came over and asked if she could help.

  ‘Just waiting for Donna, thanks.’

  The old lady nodded seriously.

  ‘A very capable woman, Donna. Nothing seems to bother her.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Have you come to visit a relative?’

  ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘Kindley-Pryce?’

  You’d often encounter someone like this in a home for the elderly. Someone – usually a woman – who knew everything, a gleaner and spreader of gossip.

  ‘You’re his friend?’ she said.

  ‘Friend of a friend. It’s the first time we’ve met.’

  ‘Not a niece, then? I thought you might be one of his nieces. Great-nieces, more like.’ She peered at Merrily, a glaze of contact lenses. ‘You do look younger from a distance.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘He’s the king here, you know,’ she said. ‘Three apartments to himself.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Look at the numbers on the door. Or rather the shortage of numbers. One, two, three and three is the only number on a door.’

  ‘His son’s a director of the company.’

  The old woman scowled.

  ‘It’s a glossy funeral parlour, this place. I’ll tell you something.’ She came close to Merrily. ‘You don’t want to be here at night.’

&nb
sp; ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t come out of my room. Sometimes I leave a light on. Who cares about their bills? We pay enough.’

  ‘Come on now, Jean.’ Donna had appeared. ‘Jean does our public relations,’ she said to Merrily, not smiling, steering her away. ‘I’m afraid some of our guests don’t care too much what they say or to whom. Privilege of age, I guess. Now you take care on the roads, Mrs Watkins. The weather’s not going to be anyone’s friend tonight.’

  Merrily stopped well short of the electronic double doors.

  ‘When does a person with dementia become too far… you know, too far gone… to go on living here?’

  ‘That’s not an easy question to answer. Some people with difficulties are inclined to wander at night, might require extra supervision.’

  ‘Mr Kindley-Pryce does that?’

  Donna looked away.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Donna… did you tell him my name?’

  ‘You were with me when I spoke to him.’

  ‘That’s the only time you spoke to him. You didn’t tell him earlier that I was coming?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have remembered.’

  ‘Or anyone else?’

  ‘You’re in the book. Mrs M. Watkins.’ Donna stared at her. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘I meant my first name. Did you tell anyone my first name?’

  ‘I don’t believe I know your first name,’ Donna said.

  She thought of asking Donna about the nieces and the great-nieces who apparently came to visit Kindley-Pryce. I get him what he wants.

  She didn’t. She smiled and left.

  50

  What can haunt you

  LOL LIKED HER. He’d always kind of liked her. He thought even Merrily liked her more than she thought she ought to. But he was still wary when, for the first time, she rang him.

  ‘How are we, today, Robinson?’

  Did you tell her the truth, that you half wished you were back in Knight’s Frome working with the crazy Belladonna? He carried the phone to the edge of the desk so that he could see out of the window above the condensation. The glass seemed to be panting in the wind.

  ‘You haven’t been inhaling white powder again, have you?’

  ‘I’ve never inhaled white powder, Athena. When you’ve been inside a psychiatric hospital and not as a visitor, you start closing doors that have never even been open.’