by Ian Sansom
‘I see.’ I had absolutely no idea what was the point of the diagram now.
‘He’s a symbol, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose.’
He took a long draught of his water.
‘So, the point?’
‘It’s just an illustration, Sefton, to help us think.’
‘Right.’
He tore the page from his notebook and fashioned it into a small dart.
‘Now, Sefton. Watch.’ He squinted. ‘On the oche!’ he said and leaned back, and then promptly threw his little dart straight into the heart of the fire, where it burst into flame. ‘One hundred and eighty!’ he cried. The darts-players responded with a polite round of applause. Morley bowed in his seat and took a couple of celebratory twists of his moustache. ‘You’re a city person, Sefton, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Born and bred in London.’
‘Can you imagine for a moment, then, living somewhere like this?’ He swept his arm wide, almost knocking our drinks to the floor.
‘Well …’
‘And every day you’d have to meet the same people. The same people in your place of work. The same people in the pub. Our darts-playing friends here …’ Our darts-playing friends glanced over. ‘Day in, Sefton, day out. Week in, week out. Year in, year out. People you might not like. And who might not like you. And yet you can’t leave, Sefton. You can’t go anywhere. Because your role as parish priest is to serve them. All of them.’ He threw his arms wide again, once more narrowly missing our drinks. ‘And in return, Sefton, they are expected to respect you, to look up to you, to see you as a representative if not of Christ exactly, then at least of the Church, and for you to express and uphold its values, and yet and yet and yet’ – a final arm fling, which fortunately I saw coming, and had snatched away our glasses – ‘they see you every day, conducting your duties in the same way we all conduct our duties, which is to say inconsistently and incompletely. They see your failings and your petty grievances and faults. Might not the temptation eventually be …’
I placed the drinks safely back down on the table. ‘To kill yourself?’ I said.
‘Wrong!’ cried Morley, this time finally throwing his arm wide enough and quickly enough to knock both our glasses successfully to the floor. The unmistakable sound, first, of breaking beer glasses; second, of the absolute silence following the breaking of beer glasses; and third, and finally, of the fulsome barmaid, on uncertain heels, hurrying to resolve the breaking of beer glasses. And then … the equally unmistakable sound of Morley, continuing on.
‘Terra es, terram ibis,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir?’ said the barmaid.
‘Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I really am terribly sorry. I have an awful habit of talking with my hands, I’m afraid. A touch too much of the old Schwärmerei, eh?’
‘I’m sure it is, sir. But not to worry,’ said the barmaid of boundless tolerance, who was bending over to pick up the larger shards of glass from the floor, and mopping at the beer and water with a dishcloth. ‘We’ll have this cleared up in a moment, sir.’
I got down on my hands and knees to help, not least because the barmaid’s heels and clothes rather inhibited her free movement. She was dressed primarily for display purposes.
‘Don’t you be troubling yourself with that, sir.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘It’s the least I could do.’
‘Mind your fingers.’
‘I will,’ I said. And for a moment – something to do with the light, the woman, the smell of beer – I was back in a bar in Barcelona where there was a banner up outside: ‘Las Brigades Internacionales, We Welcome You’.
Between us we made a pretty good job of clearing up, and the bar chatter gradually resumed.
‘I’ll help you get rid of this,’ I said, my hands cupping broken glass.
‘There’s no need,’ said the barmaid.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I need to get us both another drink anyway.’
‘Ubi mel ibi apes, eh, Sefton?’ said Morley.
‘Is he foreign, your friend?’ whispered the barmaid as we walked to the bar with all the sharp little pieces.
‘He’s just … eccentric,’ I said.
‘All right, Lizzie?’ asked the barman, as we dropped the broken glass into a bucket behind the bar.
‘We’re fine, John.’
‘Can’t you keep your friend under control?’ said the barman.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean, no. Not really, no, I’m afraid he’s …’
‘He’s harmless,’ said the barmaid. ‘Leave him alone, John.’ She straightened up and faced me, cocking her head to one side. ‘You’re staying in the hotel?’
‘Yes, we are. Just for a night or two.’
‘Well, we’ll see lots of you in here then, I hope. You make a nice change.’
‘Indeed,’ I said.
‘The temptation, Sefton,’ continued Morley, once I had brought us fresh drinks and settled down again, ‘would not be to kill oneself, surely, but to kill them, would it not?’
‘What?’ By this stage all I wanted was to drink my beer quietly and get to bed.
‘Does it seem so strange?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Morley, I can’t quite seem to understand what it is you’re suggesting.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Sefton. I’m simply remarking on the obvious fact that anyone and everyone might at some time be tempted to kill themselves. Or indeed others. Your experience in Spain would bear that out, would it not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know Durkheim?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Not personally no.’ I had no idea who he was talking about.
‘German. Cranky. Beard, etcetera. But useful distinctions between types of suicides. We are assuming that the reverend’s is an act of egoistic suicide, self-directed, an act of self-harm. But what if it’s not? What if it’s a suicide aimed specifically at others? An aggressive suicide, if you like? What if the question is not, why would the reverend want to kill himself, but rather why would the reverend want to kill others?’
‘No. I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘Put yourself in the sacerdotal shoes for a moment, Sefton. Try imagining yourself as a vicar in a small Norfolk village, squeezed into the reverend’s shoes – four-eyelet tan brogues, were they not? With rubber cleated soles? Cordovan leather, possibly.’
‘I didn’t notice,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Morley. ‘Not literally, metaphorically I mean, of course. So how do they fit? Eh? The good reverend’s shoes?’
‘A bit uncomfortable,’ I admitted.
‘Indeed. Tight fit, isn’t it? Tell me, do you really hate anyone, Sefton?’
‘Well …’ At that moment, one obvious example came to mind.
‘Absolutely hate their guts, I mean? Loathe them, despise them? Regard them as lower than vermin? As worms? Ants? Fit only to be crushed under your heel?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Don’t be afraid to admit it, Sefton. These are human emotions, after all. Perfectly normal.’
‘Well, I suppose … yes.’
‘Good! And we know you to be a fine young man. So is it not possible therefore that the reverend felt likewise, or that others felt likewise towards him?’
I had to grant this was indeed possible.
‘Which is how we might end up with … this.’ He jerked a hand up behind his neck, as though hanging himself by a rope. The darts-players looked suspiciously in our direction. I looked nervously towards them.
‘I think perhaps you should keep your voice down, Mr Morley, actually, to be honest.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m not at all sure about your theory, and I think—’
‘Well, why don’t we ask one of these chaps what they think?’ He nodded in a friendly fashion towards the men playing darts.
‘I’m n
ot sure they want to be disturbed, actually.’
‘Everyone wants to be disturbed, Sefton.’
‘I’m not sure about that, Mr Morley.’
‘And yet simultaneously everyone wants to be left alone. There’s the rub, you see. What about that chap there?’ Morley pointed towards a man just about to throw a dart. ‘He’s the man to ask.’
‘Is he?’
‘I think you’ll find he’s the bell-ringer in the church.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Broad shoulders. Heft. Broken nose – could be a boxer. But one arm, as you’ll note, overdeveloped. Hence not a boxer. Most likely from pulling on ropes.’
‘Or playing darts.’
‘Yes, I suppose, it could be either.’
‘Well, I’ll wager you, Mr Morley, that I’m as likely to be correct in this as you.’
‘I’ll not accept the wager, Sefton, thank you. We should abstain from the appearance of evil. But I wonder, would you mind awfully buying him a drink and asking him over?’
‘Now?’
‘When you’re ready.’
I got up to go over.
‘And Sefton?’ Morley added.
‘Yes, Mr Morley?’
‘I think you’ll find that I am correct.’
He was correct.
The bell-ringer’s name was Hackford. He had bright blue eyes, bristly red hair, a drinker’s nose, hands like smoked hams and a stinking black pipe. He also wore, perched atop his head, a regimental beret.
‘Royal Warwickshire Fusiliers?’ asked Morley.
‘That’s right,’ said Hackford.
‘My son was in the 16th Battalion, London Regiment,’ said Morley.
‘Was he, now?’
‘Yes.’ Morley gave a slight cough and changed the subject. ‘Did you know the reverend well?’
Mr Hackford tugged on his pipe and took a long time to answer, in the traditional Norfolk fashion.
‘As well as any man knows his vicar.’
‘And what did you think of him?’
‘It’s not for me to say, sir, is it?’
‘No, of course,’ said Morley. ‘A terrible tragedy, though.’
‘He was a good vicar,’ agreed Hackford, raising his tankard from the table.
‘Really? And what makes a good vicar, do you think?’ said Morley.
Hackford took a long draw on his pipe, blew out great rings of smoke, as though he were ringing a peal of bells, and swallowed a vast mouthful of beer.
‘He was a good preacher. And he’d listen if you had a problem.’
‘I see. And you went to him with problems yourself?’
‘I did not, no.’
‘But others did?’
‘Maybe so.’
‘So he was popular with the congregation, I’m sure.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Not popular, then?’
‘You always gets your grumblers,’ said Hackford.
‘So not universally popular?’ said Morley.
Hackford fixed his eyes steadily on Morley. ‘Might I ask you a question, sir?’
‘Of course,’ said Morley.
‘Are you universally popular?’
‘Perhaps not, Mr Hackford.’ Morley laughed. ‘Perhaps not. Can I ask, though, did you speak to the reverend during the service on Sunday?’
‘I rang the bells, same as usual. Then I made my way home.’
‘What did you ring, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘On the bells?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re a bell-ringer, sir?’
‘No, not myself, alas, but there’s a very good book, by Dorothy L. Sayers. Nine Tailors. Novel. Do you know it?’
‘I can’t say as I do, sir, no.’
‘Very good. Lot of campanological stuff in it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about now, sir.’
‘Campanology is the study of the subject of bell-ringing, Mr Hackford. Surely you—’
‘I don’t study ’em, sir, I just ring ’em.’
‘Of course. And was there anyone in the vestry, that you were aware of? Anyone who shouldn’t have been there?’
‘I don’t think so. But I was in the other tower, ringing.’
‘And did you notice anyone in the congregation you hadn’t seen before?’
‘No.’
‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘I know everyone in the congregation of St Nicholas by now, I think, sir. I’ve been worshipping there for sixty-one years.’
‘The family of the church,’ said Morley.
‘That’s what they say, sir, yes.’
‘Jolly good!’ said Morley. ‘Quite right.’
Hackford set his empty tankard down on the table, and looked at me. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Morley.
‘Another drink, Mr Hackford?’ I said.
‘I’ll not, thank you,’ said Hackford. ‘I have to say, you’re a great man for the fine words and phrases, Mr Morley.’
‘I shall take that as a compliment, Mr Hackford, thank you.’
‘As a compliment it’s meant.’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘But you’ve no business being here,’ said Hackford, getting up and walking off.
‘Seem to have upset him,’ said Morley. ‘Strange.’
I tried to persuade Morley to leave the bar then with me, but he insisted that he wanted to stay. It was his reading hour: he set aside a portion of every evening to read a book on a subject he knew nothing about, and tonight, he said, would be no different. And so I left him, among the hostile bar staff and darts-players of Blakeney, perfectly content, and about to start – and doubtless finish – a book on eighteenth-century French furniture. I, on the other hand, excused myself and said I would retire early.
‘Resembles the Hayter portrait of Queen Caroline, doesn’t she?’ said Morley, as I got up to leave.
‘Sorry? Who does?’
‘The barmaid. Very striking-looking. Regal of bosom, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I can’t say I’ve—’
‘And her dress – rather daring, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? I don’t know. I didn’t notice.’
Morley raised an eyebrow. ‘The effect is inquiétant, I think is the French, is that right?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hmm. Word to the wise, Sefton. Omne ignotum pro magnifico est.’
‘Everything … unknown … is—’
‘Distance lends enchantment, Sefton, is all I shall say. Tacitus. Agricola. Look but don’t touch, eh? Highest standards to be maintained at all times on your journeyings, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sure she appreciated your assistance, Sefton. Very selfless of you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sleep well.’
‘Yes, you too, Mr Morley. Goodnight.’
He produced his egg-timer from his jacket pocket, and propped his book before him.
‘There we are. All set.’ He caught me looking at him. ‘The elusive waywardness of time, Sefton,’ he said mildly, as if in explanation. ‘We must do everything we can to capture it, must we not? Not a moment to waste.’
As it happened, I slept for no more than an hour or two that night, before finding myself jerked awake, as was often my habit, in a cold sweat, the same persistent nightmares troubling me. I opened the curtains in my room, and saw that a blood-red moon had set outside. It was ten past midnight. I felt unaccountably excited and fearful, as though something was about to happen that I could not prevent, nor wish to avoid. I sat smoking for some time – until almost one o’clock – and then, still unable to sleep, I dressed, and found myself wandering through Blakeney village. I was inexorably drawn to the church.
Constable Ridley was stationed outside, with a candle lantern.
‘Evening, Constable,’ I said as I approached.
He jumped out of his
skin, pulling a truncheon from his pocket, and bringing his shiny whistle to his lips.
‘It’s only me!’ I said.
‘Ah. Thank goodness,’ said Ridley. ‘Good evening, sir. Sorry, I was maybe dozing there for a moment. You won’t mention it to anyone.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good. Meant to keep awake, to watch the church, in case anyone tries to tamper with the evidence.’
‘Quite right. Your chaps from Norwich are here, then?’
‘Yes, sir. Just arrived a couple of hours ago. They’ll be wanting to talk to you tomorrow, no doubt.’
‘Good.’
‘And then you can be on your way.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed. A little late for a stroll though, sir?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Ah. You’re not the only one.’
‘Really? Why? Who else is out?’
‘Her.’ He nodded his head.
‘Who?’
‘The reverend’s maid.’
I looked across the graveyard and saw Hannah. The brightest stars shone through the evening mist. Her cigarette glowed in the distance.
‘She’s been here the whole time?’
‘I’m afraid so. I can’t persuade her to leave.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘I don’t know. She won’t say a word to me.’
‘Should I …?’
‘Be my guest. Can’t do any harm.’
I approached her across the graveyard. There was the hooting of an owl.
‘Hannah? It’s me, Stephen Sefton. Is everything all right?’
She looked at me with those dark, intelligent, sorrowful eyes, and reached out a hand towards me.
I took her hand and she drew me immediately into an embrace. I could feel her breath in the silence. She held on to me for a long time and then, suddenly, I felt her weight shift, as if her body had made some decision, and she tilted her head up and forward, and kissed me on the mouth.
I was shocked, of course, but I kissed her back, and again we stayed that way for a time, calmly, without urgency, as though lovers long familiar, and then something changed again and I felt her breasts press urgently against my chest, and her arms grow tighter around my shoulders, and suddenly we were moving together deeper into the shadow of the church, now out of sight of Ridley.
