I walked into the wood, feeling my way carefully with an arm held before me till I came out on the other side. Raynes Abbey lay before me.
I had always associated the beautiful ruin with summer days with the sun warming the old stones of the graceful arches, the chatter of voices, children playing on the cropped turf; but this was 2.30 a.m. in an empty world and the cold breath of the coming winter on my face. I felt suddenly alone.
In the cold glare everything was uncannily distinct. But there was a look of unreality about the silent rows of columns reaching into the dark sky and throwing their long pale shadows over the grass. Away at the far end I could see the monks’ cells—gloomy black caverns deep in shadow—and as I looked an owl hooted, accentuating the heavy, blanketing silence.
A prickling apprehension began to creep over me, a feeling that my living person had no place here among these brooding relics of dead centuries. I turned quickly and began to hurry through the wood, bumping into the trees, tripping over roots and bushes, and when I reached my car I was trembling and more out of breath than I should have been. It was good to slam the door, turn the ignition and hear the familiar roar of the engine.
I was home within ten minutes and trotted up the stairs, looking forward to catching up on my lost sleep. Opening my bedroom door I flicked on the switch and felt a momentary surprise when the room remained in darkness. Then I stood frozen in the doorway.
By the window, where the moonlight flooded in, making a pool of silver in the gloom, a monk was standing. A monk in a brown habit, motionless, arms folded, head bowed. His face was turned from the light towards me but I could see nothing under the drooping cowl but a horrid abyss of darkness.
I thought I would choke. My mouth opened but no sound came. And in my racing mind one thought pounded above the others;—there were such things as ghosts after all.
Again my mouth opened and a hoarse shriek emerged.
“Who in the name of God is that?”
The reply came back immediately in a sepulchral bass.
“Tristan.”
I don’t think I actually swooned, but I did collapse limply across my bed and lay there gasping, the blood thundering in my ears. I was dimly aware of the monk standing on a chair and screwing in the light bulb, giggling helplessly the while. Then he flicked on the switch and sat on my bed. With his cowl pushed back on his shoulders he lit a Woodbine and looked down at me, still shaking with laughter.
“Oh God, Jim, that was marvellous—even better than I expected.”
I stared up at him and managed a whisper. “But you’re in Edinburgh…”
“Not me, old lad. There wasn’t much doing so I concluded my business and hitched straight back, I’d just got in when I saw you coming up the garden. Barely had time to get the bulb out and climb into my outfit—I couldn’t miss the opportunity.”
“Feel my heart,” I murmured.
Tristan rested his hand on my ribs for a moment and as he felt the fierce hammering a fleeting concern crossed his face.
“Hell, I’m sorry, Jim.” Then he patted my shoulder reassuringly. “But don’t worry. If it was going to be fatal you’d have dropped down dead on the spot. And anyway, a good fright is very beneficial—acts like a tonic. You won’t need a holiday this year.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks very much.”
“I wish you could have heard yourself.” He began to laugh again. “That scream of terror…oh dear, oh dear!”
I hoisted myself slowly into a sitting position, pulled out the pillow, propped it against the bed head and leaned back against it. I still felt very weak.
I eyed him coldly. “So you’re the Raynes ghost.”
Tristan grinned in reply but didn’t speak.
“You young devil! I should have known. But tell me, why do you do it? What do you get out of it?”
“Oh I don’t know.” The young man gazed dreamily at the ceiling through the cigarette smoke. “I suppose it’s just getting the timing right so that the drivers aren’t quite sure whether they’ve seen me or not. And then I get a hell of a kick out of hearing them revving up like mad and roaring off for home. None of them ever slows down.”
“Well, somebody once told me your sense of humour was over-developed,” I said. “And I’m telling you it’ll land you in the cart one of these days.”
“Not a chance. I keep my bike behind a hedge about a hundred yards down the road so that I can make a quick getaway if necessary. There’s no problem.”
“Well, please yourself.” I got off the bed and made shakily for the door. “I’m going downstairs for a tot of whisky, and just remember this.” I turned and glared at him. “If you try that trick on me again I’ll strangle you.”
A few days later at about eight o’clock in the evening I was sitting reading by the fireside in the big room at Skeldale House when the door burst open and Siegfried burst into the room.
“James,” he rapped out. “Old Horace Dawson’s cow has split its teat. Sounds like a stitching job. The old chap won’t be able to hold the cow and he has no near neighbours to help him so I wonder if you’d come and give me a hand.”
“Sure, glad to.” I marked the place in my book, stretched and yawned then got up from the chair. I noticed Siegfried’s foot tapping on the carpet and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that the only thing that would satisfy him would be some kind of ejector seat on my chair which would hurl me straight through the door and into action on the word of command. I was being as quick as I could but I had the feeling as always—when I was writing something for him or operating under his eyes—that I wasn’t going nearly fast enough. There were elements of tension in the knowledge that the mere fact of watching me rise from the chair and replace my book in the fireside alcove was an almost unbearable strain for him.
By the time I was half way across the carpet he had disappeared into the passage. I followed at a trot and just made it into the street as he was starting the car. Grabbing the door I made a dive for the interior and felt the road whip away from under my foot as we took off into the darkness.
Fifteen minutes later we screeched to a halt in the yard behind a little smallholding standing on its own across a couple of fields. The engine had barely stopped before my colleague was out of the car and striding briskly towards the cow house. He called to me over his shoulder as he went.
“Bring the suture materials, James, will you…and the local and syringe…and that bottle of wound lotion…”
I heard the brief murmur of conversation from within then Siegfried’s voice again, raised this time in an impatient shout.
“James! What are you doing out there? Can’t you find those things?”
I had hardly got the boot open and I rummaged frantically among the rows of tins and bottles. I found what he required, galloped across the yard and almost collided with him as he came out or the building.
He was in mid shout. “James! What the hell’s keeping you…oh, you’re there. Right, let’s have that stuff…what have you been doing all this time?”
He had been right about Horace Dawson, a tiny frail man of about eighty who couldn’t be expected to do any strong-arm stuff. Despite his age he had stubbornly refused to give up milking the two fat shorthorn cows which stood in the little cobbled byre.
Our patient had badly damaged a teat; either she or her neighbour must have stood on it because there was a long tear running almost full length with the milk running from it.
“It’s a bad one, Horace,” Siegfried said. “You can see it goes right into the milk channel. But we’ll do what we can for her—it’ll need a good few stitches in there.”
He bathed and disinfected the teat then filled a syringe with local anaesthetic.
“Grab her nose, James,” he said, then spoke gently to the farmer. “Horace, will you please hold her tail for me. Just catch it by the very end, that’s the way…lovely.”
The little man squared his shoulders. “Aye, ah can do that fine, Mr. Far
non.”
“Good lad, Horace, that’s splendid, thank you. Now stand well clear.” He bent over and as I gripped the animal’s nose he inserted the needle above the top extremity of the wound.
There was an instant smacking sound as the cow registered her disapproval by kicking Siegfried briskly half way up his Wellington boot. He made no sound but breathed deeply and flexed his knee a couple of times before crouching down again.
“Cush pet,” he murmured soothingly as he stuck the needle in again.
This time the cloven foot landed on his forearm, sending the syringe winging gracefully through the air till it came to rest by a piece of good fortune in the hay-rack. Siegfried straightened up, rubbed his arm thoughtfully, retrieved his syringe and approached the patient again.
For a few moments he scratched around the root of her tail and addressed her in the friendliest manner. “All right, old lady, it isn’t very nice, is it?”
When he got down again he adopted a new stance, burrowing with his head into the cow’s flank and stretching his long arms high he managed despite a few more near misses to infiltrate the tissues round the wound with local. Then he proceeded to thread a needle unhurriedly, whistling tunelessly under his breath.
Mr. Dawson watched him admiringly. “Ah know why you’re such a good feller wi’ animals, Mr. Farnon. It’s because you’re so patient—I reckon you’re t’patientest man ah’ve ever seen.”
Siegfried inclined his head modestly and recommenced work. And it was more peaceful now. The cow couldn’t feel a thing as my colleague put in a long, even row of stitches, pulling the lips of the wound firmly together.
When he had finished he put an arm round the old man’s shoulders.
“Now, Horace, if that heals well the teat will be as good as new. But it won’t heal if you pull at it, so I want you to use this tube to milk her.” He held up a bottle of spirit in which a teat syphon gleamed.
“Very good,” said Mr. Dawson firmly. “Ah’ll use it.”
Siegfried wagged a playful finger in his face. “But you’ve got to be careful, you know. You must boil the tube every time before use and keep it always in the bottle or you’ll finish up with mastitis. Will you do that?”
“Mr. Farnon,” the little man said, holding himself very erect. “Ah’ll do exackly as you say.”
“That’s my boy, Horace.” Siegfried gave him a final pat on the back before starting to pick up his instruments. “I’ll pop back in about two weeks to take the stitches out.”
As we were leaving, the vast form of Claude Blenkiron loomed suddenly in the byre door. He was the village policeman, though obviously off duty judging by the smart check jacket and slacks.
“I saw you had summat on, Horace, and I wondered if you wanted a hand.”
“Nay, thank ye, Mr. Blenkiron. It’s good of ye but you’re ower late. We’ve done t’job,” the old man replied.
Siegfried laughed. “Wish you’d arrived half an hour ago, Claude. You could have tucked this cow under your arm while I stitched her.”
The big man nodded and a slow smile spread over his face. He looked the soul of geniality but I felt as always, that there was a lot of iron behind that smile. Claude was a well-loved character in the district, a magnificent athlete who bestowed lavish help and friendship on all who needed it on his beat. But though he was a sturdy prop to the weak and the elderly he was also a merciless scourge of the ungodly.
I had no first hand knowledge but there were rumours that Claude preferred not to trouble the magistrates with trivialities but dispensed his own form of instant justice. It was said that he kept a stout stick handy and acts of hooliganism and vandalism were rapidly followed by a shrill yowling down some dark alley. Second offenders were almost unknown and in fact his whole district was remarkably law-abiding. I looked again at the smiling face. He really was the most pleasant looking man but as I say there was something else there and nothing would ever have induced me to pick a fight with him.
“Right, then,” he said. “I was just on me way into Darrowby so I’ll say good night gentlemen.”
Siegfried put a hand on his arm. “Just a moment, Claude, I want to go on to see another of my cases. I wonder if you’d give Mr. Herriot a lift into the town.”
“I’ll do that with pleasure, Mr. Farnon,” the policeman replied and beckoned me to follow him.
In the darkness outside I got into the passenger seat of a little Morris Eight and waited for a few moments while Claude squeezed his bulk behind the wheel. As we set off he began to talk about his recent visit to Bradford where he had been taking part in a wrestling match.
We had to go through Raynes village on the way back and as we left the houses behind and began the ascent to the abbey he suddenly stopped talking. Then he startled me as he snapped upright in his seat and pointed ahead.
“Look, look there, it’s that bloody monk!”
“Where? Where?” I feigned ignorance but I had seen it all right—the cowled, slow-pacing figure heading for the wood.
Claude’s foot was on the boards and the car was screaming up the hill. At the top he swung savagely on to the roadside grass so that the headlights blazed into the depth of the wood and as he lept from the car there was a fleeting moment when his quarry was in full view; a monk, skirts hitched high, legging it with desperate speed among the trees.
The big man reached into the back of the car and pulled out what looked like a heavy walking stick. “After the bugger!” he shouted, plunging eagerly forward.
I panted after him. “Wait a minute, what are you going to do if you catch him?”
“I’m goin’ to come across his arse with me ash plant,” Claude said with chilling conviction and galloped ahead of me till he disappeared from the circle of light. He was making a tremendous noise, beating against the tree trunks and emitting a series of intimidating shouts.
My heart bled for the hapless spectre blundering in the darkness with the policeman’s cries dinning in his ears. I waited with tingling horror for the final confrontation and the tension increased as time passed and I could still hear Claude in full cry; “Come out of there, you can’t get away! Come on, show yourself!” while his splintering blows echoed among the trees.
I did my own bit of searching but found nothing. The monk did indeed seem to have disappeared and when I finally returned to the car I found the big man already there.
“Well that’s a rum ’un, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “I can’t find ’im and I can’t think where he’s got to. I was hard on his heels when I first spotted him and he didn’t get out of the wood because I can see over the fields in the moonlight. I’ve ’ad a scout round the abbey too, but he isn’t there. He’s just bloody vanished.”
I was going to say something like “Well, what else would you expect from a ghost?” but the huge hand was still swinging that stick and I decided against it.
“Well I reckon we’d better get on to Darrowby,” the policeman grunted, stamping his feet on the frosty turf. I shivered. It was bitterly cold with an east wind getting up and I was glad to climb back into the car.
In Darrowby I had a few companionable beers with Claude at his favourite haunt, the Black Bull, and it was ten thirty when I got into Skeldale House. There was no sign of Tristan and I felt a twinge of anxiety.
It must have been after midnight when I was awakened by a faint scuffling from the next room. Tristan occupied what had been the long, narrow “dressing room” in the grand days when the house was young. I jumped out of bed and opened the communicating door.
Tristan was in pyjamas and he cuddled two hot water bottles to his bosom. He turned his head and gave me a single haggard glance before pushing one of the bottles well down the bed. Then he crawled between the sheets and lay on his back with the second bottle clasped across his chest and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I went over and looked down at him in some concern. He was shaking so much that the whole bed vibrated with him.
“How are you, Triss?” I whispered.
After a few moments a faint croak came up. “Frozen to the bloody marrow, Jim.”
“But where the heck have you been?”
Again the croak. “In a drainpipe.”
“A drainpipe!” I stared at him. “Where?”
The head rolled feebly from side to side on the pillow. “Up at the wood. Didn’t you see those pipes by the roadside?”
A great light flashed. “Of course, yes! They’re going to put a new sewer into the village, aren’t they?”
“That’s right,” Tristan whispered. “When I saw that big bloke pounding into the wood I cut straight back and dived into one of the pipes. God only knows how long I was in there.”
“But why didn’t you come out after we left?”
A violent shudder shook the young man’s frame and he closed his eyes briefly. “I couldn’t hear a thing in there. I was jammed tight with my cowl over my ears and there was a ninety mile an hour wind screaming down the pipe. I didn’t hear the car start and I daren’t come out in case that chap was still standing there with his bloody great shillelagh.” He took hold of the quilt with one hand and picked at it fitfully.
“Well never mind, Triss,” I said. “You’ll soon get warmed up and you’ll be all right after a night’s sleep.”
Tristan didn’t appear to have heard. “They’re horrible things, drainpipes, Jim.” He looked up at me with hunted eyes. “They’re full of muck and they stink of cats’ pee.”
“I know, I know.” I put his hand back inside the quilt and pulled the sheets up round his chin. “You’ll be fine in the morning.” I switched off the light and tiptoed from the room. As I closed the door I could still hear his teeth chattering.
Clearly it wasn’t only the cold that was bothering him; he was still in a state of shock. And no wonder. The poor fellow had been enjoying a little session of peaceful haunting with never a care in the world when without warning there was a scream of brakes, a blaze of fight and that giant bounding into the middle of it like the demon king. It had all been too much.
All Things Bright and Beautiful Page 15
