The Cure of Souls

by Phil Rickman

  ‘So who exactly is he, Prof?’ Lol saw a man who was not that much taller than he was, but wide and powerful. A man swaggering like he owned the place, but not hurrying. A man wanting them to know he was coming.

  Prof snorted. ‘For my sins, my nearest neighbour. He lives, with his distressingly younger wife, in a converted hop-kiln somewhere over there where I’ve never been. He walks over here two, three times a week, in case maybe I got Knopfler or Sting hanging out.’

  ‘A… hop-kiln.’ Lol had fallen asleep thinking of a woman in a hop-yard near a kiln, then had dreamed of her, and then had awoken this morning thinking Did that really happen?

  ‘Very sought-after, these old kilns, apparently. So how come such a loser is able to buy one? Answer: he didn’t. It was an inheritance, and not even his own. His wife’s uncle left it to them. What kind of man was this uncle to bequeath this leeching bastard to the community?’

  ‘Nice guy, actually,’ said the man who was sitting on the floor below the window, his back against the whitewashed bricks, mug between his knees. ‘Though he went a little strange, I suppose, before his death.’

  Prof turned on him. ‘And you… when you were selling me on this place, did you mention the proximity of this freeloader, this ligger, even once?’

  ‘You weren’t interested in the neighbours.’ Simon St John, bass-player, cellist and vicar, had known Prof for many more years than Lol had. ‘As long as they don’t have noisy kids or barbecues, you’re never remotely interested in your neighbours.’

  ‘Life’s too short for neighbours,’ Prof said gruffly. ‘Whatever time I got left, I want to spend it laying down good music in my own place, at my own pace. Is that too much to ask?’ He glared down at Simon. ‘You knew him well, this uncle?’

  ‘Prof, I buried him.’ Simon lifted pale hair out of his eyes. ‘But before that, he used to come and see us periodically. He was interested in the history of the church. He was interested in most things local.’ He turned to Lol. ‘You’ll see his books in various shops in Bromyard. Local books, full of pictures – photos. Old ones and new ones he took himself, but he did them in sepia, so they looked like old ones. An Illustrated Guide to the Frome Valley, Past and Present and The Hop-grower’s Year. They’re still selling very well. I think Gerard’s quite annoyed because the income from those books was left to another niece.’

  ‘And all they got was the house,’ said Prof. ‘Poor little bleeders.’

  ‘Stewart Ash was his name – the uncle,’ Simon said. ‘Good bloke. What happened to him seemed really shocking, obviously, especially in a close community like this. But in my own defence, Prof, I have to say that when I first told you about this place I hadn’t yet met friend Gerard.’

  Prof snorted.

  ‘Both times I called at the kiln – making my initial pastoral visit, as we do – he appeared not to have heard me knocking.’ Simon flicked a wrist. ‘Naturally, I assumed he was of a reclusive disposition. And not exactly a Christian.’

  ‘Reclusive? Jesus, nah, you were wearing your bloody uniform – no wonder he wasn’t answering the door. The bastard thinks you’re collecting for the organ fund, and he doesn’t have any money, and of course that’s the very last thing these hustlers are ever going to admit – their private capital’s always tied up in some big-deal promotion they can’t tell you about just yet.’

  Lol wanted to ask what had happened to the uncle that had so shocked the community, but there wasn’t going to be time for that. He saw Gerard Stock push through the gate, leaving it open behind him, and cross the yard. Stock’s thinning hair was slicked straight back and he had a beard that was red and gold, fading to grey where it was trimmed to a small, thrusting wedge.

  And Lol was still not sure what the bloke actually did.

  ‘See, if there was a whole bunch of neighbours’ – Prof spread his hands – ‘it might not be so bad. But this guy on his own, with the wife at work all day – oh yeah, it might be her inheritance, but she goes to work while he hangs around here, supposedly engaged in renovation but actually pissing the time away and getting in what remains of my hair. I tell you, if you live in the sticks and you have just the one neighbour, it’s like I would imagine being in prison and sharing a cell. As you’ll find out when I go.’

  Lol smiled. Prof kept saying when I go like he was expecting imminent death. In fact, he was going to Abbey Road studio to produce the long-awaited fourth solo album by his old friend, the blues-guitar legend Tom Storey. Lol had agreed to mind the studio while Prof was away – knowing this was Prof’s way of forcing him to work on his own solo album, which was not long-awaited, not by anybody.

  There was a knock on the back door. Just the one. Prof jabbed his thumb towards the passage.

  ‘And if you ever do let Stock in here when I’m gone, you don’t permit him to play a chord or touch a knob on that board, that clear? Not for my benefit I’m saying this, but for yours, because if your album eventually starts to sell in any quantity, he’s gonna swear blind he co-produced it. Am I right, Simon?’

  Simon rose languidly to his feet. He wore well-faded jeans and a collarless white shirt. ‘You know me, Prof. I must never allow myself to think the worst of people.’

  Prof turned to Lol. ‘If it reaches court, this man will be your principal witness. He don’t play bass so good any more, but his God loves him increasingly.’

  Simon St John smiled but didn’t reply. Nothing Prof said ever seemed to offend him; he would bend with it, like a willow. Simon had probably not changed much, or put on a pound in weight, in twenty years. He seemed to know exactly who he was and to feel comfortable with that. He made Lol feel unstable and directionless.

  ‘Aw, just let the bastard in,’ Prof said, resigned. Then he grinned at Lol. ‘I’ll do you the favour of ensuring that he develops no interest in you from the start.’

  As good as his word, Prof handed Gerard Stock a mug of lukewarm tea and jerked a thumb at Lol.

  ‘Gerry, this little guy is Laurence Robinson. He used to be in a minor band, way back. Now he’s a psychotherapist.’

  Lol sighed. He was polishing his glasses on the hem of his T-shirt, so Gerard Stock was just a blue-denim blur, but he could feel the guy’s lazy gaze like a damp towel as Stock cranked out a laugh.

  ‘Guess we’ve all been down that road at some time.’

  Lol put his glasses back on. Stock’s voice had surprised him: underneath the vague mid-Atlantic slur, it was educated, upper-middle-class, like Simon’s. He saw that the bloke had intelligent, canny eyes, a wet little rosebud mouth inside the oval of the beard and moustache.

  ‘I was in therapy for six months, in the States,’ Stock said. ‘It really fucked me up.’ He laughed again, eyes glinting with challenge.

  Lol nodded. ‘It can happen. It isn’t right for everybody.’

  Stock drank some tea. ‘And what kind of person isn’t it right for?’

  ‘Don’t get him going,’ Prof snapped. ‘He’ll bore the arse off you with his psycho-babble. What can we do for you, Gerry? I hate to hurry you, but we need to have this rig up and running. Time is money in this business, I don’t need to tell you that.’

  ‘You most certainly don’t, Prof,’ Stock said. ‘Actually, I wanted a word with the vicar.’

  Prof said nothing, clearly thrown by this.

  ‘Me?’ Simon said, also thrown, obviously.

  ‘If you have a few minutes.’

  ‘Sure.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I was just leaving anyway. I should be out there ministering to my flock, but Prof’s still a novelty, made me self-indulgent. Would you excuse me one minute, while I pop off and have a wee? Then I’ll walk back with you.’

  When Simon vanished into the passage, Lol went over to the sink and filled it with hot water for the washing up. When he turned round to find a teacloth, he saw that Gerard Stock was contemplating him, eyes screwed up like he was trying to figure out the species of a bird in the garden.

  ‘You were in a band? Laurence… Robe
rtson…?’

  ‘Robinson,’ Lol said. ‘Lol, usually. But you probably wouldn’t—’

  ‘Ah,’ Stock said triumphantly. ‘Hazey Jane.’

  Lol’s turn to be surprised. Maybe it took one loser to recognize another.

  ‘You did this Nick Drake-y thing,’ Stock recalled, ‘long before the man was rediscovered. All sensitive and finger-picking, when everybody else was crashing about on synths. Brave of you.’

  ‘Didn’t get us anywhere,’ Lol said lightly.

  ‘If ten years too early.’ Stock’s teeth were very white and even – Hollywood teeth. He couldn’t always have been a loser. ‘And now everybody’s discovered Drake, it’s probably too late. A hard and ungrateful business, my friend. You’re probably better off, even in psychotherapy.’

  ‘Unfortunately, everybody’s discovered that, too,’ Lol said. ‘Story of my life.’

  ‘Sad,’ said Gerard Stock, as Simon returned.

  Prof and Lol followed the other two men down the passage and out through the back door, Prof seeming much happier now that he was seeing Stock’s back. The sun was a big white spotlamp, tracking them, and all around the countryside was surging with summer, the meadow lavishly splattered with wild flowers – Mother Nature flaunting herself, happy to be a whore.

  Prof stopped in the yard, and sat a Panama hat on his bald head. ‘He piss you off, Laurence?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Give him time.’ Prof rubbed his beard. His baggy American T-shirt carried the merry message BABES IS ALL. ‘What’s he want with Simon, that’s what I would like to know. He strike you as a man who feels himself in need of spiritual absolution?’

  Lol smiled. ‘You jealous?’

  ‘I shall treat that with the contempt it deserves,’ Prof said.

  ‘What does Mr Stock actually do? You never said.’

  ‘Nothing! Strolls about like the squire while the poor wife’s at work, temping for some agency in Hereford. She inherits the house, now she earns the money for them to live there. All right, he was some kind of a freelance publicist, a term that can mean whatever he wants it to mean on any particular day. He offers to handle my PR. I say, Gerard, watch my lips: I do not want any relations with the public.’

  Lol watched Stock and the vicar crossing the river bridge at the bottom of the meadow, where the line of poplars began. Where he’d walked last night. He told Prof about the hop-kiln he’d seen, with its fairy-tale tower. Prof nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I expect that would be his place. It’s not a prime location, Stock maintains, on account of being blocked in on either side by these two enormous great metal barns. Same situation as this, with the land all around it owned by someone else. He should moan – like he paid a penny for it.’

  ‘They still grow hops there?’

  ‘Used to.’

  ‘Only there was this kind of hop-yard with no hops – well, a few shrivelled bits of bine hanging from the wires. I mean, hops had obviously been grown at one time, in quantity, but it was all barren now. Scorched earth and just these poles. It was… depressing.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Prof said. ‘This would be the wilt, I expect.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Verticulum Wilt… nah, that’s wrong, but some word like that. It’s this voracious hop disease – no known cure. Wipes out your whole crop, contaminates your land like anthrax or something, throwing hop-farmers out of business. You want to know about this stuff, take a walk down to the hop museum by the main road.’ Prof smiled slyly. ‘You’ll like it there – check out the back room.’

  ‘Why?’

  Prof winked. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘apparently that’s how these stables got split off from the farm. The owner has hard times, maybe from the wilt, sells his land bit by bit, flogs off what buildings he can, for conversion. Maybe that’s also how Stock’s wife’s uncle got his kiln, I forget. It’s an ill wind, Laurence.’

  It was noon, the time of no shadows, but the sun was momentarily weakened by a trailer of muslin cloud.

  ‘What’s the, er… what’s the wife like?’ Lol asked.

  Prof gave him a curious look. Prof had sensitive, multi-track hearing – sometimes even picking up tracks you hadn’t recorded.

  ‘Never met her, Laurence. Quiet, I’m told. Often the case with a guy like that – wants a listener.’

  ‘And what happened to the uncle?’

  ‘Ha! I’m detecting – forgive me – a burgeoning interest here?’

  ‘Well, not—’

  ‘The moment I mention hop-kilns! After our discussion, am I to conclude you went for one of your little strolls and you came back with – dare I suggest – the seed of an idea? I’m thinking of the song you did a year or two back for Norma Waterson – “The Baker’s Tune”?’

  ‘ “The Baker’s Lament”.’

  ‘About the slow fading of the old village fabric – a good one. Well, I’m not pushing it, but there are strong themes here, too. Change and decay. Visit the Hop Museum – in fact, I’m going to set that up for you.’

  ‘Prof, there’s no—’

  ‘Check it out. Reject it, if you want, but check it out first.’

  Lol gave up. In an avalanche, lie down.

  ‘So what did happen to the uncle?’

  ‘Aha.’ Prof sat on an old rustic bench against the stable wall, tilting his Panama over his eyes. ‘Well, that, Laurence, was a very sick wind.’

  Lol waited. Prof seemed to have a remarkably extensive knowledge of people he claimed he hadn’t ever wanted to meet.

  He talked from under his hat, stretching out his legs. ‘I think what Simon didn’t mention about this Stewart Ash was his interest – as an author, a chronicler of social history – in our travelling friends. Not the New Age travellers – the old kind.’

  ‘Gypsies?’

  Prof nodded. ‘Romanies. Used to come here in force every autumn for the hop-picking. Enormous work in those days before the machines. Some of them even travelling over from Europe in their vardos, year after year. A colourful spectacle – you’ll find all this in the hop museum, as well. The Romanies were a little community inside a community, and of course Ash very much wanted to record their memories, for his book – what they thought of the hop-masters, how well they were treated. A man with a social conscience. Well, there’s a few Romany families, not many, still coming back, to help the machinery do the work – though whether they’ll be back this year, after what happened, is anyone’s guess. Anyway, off goes our Mr Ash to talk to them. Only gypsies, by tradition, don’t like to talk. It’s their history, why should the gaujos profit from it?’

  Prof tilted up his hat, looking for Lol’s reaction.

  ‘That’s a point,’ Lol said cautiously.

  ‘I have sympathy for the Romanies,’ Prof said. ‘A persecuted race, big victims of the Holocaust.’

  Prof rarely talked about this; he liked to call himself a ‘lapsed Jew’, but Lol knew from other sources that his family had been considerably depleted by Hitler. Aunts and uncles, certainly, if not his parents. It would explain why Prof, who was accustomed to ignoring his immediate neighbourhood, had taken a certain interest in this story.

  ‘But Ash, you see, was by all accounts a generous man, and he didn’t expect the stuff for nothing. He established what you might call a rapport with a few of the gypsies. What he might have called a rapport, though they would probably have had a different name for it.’

  ‘Like, they got more out of him than he got out of them?’

  ‘They haven’t survived, the Romanies, by passing up on opportunities, though it was probably a little more complicated than ripping off the guy for a bunch of made-up stories. Complicated, for one thing, by Ash being representative of another significant minority.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Did he form too close a rapport with certain of his travelling friends? Did they take his money for services rendered? None of this ever came out in court when the case was heard earlier this year. It a
mounted to two little bleeders breaking in one night. Gypsy boys, brothers. Old man comes down in the night, catches them messing with his cameras and stuff – this was how it was put in the papers. They beat the poor bugger to death.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Lol.

  ‘Last year, this would be, late summer. There you go: ain’t what it was, the countryside.’ Prof laughed hoarsely. ‘Bear this in mind, Laurence. Make sure you always lock up at night, when I’ve gone.’

  4

  The Reservoir

  ST MARY THE Virgin guarded Dilwyn like a mother hen: a good, solid medieval parish church with a squat steeple on the tower. But it was always going to be the village below that got the attention: bijou black and white cottages around the green – a movie set, birthday card, timber-framed heaven.

  In fact, you only really noticed the church on the way out of the village. And if she hadn’t been leaving the village, Merrily might also have missed seeing the woman, coming down from the porch past ancient gravestones – just a few of them, selectively spaced as if the less-sightly stones had been removed.

  She seemed as timeless as the cottages themselves: a big woman, comfortably overweight, walking with her head high, a shopping basket over her arm. You expected there to be big, rosy apples in it, maybe some fresh, brown eggs.

  It could be her, couldn’t it? Merrily slowed the car and then reversed, turning on the forecourt of the Crown Inn, and parking next to the village green.

  The Shelbones’ bungalow had been easy enough to find, sunk into a lane leading out of the village in the general direction of Stretford whose church of St Cosmas and St Damien – once desecrated with a pool of urine and a gutted crow – had been the scene of Merrily’s first, humiliating exorcism-of-place. The bungalow had lace curtains and flower beds with bright clusters of bedding plants. It was traditional – no barbecue, no water-feature. And no one had answered the door.