Ferney

by James Long

  ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Have you seen the butcher?’ asked Mrs Mullard, peering out into the yard. ‘He was here just now.’

  ‘He hasn’t been here these fifty years,’ said Ferney. ‘You’re getting soft in the head.’

  ‘Oh, go on with you.’ The old lady twinkled at him, then stared. ‘You’re looking a bit old.’

  ‘I haven’t been too well,’ Ferney admitted.

  ‘Are you looking after him properly?’ The old woman turned on Gally.

  ‘I try to.’

  ‘Well you must both come here for Christmas,’ she said triumphantly, as though that were the obvious solution to the whole problem. ‘We’ll have parsnips.’

  ‘It’s not for you to invite me,’ said Ferney. ‘You don’t live here any more. They do.’ He nodded at Gally and Mike.

  Mrs Mullard seemed to falter as she looked round at the two of them. The spark went out of her. ‘Oh,’ she said, then she brightened again. ‘Well that’s all right. They can have you. Anyway,’ she looked at Mike, ‘who are you?’

  They had another cup of tea all round and then it was Ferney who with some firmness persuaded Mrs Mullard to get back in the car to be taken home. He wouldn’t accept any lift. ‘I’ve only done half my walk,’ he said. ‘Got to put in another mile or two.’

  ‘Have you got your painkiller?’ Gally said quietly, looking at his face.

  He slapped his pocket, but she wasn’t convinced.

  They put Mrs Mullard in the front of the car and she chatted happily all the way to Buckhorn Weston about a score of people they had never heard of. Gally wasn’t at all sure anybody else would have heard of them either. At least half of them sounded as though they only existed in the old lady’s head. When they got to her gate, she said, ‘Let me out here. I’ve got to feed the chickens,’ and began to stump off without a backward glance.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Mike. ‘You’ve forgotten your shopping. I’ll get it.’ He went to the back of the car and offered her the basket of parsnips. She came back a few steps and shook her head.

  ‘Never seen that before. It must be yours or perhaps it’s Mary’s.’

  He stood there undecided and Gally got out to join him. ‘Do have it,’ she said. ‘It’s a present.’

  Mrs Mullard took it doubtfully. ‘Funny present.’ She looked at them. ‘You give him parsnips – when he comes for Christmas. Ferney likes parsnips.’

  ‘My God, she’s got a lot worse,’ Gally said uneasily when they were back in the car heading home.

  ‘You’re not kidding. What are we going to do now?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About old Ferney. She’s as good as invited him.’

  ‘It was her, not us,’ she said judiciously.

  ‘Yes but it looks awful now, doesn’t it? I’m sure he’ll expect us to say something.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how it looks, Mike. It’s how you feel about it that matters.’

  ‘Well, fine, but I suppose that’s it. Now it’s on the table, it makes me feel bad. I know it’s all been very difficult but it is Christmas and I suppose it’s our duty.’

  ‘You mean you’ll feel bad if you don’t ask him over?’

  ‘I suppose that’s what I do mean. It’s not as if we had any family coming down.’

  Mike’s parents lived their remote existence in a retirement bungalow on Anglesey. They had shown no interest in seeing the new house and Gally’s austere mother saw no point in Christmas.

  ‘All right. I’m very happy to have him over, but it’s your decision, Mike, so it’s got to be you that invites him, not me, and you’ve got to mean it.’

  Mike thought for a while.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And if he starts talking about, you know, old things, you’ve got to remember it was your idea all the time.’

  He just nodded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mike collected Ferney at eleven o’clock on Christmas morning and the old man was waiting for him, dressed in a soft tweed suit and carrying a basket containing wrapped parcels. Gally, anxious to preserve the point that this was all Mike’s idea, stayed at the house making sure everything was ready. She was on tenterhooks and went to a window as soon as she heard the car come back, wanting early warning of how it was going between the two of them. They seemed to be talking cheerfully enough as they came in. Mike was standing straighter than usual, very much the host. Ferney seemed more bent and she suspected they were both playing roles to make it easier for her and perhaps for themselves, too. She met them at the door and Ferney clasped her hand, looked her up and down and said, ‘May your house stand fast against the storm, may winter treat you kindly and the New Year bless your increase.’

  ‘And Merry Christmas to you,’ she said, with no mention of the New Year. She wanted to ask him where the words came from but didn’t for fear that in telling her he might snap the thread of Mike’s tolerance, so she ushered him in after showing him the shining green bicycle, complete with chain guard and basket, that Mike had presented to her that morning.

  The men had a glass of sherry, sitting comfortably around the blazing fire. Gally, in deference to the demands of the baby, stuck to tomato juice.

  ‘Did Gally warn you?’ said Mike. ‘We have a vegetarian Christmas lunch.’

  ‘She did,’ said Ferney, ‘and I’m very much looking forward to it,’ and Gally blessed him for not saying that he was vegetarian, too, and of course always had been.

  There was in any case no need to apologize. Gally had made a cashew nut and mushroom roast with a rich gravy. It even had mashed parsnip among the ingredients, though that was an accident of the recipe and had nothing to do with Effie Mullard’s doubtful urging. They served it with chestnuts, Brussels sprouts and cranberry sauce and Ferney ate heartily to start with but soon slowed down. Gally and Mike could both see sudden signs of pain on his face and he stopped eating completely for a minute or two while they gave him space by talking to each other. At that visible sign Mike seemed to realize for the first time the scale of the pain Ferney was going through and his whole demeanour changed from forced formality to concerned friendliness. The moment passed and Ferney began to eat again, but his appetite had gone and when Mike took the plates his was still half full.

  ‘It was very good,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t manage more. Not used to it, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s just some fruit salad. It’s fresh. Would you like some?’

  ‘A little would be nice.’

  They went into the sitting-room to drink coffee and Mike looked questioningly at Gally, who nodded.

  ‘We’ve got something for you,’ Mike said, picking up a parcel from the table.

  Ferney took it from him with a smile of acknowledgement. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He opened it to find a box of cassettes, talking books. They had searched for and found his favourite subjects and he looked through them with a pleased expression, taking each one out for inspection, then turned to Gally questioningly. ‘This doesn’t mean you’re going to stop reading, does it?’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t. It’s for the times when I’m not there.’

  He reached into his basket and brought out parcels for each of them. Mike opened his to find a bottle of port. ‘It’s not quite the one I asked for, I’m afraid. Mrs Sparrow shopped for me and I don’t think she understood the difference.’

  Mike was pleased anyway.

  Gally’s package contained a pen-and-ink drawing, faded and framed in ebony and it prompted a cry of delight when she recognized it for what it was – their house, drawn a long time earlier when it had thatch on its roof instead of slates, smaller without the later additions at the end.

  ‘I thought that belonged here,’ he said, watching her as Mike crossed the room and sat next to her on the sofa to look at it. ‘I’ve had it put away for a while until there was the right wall for it to hang on.’

  ‘The front door’s in the middle, too,’ she s
aid. ‘It must be quite old.’

  ‘Last century some time.’

  Gally, looking at the picture, saw tiny initials in the corner, GA or maybe GR, and, recognizing the similarities to her own style, silently wished for Mike not to notice them. He didn’t.

  ‘I’ve got another present, too. It’s meant for both of you,’ Ferney went on and lifted the last packet out of the basket. It was quite small but clearly very heavy. He hesitated. ‘I just have to say something first. I want you both to have it, so that it’s safe, but it wouldn’t do to go taking it to any museums or anything like that. It would only cause trouble. Is that all right?’

  Mike and Gally looked at each other.

  ‘That’s hard to say without knowing,’ said Mike slowly. ‘You make it sound a bit . . . dangerous. It sounds like you’re not sure it’s yours to give. Is it . . . is it something like the ring?’

  ‘A bit like it, but it’s mine as much as it’s anybody’s. Until I hand it over, then it’s yours,’ said Ferney wryly. ‘It’s something I think you would appreciate. There’s quite a story to it.’

  Mike nodded and Ferney held it out to him. He seemed reluctant to take it.

  ‘Give it to Gally,’ he suggested.

  ‘No, you take it,’ said Gally.

  He unwrapped it carefully. Inside the red and green paper with its pattern of holly leaves was a mass of white tissue and he turned it over and over, hefting the weight as he unwrapped it. What came out of all the paper was puzzling, a thick, grey, metallic object shaped like a flat, blunt dagger, maybe nine or ten inches long, covered with patches of white powder. Mike studied it curiously, holding it gingerly by the handle. It meant nothing to Gally.

  ‘Turn it over,’ suggested Ferney, ‘and round the other way.’

  That revealed two things. With what he’d taken to be the handle now furthest away, the dagger stopped being a dagger and revealed itself as a crude, stubby cross. The foot and the arms were straight-sided, but the topmost part splayed out, widening into a segment like a pie slice. The second revelation was what made them both stare. The surface was covered in deeply incised lettering.

  ‘I know this,’ Mike said suddenly, ‘I’ve seen it. What on earth is it?’

  ‘Can you work it out?’ Ferney asked, watching him closely.

  The letters were large crude capitals, running across every inch of the cross with no regard for where the words began or ended. ‘Hici,’ said Mike, ‘no, Hicia cet.’ He frowned, working it out. ‘Oh, I see, it’s a J not an I. It’s “Hic jacet sepultus” . . .’ He put it down on his lap and looked up at Ferney, shocked, then read it all off: ‘ “Hic jacet sepultus inclitus Rex Arturius insula Avalonia”.’

  ‘Which means?’ asked Gally.

  He shook his head in wonder. ‘You won’t believe this.’ He looked at Ferney. ‘You know what it means, do you?’

  Ferney nodded. ‘You say it, if you know.’

  It took Mike a moment or two to get it out, looking down at the cross in wonder.

  He shook his head and looked at Gally. ‘It’s something like “Here lies the tomb of the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon”. At least, I think “inclitus” is renowned.’ He turned back to stare at Ferney. ‘I’ve seen pictures of this,’ he corrected himself. ‘Well, drawings anyway. That’s all there is, just drawings. This thing has been missing since God knows when. Wait a minute.’

  He crossed to the half-full bookshelf by the fire and searched it quickly.

  ‘Here we are.’

  It was a dark green book: A Field Guide to Somerset Archaeology.

  ‘I’m sure it’s in here. Now, what am I looking for?’ he riffled through it.

  ‘I’ve got that one,’ said Ferney. ‘It’s good. I expect it’s under Glastonbury.’

  Mike nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Here it is. Here’s the actual drawing of it, for God’s sake. Look, Gally. The caption says “The lead cross supposed to have been found with the burial of King Arthur at Glastonbury”. Now, let’s see,’ he skimmed down the page. ‘It says the monks found it in 1191, but it disappeared later on.’

  Ferney nodded. ‘About 1540, I think.’

  Mike held the cross up in one hand and the book in the other, looking from one to the other. ‘This must be a copy,’ he said and added quickly, ‘Very beautiful for all that. Where did it come from?’

  ‘Out of the pits. Where you saw me digging the other day.’

  Mike stared at him. ‘You dug it up? Out of the pits? But Ferney, we must tell someone. It could be a cache. There could be all kinds of other things there.’

  Ferney looked a little sheepish. ‘It was in the tin box, you see.’

  ‘The box? The box you dug up?’ Mike was having trouble with this, though to Gally it was all quite obvious. ‘But who put the box there?’

  ‘Well, I did, of course,’ said Ferney. ‘A fair old time ago, though.’

  Mike looked at the book and at the cross and put the cross very carefully down on the table. ‘Oh good Lord,’ he said, and rubbed his forehead. ‘Would you tell us the story? The whole story?’

  ‘It’s a funny old tale,’ said Ferney. ‘Tells you a lot about the religion business. I’ll tell it if you really want to hear. It’s not exactly a Christmas story.’

  ‘Tell us anyway. Please?’

  He was about to start when he heaved up in his seat, turning white, and clutched at his waist, blowing out a fierce breath of pain. They were both by his side in a moment, but he got it back under control.

  ‘Ferney, you really must take some of your stuff,’ said Gally.

  He nodded with his eyes shut. ‘It’s in the basket.’

  She poured it for him, watching anxiously as he drank it down. ‘Sit there and relax for a while,’ she said, recognizing he needed a bit of time to himself. ‘We’ll just go and clear the table.’

  Mike followed her into the kitchen and only managed to keep silent until he got the door shut. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said. ‘It’s got to be a copy, hasn’t it? I hope it’s a copy. I mean it must be old, you can see that. It’s got oxidization all over it. For heaven’s sake, what if it’s not a copy? We can’t just hang on to it, can we?’

  ‘We agreed we would.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . it’s not a copy. I’m sure it’s real. You can tell, can’t you? It’s got an atmosphere.’

  ‘Either way we agreed. Now are you sure you want to hear the story?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you getting all upset. It’s going to be about, you know, other times.’

  ‘But there’s the cross. It’s sort of inevitable. You can’t get away from it.’

  ‘You mean you’re prepared to believe him just because there’s a solid object?’

  ‘It helps.’

  ‘Come on, we’d better go back.’

  Ferney was sitting in his armchair leafing through the archaeology book, looking better. ‘There’s some stuff on Cenwalch’s castle in here,’ he said, ‘and Stavordale.’

  ‘I haven’t read about Stavordale,’ said Mike. ‘It’s a priory, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not far away,’ said Ferney. ‘Private house now. Best condition it’s ever been in. It was always a poor sort of a place. Costs money to keep up stonework, and those monks never had any. There were a lot of shenanigans about who should have it when Henry shut down the monasteries. They pinched a few bits and pieces from it to put in the church here, you know.’

  ‘Do you feel well enough to tell us about the cross?’ Gally asked.

  ‘That stuff works,’ he said. ‘Though I expect it wouldn’t if I used it all the time.’ They sat down and he smiled. ‘Now, if you’re sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin.

  ‘Course, you know about Glastonbury,’ he said, ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Started out with the Irish monks. They were simple in their ways, lots of praying and singing, and then it got bigger and bigger and like things usually do it all started to be about s
omething else. Rich families started sending their kids there, like a boarding school, and they had money sticking to them so the monks kept on building bits and pieces to make the place grander until the Vikings came and stopped them, pretty much put an end to it. They got it going again, though. It was a busy old place, drew in the pilgrims like nobody’s business. Then they had a bit of a setback in the year 1184.’ He glanced at Mike. ‘I looked it up to check. In a book. In 1184 they set fire to it. There was some young kid who’d been beaten for not sweeping properly and he put a torch to a chest full of manuscripts they kept in there, back of the altar.’

  ‘What book’s that in?’ said Mike, interested.

  ‘Oh that bit’s not in a book. That was just local talk at the time. Anyway it was a hell of a blaze, you could see it for miles.’

  Gally swept off on Ferney’s words. A warm, windy evening in May and she was anxious. Her uncle had been summonsed to Bruton, charged with clearing his plot deeper into the forest than it was meant to be. Her father was brooding outside on the bench. She knew he was worried that if the fine was too big they’d all have to help pay, which would mean selling a cow and they’d only been able to keep three over last winter. They needed calves to build up again before the November slaughter. There were six other children to feed, though the baby, like the one before, wasn’t going to last long.

  ‘Why don’t you go and play with the others?’ said her mother. ‘You don’t seem to do it any more. You spend more time with that boy than you do with your own flesh and blood.’ There was a call from outside and her mother ducked her head through the doorway. ‘And there he is. I suppose you’ll be off ?’

  The news Ferney brought was just for her, but she had to tell the others, still feeling a member of the family despite his stronger call on her, and it set them all rushing off with most of the rest of the village too. They hurried past the little wooden church to Pond Hill and there away to the north-west was a great red glow in the sky and even, now and then, a tiny individual uprush of flames that carried across the miles. There was no doubt what it was. This was no small hut burning. Such events were commonplace, but in the sparsely populated flatlands below they would make a brief flare, a little local tragedy. This was a blaze feeding on massive volumes of wood to make such a mark from far on the dark horizon. They all knew their bearings well from this hill.