The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  “Oh no, no,” Hedge said with conviction since he was now actually telling the truth. “Nothing whatever to do with MI5 I do assure you. It’s really not important, you know.”

  “It’s not? Then why mention the man, in connection, it would seem, with men dressed as poachers?”

  “Oh, I really don’t know, Wally —”

  “Reverend Father.”

  Hedge stared. “What?”

  “You’ll address me as Reverend Father, Brother Ducky. Remember who you are.”

  “Oh, that’s a lot of rot,” Hedge said angrily. “This is no proper monastery and —”

  “That may well be so,” Reverend Father broke in, grinning, “but it pays dividends. Now — your man Shard. He intrigues me. I’m going to suggest that your man Shard was himself snooping round my park a day or two ago. Like a poacher. Would you say I was right, Brother Ducky? Remember you’ve defected, your loyalties have undergone a shift, have they not? Towards me, as I’ve mentioned before. If I’m to trust you, you must give me reason to do so, mustn’t you?”

  Hedge said sulkily, “I don’t know all Shard’s movements, I don’t check on him all the time. It’s possible he took a look around here, yes.”

  Reverend Father nodded. “That’s very interesting,” he said. “You’ll quite likely meet him before long, but for now that’s enough about your man Shard. The current point is, we’re moving out. You and me and some others — in fact the whole of the brotherhood. In plain clothes. When MI5 gets here, they’ll find the place deserted and a fat lot of help they’ll get from that.”

  Hedge said, “So everything’s ready, is it?”

  “Nearly. Now, I need to pick your brain, Cousin Eustace as was. There are things I need to know in regard to the way in which the government, who are certainly aware of what they believe I have in mind to do, is likely to try to circumvent me. Do you follow?”

  “I think I do,” Hedge answered cautiously. “You’re referring to this plan to — to infiltrate persons of, shall we say, fascist outlook into places of strategic importance, and —”

  “And take over the country?” Reverend Father seemed amused, Hedge thought, though he couldn’t see why. “Just that?”

  Hedge said, “Yes. That’s what I was about to say.”

  “Hook, line and sinker,” Reverend Father murmured, still amused. “No … awareness of anything else?”

  “I beg your pardon … Reverend Father?”

  “The bloody idiots can’t see beyond the ends of their noses. I scarcely dared to hope … but it seems they’ve been asleep. They really believe that’s all, do they?”

  “So far as I’m aware, yes. Are you now saying —” Reverend Father was laughing heartily. “It’s not just that, Brother Ducky, though it’s all part and parcel. Have you ever heard of a village called Hanbury?”

  Hedge shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “It’s in Staffordshire. Heart of England. During the war, a huge arsenal was set up underground — beneath Hanbury. Alabaster mines. It was used by the Air Ministry … I don’t know how many tons of high explosive were stored there, about a hundred feet below the surface, but I believe it wasn’t far short of five thousand. Well, one day — and no-one really knows how it happened — it all went up. The racket was heard in London, and the boffins in Geneva put it down as an earthquake. There were a lot of casualties, and that part of Staffordshire ceased to exist, the land just simply died. The government of the day made no admissions and the affair was played down.”

  “Really.” Hedge wasn’t very interested. Past history was past history.

  “It’s going to happen again,” Reverend Father said in a conversational tone. “There’s a similar arsenal in North Yorkshire. They’ve made use of some of the deep cave systems, you know —”

  “Candleby!”

  Reverend Father nodded. “I see you’ve heard of it.” Hedge had, peripherally. He believed that around ten thousand tons of high explosives had been stored deep below the North Yorkshire fells after the massive troop cuts and the start of the phased withdrawal from BAOR. He recalled the local fuss, the strenuous objections and the summary way in which those objections had been over-ruled. Scattered communities, the local people had been called, just isolated farms here and there and plenty of sheep. There was literally nowhere else as suitable for the purpose. But if that lot was to blow up … Hedge let out a long breath.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “As I said, it’s all part and parcel.”

  “I don’t follow,” Hedge said, beginning to shake. He had, it seemed defected into more than he had bargained for, more than the Foreign Secretary had bargained for when he had sent him into the field. More, presumably, than even Mrs Heffer had bargained for. “Part and parcel of the take-over, do you mean?”

  “Brilliantly deduced, my dear chap. And now you’re part of it, dear Cousin Eustace, at least as far as the spilling of relevant beans is concerned. Oh, and by the way … there’s something else.”

  “What?” Hedge asked, fearful of the answer.

  “There’s been more local protest — I dare say you know that. The farmers are dead worried that something could go wrong, not knowing, of course, that something is going to go rather nastily wrong. So there’s to be a visit of investigation and reassurance by the brass. It’s when the brass gets there that we go into action. It’s all planned down to the last detail. Except one. We don’t yet know the time and date of the visit, not that we’re worried. We’ll be ready whenever it’s to be.”

  “I see.” Fear was now rising fast in Hedge: he might be required to be present for all he knew. “Who’s the brass?”

  “Oh, the usual bigwigs. Defence Secretary, Home Secretary, Minister for the Army. Chief of the General Staff. And Mrs Heffer.”

  Twelve

  Brother Werribee took the call in the northern farmhouse. Ringing off, he said, “Reverend Father. Coming up, they all are. With a Brother Ducky and who the bloody hell that might be I don’t bloody know. But there’s a warning about you, cobber.”

  The last remark had been addressed to Shard, who was lying on the floor of what looked like the farm sitting-room, now with his wrists and ankles firmly roped. “Seems you c’d be this Brother Ducky’s man. Right, is that?”

  “Who’s Brother Ducky?” Shard asked blankly.

  “Dunno. Though I reckon you do. But — name of Shard. You?”

  Shard met the Australian’s eye. If his name was known, there was no real point in a denial. He said, “Yes.” By inference, he decided, Brother Ducky must be Hedge, but what was Hedge doing in Stockbridge, in the monastery?

  Brother Werribee said, “Give, right?”

  Shard shrugged. “I’ve nothing to give.”

  “No? Who are you, for a start? Apart from the name.”

  So that hadn’t emerged. Not yet. Shard wasn’t going to help the process. Time might be on either side but he was going to cling to a hope that it was on his. He repeated that he had nothing to say, and at that Klaus The Long Knife came across, fingering his namesake.

  He said, “A little of the persuasion, Brother Werribee?”

  Brother Werribee pondered but then shook his head. “No, let it ride, we’ll find out when Reverend Father gets here. Reverend Father, he didn’t say nothing about roughing the bloke up.”

  The German seemed disappointed. He said, “I think Reverend Father is a little, what you would say, soft?”

  “Not what I think,” Brother Werribee said. “We’ll wait till he gets here.”

  “As you say, then.” Klaus paused, looking down with dislike at Shard. In the German’s book a little roughing up never came amiss. “When do you expect contact with Fountains?”

  “Just as soon as Harry’s ready. Not before.”

  “Yes. And when will that be, Brother Werribee?”

  “Dunno. Just wait and bloody see, right? Reverend Father, he’s not the one to rush anything. We have to wait to know when the nobs are c
oming, that’s the first thing.”

  Brother Peter came in with the rest of supper. “Super fry-up,” he announced, putting the plates on a table in the middle of the room. He looked down at Shard. “What about him, Brother Werribee?” A plateful awaited Shard, who couldn’t eat with his hands tied.

  “Act as nanny,” Brother Werribee said. “Feed him, right?”

  “After I’ve had mine,” Brother Peter said. “I’m ever so hungry, you’ve no idea. All that way with nothing to eat, it’s been murder.” He sat down, then shot up again, saying “oooh” and clutching his backside. “Who put that there?” His hand came up, holding a small brass door-knob. “Nearly went right up,” he said reprovingly.

  Brother Werribee gave a coarse laugh. “Never known a poufter complain about that,” he said. Brother Peter sat down again in a huff and started on his plateful. When he had finished he came across to Shard and spooned egg and bacon into his mouth, rather messily. “Bloody mother’s help now,” he said crossly.

  “I don’t feel like eating anyway,” Shard said.

  “Oh, it’s all right really. After all, you have to eat and you’ve always spoken to me as though I’m human. Not like some,” he added, shooting a malevolent look at Brother Werribee who was munching his way through an extra large portion.

  Supper out of the way, arrangements were made for the night. Turns would be taken by the brothers and the German to maintain a guard on the prisoner and keep a general watch on the security of the farmhouse in case of intruders, although, as Brother Werribee remarked, there were only bloody sheep to intrude anyway.

  *

  Next morning, after the hairstylist had departed, there was a call for Mrs Heffer. The caller was the Home Secretary. “What is it, Rufus?”

  “Candleby, Prime Minister.”

  “Candleby?” Mrs Heffer sounded blank.

  “The — er.” You didn’t exactly mention the high explosive dump even though there wasn’t any secrecy: circumlocutions were second nature to members of the cabinet. “The complaints, Prime —”

  “Oh, yes, those wretched people in Yorkshire, that’s what you mean, isn’t it, so why not say so?”

  “I’m sorry, Prime Minister —”

  “I really cant think what they have to complain about, Rufus. To complain is so very unpatriotic I always think. So few people — it’s very selfish of them. The stuff has to go somewhere and that part of Yorkshire is very suitable.”

  “I —”

  “It’s all a great nuisance when I have so many other things to do. And so many worries, Rufus. This Nazi resurgence business being one, as you know very well.” Mrs Heffer sighed forbearingly and fluffed critically at her hair. (A shade too stiff? And thinking of shade, was it or was it not time to modify the colour a little? Well, she would have to see.) “I suppose you’re trying to rush me into naming a day for our visit, isn’t that it, Rufus?”

  “Well, Prime Minister, there will be arrangements to be made and so many people to consult, local authorities and so on, and the travel arrangements too —”

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that.” Mrs Heffer went off at a tangent. “Has anything been heard from the man Sedge? Sedge of the Foreign Office?”

  “Rowland Mayes, Prime Minister —”

  “You mean you don’t know and you’re fobbing me off on to the Foreign Secretary. Find out, Rufus, and let me know immediately. That’s much more important than these wretched people in Yorkshire.”

  Mrs Heffer put the handset down and frowned at herself in the mirror. As she had said, she detested moaners who put self before country. And she was very surprised that there should be so much fuss. You expected it of Socialists, of course you did, but the rural areas of North Yorkshire had always been Conservative. It was a tradition with the farming community. At least it had been until the Poll Tax. Mrs Heffer gritted her teeth and forced herself not to have more regrets about the Poll Tax. It had crossed her mind to have the high explosives moved to Scotland where again there were more sheep and cows than people; but she understood that there were no natural cave systems in Scotland and the expense of digging out an underground cavern big enough would be simply colossal. There was another consideration too: the only part of Scotland that might, just might, have been to some extent suitable was slap beneath the particular grouse moor that her husband was accustomed to shoot over and she simply could not do that to Percival who was simply splendid and had quite enough to put up with what with her being required by so many people at all hours of the day and night so that they had had scarcely any time alone together for years and years … but all the same it was a pity about Scotland because the Scots had so many complaints about everything Conservative under the sun that one more would make no difference to the vote …

  The telephone rang again.

  “Yes. Oh, it’s you, Roly.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister —”

  “What about Mr Sedge?”

  “Hedge, Prime Minister —”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Is there any progress?”

  “He’s following your orders, Prime Minister —”

  “Of course he is. But you haven’t answered my question. Has there been any progress?”

  “There has been no report as yet —”

  “By which you mean there has not been any progress. Yes or no, Roly.”

  “Er — no, Prime —”

  The rattle in Rowland Mayes’s ear indicated temper on the part of the Prime Minister. Rowland Mayes hissed a little between his teeth but immediately he told himself that that was unfair because Mrs Heffer was such a splendid woman really and of course she was bearing an immense burden, was under immense strain and it was up to her colleagues to make allowances and support her in every way possible. But, since Rowland Mayes had no wish at all to have to report no progress the next time he received a Prime Ministerial prod, he at once telephoned the Knightsbridge number on his security line and got Ms Gunning. It was, he said, time MI5 made an entry to the monastery of God’s Anointed. Time, he said, was passing. Ms Gunning agreed that indeed it was and she would pass the message on. Rowland Mayes rang off feeling vaguely put down; Ms Gunning’s tone had seemed to convey that he, Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, was himself allowing time to pass while he made unnecessary calls to the people who really did the work. Ms Gunning was like that, of course.

  *

  “You go in the middle, Brother Ducky. Between Brother Kitchener and Brother Infirmarer. I’ll be in the lead with Brother Chamberlain.”

  “All right,” Hedge said, “Reverend Father.”

  The evacuation was now under way, all the monks in their plain clothes. A lot of weight having been put on in the refectory over the years much of the clothing no longer fitted. They made a motley bunch: tweed jackets like Hedge, jeans, T-shirts, Marks & Spencer’s vests in some cases, braces, belts, multi-coloured socks or sandals on bare feet. They followed the route taken by Brothers Werribee and Peter with Shard. There was some difficulty over the replacing behind them of the heavy slab that covered the descent shaft. Brother Chamberlain, the ex chucker-out, shifting his place in the line, said that he could manage where lesser men would fail. Going down last, he hefted the slab, with much swearing, as close to the hole as he could whilst leaving enough room to admit his own body, and then, with his feet anchored firmly on the ladder, he reached back up and inched the slab into position, lifting it just clear of the ground with his tremendous strength until it dropped with a muted thud into place. The job completed, Hedge heard him remark somewhat loudly that he had bloody near given himself a fucking hernia.

  Hedge himself had difficulty later on with the path alongside the underground waterfall, which crashed and thundered alarmingly in his ears. In the end, after much bad-tempered argument and references to Brother Ducky being aptly named, Hedge was carried bodily by Brother Chamberlain and Brother Infirmarer between them. The rest of the way was uneventful; and they emerged from the
exit into the darkness of night and into a very cold wind with more than a hint of rain to come. Salisbury Plain stood bare and grim and empty. Empty, that was except for one gloomy, anoraked man who approached Reverend Father and said everything was tickety-boo and would the brothers all follow him, please.

  They did, in single file, Hedge once again between Brother Kitchener and Brother Infirmarer. They followed down to a road, a side road that was really little more, in fact, than a tank track that led to another road where two coaches were waiting. When all had piled aboard, the coaches headed for a bigger road, the main road, Reverend Father said, that ran from Salisbury north to Swindon.

  Hedge asked where they were going.

  Reverend Father said, “Have a guess, Brother Ducky.”

  Hedge thought. “Yorkshire?” he said.

  “Top of the class,” Reverend Father said, grinning.

  Well, it was obvious really, Hedge thought, since Candleby in the Pennines was to be the scene of the big explosion. Hedge was by now frantic with worry: he really should be escaping, taking the terrible news to London, or anyway phoning it through, before Mrs Heffer went north. He really must not fail her; if he did, well, of course she would no longer be there to reprove him for throwing her trust back in her face, but his name would still be mud. If he himself survived, that was, which he might not. He had a sudden vision, a stupid but blinding one, of himself and Mrs Heffer travelling into the sky together, her voice angrily upbraiding him for his utter incompetence and telling him that on no account would God ever forgive him because once they reached His presence she would tell Him the full story of how he, was it Hedge or Sedge, had been the instrument that had left Great Britain bereft of strong leadership …

  *

  Next morning, with a watery look in the sky over the farmhouse, the telephone rang again and Brother Werribee answered. He spoke in monosyllables, then imparted news.

  “Harry,” he said. “They’ve made it to Fountains. We link up this evening, nine p.m. At Jervaulx, not Fountains. After that, Reverend Father will tell us the next move, right?”