The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  The expected chorus came on cue. “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  Mrs Heffer led the way into the street and the car, saluted on her way into danger and perhaps glory by the policeman on guard duty. It was sheerly coincidental that as she stepped into the car the sound of heavy gunfire came from the direction of the Tower of London where the King’s Troop of the Royal Horse Artillery were rehearsing for Her Majesty’s birthday.

  *

  Before the desperadoes left the cave beneath Jervaulx’ ruins Klaus The Long Knife passed his final orders to Cousin Wally and the brothers.

  “It is of course I who shall conduct the parley. How, where and when, this is not yet possible to decide. I shall play it, as you would say, by ear. We do not know the arrangements for the visit of the Heffer. But broadly the plan is so simple. Is this not so, Brother Werribee?”

  “So long as the bloody motor-bike’s ready and working,” Brother Werribee said. His orders were that on arrival at a certain spot off the Horton-in-Ribblesdale road he was to leave the coach party accompanied by a radio transceiver, take over a motor cycle that would be waiting, having been ridden there by the man Arry from Ripon, and ride fast for the Fountains cavern beyond the Valley of the Seven Bridges. Here he would stand by for orders, if they came which he believed they would, to start the fuse trail that would sputter its way underground towards the great explosives dump beneath Langstrothdale Chase. The order to do so would come by means of three long dashes and two short dots of the Morse Code on a radio supplied and operated by Brother Chamberlain. After this Brother Werribee would make himself scarce together with the guarding skinhead. Back in the vicinity of Langstrothdale Chase, The Long Knife’s supporters would then have some forty-five minutes to belt like bats out of hell from the danger area. Klaus’s plan, exact timing yet to be decided, was to appear for the parley before the Prime Minister began her tour of inspection to prove to the Yorkshire farmers that the dump was perfectly safe and they had nothing to worry about. If the parley should fail on account of Mrs Heffer’s obduracy, then Klaus would hold his hand, and Brother Chamberlain would hold his radio, until Mrs Heffer and the brass had vanished into the bowels of the earth below Langstrothdale Chase and Cam Fell. After that, the set events would follow as the night the day and Klaus, with the assistance of Hedge’s Cousin Wally, would activate his waiting contacts and begin the process of taking over control of the central government in the midst of the cataclysm that would follow the devastation of a huge area of North Yorkshire and the fragmentation of the Prime Minister, a number of her senior colleagues, the Chief of the General Staff, sundry sheriffs and (as an additional bonus as yet unknown to the conspirators) the Lord Bishop of Durham.

  The resumé concluded, the brothers began to emerge from the earth beneath the ruins and to stream, looking just like any ordinary band of tourists from a coach in their jeans and T-shirts and anoraks, out of the gate, across the field and then the road, to embark aboard the coach from Ely. Shard, with Brother Peter’s gun in his back, contrived to come up alongside Hedge, who was being trusted enough in his capacity as Reverend Father’s cousin not to need an escort. Hedge whispered, “Shard, for heaven’s sake don’t come too close.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll look as though we’re in cahoots.”

  “And aren’t we, Hedge?”

  “Yes. No. Oh, I suppose so. But I really don’t know.”

  “Whose side are you on, Hedge?”

  Hedge said frigidly, “Matters are very difficult between me and my — er — second cousin. Touchy. I have to be very careful, don’t you see?”

  “And Mrs Heffer?”

  “Oh, don’t remind me!” Hedge was in a bad state of nerves. “I do know she can’t possibly be allowed to blow up. It’s all very unfortunate and such a worry. I really don’t know what to do.”

  Shard said cynically as he negotiated a cowpat, “Nothing you can do, is there?”

  “Well — no.”

  “Except escape. And then tell all.”

  “Escape?” Hedge went pale. “Oh, that would just be to — to court disaster. Wouldn’t it?”

  “Think of Mrs Heffer, Hedge.”

  “Oh, I have been, constantly. Constantly.”

  “Then do your duty and act for her. We have help at hand, Hedge. Brother Peter. He’s with us. I think. Just so long as Brother Werribee doesn’t get to hear too soon.”

  “Oh, dear. What are you suggesting, Shard?”

  “That we grab Brother Peter’s gun, or he hands it over. Not here — in the coach. Then we can nab the lot, with luck. A clean sweep, Hedge, before the point of no return. Just think about it. Think of the honour, Hedge. Think of saving Mrs Heffer’s life.”

  “Yes, there is that. Yes. I’ll think about it, Shard.”

  “So having thought, Hedge, just be ready when I give the word. And now shut up. Brother Werribee’s coming back along the line.”

  There was a sound of fright from behind and the gun dug harder into Shard’s back. Hedge scuttled ahead towards Cousin Wally. Shard sent up a prayer that Brother Peter wouldn’t weaken. Brother Werribee reached them with remarks about tail-end Charlies, little poufters who couldn’t keep up with the rest. They all moved on for the car park, where the sudden rush at last disturbed the peacock who departed screeching with his attendant hens. With all checked aboard by Brother Werribee the coach drove out of the car park and headed towards Middleham and the village of Wensley at the head of the dale, Cousin Wally sitting in the front like a headmaster in charge of a school treat, with Hedge next to him. Hedge was pondering Shard’s final remark: “So having thought, Hedge, just be ready when I give the word.” The phrasing meant undoubtedly that Shard had already decided his thinking for him and was taking it for granted that he would give his support.

  But how could he, sitting right next to Reverend Father and a long way, as coach interiors went, from Shard and Brother Peter?

  *

  “How kind of you to meet me, my Lord Mayor.” Mrs Heffer was as ever gracious. She had set foot on the red carpet followed by Rowland Mayes and the Home Secretary and the rest, including the CGS and some other uniformed brass from the Defence Ministry, chair-seat polishers, plus a vice-admiral who had come up from Devonport as a pier-head jump to represent naval interests, there being some submarine missile war-heads stowed away beneath Langstrothdale Chase. Nuclear war-heads, which was nasty. Of course, Mrs Heffer had known about these but preferred not to talk about them and she had snubbed the vice-admiral all the way from King’s Cross in case he mentioned them in her presence. Now, she looked around York station and uttered compliments. “Such a very splendid canopy, I always think. Such luck that the French never destroyed it.”

  “The French, ma’am?”

  Mrs Heffer was pleased at the ‘ma’am’. She explained, “I mean the Germans, of course. The Luftwaffe, Lord Mayor. And of course the Minster, such a magnificent building, don’t you think?” She had done some research whilst on the train. “I always so admire the memorial to Sir Christopher Cradock … the vice-admiral at Coronel, don’t you know. Such a very brave and gallant sailor. The Germans again, of course.” Pleasantries over, Mrs Heffer processed out to the station forecourt where the limousine was drawn up. This had been provided by the military command at Catterick and was to be driven by a sergeant of the Royal Corps of Transport, a ramrod already in his seat and staring woodenly ahead as a lance-corporal leapt forward to open the door and salute. Mrs Heffer got in with the Home Secretary, the Defence Secretary and the Chief of the General Staff. Lesser cars behind awaited the lesser fry.

  With its close police escort and the outriders, the motorcade swept away beneath the ancient walls of York, not a word having been spoken about explosives, threats and dangers. And Mrs Heffer turned her face away from a group of dirty-looking peace women gathered outside the station approach with banners reading TAKE YOUR WAR MATERIALS AWAY FROM OUR BEAUTIFUL DALES and another, less elegant, reading BULLOCKS TO MR
S HEFFER.

  Fifteen

  Shard, as the coach went fast through West Witton heading for the market town of Hawes and the left fork for the region of Langstrothdale Chase and Cam Fell, was in a quandary. Hedge was incommunicado, up front as he was. Shard would have thought Hedge had done it on purpose in order to avoid having to make an irrevocable decision had he not seen Reverend Father virtually pinning his cousin next to him.

  But what to do now?

  Go ahead without Hedge? He wouldn’t have been much use in any case but on the other hand any assistance was better than none. Now all he had was Brother Peter, alongside him with his gun in an aisle seat about half way along the coach. And Brother Peter could cop out at the last moment, losing his courage when the final moment loomed. Brother Peter was not a very brave man. As the coach proceeded, Shard and Brother Peter sat in silence; they couldn’t talk about plans with the monks close around them. Brother Peter, Shard noted, was shaking like a leaf, not a very propitious sign. In the end, however, it was Brother Peter who gave Shard his opportunity. Brother Peter, with West Witton, Aysgarth and Bainbridge behind them, began wriggling about in his seat.

  “What’s the matter?” Shard asked.

  “Want to wee-wee, don’t I. There’s a loo in Hawes.”

  “Know it, do you?”

  “I’ll say I do. Nearly got done there once.”

  “Done?”

  “One of those nasty old men.”

  Tongue in cheek Shard said, “I’d have thought that an opportunity not to be missed.”

  “Oooh, you wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the man.” Brother Peter giggled and went on squirming. He tapped the shoulder of the brother next ahead, who happened to be Brother Infirmarer. He explained his need.

  “You an’ your bladder,” Brother Infirmarer said witheringly. But he passed the message on. It went from mouth to mouth. “Brother Peter wants a slash, there’s a pisser in Hawes.” It reached Brother Werribee, sitting in the off-side front seat across the aisle from Reverend Father and Hedge.

  “Little poufter.”

  This was loudly said. Brother Peter heard it and yelled back defiance. “I’m bloody bursting and it’s bad for me and it’s not fair, is it, Reverend Father?”

  Reverend Father turned in his seat. “Let him go if he has to, Brother Werribee, he’ll only wet his pants.”

  “Oooh, thank God for that,” Brother Peter said, still squirming. He wriggled his way into Hawes. It was early yet but there was another coach parked near the public lavatory, a splendid one with KING OF THE ROAD on its side, from Worthing in West Sussex. Lines of old age pensioners waited, one a queue of ladies, the other of gents. Shard assessed the situation carefully as the coach began its approach to relief. Brother Peter, now that the halt had been authorised, was not the only one who wished to take advantage. Hedge was one, Brother Chamberlain another. Shard indicated that he wished to join. In his case permission was not unnaturally refused. Shard watched from the window while Brother Peter, who had handed over his gun to Brother Infirmarer, joined the queue of OAPs. If Brother Peter had any gumption at all, he would vanish and contact the police, by telephone if there wasn’t an actual policeman around. It would not be a very difficult task and wouldn’t require much brain. Brother Peter chatted amiably with two old men at the end of the gents’ queue. Behind him stood Brother Chamberlain and Hedge. The driver of the King of the Road coach wandered along for a cheery word with the monastery party’s driver.

  “Wotcher, mate. What you got in there, eh?”

  “Bank clerks’ outing.” No more social workers; there had been a slight hiatus in the Fountains Abbey car park, the custodian querying the fact that the driver had been bringing out an empty coach. The driver had explained that the social workers had wanted to exercise their legs after sitting on their arses in their offices for a year and they had decided to walk down to the other gate, a fairly distant one, past the ruins themselves, at Studley Royal. This had in fact been accepted without comment or indeed much real interest but just to be on the safe side, the social workers were out. The drivers chatted; the monastery driver, a Brother Samuelson, had once been in Worthing on holiday, with his lady friend he said, and he knew all about Old Age Pensioners. “Couldn’t move for the buggers,” he said. “Like bleeding ants they was. Ants with zimmer frames.”

  “We all come to it,” the Worthing driver said.

  “Sure. But for me, not Worthing. Too much competition.”

  Brother Peter neared the gents and then vanished behind the wall of the public lavatory. Behind him went Brother Chamberlain. Shard’s heart sank: Brother Chamberlain was sticking too close to Brother Peter for the latter to have much hope of a getaway. After an interval, Brother Chamberlain and Hedge were seen leaving the gents without Brother Peter. They approached the coach and climbed up. Brother Chamberlain reported to Reverend Father.

  “Wanted a crap an’ all, Reverend Father.”

  “Go and hurry him up,” Reverend Father said, and Shard’s hopes took another dive.

  *

  Mrs Heffer’s motorcade left York on the A59 to Green Hammerton and Harrogate, where it turned right to continue on to Skipton. Here it took the A65 for Giggleswick, travelling very fast until, at Giggleswick, it turned on to the B6479 for Horton-in-Ribblesdale and the marquee now in place near the Ribblehead viaduct. “It’s a very long way, Rufus,” Mrs Heffer remarked for the tenth time to the Home Secretary. He gave the answer again.

  “The alternative was to go by train to Leeds and Settle, Prime Minister —”

  “Oh, I know that, you’ve said it already.” Mrs Heffer was in a huff and had been for some time. The trains from Leeds to Settle were provincial and slow and probably not entirely clean and in any case British Rail, with its customary obstinacy, had demurred strongly at restructuring their schedules to fit Mrs Heffer’s requirements. Chaos could result. Not even for the Prime Minister, they said, unless there were very, very special reasons. There were those special reasons, of course, but Mrs Heffer had not been prepared to reveal them, or indeed to provoke any sort of furore, so she had gone into a huff instead.

  Frustrated, she now turned her attention elsewhere. “I simply cannot think why that man has decided to come, Rufus.”

  “What man, Prime Minister?”

  “The Bishop of Durham, of course. Dr Pumphrey. It’s very upsetting. But I stopped short of telling him to mind his own business and stick to ecclesiastical matters.”

  “Oh, quite so, Prime Minister, that wouldn’t have been at all a good thing. His diocese —”

  “I’m not in the least concerned about his diocese. I said ecclesiastical matters.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.” It was useless to argue; much better to agree with everything she said. She was, after all, a very wonderful woman, no-one could ever deny that …

  “Look at York Minster. That terrible thunderbolt, and the appalling damage to the what was it, South Transept I believe. Everyone said it was the hand of God, the direct hand of God.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Though why in the circumstances it didn’t occur to God to strike Durham Cathedral rather than York Minster I shall never know. I would certainly have handled it differently.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “And now one can only pray that nothing terrible takes place this afternoon.”

  “Yes, indeed, Prime Minister.”

  The road via Horton-in-Ribblesdale was largely narrow and very twisty and there were hump-backed bridges to be negotiated. The motorcade was a little late on schedule and the police, who were setting the pace, therefore drove fast. Upon occasion Mrs Heffer was bumped from seat to roof and back again on the hump-backed bridges and was constantly thrown from side to side on the bends. She began to feel a little seasick and her face lost its colour but she steeled herself. She must never show distress; that would be weakness. Like the Queen at her coronation, travelling from the Palace to Westminster Abbey in that a
ppalling old state coach, she must grin and bear it. She gave orders to her stomach and hoped to goodness they would be obeyed. And she wouldn’t eat much in that marquee.

  *

  The Bishop of Durham drove himself from his palace, or in his case castle, in Bishop Auckland in a Mini City belonging to the Dean’s daughter, his own car being out of action. His Lordship was a man who disliked pomp and because his visit to the abomination beneath Langstrothdale Chase was strictly an unofficial one, he would not use an official car or driver. He carried his lunch in a plastic bag on the back seat; he distrusted food that had been frozen and then unfrozen and served under canvas. It could go off and that led to stomach upsets, so unpleasant. His plastic bag contained wholesome brown bread sandwiches made from slices of good Yorkshire ham with a little salad garnish.

  He drove by way of Staindrop on the A688, the B6274 to Gilling West and Richmond, then down to Leyburn. From Leyburn he took the A684 through Wensleydale towards Hawes, following a short distance behind Reverend Father and the monastery party. Driving, he thought about Mrs Heffer. A fine woman undoubtedly, and a strong one. All the same … he cast certain thoughts from his mind. He must never be guilty of the sin of hatred, such a destructive emotion, therefore he didn’t hate. No; but he had his reservations. Mrs Heffer was — he cut his thoughts off at that point. They were veering, just veering, towards the unholy one that with any luck Mrs Heffer would fall down a pothole in the Yorkshire dales and never be seen again. The poor and under-privileged (Dr Pumphrey was always thinking of the poor and under-privileged) would not be helped by tragedy. That was not the way in which God worked, not at all.

  He drove on, passing peaceful sheep grazing the fells. It was in Hawes, not far from the public lavatory, that a fearful noise came from the Mini City’s engine, a sort of grinding sound, most alarming and unpleasant. The Mini stopped willy-nilly and Dr Pumphrey got out, a suspicion forming in his mind about the Dean’s daughter. Use of the dipstick confirmed his suspicion. Like many young girls with cars, the Dean’s daughter had neglected to fill the Mini’s sump with oil.