‘I must say, I’m inclined to agree with you, Mrs Belderboss,’ said Father Bernard. ‘I think we ought to make allowances for the poor man, and if he has had to sell everything then we should perhaps consider what we can do to help. Isn’t that the reason we’re here?’
‘Well, if you think, Father,’ Mr Belderboss replied, with a hint of defensiveness.
Father Bernard lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to get on my high horse about it, but can you think of anything worse than losing your home? When I was in The Bone I saw people left with nothing. Good families who had their houses burned down in front of their eyes for no other reason than being Catholic or Protestant. Can you imagine what that does to people?’
‘It’s hardly the same thing,’ said Mummer.
‘You must admit it was their choice to sell, Father,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Clement and his mother’s. No one forced them.’
‘What do you think Wilfred would have done, Reg?’ asked Father Bernard. ‘He wouldn’t have just ignored it, would he?’
‘Of course he wouldn’t have ignored it, Father. But all the same, I don’t think he would have liked us to have got involved. It’s nothing to do with us.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Miss Bunce hadn’t said a word throughout, but now she put down her cup and said, ‘I think Father Bernard’s right. Think of the Samaritan.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Farther from the fireplace.
Mr Belderboss smiled at him sympathetically and then at Miss Bunce.
‘The thing is, Joan, what you have to understand about these country folk is that they don’t want help, and certainly not help from outsiders like us. They’re a proud people. It’d be an insult to them. There are times, like Esther says, when the greatest kindness is to leave people be. Isn’t that right David?’
David put his arm around Miss Bunce.
‘I think Mr Belderboss is right,’ he said.
Miss Bunce looked at him and then down at her teacup. Mummer took up the reins and steered the conversation back to Father Bernard again.
‘You see when Father Wilfred brought us here it felt as though he was able to draw a circle around us. To keep us focused on our own relationship with God, and allow him to guide us through the days with an attention that he wasn’t always able to give us back at Saint Jude’s. That was the whole point of being here. It wasn’t just a pilgrimage, Father. It was a sanctuary too. It might be worth bearing that in mind.’
Everyone was looking at Father Bernard. He stood up.
‘I’ll be taking Clement home now,’ he said.
‘Yes, alright, Father,’ said Mr Belderboss.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ said Farther. ‘Make sure you don’t get lost.’
‘No, no, Mr Smith,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I’ll be alright.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’d rather you got that fire going for when I get back. The weather looks fair brutal out there.’
‘I will, Father,’ he said and began untying the bundles of firewood Clement’s mother had brought.
‘Mind how you go, Father,’ Mrs Belderboss called after him as he went out to get his coat. ‘Oh dear,’ she said once the door was closed. ‘I hope we haven’t upset him.’
‘I think we did,’ said Miss Bunce.
‘I was right, though, wasn’t I?’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘I mean no one’s persecuting Clement are they? It’s not our fault.’
Mrs Belderboss patted his hand.
‘No, it’s not,’ she said and then shook her head. ‘What a mess,’ she continued. ‘I don’t remember it being so—difficult—when we came with Wilfred.’
‘He kept everything simple, that’s why,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘And he didn’t go prying into other people’s affairs.’
‘Still,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Everything will be better tomorrow, when we go to the shrine.’
‘Yes,’ said Mummer and managed a smile.
‘What’s that bit from Isaiah?’ About not worrying about the days that have gone?’
‘“Forget the former things; do not dwell in the past,”’ said Miss Bunce and finished off her piece of cake.
‘That’s the one,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’
***
Clement was still waiting patiently on the little chair in the hallway, his walking stick balanced on his knees.
‘Can I go home now?’ he said.
‘I think Father Bernard’s just getting his coat,’ I replied.
He looked down at the floor.
‘I told them not to ring that bell,’ he said.
When I didn’t respond, he looked up again.
‘The bell on Coldbarrow. You know the one up in the old tower next to the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘It were boarded up for years. But they went out to it.’
‘Who did?’
Clement was about to answer but stopped short when a door opened along the hallway. Father Bernard appeared and frowned as he zipped up his coat.
‘What’s going on?’ he said and Clement waved him over and made him sit on the stairs.
‘Parkinson and Collier, Father. They went out to Coldbarrow on New Year’s Eve just gone and took the boards off the tower and started ringing that bloody bell. And not a day or two later there were lights on at Thessaly, and then all this business started.’
Father Bernard looked at me and then back at Clement. ‘What business?’
‘They told me not to come here anymore,’ he said. ‘They said they’d get me sent back to Haverigg, like they did last time. But I had to come and warn you about what they’ve done. And now that your dog’s broke that bottle, it might be the only opportunity I get.’
‘That old jar in the dining room? What’s that to do with anything?’
‘Don’t you know what it is?’
‘No.’
‘They’re meant to keep witches away from the house,’ he said. ‘But you have to keep them sealed. And now it’s been opened …’
‘Clement,’ said Father Bernard. ‘Is there someone you want us to call? A doctor maybe. Will your mother be in when we get back? Maybe I ought to speak with her. See if we can get you some help with whatever it is that’s bothering you.’
Clement lowered his eyes.
‘You don’t understand, Father,’ he said. ‘You must keep away from Parkinson and Collier.’
‘Why? What is that you think they’ve done?’
But Clement didn’t have time to answer before someone knocked at the front door with a heavy, rhythmic thud.
Hanny came out of the dining room and grabbed my arm, wanting me to open the door. Gradually everyone was gathered in the hallway and we all listened to the singing coming from outside.
‘Who on earth is it?’ said Mummer and she sidled through the throng to see.
Chapter Twenty
The Pace Eggers had always frightened me as a child, looking as they did like things that had crawled out of a nightmare. Each one a mish-mash of fairy tale characters, grotesque as Punch and Judy puppets. Natives of some savage tribe as painted by the children of missionaries.
When we’d come here in the past we’d sometimes see them performing on the green at Little Hagby—half a dozen local men, blacked up like chimney sweeps with only their eyes showing and armed with swords and staffs.
The stink of booze drifted from them as they sang old songs in bass voices; songs that didn’t have the predictable, homely rise and fall of the hymns we’d been singing all week but which tumbled through strange minor keys and moved across intervals that sounded like they might have once charmed the Devil to the surface of the world.
At the front of the pack was Saint George, dressed in a crusader’s tabard and banging his wooden staff in time to the song. When it ended he removed his cardboard crown and bowed. Even under all the makeup I could see that it was Parkinson. Collier stood behind him dressed as the character call
ed Brownbags, his dog chained to the gate post outside, straining and yelping.
‘We’ve come as agreed,’ said Parkinson to Father Bernard and smiled. Father Bernard glanced at Mummer, who frowned at him.
‘And is that Clement you’ve been entertaining?’ Parkinson looked towards the back of the crowd and everyone turned to see the colour drain from Clement’s face. ‘Well well. Tha gets about, dunt tha, Clement?’
Mummer still had her hand on the door.
‘I’m afraid you must have the wrong house,’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’
Parkinson looked at Father Bernard and smiled.
‘We like to get around all the big houses on Easter Sunday,’ he said. ‘And we thought tha might appreciate some entertainment what with the weather being so foul.’
‘Well, perhaps we could come down to the village and watch you some other time?’ said Mummer.
‘Oh, we won’t stop long,’ Parkinson replied.
He seemed to have somehow crossed the threshold without Mummer noticing and she had no choice but to step back and allow the men to enter. Each of them nodded their thanks and wiped their feet on the mat—Saint George, Brownbags, the Turkish Knight and the others, one of which swept quickly past completely swaddled in a black cloak, leaving Old Ball, the horse, to come in last, wearing a brown smock and holding a real horse’s skull on the end of a pole, a set of glass eyes clacking inside. It rolled about, grinning, like the thing we’d found in the woods.
Whoever was under the cloak stooped the nag’s head so that it would fit through the doorway to the sitting room.
As it swung down, Miss Bunce stepped back and grabbed at Father Bernard’s sleeve.
‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ she whispered to him when the men had all filed past. ‘I mean they could be anyone. Is it some pagan thing?’
‘Oh, Joan, it’s tradition,’ Mummer said. ‘We’ve always watched the Pace Egging.’
‘What here?’
‘Well no not here. But, look, it’s just a bit of fun.’
‘Fun?’
‘Yes,’ said Mummer, not quite convinced herself, as she followed the men and started to organise a space for them to perform.
***
She might have been doubtful about letting them in, or embarrassed that she had been doorstepped so easily, but now that the Pace Eggers were here Mummer quickly took charge. She would have them in and out quick sharp.
The room was cleared and Mrs Belderboss was dispatched with Miss Bunce to make sandwiches and tea, while Farther and David gathered up as many of the vulnerable ornaments as they could and took them out into the hall.
I helped Father Bernard shift a table out of the way, carrying it into the bay of the window. He kept his eye on the Pace Eggers as they waited for us to get the room ready. Parkinson waved Clement over and handed him an old curtain, which he strung between two lampstands to form a makeshift wing from which they could enter and exit.
‘I didn’t think they’d really come,’ said Father Bernard.
‘What do you mean, Father?’
‘I didn’t say anything to Clement the other day, but Mr Parkinson had already promised to bring the Pace Eggers up to Moorings. I thought it was just the ale talking. He’d had a fair few, like.’
‘Do you think we should have let them in, Father?’
He looked over to where the men were getting ready.
‘What? Because of what Clement said about them?’
‘And what we saw in the woods.’
‘Look, we don’t know that that had anything to do with them, Tonto. Not really.’
He glanced at them again and laughed quietly at their costumes.
‘I think they’re harmless enough. And in any case how would it look if we asked them to leave now? I think it’s best if we just let them get on with it. What are they going to do here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Exactly. Don’t worry about what Clement said just now. That’s between him and them. It’s nothing to do with us. Alright?’
‘Yes, Father,’ I said, though I was less convinced than he was.
He smiled at Mummer who came over with an expensive looking floorlamp and set it on the table out of harm’s way. She looked at him and went away to help David shift a delicate crystal vase off the mantelpiece.
‘What would Father Wilfred have made of these fellers, Tonto?’ said Father Bernard.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t really talk about him all that much. Did you get along with him alright?’ he said, dusting his hands.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Only suppose so?’
‘He did a lot for the poor,’ I said, and Father Bernard looked at me and smiled.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I know he did, Tonto.’
At Mummer’s request, he started to close the curtains.
‘I’m only asking, because I know nothing much about the man,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know he was well respected but was he happy in his work, would you say?’
‘I think so.’
‘I mean, how did he seem before he died?’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Aye.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you say there was something on his mind?’
The sound of a bell came from behind the curtain and Mummer turned off the main light.
‘I don’t know, Father.’
He knew I was being obtuse, but he smiled and turned his attention to the Pace Eggers instead, storing away what I’d said or hadn’t said for later.
‘Who’s your man in the purple there?’ he asked in a whisper, pointing to the player pressing his Zapata moustache back into place.
‘That’s the Turkish Knight,’ I said.
‘Is he the villain? He looks like a villain.’
‘Yes.’
First out of the shadows was Collier, dressed in a frayed kilt, a harlequin shirt and a top hat like a broken chimneypot. He carried a wicker basket under his arm.
‘Who’s this?’ Father Bernard said behind his hand.
‘That’s Brownbags,’ I said. ‘He collects the money.’
‘Money?’
‘You’re supposed to give them some money before they perform.’
Brownbags walked from person to person, as they dug into their pockets for any loose change and threw it into the basket. At each clink of metal, he touched the brim of his hat with his finger and when he had passed along the row he began.
‘Give as much as you can spare, we only come but once a year. Build up the fire and let the flames burn. Here are some jolly boys to give you a turn.’
Mummer started clapping and gradually everyone else tentatively joined in.
Brownbags went off and was replaced by Saint George and his daughter, Mary.
‘Isn’t that your man from Little Hagby?’ Father Bernard whispered.
I looked again. He was right. Mary was the gangly altar boy from the Tenebrae service, got up in a blonde wig and a white dress that was filthy with mud at the bottom.
Saint George drew his sword from its scabbard and clasped Mary to his side.
‘In I come, old Saint George. The champion of Ingyland. My sword was made in God’s own forge. A flash of lightning in my hand.’
There was loud cackling from the dark and the Turkish Knight stepped into the circle and drew his sword. Into the spirit of the thing now, everyone booed and hissed on cue, even David who had let go of Miss Bunce’s hand and was watching the play with a face like a child at a pantomime.
The Turkish Knight twirled the end of his long moustache and stepped closer to us.
‘I am Sullyman from Turkey Land. I seek to find Saint George the brave. I’ll take his life and his daughter’s hand. And toss his body in a cave.’
Saint George pulled Mary behind him, shielding her from the Turkish Knight. Mary cowered on her knees, the back of her hand on her brow.
‘I am George of Ingylan
d,’ he said. ‘My sword is sharp and keen as wind. I will fight you Sillyman. And God will judge you for your sins.’
‘Now, Saint George, I will have your life.’
‘No, sir, I will strike you dead.’
‘I’ll take your Mary for my wife.’
‘And marry her without your head?’
The two men circled each other, then leapt forward and clashed their swords. Mary screamed, and everyone began to cheer for Saint George, who at last ran the Turkish Knight through, knocking him to the ground where he lay with the sword sticking upright, clamped in his armpit. Mary rushed to the dead knight’s side and lay her head upon his chest, weeping.
‘Oh, father, you have killed my one true love.’
Saint George knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Oh, my poor little turtle dove.’
He turned to us and pleaded, ‘Is there a doctor in this town? One that can be quickly found?’
There was a knock at the door. All faces turned to where a small figure appeared, wearing a bowler hat and a coat that trailed on the floor. Everyone was a little startled that he had slipped out unnoticed during the performance.
‘Here comes little Doctor Dog,’ he said, stopping on the way to pat the top of Hanny’s head. ‘Best doctor in the county, sir.’
‘Can you cure this knight of Turkeyshire?’ Saint George said, taking off the doctor’s hat and speaking into it.
‘Of what affliction?’ said the doctor, removing Saint George’s crown and doing likewise. ‘Tell me, sir. Confess.’
‘Of death, sir doctor, darkest death.’
‘Not for five pounds, sir,’ the doctor said.
‘For ten pounds, sir?’
‘For fifteen, sir.’
‘Twelve, sir.’
‘Yes, for twelve whole pounds and Spanish wine, it shall be done.’
The doctor felt around in the pockets of his huge coat, making Father Bernard laugh louder with each scrap of junk he turned out and dropped onto the floor—toy cars, plastic animals, golf balls, seashells. Eventually, he found a small bottle and knelt down by the dead knight.
‘Now, my sleeping Turkey knight, drink this brew of holy breath. Old Doctor Dog will cure you, sir, and call you back from blissful death.’
The Loney Page 19
