by Patrick Gale
‘Where d’your family come from?’
‘Brixton. Dad and Mum started a greengrocer’s. Dad’s brother owns a little nursery and Dad sells the stuff he grows. Mum’s dead, though. Died about six years ago. Some kind of cancer.’
‘How often do you see him?’
‘Never. I ran away when I was fourteen.’
‘Didn’t he tell the police?’
‘Yeah, maybe, but I’d cut off my hair and stripped it like this, hadn’t I, and then I gave the DHSS a false name when I started claiming. ’Seasy. Thanks.’ She drank deeper this time and the Indians swept down into the valley on their stolen horses.
‘Why’d you run away, then?’
‘He got married again. How about you?’
‘Adopted. No brothers or sisters and my step-dad’s dead. Mumsy lives in Tower Hamlets. He was a boxing coach.’ She paused. ‘Worked as a brikky, too.’
‘I thought boxing and all that was all fake.’
‘Wrestling is, mostly. Boxing’s for real, though.’
‘Oh. Here.’
‘Thanks.’ Mo drank again.
Andy walked stiffly in and jumped up into his armchair.
‘Here, Andy,’ Hope whispered to him as she crawled across to stroke his fur.
The dressing-gown rode up her legs as she moved. They shone white in the gloom. She wet her finger with some rum and held it under the cat’s nose. He licked it and the rasping of his tongue made her laugh softly. For a while she talked quietly to him, rubbing his head with her fingers. The scene cut to a white woman tied up in a wigwam. She worked the gag free from her mouth and let out a piercing scream. ‘Davy! Davy! Over here! For goodness’ sake come quickly!’
Hope twisted to look at the screen, then turned grinning to Mo. Mo, who had been watching intently as she petted Andy, met her smile. Then her smile dropped and she stared. Hope did the same; a girl in Mum’s Sunday best. Mo broke the tension, letting the air hiss between her teeth by way of a laugh.
‘That’s not fair,’ she chuckled, ‘I’m the only one allowed to stare.’
‘Who says? Here.’ Hope crawled over to the sofa and held out the bottle. Mo reached for it but the burglar pulled it away at the last moment and, shutting her eyes, held out her face instead.
Mo leant forward and kissed her swiftly on the lips, then pulled her up into a fuller embrace. Hope’s eyes flickered open briefly then closed as she pulled her hostess towards her in turn. The dressing-gown was slightly damp to the touch. Hope’s hair smelt of shampoo and her limbs were still warm from the hot water. The orchestra thrilled to the gallop of the cavalry and Mo slid down beside the girl on the carpet. Their kisses grew slowly softer and the younger woman suddenly broke away with a light push.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Sit up a moment.’ Mo sat up. Hope reached for the rum bottle, wet the tips of her right-hand fingers, then held her hand towards her lover’s face.
‘Now,’ she whispered, ‘I baptize you, Mo, for me, for me, for me, and … for me.’ Each time she spoke she brushed Mo’s forehead, nose and then mouth with the liquor. ‘There,’ she smiled. Mo laughed and they kissed once. Mo broke away.
‘My turn. Here,’ she said. ‘I baptize you for me, for me, for me, and for me,’ here she dabbed some rum on to the delicate point of Hope’s chin, ‘and a little bit for Andy!’ Hope laughed aloud and startled the cat from his chair, at which she laughed the louder. Mo hugged her to her.
‘Is this for real,’ she asked, ‘or is it like wrestling?’
‘You great wally!’ Hope kissed her, then lay back with her head resting on the front of the sofa. ‘I was really pissed off this morning,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, I was walking along, right, and someone called out my name, you know, real friendly like, so I turned and all I could see was this piglet.’
‘Piglet?’
‘Lady Copper, wally.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, it turns out to be one of my best mates from school, right? Well, I didn’t know what to say. I was too shocked, you know, so I just said, “Oh hello, Trace, how’s things,” and walked on. She used to be a right little rebel, too. Straight up.’ Mo glanced to see if she was being put through some kind of test, but she saw that Hope was staring straight ahead, so she said,
‘She might have … well.’ She stopped then tried harder, ‘Well, she might have been sort of subverting from the inside of things.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Giving people tip-offs about raids – things like that.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You pay them if you want that – you don’t have to fucking go and join them too.’
There was an awkward pause filled only by the cries of slaughtered Ojibwa and the thunder of hooves.
‘Come on,’ said Hope at last, ‘let’s go upstairs. Them ponies are putting me off.’
Andy returned to his chair as they left and fell into a deep sleep. He woke an hour later, roused by the crooning strains of Stranger on the Shore coming from the bedroom, let himself out through the flap in the garden door, and went to pay a few calls.
SUNDAY one
Evelyn slept with her window open because she liked a warm bed in a cool room, and always drew back the curtains before retiring, so as to be woken by the sun. This morning the latter streamed into her sleep and stirred her with the birds. She dressed quickly, then slipped out of the front door and strode down the lane.
The sky was cloudless. The air stung her lungs it was so clean. She picked a pinch of periwinkles which she stuffed through a hole in her baggy cardigan, and soon she was humming Die Forelle. The village chapel stood only doors away from the pub. She had missed fisherman’s communion, which happened at an unearthly hour and which she reserved for the last dawn of the holidays, but the doors still stood slightly ajar. She went inside and knelt in the back pew. The sun, still cool, spilled in from the high east windows and left patches of blue and green on the whitewash opposite. There was a faint smell of extinguished candles and an even fainter one of vino sacro. She thanked her god for bringing them there safely, prayed for her and Huw, that whatever their problem was it might go away, for Venetia, that she might find fulfilment, for Seth, that he might be spared from pride, and for Mummy, that she might be allowed to slip away peacefully in her sleep, but not just yet, please. There was a phlegm-charged cough behind her. She rose, took a last glance at the bare little altar, smiled good morning to the cheerless old bat who had drifted in to arrange the flowers, and left to buy some bread. Recently Huw had started to suffer from sick headaches. He had left his pills behind, in the bathroom. Evelyn stopped at the post office on the way home to mail them to him.
Seth had slept like a log. He jolted awake, found he was not in a dormitory, and relaxed. The knocking that had roused him was repeated and Mother walked in.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘It’s a heavenly one,’ she replied, pulling back the curtains and perching on the end of his bed. She smiled across at his sleep-creased face. ‘I’ve been down to the harbour, so we’ve got fresh-baked bread for brekky. It’s still hot.’
‘Mmm. Here I come.’
‘I’ll go and wake Neesh.’
He started to dress as soon as the door was safely closed. Evelyn knocked softly on her daughter’s door.
‘Darling,’ she called, ‘it’s almost eight o’clock. I thought you might want to get up and have breakfast with us so you can get a good start on your reading.’
There was a rustle of hurriedly snatched bedding and a dim murmur. Evelyn opened the door and peered round. It was stuffy inside so she walked across and opened the window. This brought a groan of protest. She gazed at the sweetly cross expression.
‘Don’t you want to get up?’ she asked. ‘It’s a heavenly day.’
Seth walked in, tugging a jersey over his wet temples.
‘Let her have a lie-in, poor thing,’ he said. ‘She always gets up early in college, don’t you, Neesh?’
There was another, darker, murmur. The others laughed and left her in peace. They gorged themselves on hot bread and jam, swilled strong coffee from the bowls bought at the local pottery, greeted Mrs Pym’s wheezing form, and were soon bowling along to Trenellion.
The windows were open wide so that the wind blew in their hair and the voice on the radio could hardly be heard. It spoke politely of fresh troubles in the Middle East, where things in the Gulf were coming to a potentially violent head, of a bloody reprisal in Ulster, of plans for new peace talks with the Russians, and the untimely death of a much-loved comedian. In the kitchen, Mrs Pym changed to Radio One because it was easier to work to and anyway Miss Netia preferred it.
‘Oh look, it’s a baby rabbit!’ cried Seth.
‘Did you get a chance to talk to Harry Barnes last night?’
‘Yes. Well, a bit. He’s more Netia’s domain.’
‘You know he’s giving the talks this year. It should be rather fun – on reclaiming the nineteenth-century novel for the Eighties.’
‘That’s good. She can pick his brains. Trollope’s one of her special topics.’
‘I think so. Who was that you were talking to for ages at the end?’ She remembered the arrogant young man who hadn’t thanked her for a piece of quiche. ‘I was going to come out and find you, only Bron the Man said you were having an intense discussion and shouldn’t be disturbed.’
Seth saw the tower of Trenellion Church rising out of the corn. A much-loved poet had likened it to a rabbit pricking up its ears.
‘Oh that was Roland MacGuire. He’s one of their cousins. He’s here to restore the angels.’
‘Ah, so that’s the one. Hasn’t he just finished at art college in Edinburgh?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Nice?’
‘Very,’ Seth lied.
‘You must point him out to me.’
When they had come in, Venetia had found it hard not to cry from the sheer tension of the situation. Even after they had left the room she had lain silent, not daring to lift off the bedclothes again in case she lost control. Listening to the chatter downstairs, to the radio, to the hurried greetings and goodbyes, she lay and trembled. Mrs Thing was downstairs now and would be busy hoovering and tidying things away from the night before. Gingerly Netia pulled back the sheets. Gingerly, she lifted the long The Clash t-shirt she wore as a nightie. She let out a convulsive little gasp and bit her lower lip. Her belly was indeed rounder by a good two inches. She jumped up, locked the door and examined her abdominal profile in the long mirror. The inexplicable bulge wobbled slightly as she adjusted her stance. She ran a hand over it. There was no pain. It felt quite firm, firmer than the relaxed muscle of a buttock. She cradled it in both hands and pressed, gently at first then with a hard, inquisitive thrust. This time it did hurt and she whimpered and sat back on the bed. Memories of sluttish Sixties films came to mind, as she pulled on a dressing-gown, let herself out, and slipped unseen to the bathroom. There she turned on the hot tap to run a bath, locked the door, pulled the curtains, and knelt over the lavatory bowl. Sticking her forefinger into her mouth, she rubbed the back of her throat and brought on a bout of retching. Nothing would come up but a dribble of acid that burnt the back of her tongue. She had eaten nothing since those cashews the night before. She considered food poisoning then sensed that that would have entailed an upset stomach at the very least. She brushed her teeth to take away the taste. The bath water was unbearably hot but it seemed the right thing to do, somehow, so she forced herself to lie down in it. Wincing, she hummed a hymn and tried not to cry.
The nave and side-aisles were empty save for a mobile gantry of scaffolding which stood under one of the old angels. The original guardians of the rafters had been quite defaced by the combined forces of dry rot and beetle. Roly had had what was left of them removed to one side. Their decay checked, they huddled there, a mournful crew, and awaited a last coat of varnish before being wheeled to the museum. The committee had decided that it would be futile to attempt a precise re-creation of the originals. Rather, a troop of winged creatures with a modern feel could be aimed to encapsulate the Festival spirit. Roland’s work was finished along one side and there were only two angels remaining to be carved on the other.
A crowd of players stood gazing up in admiration. Seth looked too, and was annoyed to feel a swell of vicarious pride in his new acquaintance’s work. He walked along the nave taking each one in. The wood was very pale, so as to match the stone above, and yet contrast with the dark-stained beams below. The light was divided into shafts by the beams as it fell from the glass roof – to theatrical effect. Each angel carried a different instrument, each had slightly different plumage and each bore a different motif along the borders of its robes. The faces were uniformly sexless, as were the bodies, and grave.
‘It must be awful to create something so original and yet be unable to sign it as your own,’ Evelyn declared.
‘Oh but you see, my darling, he has signed it,’ answered Jemima. ‘He’s signed every one of them by giving it his own hair! Hasn’t he, Seth?’
‘Has he, Seth?’ enquired his mother.
‘Well, he didn’t talk much about them last night,’ said her son, ‘but yes, I suppose he has, really.’ And he blushed.
Peter Grenfell swept down the nave, his Swedish-born wife hurrying at his side, her arms full of music. He was carrying her oboe case.
‘Good morning, everybody. Did we sleep well? Good. Now let’s get going, please – we’ve an awful lot to do by lunch-time.’
The crowd was galvanized into action. The air was filled with loud questions about who was to sit at which desk, how did such-and-such think this passage should be bowed, and whether Peter wanted all the da capos left in. Beneath this, and the flurry of hastily compassed gossip, rose the tide of tuning strings and wind, and a buzz of activity at the harpsichord as Grigor illustrated an anecdote about a performance at last year’s Salzburg Festival. Seth sat at second desk of the first violins and tuned quietly and quickly.
‘Seth. It’s good to see you again.’
‘Hello.’ He and Peter shook hands.
‘I didn’t see you last night.’
‘I spent a lot of it outside.’
‘Oh. Well the thing is that I was a little concerned that we’ve never given you any kind of solo spot down here. I’d give you a recital space only you’ll appreciate that we have to give priority to gold-plated pros like Henry and Jemima – as a courtesy.’
‘Of course.’
‘Anyway, I had a chat with Evelyn last night and she reminded me that you’d led the fiddles in the B Minor at school last Easter.’
‘Yes I did,’ Seth laughed, ‘just about.’
‘She said it was very impressive, and I know how hard she is to impress. I thought you could sit one desk forward and play all the solos. Megan’s just this minute got over dropping a baby and says she’s only had time to look at the Berlioz, so she’d love you to lead for her. All right?’
Seth was so excited he could only smile and nod vigorously with a slight ‘Ya’ of consent. He stood and took up his new place. Jemima said a loud ‘Hooray’ and he caught a furtive shot of bliss from the cello front desk.
It was only when Peter dismissed them for a coffee-break half-way through the Credo, that Seth discovered that he was so tense his back was drenched in sweat. Embarrassed, he hurried out into the graveyard instead of following his fellows into the vestry for coffee and biscuits.
The church was now the part of the estate nearest the sea. An expert from the Royal Society had been called in before any restoration took place and had said that the ground was extremely solid and that no further falls would take place so long as no-one was foolish enough to try any more mining. Seth climbed up and sat upon the graveyard wall, facing the church so that the wind from off the waves might dry off the unsavoury patch on his back. As he cooled down, he relaxed. He could hear the sound of the crowd in the vestry, an
d the singing of the choir in the old school. They were just reaching the Credo, so they too would be stopping soon. Somebody blew a bugle call on a trumpet. He slipped on to the grass at the summons, and started back for the next half of the rehearsal.
‘Hello, Peake.’ Roly MacGuire’s voice. Seth turned, and saw him jumping over another part of the wall. They smiled.
‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘I saw you didn’t,’ said Roly, ‘it’s my secret – well, our secret now. I didn’t want to be mobbed by women asking me to do their little girls’ heads so I’ve found a secluded corner behind that bit of wall. It’s perfect – the wind blows the chips into the sea so there’s no mess.’
‘I’ve seen them. They’re good.’ Seth pitched the understatement with care.
‘Oh. Thank you,’ the sculptor clumsily replied. ‘Look, I’ve got to talk to you alone. I mustn’t make you late. I’ll see you out here in the lunch-break.’
“Bye,’ said Seth but Roly was already walking back to his lair.
The Crucifixus had no sooner started than Seth recalled the stupid conversation of the night before and damned himself for having appeared so untroubled outside just now. He had agreed to meet with a childish alacrity. Roly was too proud to apologize and, in any case, he had said at the time that apologies would be unethical – or some sanctimonious words to that effect. Try as he would, Seth could not fix his mind back on to the Bach. He looked on with disgust as he dared to play the masterpiece on automatic pilot even as he indulged in preposterous scenarios. Against the agonies and joys of the Passion, he crushed MacGuire with the declaration that his ‘politics’ were a hypocritical patter of bandied abstractions, and was made the object of the vanquished one’s vengeful cliff-top lust, the Atlantic boiling beneath them, herring gulls mewing above.
‘Fine. There are obviously a lot of problems to be ironed out later, but, as we all know, the principal problem is still rehearsing in the school. Kind Mrs Willis and her helpers have laid on a picnic lunch in the garden of number one. Would you all be careful of how you dispose of the mess, and please be back by two sharp.’
