by Stan Mason
* * *
At three o’clock in the afternoon, Townsend turned up at the police station to collect me. My heart was in my mouth with questions flooding my mind. What was she like? Was she pretty... slim... pleasant? How old was she? Would she like me?
‘We’re going to Bridget McBain’s house,’ he told me flatly. ‘I can confirm that she’s a widow and has one son.’
‘How old is the boy?’ I asked innocuously.
‘You’ll find out when we get there,’ he responded briefly.
We walked together in silence along one of the paths until coming to the residential part of the village. In due course we arrived at the McBain house and I held my breath as we waited on tenterhooks for the next development. Townsend knocked on the door and a young woman answered. I reckoned that she was in her mid-twenties but the boy by her side was only about eleven years old. He looked very similar to the lad I had found sobbing in the church who told me that he was forty-two.
Bridget McBain was an exceptionally attractive woman. She was slender with a beautiful face, an excellent complexion, blonde hair, a retrousse nose and she had the body of a high-class model. I couldn’t believe that any husband would prefer to die by not taking his tablets as against living with this angel. I revised my position in an instant, This was the kind of woman I could fall in love with quite easily. I was amazed that I was being introduced to her on the day after her husband had died. It appeared that grieving was not one of the village’s strong points. After all, in most cases, a young widow’s grief would last for a year or maybe more at the death of her husband. Not so in Keppelberg! Even though it was fringed on the edge of Victorian life, mating was considered to be far more important to keep up the population count of the people in the village.
‘This is Samuel Ross,’ said Townsend introducing me to the woman. ‘He knows of your recent loss.’
She smiled at me and I felt myself go weak at the knees. She really was extremely beautiful!
‘Happy to meet you, Samuel,’ she cooed. There was a lilt in her voice which made every sound seem fabulous to the ear.
‘You too,’ I managed to say without being able to take my eyes away from her face. For me it was love at first sight. I had enjoyed the company of many young women in the past, both before and during my army days, but I had never experienced such an uplifting wonderful feeling that surged through my veins as at this precise moment. It may have been lust, it may have been love, but it was all the same to me. ‘You look lovely,’ I went on before I became speechless.
She smiled at me again and it appeared that the chemistry between us was right. I turned my attention to the boy.
‘How are you, young fella,’ I went on, rubbing my hand over the boy’s hair as a token of affection.
‘I saw you in the church today.’
‘He went to the church to pray for the soul of my husband,’ she told us.
I was about to say that the boy had told me he was forty-two years of age but I bit my lip to stop myself saying it. This was not the time for questions. It would also have put Townsend on his guard.
‘Come inside!’ she welcomed turning so that we could follow her.
We entered into the tiny lounge. I discovered later that all the houses were identical in shape and size with the same number of rooms... and even the same furniture. We sat down as Bridget went into the kitchen to make some tea while the boy sat holding a book and wearing a sullen expression on his face.
‘What are you reading?’ I asked with interest.
The boy looked up at me tiredly. ‘Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens,’ he stated firmly.
‘It’s a good book. I saw the film of it some years ago,’ I advanced smiling at him.
‘What’s a film?’ he asked bluntly, not knowing what I was talking about.
‘It’s a...’ I notice that Townsend was shaking his head fiercely and stopped in my tracks. He did not want me to explain anything that happened in the world beyond the year 1900. It would affect the minds of the people in the village and could never be redressed. ‘No... I think Oliver Twist is a very good book,’ I said recovering quickly as the boy returned his attention to the text.
Very shortly Bridget returned with a tray loaded with a teapot, teacups, a bowl of milk and of sugar, and some scones.
‘You’re a stranger,’ she stated. ‘I don’t know why they brought you here to me.’ The comment certainly put me in my place.
’I don’t know myself,’ I responded weakly. I found myself staring directly into the eyes, not listening to anything further she had to say. It must have been evident to any observer that I was completely besotted by the woman. However, despite my fascination for her and the chemistry that clearly existed between us, she was damaged goods having been married before and having a young child. Nothing would ever change that. There was a lot of baggage in two. If I became involved with her, the boy would have to come into the equation as well. There was no alternative. Yet it suited my purpose well into deluding the villagers that I had become a fully-fledged member of their community. At the same time I had to admit that I was beginning to enjoy the aura which appeared to enshroud the village ensuring that a peaceful atmosphere existed... well away from all the hustle and bustle of the greedy, ambitious, hostile world that concentrated its attention on power and money, causing poverty for the millions and riches for the few. None of that was evident in Keppelberg.
Townsend stared at Bridget and took up the conversation after pondering her comment.
‘Samuel’s a newcomer in our community. I brought him along in the hope that you might be able to get on together. It’s not right that you should have to live alone for the rest of your life.’
I found his remark insulting to the woman. Why shouldn’t she have the choice to remain a widow bringing up her son to live with her if she wanted her independence? It seemed incredible that the only reason he wanted me to be there was to make up the population so that it remained at eleven hundred.
‘I’m sorry to come to you in your hour of grief,’ I apologised firmly standing up feeling sorry for the woman. ‘If you want me to leave I shall do so. I don’t wish to intrude unnecessarily into your life.’
‘Sit down!’ snapped the Chairman sharply. ‘You’re here under my authorisation. Say nothing... do nothing... unless you’re asked!’
I was taken aback by his sudden change of attitude and sat down again. Why was he so angry when it was clear that both the woman and myself were embarrassed? The situation began to resolve itself quite swiftly because Bridget began to cry. Large tears rolled down her cheeks and the boy went over to her, putting his arms around her shoulders to comfort her. Townsend was suddenly at a loss as to what to say or do. I couldn’t really determine the reason why we had visited the woman in her hour of grief. It was completely insensitive. She was obviously upset due to the death of her husband while the Chairman of the committee was making matters worse by taking me along to see her. I could only imagine I was there as a replacement for the dead man... a thought which sent chills running down my spine. It was inconceivable in reality but the woman was so beautiful she aroused something inside me that made me want to be with her.
We left the house shortly and I promised Bridget that I would return at a later date although I wasn’t certain that a repeat performance was on the agenda. It was entirely up to the committee. I felt that if there had to be a marriage with the woman, for me to stay in the village, it was one I would welcome for she was the only person I would consider to spend my life with from that moment onwards... even as damaged goods with baggage in tow!
* * *
On the way back to the police station, Townsend was in a foul mood, walking swiftly in front of me with a dour expression on his face. Regardless of the disappointing meeting with Bridget, I plied him with questions which lay at the back of my mind.
‘How does this village cope with political control?’ I asked innocuously, wondering about local and General Elections and a wealth of legislation.
He cleared his throat before answering. ‘We’re not in any constituency in Norhumberland and we decline any connection with political parties or politics. They have nothing to do with us... we are totally independent.’
‘Are you saying the no one comes here to canvas you at General Elections?’
‘I would think not!’ he retorted, as though I had pricked him with a needle. ‘We manage our own affairs!’
‘How does that make you feel being isolated from the rest of the country?’ I enquired. ‘I mean how do you cope financially with pensions, benefits, job seeker’s allowance and the like?’
He stared at me with the same doleful expression. ‘We don’t avail ourselves of any of those things. As far as the authorities are concerned, we don’t exist. We prefer it that way. Everyone in the village is quite young. They don’t need pensions and they’re all employed so they don’t need benefits. As I said, we’re independent.’
‘That brings me on to another point,’ I advanced boldly with the bit between my teeth. ‘No one here seems to be above the age of forty. What’s happened to all the old folk?’
At that point he clammed up. ‘Let’s move on!’ he muttered quickening his pace. ‘You know too much already for a stranger!’
We returned to the police station where I sat down on the wooden seat facing the Desk Sergeant. Townsend turned to me before leaving.
‘I want you to go to the church in one hour’s time,’ he ordered in a flat tone.
‘The church,’ I responded in surprise. ‘What for?’
‘I want you to see the priest,’ he went on sombrely. ‘I’m going to arrange the appointment now.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I pressed irately. ‘First you take me to Bridget McBain for reasons I cannot imagine. Now you want me to see the priest. Is this to be some kind of initiation process. What’s going on, Mr. Townsend? I think I’m entitled to know.’
‘You’ll do exactly what I tell you or you will not like the consequences. Of that I assure you. You will visit the priest in one hour’s time.’
He left the police station and I had no idea what was going on. Perhaps he was starting to believe that perhaps I could be one of the villagers and he was making me run the gauntlet. On the other hand it might be a false assumption. Yet despite all the things that were happening, I was no nearer to learning the secret that held the village together.
I sat in the police station for a while reading a passage from the Bible before deciding to leave early, wandering along the path to the church. I had no idea if anyone was watching me but I presumed that PC7 as somewhere in the vicinity keeping an eye on my movements. Next to the church there lay the graveyard and I stepped into the compound to read some of the epitaphs on the gravestones. I recalled a jingle we used to chant at the training barracks in Aldershot It was customary to do so as we marched carrying our rifles and knapsacks mainly to keep up the morale of the soldiers. It went: ‘Here lies the bones of Elizabeth Charlotte, born a virgin, died a harlot. She was a virgin at seventeen, a remarkable feat in Aberdeen!’ I smiled to myself at the memory of the squad of soldiers marching up and down chanting the same verse time and time again. It had seemed so important to do so at the time. Although I was free of the heat and dust in Basra, I was already beginning to miss the camaraderie of my friends in the army. There was something special about living with men and women in a tense atmosphere so close to edge of warfare and death. It was a relationship one never forgot.
The graves were relatively few for a community of this size and I began to read the epitaphs on the gravestones. ‘George William Hamlin. Died aged 72. ... 1860-1932.’ ‘Harvey Tomson. died aged 66. 1874-1940.’ ‘Albert Grimsby... died aged 68. 1835-1903.’
I paused to reflect for a moment and my blood ran cold as I realised that the graves were those who had died many years ago. Where were the modern graves... the people who died over the past fifty years. There weren’t any! I raced through the cemetery as fast as I could but I was unable to find any gravestones of people who died in recent years... and everyone in the village looked so young. What the hell was going on? I looked around to see whether I could find a crematorium. Perhaps the villagers had decided to cremate their dead but there was no sign of such a place. Very few people, with the exception of Mr. McBain ever seemed to die here. I wandered out of the graveyard with a dozen thoughts rushing through my mind as I tried to rationalise the situation. Maybe I was getting nearer to learning the secret of Keppelberg but did not have the intelligence to understand it.
On entering the church, I found the priest on his knees praying before the altar I was unable to quench my curiosity and I went to him as he completed his prayer. He was surprised by my audacity and was taken aback at being questioned by me so abruptly.
‘How is it that no one has died in this village over the last fifty years?’ I enquired.
‘That’s not true,’ he countered bluntly, ignoring the essence of my question as he climbed to his feet. ‘A man died recently. You met the widow McBain.’
His comment stopped me in my tracks for a moment until I was able to rally. ‘Other than him, no one’s died over the last fifty years,’ I repeated.
‘There were people who left the village,’ he responded slowly although I knew that to be a lie. ‘They died elsewhere... we’re not to know that.’
It was clearly a falsehood and I was stunned that a priest should be so callow. To my mind, no one ever left this village for any reason whatsoever.
He paused for a moment staring carefully at my face. ‘I’m wondering whether you will fit into this community,’ he muttered thoughtfully. ‘You’re attitude is over-ambitious for the style of life here. I believe you think we hold a secret and you’re trying to get to the bottom of it simply to satisfy your own curiosity.’ He pointed to a front pew and I sat down looking up at him.
‘Now what makes you think that, vicar,’ I retaliated swiftly. ‘I’ve just been demobbed from the army and I’ve come across your village by accident. It’s very peaceful, if not archaic, and I certainly would like to settle here. It’s very different from the rest of the world.’
‘And we like to keep it that way with no interference from anyone else,’ he rattled on. ‘You say you want to settle here. We don’t like strangers. We’ve carved out our own way of life and the people here are happy to live in an aura of peacefulness. People who come here try to change our ways by commenting of the advances in technology and a better way of life. But we like the way we are. We’re contented with the way we live.’
‘If I’m allowed to stay, will I ever be regarded as a villager and not a stranger?’ I asked with interest.
He paused to consider my question for a moment. ‘Where do you come from?’ he asked politely.
‘From Redruth in Cornwall,’ I replied.
‘How do they cope with strangers there over a long period of time?’
I smiled understanding the element of his argument. ‘Tourists are called emmets. They come and go each year. Outsiders who come and stay to live there are never regarded as Cornish even if they become totally committed to the Cornish way of life. That’s the truth of the matter.’
He nodded sagely. ‘Then you’ll understand our reluctance to accept you at face value.’
‘You have a point,’ I agreed readily, believing that he was going to reject my application to stay in the village.
‘However you come at a time when there’s a need to replace one person to ensure that the number of our population remains at eleven hundred people,’ he went on.
‘Yes... why is that?’ I asked him point-blank hoping for a reasonable answer. ‘Why do you have to remain at exactly one thousand
one hundred people?
‘Ask no questions, be told no lies,’ he countered smartly. ‘Perhaps you yourself will learn the answer in thirty years time. He clapped his hands together in front of him. ‘You future here depends on your commitment but you’re young enough to be accepted.’
‘I spent six years in the army,’ I told him. ‘I’ve been trained to be committed. I really want to stay. I’ll do anything you ask.’ I wasn’t certain that I could hold on to this figment of my imagination even though there was an element of truth in my response. I held the image of Bridget McBain in my mind and she was the one, apart from my curiosity, who forced me to make this decision. She was so beautiful I could not get her out of my mind.
‘If only I could believe you,’ retorted the priest, staring directly into my eyes as though he wanted to read my mind. ‘What we have here is something precious, something unique, denied to the rest of the world. We wish to preserve it and, for that reason, we reject all that is happening elsewhere. We have no newspapers, no telephones or communications, no electric devices which they use in other places. We remain alone and survive alone.’ There was a moment of silence as he paused to collect his thoughts. ‘I’ve already told you too much.’
‘But you’ve told me nothing!’ I expostulated curtly, trowelling through my mind at the comments he had made to try to find something that he had let slip. What we had discussed were issues of which I knew... unless there was something behind them that I had missed. The clandestine perplexity of the situation was beginning to annoy me greatly.
