“Well, we like to do things by the book, Graham,” Alan replied. “Now if you’ll just give Miss Babbacombe a few details…”
He was followed by two lads from the local scout troop and Roy Mayflower, who ran the village post office. Roy beamed at the assembled committee.
“I know I’m not your regular idea of a Samson, but I could play it for laughs.”
Deborah felt a nudge in her ribs from Anne Lindsay, who was sitting beside her, and looked round to find Anne’s grey eyes twinkling with merriment. Deborah smiled back; they obviously thought the same way. A skinny, six-foot-two Samson was not what they were looking for. The next applicant was a young man from the neighbouring village, who had seen the poster in the supermarket, but when he realised they weren’t auditioning for a TV game show he quickly lost interest and left.
A pale teenager was hovering behind Roy, twisting his baseball cap between his hands. Anne Lindsay smiled at him.
“Hello, Tim. Have you come to audition?”
He nodded. “Me mam thought it’d be a good idea.”
Anne regarded him thoughtfully. Tim Gresham was about eighteen but painfully thin, and his fair hair was heavily gelled into spikes around his sallow face, giving him the look of a greasy dish-mop.
“Okay,” she said, “we’ll put you on the list—you’ll be available for that weekend, won’t you—and for the rehearsals beforehand? The first is this Saturday evening.”
“Oh yeah, sure. I’m at college now, but we’ll be finished soon for the summer.”
He went off, and before Anne could say anything to Deborah, Miss Babbacombe’s strident tones were heard to say, “Good God, Bertram Oldfield, surely you’ve not come to audition?”
The subject of her strictures was a short, round countryman in an old tweed jacket and moleskin trousers who was strolling towards them. He had a weather-beaten face with small bloodshot eyes that glared out beneath beetling brows, greying with age. He removed the pipe from his mouth and gave a juicy cough—he looked as if he was about to spit, thought better of it and turned instead to wave his pipe at Miss Babbacombe.
“Now, Babs, I knows I ain’t no spring chicken, but I comed along just in case you ’ad nobody else. It’s our duty, ain’t it, to help the community?”
“Yes, yes of course, Bert.” Alan Thorpe nodded gravely. “Put his name down, Clara. I know I speak for the committee when I say we’re very grateful to you all for turning up. Now if you will just be patient for a few more moments, we’ll get started.”
The prospective Samsons milled around in the centre of the hall, talking in little groups. A hush fell over the assembly as a buxom redhead walked in, her ample curves displayed by an emerald-green leotard.
“Looks like Yvonne’s cut short her gym class to approve our choice of Samson,” Anne murmured to Deborah.
Yvonne looked at the assembly and gave a wry smile. “Oh, dear, is this all we have to choose from?”
Clara Babbacombe sighed. “Perhaps we have all been expecting a bit too much. Still, we’ll just have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”
A sudden movement drew all eyes towards the door, and Deborah felt an almost palpable sigh of relief run round the table.
“Is this the right place for the auditions?”
Chapter Eight
Josh Lancaster stood just inside the doorway, looking about uncertainly. Kylie Tring turned in her chair and gave him a blinding smile.
“Yes, yes, young man. Come along in.” Miss Babbacombe urged him forward and was soon jotting down his details on her notepad. Josh spotted Deborah sitting at one end of the table and winked at her.
Alan Thorpe banged on the table, invited the applicants to sit down and began to address them all in a voice used to authority.
“Now, some of you will be familiar with our plans for the pageant, but I’ll just run over the details so you are all up to speed on it. We—those of us sitting at this table plus the Reverend Aubrey Bodicote, vicar of St. John’s, who unfortunately cannot be with us this evening—we are the committee formed to organise a pageant to celebrate St. John’s seven hundredth anniversary year. Of course, we don’t know the exact date the church was built, but there is evidence in the parish records that there was a church on this site in 1311. We’ll be holding a weekend of celebrations. Second weekend in July, as it happens, starting with the carnival procession and village fayre on the Saturday afternoon. Graham’s kindly offered to organise a pig-roast and disco at the Dog and Sardine on Saturday evening, and we’ll have a special church service on the Sunday morning.
“The carnival procession will start from the car park of the Happy Landings Pub on the Moreton Industrial estate, make its way through the village to the green, where the performers on each of the floats will then enact a short scene. Now, we wanted the theme for the carnival procession to have links with St. John’s, naturally, and we thought it would be a nice idea if we used the stained glass windows of the church as our theme, so each of the floats will show a scene from the windows. Cubs and Brownies will be reenacting Jacob’s Ladder, Guides have chosen Daniel in the Lion’s Den, and the Scouts will do David and Goliath. The Fall of Jericho will be represented by the Moreton-by-Fleetwater Brass Band, and the Mothers’ Union are baking the Ten Commandments. Those of you familiar with the church will know that just leaves the window depicting Samson. We had of course already chosen our Samson, but due to an unfortunate accident, Eric Monkwater won’t be fit enough to join us, so we need to find a replacement.”
“So what do you want us to do, then?” demanded Graham Tring, sitting with his arms folded across his massive chest.
“Well, we have a few lines written out, and if you’d like to read them back to us…”
“And I think we should see their bodies,” Miss Babbacombe added.
Alan Thorpe turned to stare at her, and Bertram Oldfield sucked noisily on his pipe. “If you wants to see men in the altogether, Babs, you should’ve been at the Westhaven t’other night!”
“I don’t know what you’re so squeamish about, Bertram Oldfield,” she retorted acidly. “If Samson’s going to wear a loincloth on the day, we need to know he’ll look good in it!”
“Well, perhaps not a complete strip is necessary,” Godfrey Mullett temporised, reaching for his humbugs. “What about stripping to the waist?”
After much murmuring, the candidates took off their shirts and lined up on the stage, and each read a few words aloud.
“Now what should we do, give marks out of ten? Points for pecs, so to speak?” Anne Lindsay asked.
Alan Thorpe was not amused. “Let’s be objective about this, shall we? We all know what’s required.”
“I think the points system is a good idea,” Godfrey put in. “We can add up all the marks…”
“Then what’ll you do?” Roy Mayflower called out. “Announce the results in reverse order, like Miss World?”
“No, Roy, we won’t be choosing tonight. We will make our decision and write to each of you.” Alan Thorpe picked up his pencil. “Now, perhaps you’d all like to strike a pose?”
Deborah tried to be objective. She looked along the line from left to right. First the two scouts, sixteen or seventeen years old, she guessed, and too self-conscious to look good, even if one ignored the serious acne. Then Tim Gresham, thin and gangly, his spiky hair matched by his even spikier elbows and shoulders. She guessed that his knees would be spiky too. Without his shirt, the similarity to a dish-mop was even more striking.
Next came Bertram Oldfield, well into his seventies, but still ramrod straight. It was obvious that despite the farmer’s outdoor life, he had rarely taken off his shirt. His head, neck and forearms were the rich colour of tanned leather but the rest of his torso was pinky-white. By contrast, Graham Tring’s skin showed evidence of his annual fortnight in Tenerife and regular top-up sessions in the sun-dome in the back room of Yvonne’s Unisex Hair Salon. Deborah jotted points down on her paper. Although the landlord’s arms and shoulders
would do justice to a wrestler, she wondered if the thick mat of hair on his chest would be appreciated, and the way his beer belly hung over his trousers, completely hiding the waistband, was certainly not in keeping with the character she had in mind. Last in the line was Josh Lancaster: wide shoulders, slim hips, long legs encased in black denim, and his lithe upper body lightly tanned with just a shadow of chest hair. The face with its serious dark eyes and sensitive mouth was framed by thick black curls, reminiscent of a Renaissance hero.
“No contest, I think,” Anne Lindsay whispered to her. “Your friend wins my vote hands down.”
Deborah’s face flamed. “My—oh—I mean, I don’t really know him…”
“Well, you know him better than the rest of us. Do you think he’s serious about this?”
“I don’t know.”
Deborah found herself hoping desperately that he was.
When Alan had thanked everyone and cleared the hall, the committee sat around the table to combine their results.
“Well.” Miss Babbacombe totted up the figures in front of her. “It’s pretty clear that we’re all in agreement. That young Mr. Lancaster was far and away the best candidate.”
Godfrey Mullett smiled across the table at her. “I have to take my hat off to you, Clara. You were right all along. I believe he was one of those young strippers at the Westhaven the other night.”
“I really wouldn’t know,” Miss Babbacombe retorted, consulting her notes. “It says here that he’s second chef at the Towers.”
“That’s correct,” Alan Thorpe nodded. “I’ve just taken him on.”
“He was at the Westhaven, but he’s not a professional stripper.” Deborah found all eyes upon her and she faltered. “He—he was just standing in when one of the group was taken ill.”
“Well, however that may be, he’s the right age and the right build,” Alan observed. “I suggest we offer him the part, and once he’s accepted we’ll write to the others, thanking them for coming to the auditions and hoping that they’ll still turn out to help on the day. Is that agreed? Good. Now, any other business before we go?”
“Just one thing.” Anne looked up apologetically. “The article in the paper rather twisted my words. I was telling Deborah about it on Saturday. I hoped no one would take it up, but they have.”
“What was wrong with the article?” Godfrey asked. “I thought it was very good.”
“Well, I mentioned the local legend that says the church was built by one of the Knights Templar, returning from the Crusades, and the newspaper made it sound like a fact—actually used it as their headline. Now the paper has forwarded an email to me from someone at Flixton University, telling me I’ve got it all wrong. Of course I immediately responded, explaining that it was a well-known local story and that the headline was misleading. That’s why I was at the library, trying to find more evidence to support the legend.”
Alan Thorpe considered the matter, then shrugged. “Well, don’t let it worry you. The paper’s always getting things wrong. Never seems to worry anyone else. Now they’ve had their say, I don’t expect you’ll hear from this person again.”
“Probably not. I did write straight back, explaining that it is only a legend. But I don’t like to get things wrong, and if there is any truth in the story, I’d like to be able to prove it.”
“Yes, well, we’ve plenty to do without worrying about such ancient history.” Miss Babbacombe tidied up her notes. “I’ll telephone young Mr. Lancaster tomorrow morning. We can then get on with organising this pageant.”
Anne Lindsay slept particularly well that night, untroubled by any niggling historical questions. As she showered the next morning, she remembered the auditions for Samson—all those half-naked men! The thought made her smile. She had quite enjoyed it—it was the first time she’d actually studied a man’s body since Malcolm had gone.
Poor Malcolm. He’d taken early retirement from his job as a head teacher at a primary school so they could buy this little cottage and enjoy village life, but in less than twelve months he’d died. That was three years ago. Anne had stayed on in the cottage but continued with her part-time teaching, travelling to the nearby high school to teach English two days a week and spending the rest of her time doing all the things she and Malcolm had promised themselves, gardening, painting, visiting historic sites—although she hadn’t done much of the latter recently. It didn’t seem so much fun alone.
The pageant had caught her imagination and Anne had willingly agreed to help out. She was enjoying it but was surprised by her attitude to the auditions.
“Perhaps I should have gone to see Four Front,” she mused, smiling as she climbed out of the shower and pulled on her bathrobe. She wrapped her hair in a towel and wandered downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, pausing on the way to switch on her computer. Hemingway, the large ginger tom that condescended to share her home, rubbed against her legs, purring loudly in anticipation of his morning saucer of milk.
“Tyrant,” she murmured, stroking the silky fur as he lapped at the milk.
Unimpressed by her assessment of his character, Hemingway strolled across the room, sat down to give his face a quick wash with his golden paws, then eased himself out of the cat flap.
“A ‘thank you’ would be nice!” she called after him, then laughed guiltily. Her friends would think she was going potty, talking to a cat.
She was looking out the kitchen window, mentally restocking the garden, when she heard the metallic jingle that told her the computer had finished its scans and checks and was ready to use. She sat down to read her emails while she finished her tea. It was mostly an uninspiring collection of spam and junk mail, but there was one email headed Pageant from an address she didn’t immediately recognise. Intrigued, she clicked the mouse.
Dear Mrs. Lindsay. The typeface was black and heavy. Thank you for your email but you have not addressed the issue. The article in the press was misleading. You will be aware that local legends need something more than hearsay to become established fact. There is no evidence to substantiate your claim that St. John’s was built by a Templar or, in fact, any Crusader. Please advise the press accordingly. Yours sincerely, Prof. T Duggan.
“What?” She clicked off the email in disgust. “Didn’t he read my email? Didn’t he see that I acknowledged it was only legend? It was the paper that got their facts wrong. Please advise the press accordingly—arrogant idiot!”
She was still simmering when the committee met that evening to discuss the pageant. The vicar was informed of the events of the previous evening, and Miss Babbacombe confirmed that she had formally written to Joshua Lancaster, asking him to play the role of Samson.
“Is anything wrong, vicar?” Alan Thorpe asked, noting that the reverend’s expression was even more anxious than usual.
“Well, you know, I like the idea of enacting the scenes from the windows—Samson, Daniel, David and Goliath—all very good dramatic stuff, wonderful for the children! But, I wonder whether we should have a little more about the history of St. John’s itself…”
“Perhaps we should have a sketch about Hugh of Moreton coming back from the Crusades and founding the church,” Anne muttered, still thinking of Professor Duggan’s letter.
“Yes!” The vicar’s face lit up. “What an excellent idea. Just the sort of thing I had in mind.”
“But where would we put him?” Godfrey Mullett frowned as he reached for another humbug. “We already have all the floats—do you think we could get another lorry…?”
“No need,” said Miss Babbacombe. “He could ride on a horse—just imagine it, a knight in shining armour! What could be better?”
“But that might be a bit out, historically, and there’s no proof!” Anne said, slightly alarmed at this enthusiasm, but the others overruled her, carried away by the exciting prospect of the drama.
“I’m sure Jane Lovett could find us a suitable horse from her riding stables, and we would soon make a costume.” Miss B
abbacombe rubbed her chin, “Now, who could we get to play the part of Hugh?”
“How about you, Alan?” Godfrey suggested. “We know you can ride.”
Alan Thorpe flushed, modestly disclaimed, and eventually allowed himself to be persuaded to take the role.
“Good. Then that’s settled. End of meeting.” Godfrey packed up his papers and put his bag of humbugs in his pocket. He looked at Anne. “Any chance of getting something into next week’s paper?”
Anne looked at the assembled committee.
“You know it’s only based on legend?” she warned them.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, who’s going to worry over a little trifle like that!” demanded Miss Babbacombe.
Chapter Nine
It was the last watch before the dawn, a cold, bleak time when spirits were at their lowest. Hugo pulled his cloak a little closer as he settled down to his task—keeping watch over the ancient coastal track. He gazed out at the sea beyond the road. In the moonlight the waters of the Mediterranean gleamed like polished pewter. Behind him the camp was silent, even the dogs and horses had finally settled, and the only noise was the soft wind sighing through the cedar trees on the hills behind him. A footfall caused Hugo to turn, his hand going instinctively to his sword.
“Easy, Templar. It is I, Tripoli.”
Hugo nodded at the count. “You are up betimes, my lord.”
Raymond of Tripoli grunted and moved up beside him. “Aye. Sleep eludes me. Tomorrow we reach Acre, the end of my journey. What of you then, Hugo the Templar?”
Hugo looked up at the moon. He wished he could say he was going back to England, but that was impossible.
“A period of prayer and reflection. Then we await the next group of pilgrims to be escorted to Jerusalem.”
“And how many times have you made such a journey?”
Hugo shrugged. “I have been here more than five years, now. I forget.”
“You monkish knights mystify me. You adhere to your religious life of prayer and contemplation, eschewing all worldly considerations, yet in battle you fight like the very devil. Why, brother? What compels you to such a life? I see in your face much jollity, and during our journey north from Jerusalem I have witnessed for myself your good humour. How comes it you have turned your back on the world?”
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