by Phil Rickman
Merrily sat down. Too conspicuous in the cassock but it was Sunday.
‘Often part of the parting process,’ she said. ‘But I expect you know that.’
‘A stressful time,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ve had patients who… anyway.’
Shook her head dismissively.
‘Huw,’ Merrily said, ‘the guy who advises me, has taken to calling them the Latchkey Kids.’
‘Let themselves in?’
‘Someone you know very well who lets him or herself in. For a while. More properly, the Bereavement Apparition.’
‘I think I prefer latchkey kid. It certainly makes you question your— not your sanity, but your state of mind. I felt the need to talk about it with someone who wouldn’t give me the psychobabble. Just wasn’t sure I wanted it to be a vicar. I had a patient who was a woman vicar, and I certainly wouldn’t have told her. A touch too mumsy. I suppose I watched how you took that service and came to the conclusion that you probably couldn’t easily do happy-clappy.’
‘Not happy enough. Would you like something to eat?’
‘No thank you. I won’t stay long. I was… against my will, becoming serious about Aidan. Never the intention. A farmer? Me?’
There was the sense of them being in a hollow in the crowded bar, the chat and laughter shifted back.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘It was a truly awful thing to happen. I’m afraid I didn’t know him. We just… it’s a big village, growing all the time, and our paths didn’t cross. I wished they had.’
‘He didn’t spend much time here, did he? He went to work on his father’s farm. He went to work. Had what amounted to a bedsit there – live-in accommodation rather than a home. He told me all this, but never talked much about this village. Only about the one where he grew up. He did take me there once.’
‘Just to get this right, you and he were…’
‘An item? You’d say that, yes.’ She looked into the mottled blue light of the mullion window. ‘You’d have to say that now.’
Merrily didn’t ask.
‘It was an unusual arrangement,’ Rachel said, ‘but with my job I suppose it suited me. For a while. At first I thought I must be using him, you know?’
‘How long?’
‘Nearly a year. His death… I haven’t really had anyone to talk to about it. Or him. Nobody knew about him. My parents live down in Berkshire. They didn’t know about him. My partners at work, they didn’t know about him. Mainly because I didn’t know about him. Most men, they can’t tell you enough about themselves, can they?’
‘You didn’t talk much?’
‘We talked a lot, eventually. But not about personal issues – or at least I didn’t think they were personal. Now I think perhaps they were. Issues verging on philosophy. I’d see him twice a week, three times lately. He was a quiet man, shy, but you became aware of… I can only describe it as an underlying energy. I don’t really mean physical, although he was stronger than he looked.’
‘You’re talking about an inner…?’
‘Oh, powerfully inner. A lot going on inside him, and I don’t mean emotional turmoil, he was usually very calm. I’m not sure what I mean, but that was… that was what I saw, when I awoke this morning.’
‘This morning?’
‘It was strange. Because we’d never spent a night together, I never awoke with that empty-bed feeling. So what I saw – it was him, and… Oh God, I saw the energy of him. It filled the room.’
‘You saw it…’
‘Vividly. I saw him, very briefly, but the energy didn’t go away for some minutes. The longest minutes of my life. Or perhaps it was only seconds. If someone came into the clinic and told me that, I’d have to write them a prescription.’
‘And that was the first time…?’
‘No. The first time was in the night. After the funeral.’
‘Oh.’
Rachel looked down into her drink then pushed it away.
‘Not good. I thought that was me. I’d done a lot of crying that night.’
‘Did you feel anything at the grave, just now?’
‘Nothing at all. It’s not his place, is it?’
‘Graves seldom are. This morning – were you frightened?’
‘No. Not while it was happening. Afterwards I was frightened. But that’s normal, isn’t it? You’re frightened something’s wrong with you.’
‘You said this was not his place. What is his place, Rachel?’
‘Kilpeck,’ Rachel said. ‘Oh God, yes. If he talked with any enthusiasm about anywhere, it was Kilpeck.’
22
Confessional
A WOMAN ANSWERED.
‘He’s at work, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sorry. Didn’t think he’d be working on a Sunday.’
‘He doesn’t usually. If you want to make an appointment—’
‘It’s not about horses,’ Lol said. ‘Or shoes or…’
‘Who is this?’
‘Um… my name’s Robinson. I’m helping organize a folk festival for next summer. At Ledwardine. I’d heard Mr Brewer was connected with a morris dancing side.’
Pause.
‘Who told you that?’
Quite sharp.
‘Just a friend. Someone who knew we were looking to book some morris dancers.’
‘Where did you say you were from?’
Wary now. Her accent was not local. South of England somewhere.
‘Ledwardine. That’s—’
‘I know where it is.’ Said very quickly. Suspicion here and perhaps something more complicated. ‘Why do you need to talk to my husband about this?’
‘I’m sorry, you mean he isn’t connected with the morris?’
‘Look. I’ll give him your message, but he probably isn’t going to be able to help you.’
‘If I’ve got this wrong I’ll just—’
He could hear children in the background, insistent.
‘The Kilpeck Morris,’ she said, ‘are not available for bookings. Didn’t you know that? Rhian, leave that alone.’
‘Ever?’
‘I’ll give him your message, OK?’
He had a sense of the telephone line between them stretched tight. At least he had an admission that there was a morris side here. But fully booked? For ever?
‘Are you in the side as well?’
‘I’m a woman.’
‘All male. Sorry, didn’t know that. Would it be possible to talk to your husband anyway? Would there be a time that might be convenient?’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘you’re probably trying to talk to the wrong person. If you leave me your number I’ll pass it on to him. If he doesn’t ring you back, I expect you can find somebody else. No! I said you could have one.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lol said. ‘You’re busy. If he’s the wrong person, who should I be talking to?’
There was a long pause.
‘Do you know Sir Lionel?’
‘Sir Lionel who?’
‘No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with me,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll pass on your message.’
Then she hung up.
By the time Jane returned, Lol had already Googled Sir Lionel, Kilpeck Morris. Not an overwhelming response, and no mention of a Kilpeck morris side. The nearest connection was
Reopening of forgotten Kilpeck footpath supported by Sir Lionel Darvill.
from a local parish website, relating how a long-disused right of way had been reopened, despite objections by farmers and landowners, after Sir Lionel Darvill had given permission for access to his Maryfields Estate, offering to install gates and stiles.
‘Never heard of him,’ Jane said.
She’d come without a coat and was down by the stove. Winter was coming at them like a slow train; its last carriage would have frozen windows.
‘Me neither,’ Lol said. ‘This county’s full of obscure titled people. We should ask Gomer. Gomer knows everybody.’
‘This guy is in charge of the
Kilpeck Morris side?’
‘That’s the inference. What’s really odd is that if you Google Kilpeck Morris you get nothing at all.’
‘I bet I could find something.’
‘Please do.’
He hadn’t expected her back so soon, hadn’t had much time to think about the email on her phone. Few situations he liked less than when Jane had told him something he was forbidden to share with her mother – this occasional reluctance going back, he guessed, to the days when she’d seen herself as a committed pagan who couldn’t trust Christians, only fellow weirdos, alive or dead.
‘Your phone’s on the desk,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘This Sam… she’s continued to text you, send emails?’
‘Yes.’
‘But this is the first…’
‘The first suggestion that she might come here, yeah.’
This looked clever. The possibility of the orchard that had once surrounded Ledwardine marking the perimeter of a Neolithic henge was central to Jane’s perceived future. The big secret that she sometimes seemed convinced the village itself had confided to her.
‘You told Sam all about the henge?’
‘More or less. The buried stones in Coleman’s Meadow, the idea about Church Street following the course of a processional avenue leading up from the river…’
‘And the council?’
Herefordshire Council’s long-term plans to expand the village, which meant that Jane’s henge, if it existed, could wind up underneath executive housing and a supermarket.
‘And our esteemed councillor, Lyndon Pierce, and his undisclosed links with the big business guys who’d benefit from the development. Yeah, all that.’
Lol winced.
‘I know, I know. I was pissed. You know what it’s like when you can’t stop talking. Anyway, all archaeologists know most of their work is going to be investigating ground that somebody wants to build on. Thing is, a university-sponsored dig might be the best thing that could happen. Like, if it was found to be of serious historical importance we might be looking at protected status. Something to fight for, anyway.’
‘Um…’ This was awkward. ‘Are you thinking that if Sam still has… a bit of a thing for you, then the possibility of a henge – might be of, um, secondary importance?’
‘Worse than that. If it is a henge, it’ll be their henge, won’t it? The university’s. I know that’s selfish…’
‘But you’d be involved, surely?’
‘Involved?’ Jane stared up at him, unblinking. ‘You’re not getting this, are you?’
‘You mean if Sam was in charge, the extent of your involvement might depend on you and Sam being on the same side? As it were.’
‘She’s a nice woman. I don’t think for one minute she—’
‘It’s more how you’d feel, right? Getting her here under false pretences?’
‘All mixed up, Lol.’
‘Jane, it’s not yet one day since we did… what we did.’
Perhaps this was a good time to tell her about Barry’s idea that she might run the festival shop. Although nothing had been signed, and if it all fell through…
‘I’m assuming you haven’t told your mum about Sam yet.’
‘Correct.’
‘You going to?’
‘Not till I get to the stage where I can laugh about it.’ Jane wandered over to the desk in the window. ‘Maybe in ten years. Meanwhile, what do I do about this?’
Picking up the phone as if it was an explosive device from which the fuse needed to be extracted.
‘You could tell her that… I dunno, maybe that it might not be a good time to alert certain people that there’s interest in the site. Apologize for sounding secretive, but say things might be a lot clearer in a few weeks. Something like that?’
‘You think?’
‘Buy some time. Things can happen. Just don’t think about it. Go to the meditation tonight, empty it all out.’
‘You going?’
‘Probably.’
‘Maybe I won’t. I’ve had enough of the church and the churchyard. Maybe I’ll go deep into the Net and find out about the Kilpeck Morris, now we know it exists.’
‘Just don’t contact anybody… yet.’
‘I quite like the idea of taking on an aristocrat.’ Jane was looking out of the window. ‘Some retired MP who got knighted for doing bugger all. Keeping his head down somewhere quiet so everybody’ll forget about him and his sexual history in the last millennium. Oh—’
‘What?’
‘There’s Mum coming back from work. Shivering in her cassock. I should go home, stoke up the stove, put the kettle on.’
‘I’m wondering now if we ought to tell her,’ Lol said. ‘It might be more harmful that she doesn’t know. Don’t know what to do, really. Life’s suddenly…’
‘A bitch.’
When she’d gone, he sat gazing out of the window across the street to where leafless trees offered scant shielding to the black and white timbers of the vicarage. Its chimney stacks were already smoky silhouettes, the sky rusting fast. The paper with the Kilpeck number on it had turned pink in the sunset. In a couple of hours, Merrily would be off to the church to lead the Sunday evening meditation, very much her favourite service. He’d go too, because there were no hymns, no psalms, and she didn’t wear the dog collar. She would be the Merrily of ‘Camera Lies’.
A shadow moved on the edge of his vision. He stood up quickly and kicked shut the door to the hall and the newel post. Picked up the Boswell from its stand, found the basic chords for the song he was working. A regretful song about the winter solstice. As yet, it had only two short lines.
The old year turns on a rusting hinge
Kids in the city on a drinking binge
He struck the strings and the chord jarred, out of tune. He’d tuned it this morning. The Boswell didn’t normally do this.
As for the mental image of Lucy Devenish raising a gnarled warning finger, that was… mental.
23
Inhale the darkness
ELECTRIC LIGHTS DOWN, candles lit though not for long.
Merrily took her seat in the well at the top of the nave, below the chancel. She was in a long black skirt, cashmere sweater. Small pectoral cross. Usual Sunday night attire. Sunday night was not about ministering. Guiding, perhaps, and then fading back in the shadows.
Introduction.
‘We’ve got used to having Christmas as a beacon.’ Conversational. ‘The light at the heart of the winter.’
It had started last week, nothing too intense. An awareness of the time of year, the shortening days. Approaching the season governed by night. A mild meditation last Sunday to prepare the ground.
‘OK, the trees are bare, the bad weather’s started, but Christmas is coming – good food, office parties, family gatherings, an excuse to drink more, a new Bond movie on TV. The hell with winter.’
Over forty people here tonight, which wasn’t bad at all. A lower age group than the regular services, even Communion. The assembly reduced to cut-outs now. Some of them would have seen the stack of slim paperbacks in the window of the village bookshop and twigged, but there would still be an element of uncertainty.
‘But let’s pretend, for a while, that Christmas isn’t going to happen. No cribs, no coloured lights.’
A church was never entirely dark, but tonight was about promoting shadows. She came slowly to her feet, rustle of the skirt.
‘In fact let’s do more than pretend. Let’s cancel it.’
She blew out the first candle. A segment of nave disappeared.
‘Christmas. Not going to happen.’
Blew out the second candle. The thin rising smell of molten wax and blackened wick.
‘Open ourselves up to the cold…’
The heating was on, but that wasn’t the kind of cold she meant. Nearly all the faces had disappeared from the semicircle of rearranged pews and chairs. The stained-glass windows had turn
ed to mud and then reanimated themselves in a grey and spectral way.
‘… and the emptiness. The nothingness.’
She breathed on the third candle and tried not to think about Aidan Lloyd.
You had to keep returning to the dark.
She had a discreet battery-powered reading light, a narrow bar that she could shield with a hand so that it lit only the page, not her. Reducing her to a soft voice coming out of nowhere, intoning the words of the anonymous medieval mystic – who knew, it might have been a woman – laying out a pathway for the soul in search of light, but stressing that it could only begin in the dark, with the feeling of nothing, the knowing of nothing.
Very appropriate to the time of year. She’d thought about it last year but hadn’t gone ahead, the motivation hadn’t been there. Then Gus Staines at Ledwardine Livres had landed on a job lot of The Cloud of Unknowing, this luminous guide to contemplation, originally written, anonymously, in Middle English. No harm, surely, in supporting your local bookshop.
The nature of God entirely obscured by the cloud of unknowing. A wintry thought. No pleasure in this in the early stages. A loneliness there, even isolation. But you had to keep returning to the dark, until you felt at home there; only then could the yearning emerge. Perhaps, by then, assisted.
The church door creaked. She heard Lol padding in. Couldn’t see him at all, but she registered it was Lol. She always did. He sometimes claimed he only came as a voyeur, to watch her gliding around in black. She smiled invisibly. Not possible tonight, even if he’d had good eyesight.
She passed on the message from the fourteenth century that the state of contemplation could not be achieved through either knowledge or the use of imagination. Essentially, expect nothing. It was the basis of all real meditation. What all the best gurus told you. She didn’t tell them that.
Sometimes, outside the church afterwards, someone would grab her excitedly, to talk about a flash of enlightenment or the fleeting sensation of separation from the physical. But that was only the crack of light under the door.
The crack of light – it could be amazing when that happened, although mystics and theologians would tell you it wasn’t really significant in the great scheme of things. If you were religious, it might convince you that you were on the true path. If you were a committed atheist, it would simply be a useful lesson about the efficacy of brain chemicals.
