by Phil Rickman
She held a thumb and forefinger about a millimetre apart.
‘So this move’s a new start, is it?’ Merrily said.
‘Darling, this—’ Stella slumped back into her canvas-backed chair. ‘This was supposed to be the new start. He “retired”.’ She did the quote marks in the air. ‘Should’ve realized what a horribly ominous word that is for a man. Strongly suggestive of impending impotence.’
‘What, these days, when everybody seems to be retiring at fifty?’
‘With Paul, it means something to prove. We originally bought this place as just a holiday home – he was in wood stoves, British end of a firm in New England, so a lot of transatlantic travel. He wanted to move out there but I wanted to do this up as a permanent home. Disastrous idea. Flung together in isolation – for ever! – with a man you realize you really never properly knew because he’d spent so much time away.’
‘Rows?’
‘Lots.’
‘Like on the night you crashed?’
Stella looked up at Merrily, squinting at the sun, fumbling her dark glasses back on.
‘What are you after? I rather thought you’d had your money’s worth the other night.’
‘Just the truth, this time. Why you lied to the police and everybody else.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Well, actually, it’s fairly obvious why you lied. I’d just like to confirm it, and maybe ask a few supplementary questions. It won’t go any further. And you’re leaving anyway. You are actually leaving, or was that also—?’
‘No!’
Stella peered into her coffee. It looked like the coffee you made after a long and sleepless night, its hours counted out on fingers of alcohol. She sniffed and stood up.
‘I lie all the time, actually. Paul’s not in Ledbury, he’s in London and he won’t be back until tomorrow. But, yes, we are leaving. You want some of this, or would you like to give me an excuse to open a bottle of wine?’
Stella was away in the house for some time. Merrily gazed at the wounded rocks behind the trees and smoked a cigarette and checked the vicarage answering machine on her mobile.
There were five messages.
At barely ten a.m.?
Oh, God.
First message: ‘Hello, Mrs Watkins, you might remember me – it’s Amanda Patel from BBC Midlands Today. Not about you this time, you’ll be glad to know, but we’ve seen the story about your daughter in the Guardian and we’d like to follow it up for tonight’s programme. I’ve been on to the school, but she’s apparently not shown up, so I wonder if…’
Not shown up at school? Guardian?
‘…So if you could call me ASAP. I’ll probably be on my way to Ledwardine, so I’ll leave my mobile number…’
Merrily switched off the phone and put out her cigarette, trying to clear her head as Stella Cobham came out. Wearing a green silk robe, she was carrying an opened bottle of Chardonnay, the level already conspicuously down, and two glasses.
‘What’s your driving licence look like, Merry?’
‘I can’t remember.’
Stella peered at her.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, mine’s got enough points on it that I’m just barely on the road. Can you imagine what it would be like living here if you didn’t have a car?’
‘I…’ Concentrate. ‘Yes, I can understand why you didn’t need a conviction for careless driving.’
‘I wasn’t drunk. I was just in a blind rage.’
Stella pulled her robe closer to her throat with one hand and reached out with the other for her wineglass, picking it up and then immediately putting it down again, as if this was some kind of testament to her sobriety on the night.
‘Then afterwards I was standing there in the road, with these whingeing bloody German tourists totting up the damage, and it was obviously my fault, and I’m thinking, Oh shit oh shit, what am I going to do? … when it came to me. I’d heard about the mad Loste claiming to’ve seen Elgar, and I thought, what’s to lose? And then … there was no going back.’
Stuck to the story in every detail, Bliss had said. Wouldn’t budge. Said there was this other bloke who’d seen it and she’d bring him into court. Report went to the CPS, and they don’t get many like this – at least, not where it’s an intelligent, eloquent, opinionated woman who’s going to be red-hot in the box and get it all over the papers. So the CPS made what was considered at the time to be a cautious and sensible decision. No charge.
‘And I suppose,’ Merrily said, ‘that you repeated the story in the church the other night…’
‘Because I was sick of the snide comments, and I suppose I felt a bit sorry for you. And I wanted to wipe the complacent smile off Devereaux’s face because, in a way, if it hadn’t been for him…’
‘Devereaux?’
‘The reason I was so mad … going like a bat out of hell … swerved too late … I … Paul had started going for long walks to “keep in condition”. I figured it was long walks down the hill and back up again, and in through a different gate.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I thought he was shagging someone. That weird bitch with her cheap see-through frocks and her kittenish fawning and her Oh, don’t you look so cool today, Paul.’
‘Winnie?’
‘Yeah, I accused him of having a fling with Sparke. I know he fancied her … and she was so blatantly available. You watch her. Any given situation, she’ll home in on the nearest man. Which is interesting for a woman who goes on about goddesses all the time.’
Merrily recalled Winnie on the hill that first night, going straight to Lol. Like, are you the exorcist?
‘And were they? Having a fling?’
‘He would’ve done, no question. I mean, that was the point. And I was convinced she … I mean, she was so knocked sideways when she got dumped by Devereaux, so—’
‘Preston Devereaux?’
‘Sorry, I forgot you’re not … It was fairly widely known in Wychehill. Nothing wrong with that, both single. I remember thinking it was quite nice, actually. She seemed genuinely besotted with the guy: Mr Countryman – wellies, cap, Land Rover, gun over his shoulder. Most of those types, they’re a bit thick, no conversation, but Devereaux’s educated, been around. And rich. Rich enough to rescue a poor woman washed up – and I mean washed up – in a foreign country.’
‘But it didn’t work out?’
‘She came round here one night, she was gutted. Shocked and insulted. I was stupid enough to commiserate. Stayed half the night, couldn’t get rid of her. Most of the people here don’t want to know you, but she’s all over you. When it suits.’
‘So Devereaux dumped her?’
‘Winnie wanted too much. He’s been single for a long time, and that’s how he likes it. I mean, she isn’t normally clingy, far as I can see – too arrogant, had too many attractive men – but she was with him. Mr Darcy senior. The American dream. And she clearly needs a lot of money. She was married to some guy, brought her over to London and then pissed off. But does a man like Devereaux— I mean in the end, does he want crystal balls and Tarot cards?’
‘When was this?’
‘Few weeks ago. I mean, some people think she’s got a thing going with Tim Loste, but it’s clear to me it’s not that kind of thing. He thinks it’s for conducting his choir. She just dominates him and after Devereaux she’s devoting all her time … no wonder he finally went insane. Mind you, that was a bloody shock, wasn’t it?’
Stella nodded at the Gazette and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were crimson-rimmed, almost the colour of her spiky hair. It looked like she’d been doing some crying.
‘Drink and drugs. This place is sick.’
‘Loste really was doing drugs?’
‘Not heroin. More like LSD or something. Magic mushrooms? You see him coming down from the hill sometimes, he’s all over the place, although that could be the drink. Once I came across him lying in the heather, mumbling st
uff. You stop questioning it after a while. I can’t wait to leave, now. Not that I’m saying that to Paul; he thinks he’s dragging me away from my dream situation. There’s no honesty between us any more.’
‘Maybe it’ll be different in America.’
‘I don’t know.’ Stella shook her head in disgust. ‘I think Sparke’s doing the Rector now.’
‘What?’
‘Now that he’s on his own.’
‘That’s rumour, is it?’
‘Who knows?’ Stella flipped a hand. ‘She’s been seen going into the rectory more than once. People notice these things.’
‘Which people?’
‘Holliday, for one. He doesn’t like the rector … or anyone much. Well…’ Stella looked across at the hill, near-vertical here, because of the quarrying. ‘Sorry to spoil your day. I suppose, people in your job, it must make you feel quite worthwhile when you think you’ve found a real one. Especially if it’s somebody distinguished. Elgar. You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?’
‘It’s a result, anyway,’ Merrily said tightly.
She stood up, and Stella Cobham swung round to face her.
‘Who told you about that? Somebody obviously did.’
‘I have a friend. At the CPS.’
What harm would another lie do, in a place like this?
34
Don’t Do Sorry
‘Awful,’ Jane said. ‘Barbaric.’
She said there were three double rows of barbed wire, more than chest high and with new stakes. And like a plastic screen over part of it, so you couldn’t even see through.
‘Like some high-security … like Guantanamo Bay or something. Like Guantanamo Bay’s just appeared in Coleman’s Meadow.’
Lol said, ‘You didn’t—?’
‘No. Well, I’d’ve had to go back to Gomer’s for the wire-cutters. And anyway, it was very thick wire. Heavyduty. A proper fence, like I say. Impossible. Plus there were these two blokes there, putting up a big sign.’
‘I’m guessing it doesn’t say Welcome to the Coleman’s Meadow Ley Line.’
‘It says Private Land. Keep Out. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. And the word Will is underlined in red. Like somebody’s splattered it on in a rage.’
‘Can they just fence it off like that, if it’s a public footpath?’
‘Is it a public footpath, though? I don’t know.’ Jane didn’t look at him. ‘I should’ve checked it out, and I didn’t. It’s not marked as any kind of footpath on the OS map. This is all so totally my fault, isn’t it? You get carried away with the romance and the excitement and you don’t check the basic nuts and bolts. Didn’t even check whether it was a right-of-way and I ignored the fact that it wasn’t in The Old Straight Track. I’m naive and immature. I’m an idiot, Lol.’
Jane punched her knee and winced and started to cry. The Guardian was crumpled up on the hearthrug. Lol thought it was actually a bit magnificent. Jane wouldn’t look at it.
‘Ever wish you hadn’t started something?’
The warmest day of the summer so far and she looked starved. Lol eyed her, curious. He’d never before heard her wishing she’d never started something.
‘When I first saw the fence I was shocked and then I was furious. And then I saw … when you’re right up to it, the worst thing is … you can’t even see Cole Hill. I felt just … sick. I just walked away and sat down in a quiet part of the orchard and howled.’
‘Jane…’
Lol sat next to her on the sofa. This was the time to put a comforting arm around her, but he never had. They were close, but she wasn’t his daughter and there was an old barbed-wire fence in his head that had never quite rusted away and probably never would.
‘And you know what?’ Jane said. ‘When I stopped howling, I realized I was sitting right on the ley, and there was … nothing. Nothing to feel. No ancient energy. No shades of Lucy.’
‘Because they’d … blocked the line, you think?’
‘Oh, Lol…’ Jane squeezed his hand. ‘There’s absolutely no need to be kind. I just wanted … just wanted there to be some magic left.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s naive. People like me who listen to Nick Drake singing “I Was Born to Love Magic” and go all shivery. See, what I should’ve done – what a mature person would’ve done – I should’ve just objected to the housing, got some backing for that. Kept quiet about the ley. But no, I’m too smart for that. I go doorstepping a bunch of council guys at Pierce’s … in effect, tipping the bastards off. Now they know what it’s all about and they’ve turned it into some disgusting no-man’s-land. So nobody will ever see the magic again.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
Jane shrugged. ‘This guy Murray, the owner? Lol, look, if—’ She glanced towards the door. ‘If anyone comes, you haven’t seen me. Only, when I got back from the meadow just now, Jim Prosser’s like, Oh, Radio Hereford and Worcester are looking for you and some newspaper people, and they’ve all been ringing the vicarage and getting no answer. So now I can’t even go home in case anyone … I mean, I can’t talk to them now – I’m supposed to be at school. And I haven’t any evidence. They’d just walk all over me. I’m just totally dead, Lol.’
Lol stood up and went to the window. Saw two men and a woman walking up Church Street – people he didn’t know, and it was too early in the day for tourists. He stepped back and saw his own shadowy reflection in the dark side of the pane and knew that it wasn’t Jane who’d been stupid. She was a schoolgirl, below voting age, in no real position to object to a private housing plan or attempt to influence a local authority to veto it.
He, on the other hand…
… Had just stood and watched, perhaps only really concerned that Jane shouldn’t do anything to embarrass Merrily as parish priest.
‘You’re right. Best if you don’t talk to anybody at this stage. Best if you stay here while we work out how to handle this.’
‘We?’
‘If you have no objections.’ Lol turned his back on the street. ‘Interesting how fast this fence has gone up. They didn’t even wait for it to appear in the paper. The cattle had already gone last night.’
‘I noticed that. Jim said they belong to the guy who bought the Powell farm, rents the grazing from Murray.’
‘So if the cattle were removed yesterday – before the story appeared – that suggests that it was set up as soon as they heard the media were on to the story. OK … I’ll go and check it out. You stay here, don’t answer the door and be careful who you answer the phone to.’
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I do have to. Listen, while I’m gone, could you … My laptop’s under the desk. Could you put Wychehill Church into Google, see what you can find?’
‘What for?’
‘Think of it as Brownie points with your mum. You might need them.’
Jane smiled. Bit watery, but it was there. He told her about Prof Levin and the recording of the choir that had to be made at Wychehill.
‘You’re looking for connections with music. Choirs. Singing. I don’t know. Any link with Elgar in particular would be good. Use your intuition.’
‘Don’t you think that’s caused enough damage?’ Jane folded up the Guardian, put it behind a cushion, out of sight. ‘I can’t bear it. Why couldn’t I have just smiled? The photographer was going, no, no, don’t smile, but I didn’t have to play along, did I? Now I totally look like some evil slapper. An ASBO waiting to be issued. Lol … ?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’m sorry for getting you involved.’
‘Pull yourself together, Jane,’ Lol said. ‘You don’t do sorry.’
* * *
The men who’d put up the fencing had gone but it looked, as Jane had said, like a not-so-open prison. Lol was furious. The way governments, national and local, were operating now. Even the council had its cabinet, where iffy issues could be sorted in secret. Any hint of opposition, doors closed, locks tur
ned, walls went up.
And barbed wire.
OK, there was no proof that anyone from the council was involved in this. But it was likely, at least, that the landowner had the support of the Establishment.
And they’d fenced off something they didn’t believe existed. They’d blockaded an idea.
Standing on the edge of the old orchard, Lol began to sense some of Jane’s feelings about Alfred Watkins, who stood for independence of thought. Well into his sixties, a respected local figure, when The Old Straight Track was published, and the archaeological establishment had immediately turned on him. A barrier had gone up, and it was still up.
Independence of thought. Always a crime in the eyes of the Establishment. Lol was starting to feel suffocated, as if the air had been turned into shrink-wrap, when Gomer Parry came ambling out of the orchard, an inch of roll-up gummed to his lips.
‘Lol, boy…’
Gomer extracted his ciggy, blew out a grey balloon of smoke. Lol wondered if a disused orchard was now classed as a public place where, although it might be entirely legal to light a massively carcinogenic bonfire, nobody was allowed to smoke.
Gomer nodded at the wire.
‘Janie seen this yet?’
‘What do you think?’
Gomer said, ‘What I think is, Lucy Devenish was still alive, she’d drag Lyndon Pierce yere by the scruff, make the bugger tear it down with his bare hands.’
Lol thought what a pity it was that this kind of organic, natural justice was purely the preserve of old ladies.
‘You think Pierce had something to do with this?’
Gomer’s shoulders twitched under his summer tweed jacket.
‘You know this guy Murray, who owns the land?’
‘By sight. Never worked for him. Big farm, and does his own drainage.’
Does his own drainage. Lowest of the low in the planthire world.
‘Knowed his auntie, though, Maggie Pole, her as left him the meadow. Nice lady. Always very fond o’ that meadow.’
‘I don’t think I knew her.’
‘Left before you was here, boy. Went to an old folks’ home, over towards Hay. Hardwicke.’
