Long Lankin
Page 18
Auntie Ida and Mimi weren’t back yet. I knew it even before I reached Guerdon Hall. As I drew near, I could hear Finn howling. I imagined his claws had been clattering aimlessly over the floorboards all day long.
I was too scared to go round to the back of the house on my own. I didn’t even want to go over the bridge.
Instead, I picked my way through the old farm machinery to the big barn with its door half hanging off. The walls were dark brown wooden boards, the roof tiled like the house. A rusty old gent’s bike lay half-hidden in the dirty straw, its tyres flat as pancakes. It looked as if the barn hadn’t been cleaned out since cows were there. I pulled some of the straw over to the doorway and made myself a cushion, then sat down to watch for anything coming along the Chase.
Tears began to spill out of my eyes. I didn’t want to be here with that great dog howling like nobody was going to let it out ever again, and no one near me, just all that sky, and the trees rustling and the dried mud in the road. I wanted to be far away from that big old sinking house and the skeleton cottages opposite, with their weeds and broken windows like empty blind eyes. What were all these things that were happening here, and that had happened before — horrible things that I couldn’t understand?
I wanted to be back in Limehouse — Dad with his feet stuck up on the mantelpiece reading the Eagle and Mum in the kitchen making scrambled egg on toast.
I should have known Hugh Mansell would let us down. Even the best of clergymen have their weaknesses, just like the rest of us. Father Mansell’s is his fondness for whisky. A couple of glasses of Buchanan’s with Edgar Selwyn in Daneflete and the last thing on his mind would have been the six-forty train.
I only hope he and the Wolseley got home in one piece. I waited for him too long, then carried Mimi over two miles before a bus came.
Where is Cora? If she’s at the Jotmans’, how will I get her home? Surely she won’t be down here on her own.
I trudge down the darkening Chase. Mimi is heavy in my arms. In her sleep, she still clings to Sid and the coloured windmill on a stick from the seaside. Her pretty smocked dress is smeared with chocolate sauce.
In the house, Finn is howling like a wolf. As a single star begins to twinkle low in the sky beside the rising moon, a small dark figure moves towards me from the barn.
After slipping off Mimi’s grubby dress and tucking her up in bed, I went down and made Auntie Ida a cup of tea. She was flaked out in the kitchen, rubbing her feet through her stockings. We ate some cold sausages left over from the evening before, then cleared up the bloody mess by the front door where Finn had helped himself to the rabbit and scattered and squashed the tomatoes.
I only vaguely remember dragging myself back upstairs for the night, too exhausted to think about searching for the box.
I expected to sleep long into the morning, and for Auntie to be so weary that she would let me be, but I was woken by a bark, followed by the sound of the back door opening then shutting. In the quiet of the early morning I heard the big iron key turning in the back-door lock, its loud distinctive click echoing down the stone passage leading to the kitchen. Finn barked again.
Gripped by both bewilderment and fear, I jumped out of bed and dashed to the window. I pulled aside the curtains a little and peeped out. Hearing footsteps and looking down, I saw, in the half-light of dawn, Auntie Ida, wearing her coat and scarf, walking along the path under my window. She continued round the corner of the house and out of sight. Where was she going? It was far too early to get the milk. Why would she leave the two of us alone?
I was too alert to return to bed, so decided that now Auntie had gone out, I would look for Jasper Scaplehorn’s box. I’d heard Auntie locking us in. Finn was downstairs. If anything happened, I would hear him bark.
I picked up Mimi’s windmill from where it had dropped on the floor and put it next to her on the pillow, then I opened the door and set off along the landing. I passed Auntie’s empty bedroom, then paused where the passage turns to the left, just before the three steps, and looked out of the window to check she wasn’t coming back. In the garden, pale sunlight was spreading itself across the grass until each moist blade glittered in its own coat of dew. There was no sign of her.
I ran up the three steps, along the passage, down the other side, and through the musty corridor, then stopped outside the door at the end and lifted the latch.
The room and the far room beyond were dark as night, the windows obscured by some heaving, humming mass, shutting out the light of the coming day.
I moved forward across the floorboards, leaned in towards the window, then reeled back in shock.
It was thickly covered with huge flies, crawling over the diamond panes, their fat black-and-white bodies packed tightly together. Flesh flies — flies that don’t bother to lay eggs, just maggots. Nan told me about them once.
As I gazed in horror, little patches of light began to appear on the glass. Flies were lifting off and heading for the open door behind me, buzzing close to my head, brushing against my body, landing for a moment, then taking off.
Where would they go to in a house where the windows were always shut tight, the doors always locked? They might fly around the house for ever and ever. Round and round. Up and down the stairs. In and out of the rooms. Big dirty flies. Going into the kitchen cupboards. Filling up the pantry. Crawling on the food.
Shivering with disgust, I crossed to the chest of drawers and looked at the box I had noticed before. It was a black tin, about a foot square, scratched and spotted with rust. On the lid were two neatly painted gold letters: JS. I breathed deeply, stroked the lid, then picked up the box, surprised at how heavy it was. I glanced behind at Piers Hillyard, staring at me from his frame. A fly crawled across his face.
On the slab at the bottom of the stone fireplace, I noticed something shrivelled. I couldn’t tell what it might once have been — maybe part of a bird or animal that had fallen down the chimney from the roof and had lain there in the hearth, a feast for the maggots. I took up the heavy iron poker that was leaning against the wall and prodded it. It was like a piece of dried-up, grey-coloured skin.
Back in my bedroom, I dragged the wooden chair over to the window so I could look out for Auntie Ida.
“What you doing, Cora? Is it breakfast?”
“’S all right, Mimi. Ain’t time yet. Go back to sleep.”
I sat down with the box on my knees, then broke two fingernails before I got it open. The underside of the lid gleamed like new, with a sunburst pattern in bright yellow and green surrounding the words: HORNER’S CREAM TOFFEE — THE TOFFEE OF SUPERLATIVE TASTE.
The box was full of old papers, all different shapes and sizes, white and crisp, old and yellow, brown and flaky round the edges, torn, folded, and creased. There were pages ripped out of jotters, some printed, some out of old newspapers, and others written by hand. At the bottom of the box was a burgundy leather-bound notebook, about four inches by three. I put the papers on the floor beside me and lifted out the book. Flicking through the handwritten pages, I noticed the writing was untidy, rushed, sometimes upright, then occasionally sloping to the right, with words heavily scratched out or corrected, and all over the place, little sprays of ink as if the writer had been careless of the deep pressure of the nib on the page.
Each of the entries had been signed JS — Jasper Scaplehorn.
I put it back in the box and took up an envelope from the top of the pile on the floor. It was made of beautiful thick cream paper, embossed with the words DIOCESE OF LOKSWOOD.
It had been opened cleanly with a paper knife. I read the letter inside.
The Bishop’s House
Lokswood
30th September 1940
Dear Jasper,
With reference to your recent letter, the Bishop is very happy to make any documents you require available to you. I am usually to be found in the library on Monday and Tuesday afternoons between 2 o’clock and 4 o’clock. Just call in and I will be happy to help you to track
down the relevant material. Come at 1 o’clock and we’ll have lunch.
Tuesday is Mrs. Berry’s day off, so if you come then, I’ll take you to the Blue Anchor. Their mushroom soup is delicious.
I look forward very much to seeing you again. It has been too long.
Kindest regards,
Henry Massinger
Archivist to the Diocese of Lokswood
I replaced the letter in its envelope and took up the leather notebook again. On the very first page was scrawled:
The Norman knight, Guillaume de Guerdon, landed with the Conqueror and fought alongside the Duke at Hastings. William rewarded his faithful knight with the land at Bryers and the gift is recorded in Domesday. The land, bordered by Daneflete and Faring to the east and Hilsey marshes to the west, is rich and fertile.
The Guerdons built their house down on the marshlands, originally fortified and almost completely surrounded by a natural creek, to more easily defend it against the Saxon dispossessed. They also built the church, All Hallows, and became lords over the cattle herders and shepherds who dwelt there.
War, pestilence, and famine passed through Bryers Guerdon on their way along the world as they’ve always done and the tides came and went, rose and ebbed, day upon day upon week and month and year upon year.
The church is peculiarly isolated. At the present day the village of Bryers Guerdon lies away to the north, and the ancient quiet of the immediate surroundings remains undisturbed. The church was erected on a site in a central position between the dwellings of the peasants on the marshes and the house of the lord of the manor, which was Guerdon Hall.
One of the earliest military effigies in England lies in the sanctuary beside the altar. It is of Sir John Guerdon, d. 1348, probably of the Black Death.
In the age of the first Elizabeth, Sir Edmund Carey Guerdon was the lord of the manor. He married Ygurne, youngest daughter of the old family of Pleshett, and it was in their time that Cain Lankin lived rough on the marshes.
I closed the book and put it back in the box, then reached down for more letters.
Hunsham Vicarage
Hunsham Parva
Lokswood
13th February 1941
My dear Jasper,
The Bishop has asked me to write to you, as your old friend, and in confidence, as he feels I may be able to make more headway with you than he has been able to do hitherto. I am aware that things are a little strained between the two of you at present, but I am writing in good faith, to let you know that he is extremely anxious about your well-being, particularly in the light of the illness from which you suffered some years ago.
He felt that the solitude and relative ease of the living at Bryers Guerdon would be to your benefit, but now feels he may have been misguided in suggesting it to you. In his report following your recent consultation at Coldwell Hospital, Dr. Rowstone has recommended that a transfer to a busier parish, with a curate to assist you and keep you company, may be in your best interests. The Bishop will inform you of a suitable vacancy should one arise.
The Bishop feels it is imperative that you dissociate yourself from the bizarre rumours that appear to be circulating in Bryers Guerdon concerning the disappearance of little Anne Swift last summer. You mention in your most recent letter that you feel that some kind of supernatural agent was also involved in the death of Edward Eastfield in August 1925. I can only reiterate what the Bishop has already written to you in the course of your lengthy correspondence: that the police investigated both disappearances most thoroughly, with all the resources and manpower at their disposal, and came to the conclusion that there was no evidence whatsoever of any activity of this kind.
It was agreed that the marshland to the rear of Guerdon Hall is treacherous, and that, unfortunately, once the small body of a young child was sucked down under the mud or the water, it would be extremely difficult to locate it, especially in a desolate area such as this, covering many square miles and extending all the way to the estuary. You have been told this on several occasions, and yet you insist on troubling the Bishop with your deluded theories (his words, Jasper, not mine).
My old friend, for the last time, he will absolutely not condone any further investigation into the area around All Hallows church. He maintains that you, as an ordained minister of the Church, should lead by example, and that it is your paramount duty to allay suspicions of this dubious nature among your parishioners. Superstitious beliefs persist in some rural areas, and you must be seen to discourage them. We are, after all, living in the twentieth century and not in the Dark Ages, although I have to say, in this time of war, I truly wonder how far we have come.
If you continue to give credence to these wild and preposterous ideas, the Bishop feels that you will seriously interfere with the natural process of grieving most necessary to the well-being of the Swift family, and indeed of Mrs. Ida Eastfield, who we understand is suffering tremendously under the strain of these events. It must be a huge burden to her, to bear the weight of guilt that two children in her immediate care have been lost in this way in separate incidents many years apart, compounded by the added misery of the death of her husband, William Eastfield. The investigations into his demise proved inconclusive, but it is generally believed that he took his own life while suffering a mental breakdown following the disappearance of his son.
Mrs. Eastfield needs your unremitting support and spiritual guidance at this time. We understand that in the circumstances she naturally fell under suspicion, resulting in her having to undergo the most extensive and humiliating investigations by the police, most mortifying for anyone, let alone a lady of her social standing.
You bear heavy responsibilities for many people in your parish in these difficult years. We understand that Mrs. Avis Goodwin, of Ottery Lane, lost her husband during the evacuation of Dunkirk, leaving her with three small children. The parents and sister of another parishioner, Mrs. Josephine Bennett, have been killed in a bombing raid which destroyed her old family home in Shadwell, and now she will be expected to bring up the two nephews who have been staying with her since the beginning of the war, as well as her own four children.
These people need your care and attention, Jasper. The sexton, Reginald Hibbert, informed us of these needy families so that we might assist them with monies from the Bishop’s Fund. If he had not done so, we would not have been made aware of their difficulties. You absolutely must not neglect the duties imposed upon you by your calling.
I beg you to consider carefully all that I have written, Jasper. The Bishop will not enter into any further correspondence with you at present, but will pass on to me any letters from you unopened, so I will be dealing with you directly for the foreseeable future. He told me to make sure I informed you of this so that you know that any further petitioning would be futile. Naturally, he will continue to support you in regard to the usual parochial matters. I know you do not wish to be transferred to another living, and I will do my utmost to prevent it, but I have little confidence in succeeding if you persist in continuing along the path you have chosen.
On a personal note, you know my door is always open to you, Jasper. I still have some of that fine Napoleon brandy we brought back from France in ′32.
Most sincerely and humbly, your friend,
Martin Godfrey Gilbert
Suddenly I heard footsteps on the path below. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement outside and peered through the window. Auntie Ida was coming along the side of the house. She quickly looked round and up, and I pulled my head back, hoping she hadn’t seen me. I heard the big key turning in the lock and the sound of Finn’s paws on the stone flags as he went to meet her.
Auntie wouldn’t expect me to be awake yet. I was sure it was safe to read more and opened another letter. It had been written over four years after the one before.
Hunsham Vicarage
Hunsham Parva
Lokswood
25th June 1945
My dear Jasper,
Mrs. Eastfield informed me that your temporary replacement, young John Fox-Leigh, kept All Hallows locked up during your absence and conducted all the services at Saint Mary’s, North Fairing. I understand his wife was uncomfortable with All Hallows and didn’t like to be in the building, but we all know how women can be when they are anticipating a happy event. I well remember Audrey when Bernard was on the way — she suffered from nightmares, too.
As soon as you feel able, I urge you to reopen the church or the fabric of the building will deteriorate beyond help. I understand it suffers dreadfully from damp and is prone to smells. It could do with a regular dose of fresh air. Perhaps a Victory Thanksgiving service would be appropriate and encourage a joyful association with this church. I am aware that your parishioners favour North Fairing, even though All Hallows is strictly their parish church. It would be a great tragedy if it fell into disuse and disrepair. It is a beautiful old building.
I must let you know, Jasper, that I have gone to great trouble on your behalf to persuade the Bishop to let you stay on as rector of Bryers Guerdon. I know you do not wish to leave the place, so I urge you to keep your peace with him. Please do not make things more difficult for yourself than they are already. Fortunately, Bryers Guerdon is not an arduous living, and I feel sure you will gradually be restored to your former strength, and will be able to manage your duties perfectly well.
One last thing: the Bishop wishes to go ahead with the plans to divide Glebe House into two separate dwellings. As you are aware, for a long time now he has felt it to be much too large for modern needs. Representatives from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners will be getting in touch with you in the near future to arrange a meeting to discuss the proposals.