Gabbitas was being played by Horrocks himself, in a tight-fitting dark clerical suit. He had the exact figure for the part, which he acted with a sense of identification that made nonsense of the efforts of previous amateurs. Kenworthy, in his mid-forties, could only have delivered his lines as a well-intentioned ham, however well-served he had been by cosmetician and costumier; and God knows what a ludicrous figure Colonel Noakes must have cut.
But this pair had the professional touch. Christine, especially, had in her acting a precision that made it clear that she must have done a great deal of secret preparation. She knew the part inside out, and there was nothing tentative about her movements and gestures. One had seen hints of discernible genius in Davina’s handling of the role; but in Christine’s performance it was discipline and training that came out – a self-control, a sense of purpose, and a devotion of effort of which it was hard to believe her capable. She was not one of those actresses whose impulsive interpretation of a character might change with the mood of the day. She gave the impression that if she raised her arm from the elbow on a certain syllable, that was the way she would have played the moment throughout the longest of runs.
And she was playing to an audience. Not only the television team, but every reporter still left in the village was in the Hall, some of them leaping from time to time on to the stage with their cameras and a frenzy of flashlight bulbs – to which both actors seemed impervious.
Kenworthy gave up his stealthy pretence, went in through the door of the little kitchen, crept through the shadows of the wings, circled out of range of the battery of stage-lighting, and joined the small miscellaneous crowd who had gathered behind the television cameras. He found himself next to a man he had known slightly as the assistant stage manager.
‘Not thinking of going it alone, are they?’
‘I don’t see how they could. There are too many parts that they never could fill. I think this is just a publicity stunt.’
‘Spentlow’s going to be glued to its television screens.’
Then the television producer called for silence, and asked for a re-run of the whole scene. It went through without hitch – the passionate kisses of the primitive Gertrude, the diffidence of the overwhelmed curate. The wit of some of the lines came over with a beauty of timing that raised a laugh even from the blasé technicians.
When it was over, the lights were on in the body of the Hall, a man without either camera or note-pad stood up and pushed his way to the stage. He was elderly, with dirtily greying yellow hair, and he climbed on to the stage, extending his hand to Christine in congratulation. There was no doubting her pleasure. It suffused her face in a manner that hardly seemed credible in contrast to her customary sick hatred of everything on which her eye seemed to light.
Kenworthy removed himself from the Hall before he could be approached by any of the principals. In view of the new influx of media-men into the village he decided to give the pub a miss yet again. But when he got home he announced to Elspeth that he felt restless and thought that an extended nocturnal walk would do him good.
‘Have I my gloves here?’ he asked. ‘Or did we leave them in the car?’
She knew exactly where to put her hands on them.
‘I made a point of leaving nothing in the car.’
She also noticed that he slipped his bedroom slippers into the pocket of his raincoat.
‘It’s going to be that sort of walk, is it?’
‘Just might want to rest my feet,’ he said shamelessly.
‘For God’s sake watch it, Simon.’
Next morning, Mrs Scadbolt brought the news that Christine had been visited in the Hall last night by a talent scout. He had been very impressed by her performance, and as a result of it, she and Horrocks would be leaving the village when he had worked out his notice at the school. They were going to join a travelling company that went round the country giving shows to children.
‘And good riddance too, I reckon,’ she said. ‘That’ll be the end of the Beaker Folk.’
Chapter Sixteen
The Kenworthys’time in Spentlow followed its natural course, and they came to the final stretch, which with a more peaceful prelude would have been Gabbitas Week. Only three items of the original arrangements were allowed to remain, and the first of these was the Mock Auction, which took place in the Hall on their last Saturday but one in the village. It was carried out with such vigour and financial success that no one would have thought that any of the leading figures had anything on their minds. Dunderdale managed to turn on a tap of false merriment, and bullied his customers mercilessly. The sale was carried out along lines that must have seemed mad to any strangers present: the bidder had to put his money down, and it was forfeit if he was outbid. It made nonsense of serious buying, and could only have been possible on a special occasion, when a community has come together with the happy intention of giving money away. But that seemed to be the spirit of Spentlow today. There was a turn-out from all levels of society – from the Pack Horse to the Recruiting Sergeant – even from the Grange. Christine made a bid for an item, and for £5 acquired the ornate base of a treadle sewing machine.
The euphoria which had inspired her test performance of the Gertrude scene seemed to have stayed with her. She could scarcely have been called beautiful – in any case, the way she dressed went a long way to neutralizing any such pretensions that she might have had. But she was even wearing garish clothes this afternoon – quietly purple slacks and a roll-necked sweater. There was less of her hair over her face than usual, and her more relaxed mood even permitted her the ghost of a smile at Kenworthy.
They watched davenports, tallboys, what-nots and umbrella stands transferred into the hands of generous bidders. The compulsion to be charitable in public seemed to have unlocked the purse-strings. The last thing to go was a rather beautiful Edwardian workbox, and Elspeth secured it for two pounds.
‘There is one other piece of business still to transact.’
The two churchwardens were stacking and checking the money that had been put down on one of the Boys’ Brigade drums. Dunderdale led the way out across the Green into the main street, where he waited for a semicircle to form round him outside Barton Brightmore’s window, on which he rapped imperatively with his knuckles.
‘One mahogany cloak-tree, disputed property of the Allsop and Brightmore families. Donated by Jesse Allsop. And I am sure that our friend Barton Brightmore will want to assert the family honour by confirming that the object is given to the cause.‘
Barton Brightmore had by now come to his door: an inarticulate and ratty little man, a cabinet-maker by persuasion, who did not even get as far as opening his mouth.
‘An elegant amenity for any household, ladies and gentlemen. What am I bid for this beautifully hand-turned eighteenth-century piece?’
There was a chill wind blowing across the Green. Coat collars were turned up, labouring men’s hands withdrawn into their cuffs. People were slow with their opening offers. Maybe this was something that Spentlow preferred to leave to the spokesmen of the main antagonists.
‘A pound.’
This was from a resident of The Close, the small and never finished estate on Allsop land that had not been one of the developer’s successes. There were only one or two people from The Close at the sale, and their presence seemed to have done no more than persuade the real Spentlow to keep its treasures to itself.
‘Put your money down, then, please, sir.’
Someone manoeuvred in the drum, which had somehow been left on the perimeter of the crowd.
‘Ten pounds.’ Heads were turned, and it was seen that Jesse Allsop – who had not been present at the main part of the sale – had come quietly up from his farm.
‘Fifteen.’
Barton Brightmore had slipped indoors and come out with his wallet.
‘Seventeen fifty.’
It was Dunderdale himself who had now entered the bidding. ‘Twenty.’
‘Twent
y-five.’
‘Twenty-seven fifty.’
‘Thirty.’
Barton Brightmore had to write an I.O. U. He was light of seventy pounds already, whether he retained the stand or not. The bidding went on until he had offered fifty, and then Jesse Allsop’s caution seemed to get the better of his sentiment; the vicar had dropped out at thirty-five.
‘Fifty-two and a half.’
This was a new voice, feminine and metallic; one familiar to the Kenworthys.
‘Mrs Scadbolt.’
‘I think the best thing I can do,’ she said, ‘is put my Post Office book on the drum.’
She seemed to be a lone figure in the crowd, no hat on the incongruously piled black hair, the ill-conceived rouge on her cheeks at odds with the dismal afternoon. Most of the other spectators were in families or couples, but although Mrs Scadbolt’s shoulders were pressed up against those of her neighbours, one could see that she was alone.
‘Mrs Scadbolt, fifty-two pounds fifty, pledged with a Post Office book. I might say, ladies and gentlemen, that the going rate for such a lovely piece in the West End sale-rooms these days would be at least a hundred and twenty.’
But Spentlow was not the West End. It was an incredible madness that had got into the village that afternoon. At one moment it had looked as if the Allsops and Brightmores would have gone on lavishing their savings astronomically for the sake of their pride; for possession of something that surely neither side could desperately want for its own sake. Then, equally suddenly, their economic hard-headedness had prevailed. They had thrown enough away. They might be able to persuade themselves that it was in a good cause to which they would have contributed in any case. But Jesse Allsop and Barton Brightmore had shown no doubt about where they were going to draw their line. The crowd relapsed into a tense silence when Mrs Scadbolt entered the lists.
An auction conducted along such lines was not a serious commercial occasion; it was a family excuse for reckless charity in front of one’s friends and enemies. To enter the bidding late for the sake of sheer gain was not playing the game. There was tension in the silence that followed Mrs Scadbolt’s bid; yet no one seemed minded to better it. Dunderdale looked at the two main contestants: Jesse Allsop was looking vacantly into space; Barton Brightmore’s eyes were fixed on the back of another man’s neck.
‘Going to Mrs Scadbolt –’
Mrs Scadbolt was standing granite-faced and apparently friendless. It was difficult to tell how committed she was to winning the hat-stand. And, of course, it was impossible to know how she would stand up to the financial loss if she failed; women like her sometimes had surprising little nest-eggs.
Dunderdale looked hopefully at the now silent faces, but Spentlow was no longer interested.
Then Kenworthy spoke.
‘Fifty-five.’
Mrs Scadbolt looked uncertainly round the crowd, as if seeking moral support. But no eyes were prepared to meet hers.
Dunderdale beamed on Kenworthy, as if he were doing the community a service by keeping the thing out of Mrs Scadbolt’s hands. Kenworthy got out his chequebook. Mrs Scadbolt moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her eyes moved, barely perceptibly. Without moving her head, she looked first at one face in the crowd, then at another. Then she shrugged her shoulders, as if involuntarily, turned on her heel and pushed her way through the crowd and out of it.
‘Going to Mr Kenworthy –’
As the crowd thinned out, Kenworthy remained behind to arrange for someone to carry the cloak-tree over to the cottage. He brushed shoulders with Christine, who was making similar arrangements for her sewing machine.
‘Congratulations!’
She beamed on him; not a timorous smile this time.
‘I hope that this is the beginning of a new and altogether happier spell of life for you,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it will be.’ Complete freedom from tension, as if she had thrown something off.
‘Pity, though, I never had the chance to play Wilbur to your Gertrude.’
‘Please don’t let me give you the impression that I think you owe me an explanation –’
Elspeth was in fact not being acid; good humoured, mock ironic – and trustful; but curious to get at the facts.
‘I have a distinct memory that we decided we could not afford a hire-car for the rest of the holiday. Oh, I know that fifty-five pounds won’t actually break the bank –’
‘Especially if we can part with it at the going rate. That would make sixty-five profit –’
‘I doubt very much, Simon, whether that was uppermost in your mind. As a matter of fact, I rather like the piece. I’d like us to keep it, if we can see our way to it.’
‘I had thought to trying a claim on expenses for it. I know that’s a bit awkward, since I’m not specifically on the case – in fact, I’m specifically off it. All the same, I dare say that Gleed –’
‘Expenses?’
But Kenworthy was reluctant to explain himself until they were behind the privacy of their front door.
‘It dawned on me suddenly that Mrs Scadbolt was only bidding as leader of a ring. And I suddenly knew that the most important thing of this whole afternoon was to know who was in that ring. Did you follow her eyes as she hesitated whether to go another sixty? I didn’t think they would, because once they knew I was in the running they would not expect me to drop out.’
He waited.
‘Who?’ Elspeth asked at last.
‘An interesting little circle. The vicar’s housekeeper for one.’
‘Mrs Doreen Malkin.’
‘The creature with the earrings like dustbin lids.’
‘Geraldine Cartwright.’
‘Then there was the woman who used to do for Colonel Noakes.’
‘Alice Brightmore.’
‘And last of all the woman who appears to share Jesse Allsop’s bed now and then.’
‘Emmeline Malkin.’
‘Four of them. The Scadbolt unobtrusively caught their eyes one after another. And each of them signalled No. An interesting little bunch. At least, they interest me. With one exception, they were all signatories of those nasty little statements that Gleed had in my own special file.’
‘You don’t surprise me. Shall I surprise you?’
Elspeth was very near to a broad smile.
‘You can try.’
‘They are also the vigilantes. Don’t you remember, I told you when we first came here, that there was a little group so scandalized by the Beaker Folk that they appointed themselves to keep an eye on things? Like peeping through uncurtained windows at the Grange. All except Geraldine Cartwright, that is. She is a great fashioner of ammunition for others to fire. But I can’t see her joining in any field-work on wet nights.’
‘Thank you,’ Kenworthy said. ‘All highly suggestive. It’s time I got Gleed on the phone.’
‘He’ll be glad to know you’re awake.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘The eighteenth century, ladies and gentlemen; the age of enlightenment.’
And then, without comment, Dunderdale showed on the screen a series of transparencies, blown up from old prints and sketch-books. Spentlow was delighted. Sprawling middens, tottering earth-closets, disintegrating hovels – and a fading water-colour primitive, probably authentic, of the yard at Dogtooth before Thomas Allsop acquired the Stone.
The village had shown up in force for the vicar’s lecture. It was hard to think that anyone was missing, except the halt and the sick. Bygone Spentlow was close to the listeners’hearts, and The Second Book of Hob, on sale at the door, was in great demand. Dunderdale concentrated for ten minutes on poverty, squalor and the determination to survive. But it was not long before the first Allsops and Brightmores were on the scene. Thomas Allsop, he who had seized the Stone, had knitted eyebrows and an embroidered waistcoat. His contemporary, old Thaddaeus Brightmore, was dressed in soiled rags that appeared to be held together by knots, string and abiding trust in miracle.
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‘Believe it or not, ladies and gentlemen, this Allsop and that Brightmore were friends.’
A restrained titter. The lights were out, so Kenworthy could not see which of the committed infighters were the first to allow themselves to relax. Jesse Allsop had come in, and little Barton Brightmore was sitting with his family a couple of rows away. The vicar’s target was clearly a lasting armistice.
‘Friends, that is, until they began to compete in the scientific spirit of the age. To put a name to their speciality, they were Resurrectionists.’
He screened a shot of the smooth-worn bier that still stood within the bell-tower of St Giles.
‘And I hope there is no one here who thinks that a Resurrectionist was some kind of fiery evangelical. Thomas Allsop and Thaddaeus Brightmore were practical men. The corpses that they raised, for a sovereign a time, were destined for medical research. Anatomy was in vogue as an experimental science, and the workhouses and public morgues could not stay abreast of the demands of doctors. Allsop and Brightmore applied themselves with fervour.’
Much of this must have been known in detail to the audience, but Dunderdale’s tone implied that he had more details in reserve.
The Anathema Stone Page 15
