by Phil Rickman
Beth Pollen came briskly through, dragging on her sheepskin coat, shaking out her headscarf. ‘Anyone called the fire brigade? Now I think about it, I’m sure I heard an explosion about twenty minutes ago. It’s hard to tell in snow.’
Ben looked up. ‘Amber’s seeing to it. Though I can’t imagine how they could get up there in these conditions. I don’t even understand how a fire’s even possible on snow-covered bare rocks.’
‘I was involved with a Nature Trust survey some years ago,’ Beth Pollen said. ‘Awfully weird place. The rocks retain heat, apparently.’
‘In thick snow?’
‘Strange times, Ben. Doesn’t look like a threat to the hotel, but you never know. I’ll come with you, if you like. If you don’t know the paths fairly well, it can be jolly dangerous.’
Ben snapped, ‘For God’s sake, Jane, switch that thing off!’
‘Just obeying instructions.’ Jane didn’t lower the camera. There was a clear image of Ben’s face, twisted with annoyance. ‘Antony says it’s supposed to be welded to my hands.’
‘Well, I’m telling you to take the thing away, and I’m the one who’s paying you, in case you—’
Jane ignored him, pushing open the swing doors with her bum and backing out into the car park, still recording. She had on her boots and her nylon parka, which was a pain because it was fairly new and still crackled when she walked, doubtless getting onto the soundtrack. But at least she was equipped for the conditions, unlike Alistair Hardy and Matthew, who were hanging around the porch door now, looking up at the smoking rocks like they were being deprived of some profound spiritual experience.
Outside, ankle-deep in snow, Jane put the camera on pause while she took up a position about ten yards away, shooting Ben and Beth Pollen as they came out and then risking a pan up towards the sky, ambered now and spark-flecked, though the flames were low, as if the gas jet had been turned down. She had no idea what this was about, but neither did Ben, and he was unnerved for once, and that made her feel empowered.
‘Jane!’ Ben was standing in the middle of the car park, at the end of a channel of light from the porch. He had on a black Gore-Tex jacket and a black baseball cap with a reflective yellow stripe. ‘You’re staying here, you understand? You are not coming up there with us.’
‘If I fall, I promise I won’t sue Stanner Hall.’
‘If you want to keep your job’ — and he wasn’t smiling — ‘you’ll go back.’
Oh.
Jane didn’t move, carried on shooting him. It felt warmer, as though the fire on the rocks had conditioned the ambient temperature. Speaking down the side of the camera, right under the mike, she said casually, ‘You sacking me, Ben?’
‘Not if you go back at once.’
Although it had stopped snowing now, Jane felt the night still swirling around her: dark energy, shifting destiny.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘Let’s not complicate things. I quit.’
Lol was leaning over Ella Mary Leather under the Anglepoise. The cover of the big paperback had this warm-coloured Merrie England watercolour street-scene, with a drummer and a dancing woman in a white dress. Post-it markers projected from the top edge of the book, like little coloured flags, part of the scene.
Herefordshire, 1912, the most rural county in England, with the unknowable horrors of the Great War still two years away. An area still loosely held in a harness of medieval customs, an eerie carnival always flickering on the periphery.
Vaughan… was a very wicked man, so after his death he could not rest and came back ‘stronger and stronger all the while…’ He sometimes took the form of a fly in order to ‘torment the horses’. Finally, he came into the church itself in the form of a bull. It was decided that something must be done.
Ethel strolled over the open book, sat down on the lamp-base and began to wash her paws — Ethel who used to be Lol’s cat, back when he was living in Ledwardine. Who was now the official vicarage cat, while Lol was still just an occasional visitor, trying to help out.
‘Something must be done,’ Lol said to the cat.
‘So they got twelve parsons, with twelve candles, to wait in the church to try and read him down into a silver snuff-box. For,’ the old man who told me the story explained, ‘we have all got a sperrit something like a spark inside we, and a sperrit can go large or small, or down, down, quite small, even into a snuff-box.’ There were present, to help lay the spirit, a woman with a new-born baby, whose innocence and purity were perhaps held powerful in exorcism.
‘Well, they read, but it was no use…’
Read what? Something from the Bible? The full text of the Roman Catholic Rite of Exorcism?
… They were all afraid… and all their candles went out but one. The parson as held that candle had a stout heart, and he feared no man nor sperrit. He called out ‘Vaughan, why art thou so fierce?’ ‘I was fierce when I was a man, but fiercer now, for I am a devil!’ was the answer. But nothing could dismay the stout-hearted parson, though, to tell the truth, he was nearly blind, and not a pertickler sober man.’
The detail suggesting an actual local character. But no names, no dates.
‘He read and read and read, and when Vaughan felt himself going down, and down, and down, till the snuff-box was nearly shut, he asked, “Vaughan, where wilt thou be laid?” The spirit answered, “Anywhere, anywhere but not in the Red Sea!” So they shut the box and took him and buried him for a thousand years in the bottom of Hergest pool, in the wood, with a big stone on top of him. But the time is nearly up!’
The time is nearly up.
Lol leaned back. ‘How nearly is nearly, Ethel?’ A thousand years would take the story back pre-Norman Conquest. And yet Black Vaughan was said to have been mortally wounded at the Battle of Banbury, during the Wars of the Roses, in 1469. And furthermore, according to Mrs Leather:
He and his ancestors were brave and honourable men, and history in no way corroborates the popular traditions concerning them. Still they… were probably regarded with more awe and fear than love by the folk among whom they lived.
But a devil? And when did the Hound fade into the picture? No suggestions of a big black dog accompanying Black Vaughan’s ghost, pre-exorcism.
Lol flipped to the second index sticker.
Hergest Court was, or perhaps still is, haunted by a demon dog, said to have belonged to Black Vaughan.
Said by whom? Lol went through to the kitchen, overlaid with Aga-throb, and into the passage to the narrow back stairs, ducking his head for the low oak beam at the bottom, although he was short enough, just, to walk underneath it. He felt uncomfortable here without Merrily. He didn’t belong, and the vicarage knew it. He switched on the upstairs lights and went up to the first landing: crooked walls patched with old doors.
One of them to Merrily’s bedroom. Sleep there if I’m not back. Kissing him in front of Gomer, which had been reassuring. But he’d still come creeping up by the back stairs, because he wasn’t worthy, and the vicarage knew.
‘Only, time’s nearly up,’ Jeremy Berrows said.
His face was haloed by the fire, like a monk’s face in an illuminated manuscript. Like a martyr’s face.
Time nearly up. Merrily wondered where she’d heard that phrase recently.
Jeremy let out a deep sigh, as though a decision had been made for him.
‘Farm’s on a lease, see.’
‘This farm? I thought you owned it.’
‘Folk do.’ Jeremy fingered his throat. ‘Me too, when my dad was alive.’
He’d started to talk to her, in a half-apologetic way, as though ashamed at the ungraciousness of his early responses. Danny had rescued him from himself, therefore Danny was owed, and Danny had brought in this woman to help. Perhaps a concession was needed.
And so Jeremy had conceded that the time was nearly up.
The lease was nearly up? Was his suicide attempt linked to a fear — a fear he’d felt unable to share, even with his best friend — that
he was about to lose his beloved home? Farmers had hanged themselves for far less.
Merrily glanced at the Welsh dresser, with its mugs and picture plates and a gilt-framed, faded photo of two children, a boy and a girl, both fair-haired, like brother and sister. It looked as if little or nothing had altered in here in thirty or forty years. What would Jeremy do when goin’ quietly on was no longer an option?
‘I… heard that Mr Dacre might have been putting it around that he… has some rights to The Nant.’
Jeremy shook his head just far enough for it to hurt.
‘No?’
‘Always reckoned it should be his, on account of he owns the rest of the valley.’
‘It’s said he’s been behaving in a threatening way. Hiring men with guns, Gomer says.’
‘He’s scared.’
‘What’s he scared of?’
‘He’s scared of what they took on. His family. What was give to ’em.’
‘The Chancerys? Your family were tenants of the Chancerys, right?’
He nodded, and then — evidently relieved that he could at least do this without pain, that it didn’t hurt to be positive — he nodded again. Merrily wondered if Gomer and Danny were following this from the other side of the closed door.
‘What did the Chancerys think had been given to them?’
Jeremy looked at her, like, Do I have to go into this?
She thought she knew, anyway: a tradition, roots. Gomer had told her how the Chancerys had sought to buy into the Welsh Border heritage. Not the most stable foundation on which to build a new dynasty.
Jeremy said, ‘Don’t suppose you seen Nat’lie?’
‘We came straight from Ledwardine. I haven’t been up to Stanner yet.’
‘Her won’t be there.’
‘Where will she be?’
He didn’t answer. He looked down at his knees, between which Flag had wedged his head. Jeremy placed his hands either side of the sheepdog’s head, as if in benediction. Merrily let the silence hang for maybe half a minute before trying to catch his gaze and failing and then feeling her way back into the mystery of Natalie Craven.
‘People talk. People like to gossip when somebody new turns up.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘They’re only curious. They don’t realize what damage it can cause when things get twisted around.’
‘No.’ Jeremy lifted his hands and placed a palm either side of his face, as if to stop his head from shaking.
‘And if your friends don’t know the truth either, they can’t help you. They can’t put a stop to it.’
‘No.’
‘Who exactly is she, Jeremy?’
Jeremy shifted to grip the dog’s fur. The silence from the other side of the door was like a balloon blown up to bursting point.
‘Her’s my landlord,’ Jeremy said.
The door handle rattled slightly as if somebody had just let go of it.
‘She owns The Nant? Natalie?’
He nodded. ‘Her name’s not Nat’lie… din’t use to be.’
‘So that would make her…’
‘Paula’s daughter. Brigid. Paula inherited The Nant from her mother.’
‘Hattie.’
Jeremy nodded.
‘So, is Paula dead now?’
‘Aye. Long time.’
‘So Natalie came back to… claim her inheritance?’
‘And mabbe find out some… things.’
Merrily thought of what Gomer and Jane had both said about Jeremy and Natalie: such an ill-matched couple. Perhaps they weren’t a couple at all. Was one of them a kind of… lodger?
‘Paula…’ Jeremy looked at Merrily. ‘… Not many folks know this, but Paula was sick, see. Her growed up sick. In the head. When Hattie and Robert died, her was still young, eight or nine, and Margery was only three. Things wasn’t too good between the kids, so Hattie’s uncle who come down to sort things out, he decided it was best if—’
‘How do you mean, things weren’t good?’
‘Oh. Well, they reckoned Paula was always jealous of Margery and when they… Well, there was a bit of an incident when… I think Paula tried to drown her in the bath one time — they was only little.’
‘God.’
‘Well, see, Robert had a sister up north, and they took her in. They had to sell Stanner on account of the debts, so Paula got the only house left, which was The Nant, as was rented then to my ole man. Paula had the rent. In trust. But Paula… her wasn’t right. Got took into homes, early on. They figured her wasn’t safe. Set fire to the house once.’
‘Oh.’ This did not sound good.
‘Margery, the Dacres adopted her, and she got left a couple hundred acres of land and some money, and her growed up and married the Dacre boy, Richard. Keepin’ it all in the family, kind of thing.’
‘These things happened…’
‘And they had Sebbie ten year before Paula was even married, even though Paula was five years older. Met a feller in hospital. Male nurse. Paula was real good-lookin’, he… fell in love, I s’pose. ’Ventually, he convinces the authorities to let her out. Short stretches at first, and he looked after her, and there was no problems. Then Paula was discharged and they got wed. Her’d be well into her thirties by then. But her… wasn’t right, see. Should never’ve been let out, they reckoned.’
‘She had a baby…’
‘Then… died. Brigid growed up with her dad. They’d come yere on holiday, on the quiet — never wanted nobody to know about Paula, how she’d turned out. One stage, see, they offered to sell The Nant to my ole man, but he didn’t have the money, nowhere near. So they negotiated another lease, for twenty-five years. So like, both sides agreed it be better if they let it get round they’d sold us the farm. Keep Richard and Sebbie off dad’s back.’
‘But now, you think Sebbie perhaps… knows the truth?’
Jeremy looked at Merrily at last. ‘It’s possible. Deal was done at the time through Big Weale, the solicitor, in Kington. And when he… when he died, sudden, leavin’ his whole business in a big tangle, this other firm come in to sort it all out. ’Course, Sebbie’s a magistrate, knows all the lawyers for miles around. Things gets mislaid. Documents. Can’t always trust lawyers, can you?’
‘And the lease…’
‘Lease is nearly up.’
‘Dacre thinks he has a chance of getting you out and buying The Nant?’
‘Can’t say what he thinks. Dacre’s in a funny state. Things he done lately en’t been that rational.’
This from a man who’d just tried to hang himself. But Merrily’s understanding of that was hardening up in the light of what she was learning about Jeremy’s weakening grip on everything he held dear.
‘So the future…’ She didn’t know how to put it.
‘No.’ Jeremy shook his head so hard that Merrily winced. ‘It en’t about that.’ The agony of it made his eyes water and come out like marbles. ‘En’t about money, nor ground. I love The Nant, course I do, every square inch of it, only…’
Merrily looked up at him. Her knees were starting to ache.
‘When we was kids, see — twelve, thirteen — her come to stay with her dad. They had a posh caravan. Me and her, we like… we got fond. Wrote to each other for years. All them years, I’m dreaming mabbe… mabbe her’ll come back. And praying, I s’pose. Prayed a lot, truth be told. Prayers she’d come back.’
‘And then she did come back… twenty-five years later?’
‘Aye.’
‘All that time—’
‘Things happened, see. In her life.’
Merrily reached out and took one of his hands, squeezed it gently.
‘I seen the van parked… where they used to put the caravan. I was scared. I seen Clancy at first in the lower field in the early morning — it was like seein’ Brigid, like her’d come back near enough the same as when I last seen her. I was scared… couldn’t go there. I called up Danny, and he come down. Then we seen this woman…
and her hair was dark — thought it wasn’t her, after all, see. And then…’
Tears rolled down Jeremy’s face. Tears coming without any change of expression, like a crying doll’s.
Merrily thought, But she stayed. She moved in, with her daughter. She put her daughter into a local school, got a job at the hotel, the house her family used to own…
There were big gaps in this story. Big issues that he wasn’t telling her about. She thought about the note that Danny had shown her when she arrived, Jeremy’s prosaic farmer’s farewell.
Please deal with the sale of my stock, and see they go to the right kind of place or keep everything yourself for nothing. Natalie will understand.
‘He could’ve took the farm,’ Jeremy said. ‘Took The Nant. Took the lot.’
‘Dacre?’
Merrily thought of what Gomer had said: Mary Morson, mabbe her rung to break the news to him as he wasn’t the only fish in Natalie’s stream.
Other fish. Worst-case scenario.
She looked over to the photo on the dresser: two light-haired children in T-shirts and shorts, screwing up their eyes against the sun. Standing side by side, not touching. The girl, even then, a bit taller than the boy.
She thought, in dismay, Dacre?
Dacre and his cousin in the back of a camper van on the top of Stanner Rocks?
‘Could’ve had the lot if he’d left her.’
Jeremy looked away, back into the fire.
34
The Butcher’s Counter
Jane stayed where she was; no backing off now. Ben took an impulsive step towards her and then abruptly turned away and caught up with Beth Pollen at the little gate at the bottom of the car park. He threw open the gate and followed Mrs Pollen into the darkness of the clearing beyond, the place where he’d pulped Nathan, the shooter.
Bastard. Jane stood for a moment, feeling the cold on her face like a contemptuous slap, and then, breathing hard, she followed them.
I quit. That simple. Perhaps part of her had known this was coming, was unavoidable after what Amber had told her about the good friction point, the proposed use of Mum as a twist.
