“My next class.” Eadlin squeezed his hand again. This time the touch was gentle. “D’you have far to go?”
He told her where he lived, almost an hour’s drive away.
“Don’t drive any more today. Please. Stay in the village. The White Hart is good if you don’t mind spending some money. Come back here tomorrow so we can talk some more.”
Fergus liked the idea of talking more. Then children engulfed them with demands to know which ponies they could ride and could I please please please have Conker who was so sweet last week. As they shrieked they made sideways glances at the man with crutches who was sitting with his face turned aside and who might be crying. Eadlin sent them away to fetch ponies and turned back to him.
“D’you realise that horses can help people heal? Body and mind?”
Eadlin’s words would have seemed preposterous but for Fergus’s flash of chemistry with Trooper. His smile remained sceptical.
“Nah, seriously, and not just because you need to develop balance and co-ordination. Why d’you think Trooper responded to you?”
Fergus shrugged. “Maybe he was still hoping for a carrot.”
“Nah. He, like, saw your pain. One damaged animal recognised another.” She put some carrots on the table as she rose to look after the children. “Go and give him a treat. Come back tomorrow morning and we’ll chat.”
Chapter Nine
IT WAS BIZARRE how rapidly his mood could change. This new euphoria had to be unnatural, perhaps an overcorrection to his earlier state of mind, but while it lasted Fergus was having a very good evening.
“It’s choir night on Thursdays, love,” the barmaid in the saloon bar said with easy familiarity, folding her arms and leaning on the counter so that her breasts bulged amiably towards him. “They have choir practice in the function room through there.” She nodded towards a set of double doors off the bar. “It’s got a piano, see? You’ll find the lounge bar much quieter.”
Fergus had chosen the saloon bar nonetheless. The lounge bar had a stag’s head mounted over the fireplace. Not inappropriate, he supposed, for a pub called the White Hart, even if the one on the wall was a conventional, dusty brown. It had none of the majesty of the beast he had seen on the road, either; this was more of a Bambi with antlers. It stared at the room with an expression of mild surprise on its face, and he had stared back, eye to glass eye, until his demons faded. Face the pain. Always face the pain, but that doesn’t mean you have to drink with it.
So he sat alone in the saloon, regaled with fragments of choral harmony, beside a blackened inglenook fireplace where apple logs blazed against an old iron fireback. To reach this seat he had needed to duck under beams draped with dried hops like parchment decorations, tapping his way with a newly-acquired stick in one hand and a pint of dark ale in the other.
Fergus was pleased with this stick. He’d selected it from a rack in the hallway, opportunistically placed there by the inn to sell locally crafted walking sticks to guests. It had a heavy ball of root wood for a handle which he was caressing as he sat, enjoying its polished texture and the pleasure of making a purchase. This was a man’s stick, as muscular a walking aid as he could find, not some bentwood refugee from an old people’s home. It had inspired him to jettison his crutches into the boot of his car a week earlier than the physiotherapist had recommended. He had become tired of the complexities of negotiating doorways with them, and more importantly, they left him with no free hands to carry things such as glasses of beer. Besides, his totter round the sand school had proved that he could manage without, at least for short periods.
Fergus lifted his glass in salute to himself, took another pull at his drink, and reflected that he had never before appreciated the warmth of the colour black. Black ale, thick with alcohol. Black beams, heavy with age. Black iron fireback, dusted with ash so that its pattern of a coat of arms showed in grey relief. Sparks rising bright against the dark from the crack and spit of the fire. A blackboard chalked with ‘Today’s Special – beef and ale pie’, a slice of which had oozed black mushrooms onto a plate in front of him. Even, or perhaps especially, the barmaid’s black skirt which stretched over her rump as she stoked the fire. His mood had swung to the state where he was deliriously happy to sit with good beef in his belly and a pint of ale in front of him. Easter anthems would not have been his first listening choice, but any live music was a bonus, even if it was interspersed with bellowed directions from a music director.
Full of bonhomie, Fergus supped and quaffed, feeling heady with freedom. There was the freedom to choose where he would sleep rather than in his allocated bed in a ward. There was the freedom to spend money, to drink ale, to spread newspapers across a table and then choose the time when he would go to bed. And tonight there would be no noises from nearby patients to disturb him, no low key lighting or the whispered routines of nursing shift changes. Fergus sipped more beer, and tried to guess the composer of the music being sung next door. His knowledge of classical music had improved a lot in the months in hospital, when he’d soothed himself with Schubert on his iPod rather than suffer the snores from the next bed. This composer eluded him, but he stretched his legs towards the fire with a sense of deep contentment.
A brick recess near his shoulder held a collection of dog-eared paperbacks and local guides. Fergus sifted through them, searching for reading material to pass the evening, and pulled out a small, card-and-paper booklet entitled History of the White Hart. ‘Saloon Bar Copy – Please Do Not Remove’ had been written on its cover in thick felt tip.
‘There has been an inn on this site since at least 1532...’ he read, ‘serving travellers on the Downs Road, which was then a more important thoroughfare...’ Standard stuff. Local families, refurbishments, a proud tradition of serving the wayfarer... Fergus stifled a yawn as he flicked through the pages, feeling the ache of the day’s exercise pull at his muscles.
‘Hart’ is Old English for ‘stag’, and the rare and beautiful white hart has been part of British folklore since time immemorial. In medieval times, the white hart was thought to be an animal that could never be captured, and like the unicorn they came to symbolise unattainable purity. In Arthurian legend, the appearance of a white hart inspired chivalric quests. Richard II, King of England from 1377 – 1399, adopted the white hart as his emblem, and the coat of arms on our inn sign is King Richard’s.
However their reputation has not always been so enchanting. In pagan times the white hart was a harbinger of doom, a sign that a fundamental law had been broken, and that a terrible judgement or even death was imminent.
Fergus’s mouth felt dry and he took a pull at his pint before breathing deeply and reading on, irritated by his own sensitivity. His euphoria had evaporated. Across the room, a middle-aged man in a battered tweed jacket and a clerical collar came into the bar and ordered half a pint. As Fergus looked up, the priest smiled in the confident way of someone well practised at being friendly with strangers. Fergus smiled briefly in response, and lowered his gaze to the booklet.
Today we know that there is a natural, if prosaic reason for white harts. A rare genetic mutation causes a condition called leucism which affects their pigmentation. We also know that they are no harder to capture than any other deer. Sadly, such is their rarity that they are valuable trophies, and any that are known to exist are rapidly targeted by unscrupulous poachers.
So if, in the mossy depths of our ancient woodlands, you spy a ghostly, antlered form, enjoy the privilege of an ethereal moment, but take care only to tell those who will also revere…’
“May I join you?” The priest was already pulling out a chair at Fergus’s table. “It would be strange for two people to drink alone in the same room.”
Fergus looked up, glad of some company but feeling an Englishman’s reserve towards the priesthood. The dog collar was both a licence to talk and a barrier to conversation.
“John Webster, Vicar of St. Michael’s over the road.” The handshake was almost as firm as Jake Herne’s, bu
t Webster’s smile reached to his eyes and crinkled them into fans of laughter lines. A touch of the same confidence, perhaps, but less ego. Webster had wiry, greying hair above an open, friendly face, and the physique of a retired rugby player. His fist made the half pint mug look like a toy. “I came to have a drink with the choir, after their practice.”
“They’re good, aren’t they?” As Fergus spoke, a sweet harmony from beyond the doors was interrupted by a friendly tirade about diphthongs. Fergus furrowed his brow in puzzlement until the priest explained that it was something to do with pronunciation.
“They’re worth an army of evangelists,” Webster finished with a sigh of appreciation.
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“Ah. Our congregation has doubled since Tony Foulkes – he’s the one doing the shouting – took over the choir. I give them theology, he gives them joy,” he said with a modest smile, his eyes glistening. “People come to hear the music, and sometimes a little faith rubs off along the way.”
“I would have placed his accent more in the Welsh valleys than Southern England.”
“Tony married a local girl and they settled back here when he took early retirement a few years ago. So what brings you to Allingley?”
Fergus told him, in as few words as possible.
“I remember that day, only too well. A woman died, didn’t she?” John Webster’s demeanour was more alert, shifting from conversational to pastoral.
“That’s right. Kate. She was a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry. I remember you were badly hurt. Are you recovering?”
“Getting there.” Fergus felt himself retreat, sitting back in his chair and pulling his beer towards him. He’d already embarrassed himself enough at Ash Farm, so for heaven’s sake let’s talk about music or local legends. But the way Webster looked at him gave Fergus a glimpse of a great compassion hovering behind the half pint of beer and crinkling eyes, in the way a candle will throw a larger shadow than the physical object. After a long pause the priest spoke again, more softly now.
“If you ever want to talk, let me know.”
Fergus swigged his beer and said “thanks”, but put his mug down on the table with a click as crisp as a closing door. For a moment he stared at the booklet on the table by his hand.
“Actually there’s something that’s, well, a bit unsettling.” He spun the booklet so the priest could read it. “This bit about white stags being harbingers of death…”
“Oh, that old wives’ tale!”
“My crash… We left the road trying to avoid a stag.”
Webster looked up from the article, his expression guarded.
“And was it a white stag?”
“Not really. Its mane and muzzle were fairly grey, but that looked like age. I think it was just a red deer that had been around long enough to go grey.”
Webster looked down at the article again. “And had you ‘broken some fundamental law’, either of you?”
“Quite a few speed limits.” Fergus grinned as the mood lifted.
“Well, there you are, then.” The answering smile looked relieved.
“It’s strange, though, that the first guy on the scene afterwards should have a tattoo of a stag on his face.”
It was as if the conversation had stepped out over a void. The smile drained from Webster’s face until he looked as if he was about to be sick, the way Eadlin had looked for a moment at Ash Farm. He searched Fergus’s eyes, looking, Fergus guessed, for signs of falsehood. Finding none, he sat back in his own seat.
“Dear God, not you, too.”
In a moment Webster had switched from being almost boyish and affable to seeming old, as if he had shrunk inside his jacket. Fergus realised that Webster was probably the kind of man whose face was an open book, making it hard to hide his feelings. Whatever he was thinking became transparent, and at that moment he was frightened.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Fergus swallowed, feeling nervous. He’d never seen a frightened priest before. When Webster spoke, his voice was quiet, deadpan, coming from somewhere hidden inside him.
“Did you hear about the Saxon warrior they dug up on the day of your crash? He had a tattoo of a stag on his forehead.”
Fergus stared at him while a fault-line opened in his mind. In front of him, everyday reality. Blackboard, menu. Black beams. A black priest’s shirt beneath a clerical collar. Inside his head, the kind of grating discord of the early days after the crash, a tumbling wrongness with no points of reference, filled with fragments of a reality he wished he’d never known. A tattooed tramp. A golden fan of bloodied hair. Please.
The first reaction is panic. The second is denial. Fergus moistened his lips with his tongue, swallowed again, and reached for his drink.
“The guy I saw was no ghost, if that’s what you mean.”
Webster’s face lifted, his expression hopeful.
“He was real. He moved.” Fergus closed his eyes, trying to shut out the image of dirty fingernails caressing Kate’s hair.
In the next room the choirmaster interrupted the singing again. Life continued as normal around them. “Cynthia, my dear,” came through the door, “you have a lovely voice but the sopranos don’t have the melody here. Give the poor altos their chance for stardom.”
“I need another drink.” Fergus pushed on his stick to heave himself upright. “Let me get you one, too.” His steadiness on his feet surprised him, but Webster saw the challenge of the stick and leapt to his feet to help.
“You said ‘not you too’,” Fergus prompted as they carried their drinks to the table.
“Are you a Christian, Fergus?”
“Only nominally. Carol service at Christmas, that sort of thing.”
“Like most of the population these days, sadly.” Webster stared into his beer, his manner now care-worn rather than frightened. “This parish will probably be my last job before I retire. I was never destined to rise very far in the church. I was always too, too…” He fumbled for a word. Mentally, Fergus offered a few. Honest? Transparent?
“… straightforward. Not enough of the ascetic in me, you see? The bright ones get Deaneries or Bishoprics, but I was offered Allingley, and I was content. A rural idyll where the Vicar can play cricket for the village eleven on Saturday, and lead his parishioners to the pub after morning service on Sunday. A reward, perhaps, for twenty years in the inner city slums. But there have been times in the last few months when this quaint little backwater has felt like the front line in a very old battle.”
Fergus let him gather his thoughts, surprised by the man’s candour.
“When that Saxon was discovered, you see, there was huge media attention, much more than anyone round here had been used to handling. A kind of collective hysteria took over the village. Oh, things started innocently enough, school outings to Sutton Hoo, that kind of thing, but then it got out of hand. At first it was only children leaping out of the bushes dressed as Saxons and frightening old ladies, but then it became more serious. There are rumours of unspeakable rituals in the woods, things I thought had died out in the Middle Ages. Cynthia Lawrence’s son – Cynthia is the soprano you can hear now – was nearly drowned when local boys tried to re-enact the Saxon’s death by holding him down in the stream. There were even stories of the Saxon’s ghost being seen in the village.”
“Ah.”
“Quite. Some of the sightings you can dismiss as being part of the hysteria, but others… Well let’s just say they are sensible people. Members of my congregation. Christian teaching speaks of evil as a real, tangible force, but this is the first time I have felt the truth of that doctrine so powerfully.”
Next door, the choir launched into an anthem, and as the harmonies of faith soared, the strain on Webster’s face eased until he sat back in his chair, closing eyes that were starting to moisten in appreciation. A trace of a smile started to play around his lips.
“Don’t tell anyone. Please.” He sat upright
in midverse, and looked directly at Fergus to emphasise his request. “They’ll finish now. Please don’t tell them about the man with the tattoo.”
“Of course not, but why…?”
“I’d hoped that things were getting back to normal. There have been no sightings for several weeks, but some of the choir still won’t go out at night on their own.” In the background the music was building into a fortissimo ‘Amen’, the choral parts diverging from bass to soprano in a final, exquisite chord, and Webster waved towards the sound. “Let them keep this joy. Please.”
“Some people already know. Eadlin Stodman, who found me…”
“And?”
“Jake Herne.”
Webster’s shoulders slumped and an expression of pain crossed his face. Behind him the function room doors opened, spilling a flow of chattering people into the bar. Webster stood, forcing a smile as they clustered around him, calling their greetings. On the far side of the room a large, florid man of perhaps sixty led the way to the bar and slapped the counter with his palm, demanding drinks for thirsty choristers. Fergus recognised the tones of the choirmaster, Tony Foulkes.
“Can you sing, young man?” Foulkes boomed at Fergus as Webster introduced them. Foulkes projected sound as if a performance was still in progress, with a rumble in his voice like the edge of laughter. Fergus suspected that the only time that Foulkes would be quiet was when he was looking at a piece of music where the tenor line was marked pianissimo.
Fergus shook his head. “People only ask me once.”
“Well never mind, an inability to sing has never bothered this lot.” The words were called without malice, as a broadcast tease that drew derisory responses from his choir. “Grab your drink and join us, if you want. The hard core musicians are about to have some fun.”
John Webster’s introduction had included a brief explanation for Fergus’s visit, and the choir welcomed him into their midst as if the community of Allingley needed to make amends for his misfortune. Foulkes’ wife led Fergus towards the function room, ensuring his inclusion. Julia Foulkes was a petite, fine-boned woman, elegantly groomed and still slender in middle age, with a porcelain delicacy that suggested chintz curtains and a heritage of Empire. She planted a gin-and-tonic on top of Bach and spread music across the piano, asking Fergus his preferences. Did he like Gershwin? Hoagy Carmichael, perhaps? So much more fun than Handel, don’t you think?
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