by Mavis Cheek
'What about J. G. Ballard?' she answered with spirit. 'He lives in Shepperton. He's wildly successful.'
Unlike Craig.
The wails increased. The phone was answered. 'Millie's All Staff Agency’ said a nice, female voice. ‘I want a live-in mother's help please’ said Lucy Elliott. And she thought, I want a very ugly one. Unlike Craig. As she waited for the woman to take down her details, she glanced at the hill and saw one of her neighbours striding upwards, a dog prancing at her side, a stick in her hand, comfortable and at one with the climb, pacing it as Lucy had still to learn to do. If she went out for a walk, it was with three children and the fear that one of them would do something to cause a tragedy while her eyes were on one of the others. I am thirty-five, she thought, and I walk like that old woman. What is to become of me? Fear clutched at her, as it so often did if she took a minute to think about anything beyond fish fingers. For the thought that always followed, What's to become of me? was, If Craig ever leaves me.
'We have a Dutch girl,' said the voice. 'Available at the end of the month.'
'Is she pretty?' snapped Lucy Elliott.
'She's from The Hague,' said the voice, as if that was an answer.
The vicar, fresh from his shower, limping a little and wearing his groovy blue dog-collar shirt and black jeans, slipped through the lych-gate and noticed the hinges were coming away. He skirted the gravestones and went to the side of the church. Looking up towards the dangerously crooked weather vane, he stared into the face of an old gargoyle and remembered that he was having tea with Mrs Tichborne. He apologized for the graceless thought, though the carving, like so many, did look uncannily like her. Not surprising, he supposed, since her family connection with the area went back hundreds of years.
His eyes went dreamy. He would make that the subject of his sermon at the family service on Sunday. He would string his guitar around his neck, talk about little and big and their place in the world, remind everyone that no matter how humble or how great, they all had a role in the scheme of things. That you should value what you had. And then sing 'Me and Bobby McGee' - the perfect anthem for such a theme. He started to hum it to himself:
‘I took my harpoon out of tee dum tee red bandana
And was blowing dum while Bobby dee dum dum...
Tee tee tee dum dum dee slapping time
I must learn the words -
Nothing ain't worth nothing but it's free...
And I'd give all my tomorrows for a single yesterday.. ‘
'Ooh’ said a voice behind him that instantly made him think of very full, if very grubby, brassiere cups. 'Well, if it isn't the vicar singing.'
He did not turn round. The limp melted away. He fled.
Puffing, he entered the church, hoping it would remove the lingering sense of that warm and unwashed skin. Inside it was still and quiet and empty. Too empty. He must set about changing that. He blinked away the muddled image of a Madonna and a milky breast from his mind and crossed himself. He conjured up the face of St Hilary's benefactress instead. He hoped Dr Tichborne would join them today for tea. He was always friendly and supportive, with his encouraging little smiles and his pats on the hand. Otherwise it would be hard going. Mrs Tichborne was set on spending a lot of money on a vast memorial tablet to her father, Sir Peter Devereux, and it was the Reverend Crispin Archer's job to get that money spent on something more urgent, more temporal. Like refurbishing the church hall and some heating that worked. Not for himself - he did not mind suffering for his witness - but he could hardly persuade his parishioners that turning blue with cold was useful. If God had sent them the potential for central heating, then they were obliged to use it. And in a church hall they could have playgroups, Sunday schools, quiz nights, youth clubs - and he could play the guitar. Though quite how he was going to persuade Mrs Dorothea Tichborne to drop the ancestral marble and pay for a range of requirements including a pool table instead was beyond him. Despite the fact that the memorial tablet to Sir Peter (RIP 1988) was highly questionable, since his great moment of glory was to stand up in the House of Lords and declare that one could not make an omelette without breaking eggs in response to a reminder that his family money came from a rollicking slave trade in Bristol.
Unfortunately the vicar's predecessor, the octogenarian Reverend Dr Bertrand Stokes, was keen on memorial tablets, genuflected both at the sanctuary light and at the appearance of the only remaining Devereux, though she was now called Tichborne, and never complained about wearing three pairs of long Johns even in May. He was in a retirement home for nearly deceased clergy now - very bad arthritis and what was referred to by the staff in a whisper as kidneys - but his spirit seemed to be lingering on. Mrs Tichborne was always knitting him something beige and reading to him from Bunyan.
The vicar went over to the old squint and peered above it. Daphne Blunt, the history woman, had been busy. Gradually fragments of an early medieval fresco were coming to light. He peered even closer. And then he smiled. There was the Devereux face again, though this time attached to one of the newly revealed little black devils and spewing out the Host.
Strangely, at that precise moment of looking at the face of the vomiting devil, like a note of assent from God, he distinctly thought he heard the sound of retching from beyond the church gate. Just his imagination, he supposed. He must learn to rein it in. As he must learn to rein in everything else.
Behind him the church door creaked open.
'Ooh’ said a familiar voice. 'Ooh.'
Daphne Blunt sat in the Black Smock sipping half a Guinness and reading a book of Celtic symbols. 'Swans are solar symbols in later Celtic belief’ she said aloud, 'and ravens and crows represent battle.'
Nobody paid much attention to the pronouncement. Daphne Blunt was a single woman of marriageable age whose sole interest seemed to be in the past. She had been found, once, in the ladies' toilet, on her hands and knees, pulling up the lino.
She had been seen, once, sitting on top of the church with the workmen when the roof came off, and she was forever digging and poking and scratching her way around. Reading out loud to herself was small beer and they left her alone.
'Unsurprising’ she went on, to nobody in particular, 'if you consider that these traditions came from observations of nature. Swans are beautiful, graceful creatures of light - and ravens and crows feast on the dead. Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face.'
Daphne Blunt buried her own substantial Afghan nose back in the book. What she needed was a friend. Who took an interest too. But she'd have to make do with addressing thin, thin air.
Mrs Dorkin delivered Daphne Blunt's ham sandwich. The ham came from Sammy's pigs, the bread from Dave's basket. Absent-mindedly, and as usual, Daphne picked out the ham and left the bread. Halfway through chewing she gave a snort of irritation, to which nobody paid attention except a pair of tourists blown off course from the Bath trail. 'In the Polden Hills hoard there is a harness brooch with a symmetrical tripartite design which could be interpreted as a face.'
The assembly went on with their beer and conversation.
'Rubbish’ she snorted, like a dragon. 'It's two confronted hippocampi...'
The assembly remained unmoved.
'Hippocampi?' said the passing Mrs Dorkin.
'Sea horses.'
'Ah’ said Mrs Dorkin, picking up the plate. 'Want your bread?'
Daphne Blunt shook her head. 'Fabulous creatures to the Celts’ she said. 'Rare as crystal.'
'Like till death us do part’ said Mrs Dorkin acidly. Thinking both of the absconded Mr Dorkin and its infuriating opposite in old Dr Tichborne and his wife.
'Well, I wouldn't know about that’ said Daphne Blunt. The study of history, in Daphne Blunt's opinion, was quite enough for any woman.
Mrs Dorkin looked on the girl with pity. If she made something of herself she wouldn't be bad-looking. Apart from that nose. But catch a man wanting baggy overalls and boots and a woman who was always up a ladder or digging a ditch. She
might have said something casually along the lines of how a face or hand could be much improved by dairy products rubbed well in, but just at that moment a car, passing the open window, braked very noisily.
'It's that black cat from Tally-Ho,' said Mrs Dorkin, peering out. 'And that's the car that was at Church Ale House earlier on. The woman does look very upset. Don't know why. She didn't run over Blackie at all.'
7
April
A bachelor never quite gets over the idea that he is a thing of beauty and a boy for ever.
helen rowland
When she reached the lower ridge of Mump Hill, Gwen Perry turned and stared down at the ribbon of road and the receding car. She gave it a wave just in case. Above her, in this sharp afternoon sunlight, the mysterious Burrow Mump, possibly built as a fortress for Alfred and possibly not, stood out like a huge polyp on an otherwise smooth cheek. It was said to house the Burrow Devils and, given the way of things today, thought Mrs Perry, they would all be laughing and shaking their forked little tails with glee.
She turned away and continued to climb. 'You can keep its ancient powers’ she said to herself. ‘I’ll take a bit of Christian town comfort now.' She struggled on. 'I've done with the old pagan pull, thanks very much.' The sun was hot and high in the sky, the air heavy with the warm smell of pigs and grass. She became quite out of breath and reminded herself, very loudly, that it would be an easy level walking distance to Sainsbury's once she moved into the Taunton bungalow. Andthat'd do her...
'Talking to yourself?' said a voice nearby.
She jumped, looked up and then smiled. ‘I am’ she said positively. 'And who better to talk to?'
Sammy held out his hand to pull her up the last of the slope. Though white-haired and stooped, he could summon a surprising strength.
'Still got a bit of the old muscle left, then?' she said, taking his outstretched hand, and she went a little pink.
'You should know,' he said, and winked.
The smell of pigs was at its strongest up here, though by no means unbearable. She took a deep breath. 'Sweet,' she said, 'almost.'
He did not let go but pulled her to him and steadied her.
'Hands off now, Sammy,' she said, suddenly sharp. 'That was a long time ago.'
He laughed, showing several gaps in his teeth, and knocked his cap back further off his head. 'Best of the bunch,' he said.
She moved back from him and stared at his face. ‘I wish you'd wear your plate’ she said. 'You look much better with it in.'
'If I'd known you were coming I'd have worn my plate’ he half sang.
'Stop that’ she said, but she was laughing.
'Oh, I can't be doing with it’ he said. 'It stops me whistling.'
They stood in silence for a while. The sun seemed to grow hotter. It glinted more fiercely along the metal ridges of the pens.
'You could fry an egg off those’ she said disapprovingly. 'They'll cool off by tonight.' 'Used to be wood and straw.'
'Easier to clean, these. And you can move them around.'
'Individual apartments, all mod cons.' She laughed 'They look like little air-raid shelters’ she said.
Sammy squeezed her bottom. 'Wouldn't fit in one of those now, would we?' he said, not expecting an answer. 'Better before all this scientific stuff when a sty was a decent size. When a fellow could lie himself out full-length and fit a woman on top of him...' He pushed closer to her, squeezing her a little harder.
'Sammy’ she said, mildly warning.
'Gwen’ he said. He did not remove his hand. 'Remember the sow's name?' he said, looking at her wickedly.
‘I do’ said Mrs Perry. 'It was Renata, after that actress -'
'Singer’ said Sammy. 'Oh yes’she said.
'Oh yes’ he said softly too. His hand crept under her skirt and stroked the top of her thigh.
'Sammy’ she said warningly, but he did not take it away. Very gently she guided his hand back from under her skirt. They were silent again.
'Anyway’ he said thoughtfully, 'pigs is in the past.' He ran his stick gently over and along the back of an oblivious creature as it snuffled in the earth. 'Weather, wars and the gentlemen of the party couldn't do it, but they've wiped us out with their rules.'
'Never liked rules, you’ she said.
'Common sense’ he said, 'dressed up for a party. That's rules.'
'Not all of them’ she said.
'They're welcome to the lot of it. Polishing their Land Rovers . . .' He spat. Then he smiled. 'Nice to break a few, though’ he said. He squeezed her again.
The Labrador sniffed around and then settled down on all fours to watch and wait for any pig that might come wandering by, but they were far over the other side of the hill where it was cooler. Even the rabbits seemed asleep.
Eventually Sammy said, 'So, you're definitely off to town, then. I shall miss you.'
'It isn't bloody Timbuktu’ she snapped. And then apologized. 'Sorry, but I've got something irritating on my mind.' She turned and twisted her body away from him. 'Do you mind leaving my bum alone?'
‘I do’he said.
She laughed and took his hand, then put it back again as if, after all, it was a comfort.
'The thing is, someone came to see the house today and wanted it and I had a feeling that I wanted her to have it. You know how you get?'
He laughed. 'Well, I know how you get. But in the pub last night Archie was doing drinks all round and said it was sold.'
She made an irritated noise, said 'Archie' impatiently, and walked a little further across the grass slope. She stamped her foot and slapped at her thigh. 'It is sold. Or damn nearly,' she said. 'And we agreed there'd be no funny business. First come, first served. And I'm one for keeping promises.' She looked at him fondly. 'As you know.'
He spat out a piece of the grass he was chewing by way of comment.
'Do unto others’ she said. 'It's the best way.'
'Not nowadays’ he said defiantly. 'No one keeps a bargain if they can do better. Promises get broken all the time. Houses, government quotas, marriage vows ...' He spat more vigorously.
'Come on, Sam’ she said quietly. 'That's enough.'
She stared down at the road. The car had stopped again. She shook her head in annoyance and threw a twig for the dog, who went running and scudding down the hillside after it. She sighed, watching the dog's tail bob and weave. ‘I don't suppose for one minute that estate agent will back off’ she said.
'Can't blame him for that’ said Sammy.
‘I don't’ she said. 'All the same, I don't like her to be disappointed.' She turned to him and gave him a questioning smile. ‘I know one thing that might change his mind. And it's harmless.' She whispered into his hairy ear.
He listened, then smiled. 'You always were a devil’ he said. 'On the quiet.'
'So are most of us.' She nodded at the road. 'Which she'll discover if she gets down here...'
The dog trotted back and sniffed forlornly. They ignored him.
'What's it worth if I do?' he said, pushing even closer.
She pulled away and patted his arm. 'Your seat in heaven, Samuel Lee. Maybe.' She looked at him hard. Touched his face where the cheeks were sunken. 'Who'd have thought it?' she said. And for a moment her eyes looked at something that was long ago. She touched his cheeks again. 'I do wish you'd put your plate in.'
He said. 'Fat lot of good a seat in heaven is.'
She laughed. 'Where's the harm? Will you do it?'
He winked. 'Old times' sake, is it? When?'
'Soon,' she said, and she whistled the dog. 'Tomorrow.'
'Archie'll complain.'
'Let him,' she said, looking back at Sammy, her face suddenly hard. 'He never complained about anything else.' And she stomped back down towards the house.
Angela Fytton looked at the shiny holly leaf, stolen from the hedge of Church Ale House, now winking, deep green, in the palm of her hand. Like the woman in Our Mutual Friend, she could wear it sewn into
her petticoats as a permanent mortification, if it would do her any good, bring her any nearer to her goal. And if she wore petticoats.
I shall do what I can to spread good in the world in future, she said that night into her pillow, beneath which rested the holly leaf. And if you let me have Church Ale House I'll live the rest of my life with honour in the cause of good. Sadly, she felt completely safe with this great promise. The Perry woman was clearly beyond corruption. So she could lie here in her London bed and be as pious as she chose. She would never have to live up to her promise.
