by Mavis Cheek
As he stood on the wrong side of his sitting-room door and listened to the Reverend Crispin Archer apparently yodelling, he was not sure what to do next. He had lived for many years, more than forty, in a relationship of peace and quiet and harmony. Was he, he wondered, going to give all that up for initiation into the mysteries of physical love with a guitar-twanging, boot-stamping, spurs-jingling, God-bothering cowboy?
Only fruit indeed. In the end he had politely shown the wild-eyed vicar (still beautiful, still beautiful, but Oh So Dangerous...) the front door, watched him stagger off, spurs a-jingling, and spent the next hour sitting alone and playing his Ashkenazy Chopin etudes very quietly in order to calm down. And the really frightening thing was that he had seen the beautiful Crispin this morning and the beautiful Crispin was scarcely affected by the excess. A little green about the gills, but upright and functioning. A young liver. Youth. Old Dr Tichborne could never keep up with that. He was torn. Yea, verily, he was torn between the spasm and the what's-it, the bit in between - where the shadow fell . . . Perhaps it would all be revealed to him in due course. But in the meantime - what to do, what to do?
The Rudges left a note for their gardener asking him to tell Mrs Dorkin and Mrs Fytton that they would try to get back for the Sunday celebrations. If their cases moved along quickly they might just do it. Mrs Dorkin and Mrs Fytton doubted this very much.
Meanwhile the gardener set up his machine again, still unclear why the previous saw was so wantonly damaged. He blamed the Travellers, naturally. And now they had gone. So presumably all was safe again. And down came the pollarded tree. Angela Fytton, being a kind woman, and seeing how cold he looked, invited him in for a quick half of warmed ale. Which became two not-so-quick ones. When the gardener went back to the Rudges' garden his machine, inexplicably, would not start. A vital part appeared to be missing from the motor. But then again, he could not be quite sure, since his sight also seemed to be missing a vital part. He went to lie down. And very nearly got hypothermia. The copper beeches remained to tell their tale for yet another week.
Unaware of their gardener's fate, in Bristol Mrs Rudge bought some Sparsofen to sprinkle on the pure, bare soil of the garden. If the slug pellets were the hors-d'oeuvre, the Sparsofen was the dessert. That'd give any hungry, slimy creature a headache if it ventured out for a quick snack in the coming weeks, she thought with satisfaction. She nipped back into court. The case against the great big fast-food chain was going really well.
Mr Rudge was also doing extremely well with the water board. Curiously enough, during the case, he had received his first cheque as a shareholder of the very same company. 'Good', he thought, banking it. For, if asked, he would point out that as in life so in jurisprudence. One is talking about the law, not justice.
The following morning the Dorkin girl stood on the top of the Mump and lifted up her own two mumps to the wintry sun. I am the new goddess, she said to the sky. Which was approximately what the vicar said to her as he fairly pulled her out of her bedroom window last night and bedded her in the straw in the old barn at the back. He smelled of fruit and he intoxicated her. How could she resist? Not that she had the slightest intention of doing so. It was not in her nature to resist. She was a nice, warm, friendly, compliant girl - only just a bit more compliant with some than with others. The vicar was also very compliant and warm and friendly - though perhaps nice was pushing it. 'You are the new goddess,' he said, and he called her his little mulberry as he ripped away at his clothes. But he changed his mind when he ripped away at hers and she lay beneath him in the moonlight. 'Or the devil incarnate.'
Mrs Dorkin, washing the floor of the Black Smock, smiled and sang to herself. Her daughter was a sly one. Slipping off into the night like that. She had seen the low lights behind the drawn curtains of the Tichborne house and heard the soft piano music on the night air. That was where her Sandra had gone. Two in the morning it was. He wouldn't be much trouble to her, being so old. It would be a dream come true. And tomorrow's little effort should just about clinch it. If her favourite film star, Raquel Welch, could do it, so could her Sandra. Even if the weather was a bit cold at this time of year . . . Thus, a little muddled, but she knew what she meant, a smiling Mrs Dorkin went on washing floors.
Sammy Lee baked a ham for the proceedings. And wondered whether or not he would need to put his plate in. All depended, he said to the beautiful, succulent pink haunch as he drew it out of the oven. All depended on who was coming to the feast.
Daphne Blunt removed the sheet from To Clothe the Naked' and stood back to admire her handiwork. 'To Harbour the Stranger' was now finished too. And that would have to do until the ceremonial was over tomorrow and she could begin on the others. It was a slow process, letting the walls yield up their lessons in love and humanity, and it would not do to rush it.
28
Candlemas
At night any illumination must be artificial and in places where no artificial light is available people have to go to bed at sundown. From the pure vision point of view, a certain standard of illumination is necessary if comfortable working conditions are to be achieved. Where there is either too much or too little light, there is a marked falling off in working efficiency and this applies to housework as much as any other kind of work; there is also the danger of permanent injury to the eyesight. 'The scullery is in an awkward position, it's against the kitchen and makes the kitchen dark.'
from chapter xiv, 'light to see by7,
mass observation's People's Homes, 1943
In Wimbledon the house was dark and silent. While Binnie and Tristan were in Wales, Claire and Andrew were staying with friends. Ian had sat them down, said, 'Watch my lips,' and told them that if they so much as set foot in South Common Road until he said that they could he would disown them for ever, drive them to Somerset and leave them there for good. It seemed that even they had finally reached the furthest point on their behavioural compass. They agreed.
Moneypenny, who valued the peace and quiet of her job, and who knew that the peace and quiet of her job was threatened by the boss's domestic upheavals, did not think it was a very good idea at all to leave Belinda Fytton in Wales. Especially not with her mother. A mother being a partial sort of an individual. Belinda Fytton must be collected forthwith. 'Will you go by car?' asked Moneypenny.
'My wife drove.'
'Will I ring to arrange the train tickets?'
'You can leave all that to me.' Said with a smile of deprecation. Quite understandable since he had not arranged his own travel, apart from one strange requirement for a car in Bristol, since the advent of Moneypenny.
She gave him a most compelling look. 'Very well, Ian.'
At Church Ale House, at ten minutes to five, all were assembled and ready to make their way to St Hilary's. They stood in the foursquare hall and were not allowed to look in the parlour because all of Angela's preparations were to be a surprise. As she looked around at the party standing wrapped against the cold, a unity with their torches and lanterns and nipped raw noses, and in her house, she was reminded of the very first time she crossed this threshold and how she knew no one. She felt remarkably cheered by the thought. You had to keep faith with people and with friendship. You had to continue to believe. After all, as she said to Mrs Dorkin, people are all we've got. Mrs Dorkin nodded her pink plush several times, but her eyes said she was on a different planet. The only time she came to life was when the Dorkin girl flatly refused to remove her cardigan. Mrs Dorkin whipped it off quicker than ninepence and tucked it into her bag. Still, she seemed to look at the stars. Indeed, it was remarkable how intent and absorbed and grave each of the faces in the party looked. Not one snigger, not one giggle, not even from the plastic biker jackets, who came to see.
The fair maiden with the flowing locks and the swirling cloak and the flagon of ale would, of course, be the Dorkin girl. Daphne had borrowed a suitable container from the local museum and this was filled for blessing in the church. After the blessing each wou
ld drink a little from it and the rest would be returned to the main brew, first touched by the lips of the assembled faithful, so that the blessing could spread into every particle...
Remembering therefore the light that you bring us,
We beseech you to bless this honoured Ale.
Medicine of life, Earthly benefit of Sacred Burgess.
Angela gave the flagon-bearer one of the gooseberry-green velvet curtains to slip around her shoulders and beneath it she wore the white surplice of fine linen and lace which Dorothea Tichborne, who had, it seemed, been remarkably conversational with everybody at her demise, bequeathed from her marriage chest for the event. The stitching might be local but the lacework was Chard and it was not less than a hundred years old, for there was a bill for its mending from Staithe dated 1899. The Dorkin girl told her mother that she wished to wear this lovely garment over some warm winter underwear. An unholy state of things which her mother deplored with a stout clip round the ear.
The vicar, torn between desire and humanity, said either way would be right in the sight of God. Everything is in the sight of God, he reminded himself, and tried not to catch, for the umpteenth time, the Dorkin girl's winking eye as the front door was opened and they slowly filed out. What, he wondered, what had happened in between his leaving Dr Tichborne that night and arriving back at the Manse? And was what he thought had happened merely a dream? As it had been countless nights before... She winked at him again. Her wink indicated that the dream point of view was unlikely. In more ways than one he wished he could remember.
Sammy would carry the symbolic sack of barley, though Angela Fytton packed most of it with newspapers. She did not want another death on her hands. But his jaws looked sadly shrunken. If only he had put in his teeth.
The Elliott boys were carrying the lights, which the sensible Anja contrived from small oil lamps furnished by Wanda. These were lit on Angela's pathway and began to glow and bob like a pair of dancing glow worms. The boys were immensely impressed with their central role in the proceedings and their innocent faces became old as time with the intent and glow of concentration. And, perhaps, with the proposed trip to the panto in Bristol and an overnight stay at an hotel. Their first night away from their mother - which made it even more exciting. Their mother looked upon them with a sad little smile. It was just as well, she murmured to her husband, that they were so independent - for who knew? Who knew? Then she cast down her lashes and shaded her eyes and her expression became quite impossible to read. Though the curve of her mouth was definitely on the upward side. Craig Elliott pulled his wife's shawl tighter around her shoulders against the cold.
Dr Tichborne held the circle of bread, baked by Dave and decorated with dried bog myrtle and hops by Wanda. This was her own invention but she was getting quite carried away with all this knowledge and some of it was bound to burst out in the wrong place occasionally. The bog myrtle (Myrica), so she discovered, was believed by the ancients to confer the power of detecting witches; and as if that wasn't enough, it was also said that if the leaves crackled in the hands the person beloved would prove faithful. So bog myrtle on the bread it was. It crackled like billy-o in Dave's hand as he placed it on the crust. For which she was, of course, most grateful. And a leaf stuck itself to Angela Fytton's sleeve and remained there throughout the ceremonial, about which Wanda, the only one to notice, said absolutely nothing.
'As darkness leaves the land we light the way of this Good Ale made by our own hand and ask for blessing of it. May it keep sweet until the last of it be drunk.'
Daphne had simplified the text, muttering words like Didache and Apostolic Tradition and Hippolytus with just a hint of a curl of getting even on her lips. 'Much better’ she said, handing it to Angela. And it was. Even the biker boys read audibly from their word sheet and they only shoved at each other in mild and harmless reflex as they gazed at the girl in the gooseberry cloak.
'Look kindly on this gift as we place it in Your Holy House.'
And so saying, they all set off from Church Ale House at ten minutes to five precisely.
Ian drove all the way across the Clifton Suspension Bridge and took the dark, winding road towards Tintern and the wife that he loved and the little boy that he adored. But when he reached the old abbey, he stopped. He thought. He got out and lit a Gauloise and looked at the beautiful, moonlit ruins of the ancient place and the bare winter countryside rolling away from him. He was not expected anywhere again tonight. No one, anywhere in the world, had a call on his time. It would serve the lot of them right if he never came back at all.
But then what? As a little boy he had once lost his mother's hand in a crowd. Just for a moment he had that feeling again. Excitement and fear. Part of him wanted to explore, but the other part - the greater part - wanted to rush back to that comforting grip and be safe and secure. Apart from anything else, he muttered to those eerie, moonlit arches and the rooks perched above him on the shadowy half-walls, apart from all that, he wouldn't know where to begin if he was left on his own. He was not brought up to it. It was not his function.
One thing was for sure. If one wife could be down in the countryside making pickles and honey and drinks or whatever it was she was going about, all done up in her aprons and rolled-up sleeves, and baking and being self-sufficient and putting on weight and not needing him at all . . . As per bloody usual. And if the other wife could just get on a motorway and drive to her mother's with his son and not need him because she had all the support she needed from the Under Milkwood relations, if... if... Then where was he in all this? Nowhere. No-bloody-where. He might just as well begin all over again with somebody else. And if he might just as well begin all over again with somebody else, why not stick with what he had already got? Either way it was the same.
He certainly did not want to be alone. He did not want to go home at night to an empty house and eat from an empty fridge and sleep in an empty bed, like David Draper did now. Apart from the washing machine, there was a dishwasher and an ironing board (more complicated than a Rubik's Cube) and an iron apparently designed by nuclear physicists, requiring an extensive knowledge of the properties of matter (silk, rayon, wool - how would he know?). He could make a computer do anything he wanted, but he could not - and he would not - learn how to service himself too. He made a lot of money. Let someone else be paid to do it for him. He needed looking after. He deserved looking after. He ought to go right on down to his wife's parental home and drag her back by the hair, saying 'Ug!' and beating his chest all the way.
As it was he smiled at the thought, finished another cigarette, flicked the stub into an arc of sparks in true Bond style, took one last look at the Gothic scene, returned to the car and drove straight back along the dark, winding road, over the Clifton Suspension Bridge again. Away from his little, adorable, troublesome wife. Too late to do anything about anything now because of Tristan, of course. But nevertheless, he drove.
Below him the moonlit water looked like a sheet of milky silk. Made him go all sensual just to look at it. Must be the tobacco and the memories of France. He put his foot down and the car decided to show what its twin turbos could really do. And over the border into Somerset he went. Doing 115 miles an hour.
Along the lane the procession came, through the lych-gate, up the church path and through the stout oak doors, with the gargoyle of the ancient Devereux above them, dry-mouthed and grinning in pain.
The church was full of light. Wanda had set out sixteen little novelty table-top braziers (in boxes of six dozen from the Taunton cash and carry) to line the flagstones of the aisles, each with a scoop of her ginger (circulatory stimulant and cleanser of poisons) and cinnamon (circulatory stimulant and effective against the common cold) oil warming pungently in its nest. And she had, after all, taken Church Ale House beeswax to make a pair of enormous candles that burned with the remains of the funeral candles, on either side of the altar steps. The scent of rosemary hung above the scent of ginger and cinnamon, and all this, combined wit
h Daphne Blunt's two Dimplex radiators, contrived to make the air in the church warm and intoxicating. Even old Dr Tichborne, waiting cold and peevish in the porch for the vicar to enter first, began to mellow as the scent came swirling about him.
The Dorkin girl visibly relaxed as she came first through the oak doors. Her erectile tissue was finding it acutely difficult to do anything but become very erectile indeed, but in here all was warm and welcoming. She looked up. Well, warm and welcoming apart from the pictures on the wall, one of which looked suspiciously like her old mistress bearing a forked tail and burning in hell. Fear clutched her not inconsiderable breast at the thought. If old Mrs Tichborne was burning in hell and she so pious, what future was there for a sinner such as herself? She caught up with the vicar and looked at him for hope, but the vicar cast down his eyes and looked away. Again. She was foxed by his behaviour. After all, he had seemed to enjoy it so much. She winked once more but he was as stone. For the first time the Dorkin girl suffered the faintest stirrings of the feeling that she had been used.
