Crybbe (AKA Curfew)

by Unknown

  And he goes round . . . ONCE.

  When Guy came to the door, Fay simply pretended there was nobody in, knowing it had to be her ex-husband calling in on the way to his lunch date with Max Goff and his cohorts.

  Knowing, also, that if Guy was in the mood he was arrogant enough to have lined her up as today's emergency standby leg-over. Fay, hi! (Long time, no bonk!)

  Behind the bathroom door she clenched her fists.

  There was a second ring.

  Fay sat on the lavatory with the lid down. The lid was still topped by one of Grace's dinky little light-green candlewick loo-mats.

  Grace. Her dad thought that Grace Legge, dead, had smashed the Revox. Somehow. It was insane. And there was no way they could talk about it.

  There was no third ring.

  Arnold sat at Fay's feet and wagged his tail. He never reacted to the doorbell.

  Only the curfew bell.

  'Arnold,' Fay said, 'do you want to talk about this?' Arnold looked at her with sorrowful eyes. Even when his tail was wagging his eyes were sorrowful.

  She held his muzzle between her hands. She couldn't remember ever feeling so confused, so helpless. So completely wiped out.

  The phone rang in the office. Fay drifted down to answer it, not in any hurry. She wished she'd put on the answering machine, but the thing had been disabled so many times by power cuts that she'd almost abandoned it.

  'Hello.'

  There was a hollow silence at the other end.

  'Mrs Morrison?' A local accent. Male.

  'Yes. Who's that?'

  'Mrs Morrison, you been told.'

  'Have I? Told what?'

  'So this is your last warning, Mrs Morrison. You 'ave till weekend.'

  'To do what?'

  But, of course, she knew.

  'And what if I don't?' Fay said grimly. 'What if I say I have no intention of even considering getting rid of the dog? Especially as nobody seems prepared to explain what the hell this is all about?'

  'You been told,' the voice said. 'And that's it.'

  Chapter III

  Gomer Parry did plant hire.

  He operated from an old wartime aircraft hangar up the valley, outside the village where he lived. In this hangar he had two lorries, the heaviest tractor in the county, a big JCB, a small JCB and these two bulldozers.

  You didn't hire the equipment; what you hired was Gomer Parry, a tough little bloke with mad, grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

  Been a farmer for nearly twenty years before the magic of plant hire had changed his life. sold most of his land to buy the old hangar and the machinery. Gomer Parry: sixty-four now, and he never looked back.

  Gomer could knock buildings down and make new roads through the forestry. He could dig you a new septic tank and a soakaway that soaked away even in Radnorshire clay. And during bad winters the highways authority always hired him as a snow-plough.

  This was the only time that other people recognised the truly heroic nature of his job. They'd pour out of their homes, dozens of them, as he busted through the last snowdrift to liberate some remote hamlet that'd been cut off for a fortnight. Big cheers. Mug of tea. Glass of Scotch. Good old Gomer.

  But last winter had been a mild winter. Bugger-all snow anywhere. And only Gomer saw the heroic side of the other things he did.

  A few months ago he'd done this broadcast about the perils of digging drainage ditches and such. Explaining it to that little girl from the local radio. How, for him, it was like a military exercise - although not modern military; more like in these epic films where the knight gets into his armour, which is so heavy he has to be winched on to his horse. It was in these terms that Gomer Parry spoke on the radio of his life at the controls of the JCB.

  Probably gave the listeners a good laugh. Certainly didn't bring him any more work. He couldn't remember a worse year, the local farmers - his regular clients - tighter than ever. Constipated buggers sitting there waiting for a laxative from Brussels. Farmers wouldn't fart these days unless they got an EC grant for it.

  So Gomer Parry, feeling the pinch, had been very near excited when he had a phone call from Edgar Humble.

  He'd played darts with Edgar Humble in the public bar at the Lamb in Crybbe. Edgar didn't say much, which was unusual for a Londoner; he just kept beating you at darts. But Gomer knew who employed him, and that was why he was very near excited when he got the call, because from what he'd heard here was a bloke who was going to need plenty plant hire.

  'Knock walls down, can you?' Edgar Humble asked.

  'What kind of walls?'

  'Stone wall. Victorian, I'd say. Thick, solid. Five, six feet high. Couple of feet thick in places. Too much for yer?'

  Gomer had almost laughed down the phone. 'Put it this way,' he said, if I'd been in business round Jericho way, all those years ago, they wouldn't have needed no bloody trumpets.'

  'Max,' Rachel said, 'this is J. M. Powys.'

  Max Goff put on his Panama hat. Bizarre, Powys thought. Eccentric. But not crazy. Those are not crazy eyes.

  Goff looked at Powys for a good while. He had a beard like red Velcro. 'How long you been here?'

  'Since last night,' Powys said steadily. 'I stayed at the Cock.'

  'Yeah? Shit hole, huh? I hope you put it on my tab.' Goff grinned at last and stuck out a stubby hand. 'Hi, J. M. Welcome to Crybbe. Welcome to the Old Golden Land.'

  Powys took the hand. Goff's grip was flaccid. Powys said, 'You think this is the Old Golden Land?'

  The countryside was colourless. Mist was still draped around the Court like grimy lace curtains.

  'Not yet,' Goff said. 'But it will be. Listen, if I'd known you were here I'd've driven back last night.'

  'That's OK. Ms Wade was looking after me.'

  Rachel was standing behind Goff in the courtyard. Powys deliberately didn't look at her. Neither, he noticed, did her boss, the man who overpaid her for little extras.

  Goff jerked his Velcro chin at the two men at his side. 'This is Edgar Humble, my head of security.'

  'Mr Humble,' Powys said tightly.

  'And Andy Boulton-Trow, who of course you know, yeah?'

  Andy wore a white shirt and black jeans. Close up, he looked even thinner than he'd been twelve years ago. You could see the bones flexing in his face as he smiled. It was a quick, wide smile.

  It made Powys feel cold.

  'Joe.'

  'Andy,' he said quietly.

  'Long time, my friend.' Andy's hair, once shoulder-length, was shaven right to the skull, and he was growing a beard. It would be black.

  They hadn't met since Rose's funeral.

  Goff said, 'Now Henry Kettle's gone, Andy's my chief adviser in the Crybbe project. Andy knows stones.'

  Chief adviser. Jesus.

  There was a big difference between Andy Boulton-Trow and Henry Kettle. What it came down to was: Henry would have said, don't mess with electricity until you know what you're doing. Andy would say, sure, just hold these two wires and then bring them together when I give you the nod, OK?

  'So you lost Henry,' Powys said.

  Andy dropped the smile.

  'Tragic,' Goff said. 'There's gonna be a Henry Kettle memorial.'

  A memorial. Well, that was all right, then. That made up for everything.

  'We haven't decided yet where it's gonna go.'

  'But somewhere prominent,' Andy said.

  Powys didn't say a thing.

  'J.M.,' Goff said, 'we need to talk, you and I. At length. I have a proposition. Hell, we all know each other, I'll spell out the basics. I want you to write me a sequel to Golden Land for Dolmen. I want it to be the Crybbe story. The - hey, what about this? - The New Golden Land.'

  Goff beamed and looked round, Powys thought, for applause.

  'What I'm talking here, J. M., is a substantial advance and the quality republication in under a year's time of the original Golden Land, to pave the way. Revise it if you like. New pictures. In colour. Whatever.'

 
; Sure. Scrap Rose's pictures, Powys thought dully. Get better ones.

  'And there's a place for you here.'

  'A place?'

  'A place to live. A beautiful house with a view of the river. Part of the deal. Rachel will take you there after we eat.'

  'Mr Goff . . .' He wondered why people kept giving him houses.

  'Max.'

  'I have a place already. I run a little shop in Hereford called Trackways, which . . .'

  'I know,' said Goff.

  '. . . which is more than a shop. Which is a kind of museum to Alfred Watkins as well, the only one of its kind in Hereford, which . . .

  'But it doesn't need to be in Hereford,' Goff said. 'And it doesn't have to be a little shop. Come over here.'

  He led Powys to a corner of the courtyard and pointed across the field behind the stables, about a hundred yards from the Tump, where the trees began to thicken into the wood.

  'As befits the stature of the man, the Watkins Centre needs to be a major development in, let's say, an eighteenth-century barn.'

  On the edge of the wood was a massive, tumbledown barn complex, beams and spars poking out of it like components of a badly assembled dinosaur skeleton.

  'Place needs to be big enough to house a huge collection of Watkins's photographs and ley-maps, and scores of original paintings of ancient sites. And it needs to be here. In Crybbe.'

  Powys felt like a cartoon character who'd been flattened by a steam-roller and become a one-dimensional mat.

  Lowering his voice, Goff said, 'I know your situation, J.M. I know you put all the money from Golden Land into Trackways, and I know how difficult it must be keeping Trackways afloat."

  He clapped Powys on the back. 'Think about it, yeah?'

  Goff strolled back to the silent group of three standing next to the Ferrari. 'Rach, there's been a slight change of plan. We have lunch at two, we spend the afternoon in discussion groups then we assemble, early evening, at the Tump.'

  Powys saw part of a cobweb from the attic floating free from a padded shoulder of Rachel's blue business suit.

  'The Tump?'

  'A ceremony,' Goff said. 'To launch the project. We're gonna knock down the wall around the Tump. Maybe that's where Mr Kettle's memorial should be. We're gonna finish what he began. We're gonna liberate the Tump.'

  Andy Boulton-Trow nodded.

  Goff grinned massively. 'It's the beginning,' he said. 'Come on, let's get back to the Cock, see who shows up.'

  From the top of the farmyard there was a fine view of the river and the Welsh hills behind. But Jimmy Preece and his son Jack were looking, for once, the other way, up towards the Court. This was a view Jack had been conditioned, over the years, to avoid - as if, when he emerged from the farmyard gates, he was to wear an imaginary patch over his right eye.

  This afternoon a great black cloud hung over the Tump.

  Below it, the bulldozer was bright yellow.

  'Gomer Parry's,' Jack said.

  'Sure t'be," Jimmy said. 'And only one reason 'e's down there.'

  'So what you gonner do, Father?'

  'No choice, Jack. I shall 'ave to 'ave a word with 'im when 'e gets back.'

  The two men stood in silence for over a minute.

  Then Jack mumbled, almost to himself. 'Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonders, well, so what? What if 'e do come down, that ole wall? An' the ole bell . . . what if 'e don't get rung some nights?'

  Jimmy Preece was too certain of his son even to reply. Jack was like him. Jonathon was like Jack. And Warren - well, Warren was only a second son, so it didn't matter, anyway, about Warren.

  The Mayor was about to walk away, back into town, when he heard Jack saying, '. . . And the ole box. If the ole box is gone, do it matter?'

  Jimmy Preece stopped and turned and walked back very slowly to where Jack stood, a bigger man than Jimmy, habitually in dark-green overalls.

  'The ole box?'

  'I don't know, Father, 'e's gone. Maybe. Might've gone. Hard to say, isn't it, without pulling the whole wall out?'

  Jimmy Preece said, 'Can't 'ave gone, Jack. Sometimes them ole bricks subside. I told you, anyway, leave 'im alone, that old box. Keep 'im walled up. Tell Jonathon when 'e's thirty and married. Never tell Warren.'

  'Found some bits of plaster and stuff in the fireplace,' Jack said. 'Poked about a bit and the bricks fell out the cavity.'

  'Put 'em back, block 'em up.'

  'That's what I was doin'. Cavity, though, see, cavity was empty, Father.'

  'That case, you got a job to do, Jack. You get in there and find where the box's fallen to, then you put 'im back on the ledge and you seals the bugger up proper. And another thing, Jack, you get that dog seen to. Last night . . .'

  'I know. Yeard 'im from the belfry even. I phoned 'er up. I give 'er till weekend.'

  'This is the weekend,' said Jimmy Preece. 'Get Jonathon to do it.'

  Jack Preece looked down at his boots. 'Gets to me sometimes, Father, that's all. Why us?'

  He walked off without saying goodbye, because none of the Preeces ever said goodbye to each other; only 'Ow're you' on Christmas morning.

  CHAPTER IV

  The one time Rachel had seen Guy Morrison, at a preliminary meeting with Max in London, he'd been wearing a lightweight suit with sun-glasses in the breast pocket and carrying a briefcase and a mobile phone.

  Today, Guy was in director mode. He wore denims and a leather pouch, like a holster, on his belt. He had blond hair and craggy features. A TV man from central casting, Rachel thought. At his shoulder stood a dumpy, stern-faced girl with straight black hair and a waterproof clipboard.

  Hustling J.M. off to the Cock, Goff had told Rachel over his shoulder, 'Morrison wants to do a few exterior shots of the Court with nobody about. Stick around till he shows, Rach, keep an eye on him.'

  'Who is this, Catrin?' Guy Morrison asked the black-haired girl in Rachel's hearing. 'Remind me.'

  'Guy, this is Rachel Wade, Max's PA.' Catrin's accent had a clipped sibilance Rachel identified as north-west Wales.

  'Of course, yes.'

  Rachel offered him a languid hand. 'We've spoken on the phone.'

  Guy Morrison look the hand and held it limply for an extra moment, looking steadily, unsmiling, into her eyes. 'You're almost everything your voice implied, Rachel Wade.'

  'Good,' said Rachel, with a tight, tired smile.

  Guy Morrison dropped Rachel's hand, stepped back, looked around the courtyard then up into the sky again, where clouds and mist still formed a damp canopy.

  He frowned. 'I wanted some GVs today. Establishing shots. But this weather's not conducive. At all. So I've told the crew, Rachel Wade, to set up in that stable-place. Acceptable to you, yes?'

  'Fine.'

  'Because what I thought I'd do after lunch is bang off a brief opening interview with Max Goff. Background of sawing and rubble everywhere. Traces of sawdust on the white suit, emphasizing the hands-on approach. May not use it, but I'm not happy unless there's something in the can on Day One.'

  'You'd better see how he feels about that.'

  Guy Morrison nodded and turned away. She watched him pace the courtyard, looking up at the hills fading into mist and at the Court itself, grey and spectral in us small hollow, like an old galleon half-sunk into a mud-flat.

  When they arrived back at the Cock, close to 1 p.m., a car was being parked on the square, close to the steps: a silver-grey Ford Escort with an Offa's Dyke Radio sticker on its windscreen.

  The driver got out and came over.

  'Rachel, is it? Could I just have a word?'

  Guy Morrison, peering at the car-sticker and registering it was only local radio, went ahead, up the steps, with his assistant.

  'I'm from Offa's Dyke Radio. We carried a report yesterday without checking the details with you.'

  Rachel had never seen this person before He was a shortish, muscular man, about twenty-five, with a half-grown moustache.

  'Word reached me you weren't h
appy about what went out, and I just want you to know I've looked into it. Gavin Ashpole, News Editor. You'll be seeing more of me.'

  'Good,' said Rachel dismissively. 'Now if . . .'

  'Problem is, we've been using a freelance. Fay Morrison, in Crybbe, but it hasn't been working out.'

  'Apart from this one instance,' Rachel said, 'I don't think . . .'

  'So, from now on, any major stories in this area, we're going to handle direct. What Mr Goff's doing amounts to a major story, naturally, so if there's anything you want to say, anything you want to get out on Offa's Dyke Radio, you call me direct. Here's my card.'

  'Thank you.'

  'In fact - this is off the record - we're considering putting a staff reporter into Crybbe. Especially if your thing takes off and the population starts to expand.'

  'Really.'

  'In which case' - Ashpole spread his hands, palms down in a flat, cutting movement - 'we'd simply stop using Morrison altogether.'

  'I see,' Rachel said.

  What an appalling little creep, she thought.

  Over a bland buffet lunch - carnivores catered for, but strictly no smoking - Max Goff explained his plan to publish, in perhaps two years' time, The Book of Crybbe.

  'Gonna be an illustrated record of the project,' said Goff. He paused and looked into his audience. 'And a blueprint for the Third Millennium.'

  Warm applause. They'd needed extra tables in the dining room at the Cock.

  Goff said, 'I've asked J. M. Powys to write the book. Because his work remains, to my mind, the most inspiring evocation of a country still able to make contact with its inner self.'

  Powys smiled modestly. The magical, mystical J. M. Powys. Too old, he thought miserably, to become someone else. Too young not to want to.

  About forty people were there, some from London and elsewhere, to hear about the project and consider getting involved. Thin, earnest men in clean jeans and trainers and women in long skirts and symbolic New Age jewellery. Powys didn't know most of them. But he felt, dispirited, that he'd met them all before.