by Phil Rickman
‘Way I sees it, vicar, by the time them ole watches d’stop ticking, we’ll both be over this – out the other side.’ Gomer had pushed both hands through his aggressive hair. ‘Gotter go on, see, ennit? Gotter bloody go on.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was it like when your husband... when he died?’
‘A lot different,’ Merrily said. ‘If he hadn’t crashed his car we’d have got divorced. It was all a mistake. We were both too young – all that stuff.’
‘And we was too bloody old,’ Gomer said, ‘me and Min. Problem is, nothin’ in life’s ever quite... what’s that word? Synchronized. ’Cept for them ole watches. And you can bet one o’ them buggers is gonner run down ’fore the other.’
Gomer smoked in silence for a few moments. He’d been Minnie Seagrove’s second husband, she’d been Gomer’s second wife. She’d moved to rural Wales some years ago with Frank Seagrove, who’d retired and wanted to come out here for the fishing, but then had died, leaving her alone in a strange town. Merrily still wasn’t sure quite how Minnie and Gomer had first met.
Gomer’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times, as if there was something important he wanted to ask her but he wasn’t sure how.
‘Not seen your friend, Lol, round yere for a while,’ he said at last – which wasn’t it.
‘He’s over in Birmingham, on a course.’
‘Ar?’
‘Psychotherapy. Had to give up his flat, and then he got some money, unexpectedly, from his old record company and he’s spent it on this course. Half of him thinks he should become a full-time psychotherapist – like, what mental health needs is more ex-loonies. The other half thinks it’s all crap. But he’s doing the course, then he’s going to make a decision.’
‘Good boy,’ Gomer said.
‘Jane still insists she has hopes for Lol and me.’
Gomer nodded. Then he said quickly, ‘Dunno quite how to put this, see. I mean, it’s your job, ennit, to keep us all in hopes of the hereafter: ’E died so we could live on, kinder thing – which never made full sense to me, but I en’t too bright, see?’
Merrily put out her cigarette. Ethel, the cat, jumped onto her knees. She plunged both hands into Ethel’s black winter coat.
The big one?
‘Only, there’s gotter be times, see, vicar, when you wakes up cold in the middle of the night and you’re thinkin’ to youself, is it bloody true? Is anythin’ at all gonner happen when we gets to the end?’
From the graveside there came no audible ticking as Minnie’s coffin went in. Gomer had accepted that his nephew, Nev, should be the one to fill in the hole, on the grounds that Minnie would have been mad as hell watching Gomer getting red Herefordshire earth all over his best suit.
Walking away from the grave, he smiled wryly. He may also have wept earlier, briefly and silently; Merrily had noticed him tilt his head to the sky, his hands clasped behind his back. He was, in unexpected ways, a private person.
Down at the village hall, he nudged her, indicating several tea plates piled higher with food than you’d have thought possible without scaffolding.
‘Give ’em a funeral in the afternoon, some of them tight buggers goes without no bloody breakfast and lunch. ’Scuse me a minute, vicar, I oughter ’ave a word with Jack Preece.’ And he moved off towards a ravaged-looking old man, whose suit seemed several sizes too big for him.
Merrily nibbled at a slice of chocolate cake and eavesdropped a group of farmer-types who’d separated themselves from their wives and didn’t, for once, seem to be discussing dismal sheep prices.
‘Bloody what-d’you-call-its – pep pills, Ecstersee, wannit? Boy gets picked up by the police, see, with a pocketful o’ these bloody Ecstersee. Up in court at Llandod. Dennis says, “That’s it, boy, you stay under my roof you can change your bloody ways. We’re gonner go an’ see the bloody rector...” ’
‘OK, Mum?’
Merrily turned to find Jane holding a plate with just one small egg sandwich. Was this anorexia, or love?
‘What happened to Eirion, flower?’
‘He had to get home.’
‘Where’s he live exactly?’
‘Some gloomy, rotting mansion out near Abergavenny. It was quite nice of him to come, wasn’t it?’
‘It was incredibly nice of him. But then... he is a nice guy.’
‘Yeah.’
Merrily tilted her head. ‘Meaning he’d be more attractive if he was a bit of a rogue? Kind of dangerous?’
‘You think I’m that superficial?’
‘No, flower. Anyway, I expect he’ll be going to university next year.’
‘He wants to work in TV, as a reporter. Not – you know – Livenight.’
‘Good heavens, no.’
‘So you’re going to do that after all then?’ Jane said in that suspiciously bland voice that screamed hidden agenda.
‘I was blackmailed.’
‘Can I come?’
Merrily raised her eyes. ‘Do I look stupid?’
‘See, I thought we could take Irene. He’s into anything to do with TV, obviously. Like, he knows his dad could get him a job with BBC Wales on the old Taff network, but he wants to make his own way. Which is kind of commendable, I’d have thought.’
‘Very honourable, flower.’
‘Still, never mind.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Sure. You told that – what was her name? Tania?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She’ll be ever so pleased.’
And Jane slid away with her plate, and Merrily saw Uncle Ted, the senior churchwarden, elbowing through the farmers. He was currently trying to persuade her to levy a charge for the tea and coffee provided in the church after Sunday services. She wondered how to avoid him. She also wondered how to avoid appearing on trash television to argue with militant pagans.
‘Mrs... Watkins?’
She turned and saw a woman looking down at her – a pale, tall, stylishly dressed woman, fifty-fiveish, with expertly bleached hair. She was not carrying any food.
‘I was impressed,’ she said, ‘with your sermon.’ Her accent was educated, but had an edge. ‘It was compelling.’
‘Well, it was just...’
‘... from the heart. Meant something to people. Meant something to me, and I didn’t even know... er...’
‘Minnie Parry.’
‘Yes.’ The woman blinked twice, rapidly – a suggestion of nerves. She seemed to shake herself out of it, straightened her back with a puppet-like jerk. ‘Sister Cullen was right. You seem genuine.’
‘Oh, you’re from the hospital...’
‘Not exactly.’ The woman looked round, especially at the farmers, her eyes flicking from face to florid face, evidently making sure there was nobody she knew within listening distance. ‘Barbara Buckingham. I was at the hospital, to visit my sister. I think you saw her the other night – before I arrived. Menna Thomas... Menna...’ Her voice hardened. ‘Menna Weal.’
‘Oh, right. I did see her, but...’
‘But she was already dead.’
‘Yes, she was, I’m afraid.’
‘Mrs Watkins,’ the woman took Merrily’s arm, ‘may I talk to you?’ Not a request. ‘I rang your office, in Hereford. Sister Cullen gave me the number. She said you were probably the person to help me. The person who deals with possession.’
‘Oh.’
‘I rang your office and they said you were conducting a funeral here, so I just... came. It seemed appropriate.’ She broke off. She was attracting glances.
‘It’s a bit crowded, isn’t it?’ Merrily said. ‘Would you like—?’
‘I’ll come to the point. Would it be possible for you to conduct a funeral service for me?’
Merrily raised an eyebrow.
‘For my sister, that is. I suppose I mean a memorial service. Though actually I don’t. She should have... she should have a real funeral in church. A proper funeral.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not g
etting this.’
‘Because I can’t go, you see. I can’t go to the... interment.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because... it’s going to take place in that bastard’s garden.’ Her voice rose. ‘He won’t let her go. It’s all about possession, Mrs Watkins.’
‘I don’t...’ Several people were staring at them now, over their piled-up plates.
‘Possession of the dead by the living,’ explained Barbara Buckingham.
‘I think we’d better go back to the vicarage,’ Merrily said.
8
The E-Word
‘OH MY GOD,’ Betty said. ‘The only time I go out on my own, in walks number one on the list of situations I wouldn’t trust you to handle.’
Robin couldn’t keep still. He was pacing the kitchen, touching walls and doors, the sink, the fridge – as if the permanence of this place in his life was no longer certain.
‘So he’s in this old green Cherokee, right? And he has on this well-worn army jacket with, like, camouflage patches. And it’s unzipped, and all the time I’m hoping what’s underneath is just gonna turn out to be some kind of black turtleneck. With, like, a thick white stripe around the neck.’
Betty took off her coat, hung it behind the door and came to sit down. It wasn’t the vicar that worried her – every newcomer sooner or later had a visit from the vicar. It was how Robin had dealt with him.
‘Pretty damn clear from the start he wasn’t just coming to ask the way to someplace.’ Robin went over to the kitchen table; there were two half-pint glasses on it and four small beer bottles, all empty. ‘Guy wanted to talk. He was waiting for me to ask him in.’
‘I don’t suppose he had to wait long.’
‘Soon’s we get inside, it’s the firm handshake. “Hi, I’m Nick Ellis.” And I’m wondering do these guys drink beer? So I offer him a Michelob from the refrigerator.’
‘Normal practice is to offer them tea, Robin.’
‘No... wait... Transpires he spent some years in the States – which became detectable in his accent. And then – what can I say? – we...’
‘You exchanged history. You drank beer together.’
‘I confess, I’m standing there pouring out the stuff and I’m like...’ Robin held up a glass with a trembling hand. ‘Like, all the time, I’m half-expecting him to leap up in horror, pull out his cross... slam it in my face, like the guy in the Dracula movies. But he was fine.’
She looked sceptical. ‘What did you tell him about us?’
‘Well... this was hard for me. I’m a straight person, I’ve no time for deception, you know that.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Clenching her hands. ‘What did you say about us?’
‘Fucksake, whaddaya think I said? “Hey, priest, guess how we spent Halloween”?’ Robin went over and pulled out a chair and slumped down. ‘I told him I was an illustrator and that you were into alternative therapy. I told him you were British and we met when we were both attending a conference in New England. I somehow refrained from identifying the conference as the Wiccan International Moot in Salem, Mass. And although I did not say we were married I didn’t mention handfasting either. I said we had gotten hitched.’
‘Hitched?’
‘Uh-huh. And when he brought up the subject of religion, as priests are inclined to do when they get through with football and stuff, I was quite awesomely discreet. I simply said we were not churchgoers.’
Betty breathed out properly for the first time since sitting down. ‘All right. I’m sorry. I do trust you. I’ve just been feeling a little uptight.’
‘Because you’re not being true to yourself and your beliefs,’ Robin said severely.
‘So what was he like?’
‘Unexceptional at first. Friendly, but also watchful. Open, but... holding back. He’s of medium height but the way he holds himself makes him look taller. Rangy, you know? Looks like a backwoods boy. Looks fit. He drank just one beer while I appear to have drunk three. His hair is fairish and he wears it brushed straight back, and in a ponytail, which is cool. I mean, I have no basic problem with these guys – as a spiritual grouping. As a profession.’
‘But?’
Robin got up and fed the Rayburn some pine. The Rayburn spat in disgust. Robin looked up at Betty; his eyes were unsteady.
‘But, if you want the truth, babe, I guess this is probably a very sick and dangerous example of the species.’
Robin had been anxious the priest remained in the kitchen. He would have had problems explaining the brass pentacle over the living-room fireplace. Would not be happy to have had the Reverend Nicholas Ellis browsing through those books on the shelves. He was glad his guest consumed only one beer and therefore would be less likely to need the bathroom.
And when Ellis asked if he might take a look at the ancient church of St Michael, Robin had the back door open faster than was entirely polite.
Still raining out there. The priest wore hiking boots and pulled out a camouflage beret. They strolled back across the farmyard, around the barn into the field, where the ground was uneven and boggy. And there it was, on its promontory above the water, its stones glistening, its tower proud but its roofless body like a split, gutted fish.
‘Cool, huh, Nick?’ Robin had told the priest about St Michael’s probably becoming disused on account of the Hindwell Brook, the problem of getting cars close enough to the church in the wintertime.
The priest smiled sceptically. ‘That’s your theory, is it, Robin?’
‘Well, that and the general decline in, uh, faith. I guess some people’d started looking for something a little more progressive, dynamic.’
The Reverend Ellis stopped. He had a wide, loose mouth. And though his face was a touch weathered, it had no lines, no wrinkles. He was maybe forty.
‘What do you mean by that, Robin?’
‘Well... uh...’ Robin had felt himself blushing. He talked on about how maybe the Church had become kind of hidebound: same old hymns, same old... you know?
The minister had said nothing, just stood there looking even taller, watching Robin sinking into the mud.
‘Uh... what I meant... maybe they began to feel the Church wasn’t offering too much in the direction of personal development, you know?’
And then Ellis went, ‘Yeah, I do know. And you’re dead right.’
‘Oh. For a minute, I was worried I was offending you.’
‘The Church over here has lost much of its dynamism. Don’t suppose I need tell you that in most areas of the United States a far higher proportion of the population attends regular services than in this country.’
‘So how come you were over there?’ Robin had grabbed his chance to edge the talk away from religion.
‘Went over with my mother as a teenager. After her marriage ended. We moved around quite a bit, mainly in the South.’
‘Really? That’s interesting. My mom was English and she met my dad when he was serving with the Air Force in the north of England, and she went home with him, to New Jersey. So, like—’
‘And it was there,’ Nicholas Ellis continued steadily, ‘that I first became exposed to what you might consider a more “dynamic” manifestation of Christianity.’
‘In the, uh, Bible Belt?’ Snakes and hot coals?
‘Where I became fully aware of the power of God.’ The priest looked up at the veiled church. ‘Where, if you like, the power of the Holy Spirit reached out and touched me.’
No, Robin did not like. ‘You notice how the mist winds itself around the tower? As a painter, that fascinates me.’
‘The sheer fervour, the electric momentum, you encountered in little...’ Ellis’s hands forming fists for emphasis, ‘little clapboard chapels. The living church – I knew what that meant for the first time. Over here, we have all these exquisite ancient buildings, steeped in centuries of worship... and we’re losing it, losing it, Robin.’
‘Right,’ Robin had said neutrally.
Ellis nodded tow
ard the ruins. ‘Poets eulogizing the beauty of country churches... and they meant the buildings, the surroundings. Man, is that not beauty at its most superficial?’
‘Uh... I guess.’ Robin considered how Betty would want him to play this and so didn’t rise to it. But he knew in his soul that what those poets were evoking, whether they were aware of it or not, was an energy of place which long pre-dated Christianity. The energy Robin was experiencing right there, right this minute, with the tower uniting with the mist and the water surging below. Sure, the Christians picked up on that, mainly in medieval times, with all those soaring Gothic cathedrals, but basically it was out of their league.
Because, Robin thought, meeting the priest’s pale eyes, this is a pagan thing, man.
And this was when he had first become aware of an agenda. Sensing that whatever the future held for him and this casual-looking priest in his army cast-offs, it was not going to involve friendly rivalry and good-natured badinage.
‘Buildings are jewellery,’ Ellis had said, ‘baubles. When I came home, I felt like a missionary in my own land. I was working as a teacher at the time. But when I was subsequently ordained, ended up here, I knew this was where I was destined to be. These people have their priorities right.’
‘How’s that?’
Ellis let the question go by. He was now talking about how the States also had its bad side. How he had spent time in California, where people threw away their souls like candy wrappers, where the Devil squatted in shop windows like Santa Claus, handing out packs of tarot cards and runes and I Ching sets.
‘Can you believe those people?’ Robin turned away to control a grin. For, albeit he was East Coast raised, he was those people.
‘Over here, it’s less obvious.’ Ellis shuddered suddenly. ‘Far more deeply embedded. Like bindweed, the worst of it’s underground.’
Robin hadn’t reacted, though he was unsure of whether this was the best response or not. Maybe some normal person bombarded with this bullshit would, by now, be telling this guy he had things to do, someplace else to go, calls to make – nice talking with you, Reverend, maybe see you around.
