by Phil Rickman
‘I dunno. I dunno what to do.’ For George this was cool, this was exciting. If you’d put it to Robin, even just a few days ago, he’d have said yeah, wow, great. It was what he’d envisaged from the start: the repaganized church becoming a centre of the old religion at the heart of a prehistoric ritual landscape. The idyll.
But this was not Betty’s vision any more – if it ever had been.
‘Leave it with me, yeah?’ George said. ‘Blessed be, man.’
‘I’m quite psychic, you know.’ Juliet Pottinger had what Betty regarded as a posh Lowland Scottish accent. ‘I was about to go into town, and then I thought, no, if I go out now I shall miss something interesting.’
Which was a better opening than Betty could have hoped for.
Lower Lodge was an extended Georgian cottage on the edge of a minor road about two miles out of Leominster and a good twenty-five miles east of Old Hindwell. Once away from Old Hindwell, Betty’s head had seemed to clear. The day was dull but dry, the temperature no worse than you could expect in late January. Out here, she felt lighter, less scared, less oppressed.
Mrs Pottinger’s house was full of books. Six bookcases in the hall, with two piles of books beside one of them, propped up by an umbrella stand. In the long kitchen, where she made Betty tea, the demands of reading and research seemed to have long since overtaken the need for food preparation. Books and box-files were wedged between pans on the shelves and under cups and plates on the dresser. The only visible cooker was a microwave, and an old Amstrad word processor with a daisywheel printer took up half the kitchen table. There was – small blessing – no sign of a Daily Mail.
Juliet Pottinger was about sixty-five, with a heavy body, layered in cardigans, and what you could only call wide hair. Her seat was a typist’s chair, which creaked when she moved. She was working, she said, on a definitive history of the mid-border.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t phone first,’ Betty said. ‘I just happened to be... passing.’
‘But you live at Old Hindwell, you say?’
‘At St Michael’s.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Pottinger. ‘Oh...’
It meant Betty didn’t have to spend too long explaining her interest in the church, and no need to make reference either to her religion or the ruined building’s palpable residue of pain.
‘The widow sold it, then?’ said Mrs Pottinger. ‘Thought she would. It was in the Hereford Times about Major Wilshire... old regiment man. The SAS. He wrote to me – as you know, of course.’
‘Mrs Wilshire passed over to me some documents relating to the house and the church, and your letter was one of them. That’s how we learned about Mr Penney.’
‘Oh, I feel such a terrible wimp about that, Mrs Thorogood. I wanted to write up the whole story, but I doubt the Brecon and Radnor would have printed it, for legal reasons. Also, I ramble so, become over-absorbed in detail – always been more of a historian than a journalist. And, of course, the local people were against anything coming out.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘In case it reflected poorly on them, I suppose. In case it drew attention to their affairs. Gareth Prosser the elder was the councillor then, upholding the family’s local government tradition of conserving the community in whatever ways are most expedient and saying as little as possible about it in open council. My brief, as local correspondent for the paper, was to report nothing that everyone didn’t already know. Except, of course, in the case of poor Terry, when I was instructed not to report what everyone already knew. Oh dear, it really has not been a happy place, I’m afraid.’
‘You felt that?’
‘I always knew that. However, I don’t want to depress you. You do, after all have to...’
‘Live with it? That’s why I need to know about its true history. It oppresses me otherwise.’
‘Does it?’ Mrs Pottinger’s eyes became, in an instant, shrewdly bird-like.
‘Yes, it... I...’ Betty’s banging heart was confirming that it was too late for subterfuge. ‘I’m, I suppose you’d say, sensitive to atmosphere – acutely sensitive.’
‘Are you indeed?’
‘The first time I saw that ruined church, I had a very negative reaction, which I kept to myself because my husband loved it... was enraptured. For some time I kept trying to tell myself we could, you know, do something about it.’
‘You mean feng shui or something?’
‘Or something,’ Betty said carefully. ‘The place upsets me. It unbalances me in ways I can’t handle. After we moved in, that became stronger, until I could feel it almost through the walls of the farmhouse. I hope I don’t sound like an idiot to you, Mrs Pottinger.’
She was amazed at what she’d just said – all the things she hadn’t been able to say to Robin. Mrs Pottinger did not smile. She pulled off her half-glasses and thought for a few moments, tapping one of the arms on a corner of the Amstrad.
‘While we were living in Old Hindwell,’ she said at last, ‘we acquired for ourselves a dog. It was a cocker spaniel we called Hopkins. My husband would take him for walks morning and evening. By using the footpath which follows the brook past the church, it was possible almost to circumnavigate the village. Have you walked that particular path yet?’
‘I haven’t, but I think my husband has.’
‘It’s a round trip of about a mile and a half, a perfect evening walk. But would Hopkins follow it? He would not. Within about twenty yards of the church – approaching from either direction – that dog would be off! Disappeared for a whole night once. Well, after this had happened two or three times, Pottinger tried putting him on a lead. But when they reached some invisible barrier – as I say, about twenty yards from the church, where the yew trees began – Hopkins would start tugging in the opposite direction with such force that he almost strangled himself. Pottinger used to say he was afraid the poor creature would choke himself to death rather than continue along that path.’
Mrs Pottinger replaced her glasses.
‘As you can imagine, that’s another story I didn’t write for the Brecon and Radnor Express.’
Betty found the story chilling, but not surprising. The only time she’d ever seen anyone on that path was the night the witch box was delivered.
‘Did you try to find out what might have scared your dog?’
‘Naturally, I did. I was fascinated, so I went to visit Terry.’
Betty registered that Penney was the only male – not even her own husband – whom Mrs Pottinger had referred to by his first name.
‘It was the first time I’d actually been up to the rectory, as he never seemed to invite people there. Normally I’d collect his notes and notices for the B and R at the church, on Sundays after morning service. The rectory was far too large for a bachelor, of course – or even for a married clergyman with fewer than four children. One can understand why the Church is now shedding so many of its properties, but in those days it was still expected that the minister should have a substantial dwelling. Terry, however, was... well, it was quite bizarre...’
Betty remembered how Mrs Pottinger’s letter to Major Wilshire had ended, with the suggestion that Old Hindwell existed for her now as little more than a ‘surreal memory’.
‘His appearance, I suppose, was becoming quite hippyish. He’d seemed quite normal when he first arrived in the village. But after a time it began to be noticed that he was allowing his hair to grow and perhaps not shaving as often as he might. And when I arrived at the rectory that day – it was about this time of year, perhaps a little later – Terry showed me into a reception room so cold and sparsely furnished that it was clear to me that it could not possibly be in general use. I remember I put my hand on the seat of an old armchair and it was actually damp! “Good God, Terry,” I said, “we can’t possibly talk in here.” I don’t know about you, Mrs Thorogood, but I can’t even think in the cold.’
Betty smiled. The book-stuffed kitchen was stiflingly warm.
‘And
so, with great reluctance, Terry took me into his living room. And when I say living room... it contained not only his chair and his writing desk, but also his bed, which was just a sleeping bag! He told me he was repainting his bedroom, but I wasn’t fooled. This single room was Terry’s home. He was camping in this one room, like in a bedsitter, and, apart from the kitchen, the rest of the rectory was closed off. I doubt he even used a bathroom. Washed himself at the sink instead, I’d guess – when he even remembered to. Not terribly... Is there something the matter, Mrs Thorogood?’
Betty shook her head. ‘Please go on.’
‘Well, he’d chosen this room, I guessed, because of the builtin bookshelves. He might not have had much furniture or many private possessions, but he had a good many books. I always examine people’s bookshelves, and Terry’s books included a great deal of theology, as one would expect, but also an element of what might be termed the esoteric. Do you know the kind of thing I mean?’
‘The occult?’
‘That word, of course, merely means hidden. There was certainly a hidden side to Terry. He was perfectly affable, kind to the old people, good with children. But his sermons... I suppose they must have been beyond most of the congregation, including me occasionally. They were sometimes close to meditations, I suppose – as though he was still working out for himself the significance of a particular biblical text. When I told him about our dog Hopkins, he didn’t seem in the least surprised. He asked me how much I knew about the history of the area. At that time not a great deal, I admit. He asked me, particularly, if I knew of any legends about dragons.’
Betty cleared her throat. ‘Dragons.’
‘In the Radnor Forest.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. There’s very little recorded folklore relating specifically to Radnor Forest. The only mention I could find was from... Hold on a moment.’
Mrs Pottinger jumped up, her hair rising like wings, an outstretched finger moving vaguely like a compass needle. ‘Ah!’ She crossed the room and plucked a green-covered book from the row supported by tall kitchen weights on a window ledge. ‘You are enlivening my morning no end, Mrs Thorogood. So few people nowadays want to discuss such matters, especially with a garrulous old woman.’
She laid the book in front of Betty. It was called A Welsh Country Parson, by D. Parry-Jones. It fell open at a much-thumbed page.
‘Parry-Jones records here, if you can see, that a dragon had dwelt “deep in the fastnesses” of the Forest. And he records – this would be back in the twenties or thirties – a conversation with an old man who insisted he had heard the dragon breathing. All rather sketchy, I’m afraid, and somewhat fanciful. Anyway, it soon became clear to the people he was involved with on a day-to-day basis that Terry was becoming quite obsessed.’
Betty looked up from the book, shaken.
‘As a symbol of evil,’ Mrs Pottinger said, ‘a satanic symbol, the dragon from the Book of Revelation represents the old enemy. My impression was that Terry thought he was in some way being tested by God – by being sent to Old Hindwell, where the dragon was at the door. That God had a mission for him here. Well, English people who come to Wales sometimes do pick up rather strange ideas.’
Mrs Pottinger put on a rather superior smile, as though Scots were immune to such overreaction. Ignoring this, Betty said, ‘Did he believe there were so-called satanic influences at work in the Forest? I mean, is there a history of this... of witchcraft, say?’
‘If there was, not much is recorded. No famous witchcraft trials on either side of the border in this area. But, of course’ – a thin, sly smile – ‘that doesn’t mean it didn’t go on. Quite the reverse, one would imagine. It may have been so much a part of everyday life, something buried so deep in the rural psyche, that rooting it out might have been deemed... impractical.’
‘What about Cascob?’
‘Cascob? Oh, the charm.’ Mrs Pottinger beamed. ‘That is rather a wonderful mixture, isn’t it? Do you know some of those phrases are thought to have been taken from the writings of John Dee, the Elizabethan magus, who was born not far away, near Pilleth?’
‘Do you know anything about the woman, Elizabeth Loyd?’
‘Some poor child.’
‘Could she have been a witch? I mean, the wording of the exorcism suggests she was thought to be possessed by satanic evil. Suspected witches around that time were often thought to have... relations with the Devil.’
... some women are known to have boasted of it, Betty had read yesterday. The Devil’s member was described as being long and narrow and cold as ice...
‘Nothing is known of her,’ Mrs Pottinger said, ‘or where her exorcism took place, or who conducted it. The historian Francis Payne suggests that the charm was probably buried to gain extra potency for the invocation.’
‘Buried?’
‘It was apparently dug up in the churchyard.’
Betty sat very still and nodded and tried to smile, and felt again the weight of a certain section of Cascob’s circular churchyard, and the chill inside the building.
‘Mrs Pottinger,’ she said quickly, ‘what finally happened to Terry Penney?’
‘Well, he’d virtually destroyed his own church – an unpardonable sin. He had effectively resigned. He’d already left the village before the crime was even discovered, taking with him his roomful of possessions in that old van he drove.’
‘You suggested in your letter to Major Wilshire that there’d been previous acts of vandalism.’
‘Did I? Yes, minor things. A small fire in a shed outside, spotted and dealt with by a churchwarden. Other petty incidents, too, as though he was building up to the main event.’
‘Where did he go after he left?’
‘No one knows, or much cared at the time. Except, perhaps, for me, for a while. But the Church was very quickly compensated for the damage done, so perhaps Terry had more money than it appeared. Perhaps his frugal lifestyle was a form of asceticism, a monkish thing. Anyway, he just went away – after setting in train the process which ultimately led to the decommissioning of Old Hindwell Church. And the village then erased him from its collective – and wonderfully selective – memory.’
‘You really didn’t like the place much, did you?’ Betty said bluntly.
‘You may take it that I did not feel particularly grateful to some of the inhabitants. We left in eighty-three. My husband had been unwell, so we thought we ought to live nearer to various amenities. That was what we told people, at least. And that’s...’ Mrs Pottinger’s voice became faint. ‘That’s what I’ve been telling people ever since.’
She sat back in her typing chair, blinked at Betty, then stared widely, as if she was waking up to something.
Betty returned the stare.
‘You’re really rather an extraordinary young woman, aren’t you?’ Mrs Pottinger said in surprise, as though she’d ceased many years ago to find young people in any way interesting. ‘I wonder why it is that I feel compelled to tell you the truth.’
‘The truth?’
‘Tell me,’ Mrs Pottinger said, ‘who’s your doctor?’
28
A Humble Vessel
THERE WAS NO doorbell, so she knocked twice, three times. She was about to give up when he answered the door.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Reverend Watkins.’ Registering her only briefly before bending over the threshold, apparently to inspect the candles in the neighbouring windows. ‘Good.’
Meaning the candles, she guessed.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Ellis...’
‘They told me you’d be dropping in.’ He shrugged. ‘I accept that.’
‘I feel a bit awkward...’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you must do. Do you want to come in?’
She followed him through a shoebox hall which smelled of curry, into a small, square living room which had been turned into an office. There was a steel-framed desk, two matching chairs. A computer displayed red and green standby ligh
ts on a separate desk, and there was a portable TV set on a stand with a video recorder underneath.
‘The war room,’ Nicholas Ellis said with no smile.
His accent sounded far more transatlantic than it had during Menna’s funeral service. He wore a light grey clerical shirt, with pectoral cross, and creased grey chinos. His long hair was loosely tied back with a black ribbon. His face was windreddened but without lines, like a mannequin in an old-fashioned tailor’s shop.
He waved her vaguely to one of the metal chairs.
‘Not much time, I’m afraid. I’ll help you all I can, but I really don’t have much time today, as you can imagine. Events kind of caught up on me.’
When he sat down behind his desk, Merrily became aware of the aluminium-framed picture on the wall behind him, over the boarded-up fireplace. It was William Blake’s The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. Sexually charged, awesomely repulsive. Ellis noticed her looking at it.
‘Revoltingly explicit, isn’t it – shining with evil? I live with it so that when they look in my window they will know I’m not afraid.’
They? The war room?
Merrily sat down, kept her coat on.
‘So...’ he said, as if he was trying hard to summon some interest. ‘You are the, uh... I’m sorry, I did write it down.’
‘Diocesan Deliverance Consultant.’
It had never sounded more ludicrous.
‘And the suffragan Bishop of Ludlow has sent you to support me. Well, here I am’ – he opened his arms – ‘a humble vessel for the Holy Spirit. Have you ever truly experienced the Holy Spirit, Merrily?’
‘In my way.’
‘No, in other words,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t happen in your way, it happens in His way.’
‘Damn,’ Merrily said, prickling. ‘You’re right.’
He looked at her with half a smile on his wide lips. ‘Diocesan... Deliverance... Consultant. I guess you’re like one of those young female MPs... what did they call them... Blair’s Babes? I suppose it was only a matter of time before we had them in the Church.’
