by Jem Poster
He turned aside and wandered slowly away towards the gate. I watched as he lifted the latch and stepped out into the lane. He stood there for a few moments, head bowed, before suddenly straightening up and motioning to me.
‘They’re on their way,’ he called.
Harris was by no means a small man, but his brother was a good three inches taller and even heavier in build. A little too heavy, I thought as he approached, moving with the slight hesitancy of a man not entirely easy with his bulk, breathing deeply as though the walk to the church had been an effort. But once he had seen what needed to be done, he set to work immediately, easing himself into the trench to rope up the coffin and ordering Harris about in a manner which left me in no doubt as to who had ruled the roost in their boyhood home. There was no doubt, either, about his physical strength. Between them the brothers hauled up the coffin with such ease and speed that I barely had time to take up the strain on the third rope. Within seconds they had lashed their burden to the pole and lifted the whole thing clear of the trench.
‘You’re sure you want it buried here?’ asked Harris as they manoeuvred it towards the spoil-heap.
‘Yes. It’s not an ideal solution, but there isn’t a better one.’ I paused, wondering whether Banks might intervene, but he said nothing. I decided that his silence might reasonably be construed as acquiescence.
‘About here,’ I continued, indicating a point a little over half-way up the mound. ‘Don’t spend too long on it. It just needs to be properly covered.’
‘Nothing very proper about any of this,’ murmured Harris, just audibly. I ignored the remark and turned to his brother. ‘I shall be in the church,’ I said. ‘Come and see me when you’ve done.’
Banks’s claim to find satisfaction in the company of his parishioners was compromised by the tenacity with which he clung to mine, and it was growing increasingly apparent that he was likely to become something of a nuisance to me. I had expected him to get back to his own business but he accompanied me into the church, evidently hoping to pick up the thread of our earlier conversation.
‘The fact is,’ he said, holding back the door for me, ‘a project of this kind needs to acknowledge the views of all parties involved. As rector, I might reasonably have expected to have had considerable influence on the fate of what, rightly or wrongly, I have come to regard as my own church, but I’ve not been allowed my say.’
His preoccupation was no doubt natural enough, but none the less irksome for that.
‘I’m sure Vernon has worked with everyone’s best interests at heart,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to help me with this ladder?’
That silenced him for a moment. Together we manoeuvred the ladder towards the chancel wall and set it up just to the right of the arch.
‘I don’t like the look of that at all,’ I said, indicating the area of bulging plaster above us.
Banks smiled. ‘I, on the other hand, take great delight in it. I know what you mean, of course. As an architect you naturally regard a patch of uneven plaster as a blemish. But I imagine you’ll have some sympathy with my own view: for me, these irregularities are part of the building’s charm.’
‘It’s not the unevenness that troubles me but its probable cause. My guess is that the entire section has more or less parted company with the wall beneath. Would you mind holding this steady?’
He set one foot against the bottom rung and watched as I climbed. I mounted as high as seemed safe, then reached up and rapped the plaster smartly with my knuckles.
‘As I thought. The whole lot’s blown. It’ll have to come off. Not a major addition to the works, but not an insignificant one either.’
‘Perhaps you could simply ignore it and save yourself the labour?’
‘Unwise. It may hold for a year or two yet; maybe for a decade or more. These things are unpredictable. But there’s no doubt that at some time in the reasonably near future the affected area will peel off and fall away. I should also point out – without wishing to overstate the case – that the rendering seems to be quite substantial, and the weakened section therefore poses a certain danger to your congregation. It would obviously be sensible to address the problem as part of the current restoration programme rather than risk having to deal with it as an emergency at some later date. I shall mention the matter to the Dean, but I don’t anticipate objections.’
Banks stepped back as I rejoined him at ground level.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be no objection from that quarter. Nor from me, of course – your argument’s eminently reasonable, and I can see that the job needs doing. But even that small and doubtless necessary alteration to the fabric of the building will touch me with a sense of loss. You see how the light falls on that plaster now, striking the bumps and ripples from the side? I remember noticing that as I sat here one afternoon shortly after my arrival in the village. It was a cold spring day and I was huddled in my cloak in that pew over there. There was a blackbird singing just outside, the sound entering very pure and clear; and I was suddenly struck by – if I may put it this way – the sheer extraordinariness of the ordinary. I don’t think I could quite describe it as a visionary experience, but it was certainly a kind of revelation. Sunlight and birdsong, the intricate textures of the building, all inalienably themselves, all undeniably more than themselves.’
‘I’m not a man for paradoxes, Banks, and I don’t believe there’s any particular value in the practice of contemplating everyday objects until they become distorted by the intensity of our focus.’
‘Or clarified by it. But you must have felt such things yourself.’
There have been moments. One quite recently. The day I came to make my preliminary survey of the church. I had climbed up to check the roof of the south aisle and was crouched on the leads examining the guttering. As I lifted my head I experienced a kind of dizziness, an almost intolerable sense of the world’s immensities rushing in upon me, or of my rushing out to meet them. Yes, that was where I was, squatting behind the low parapet, but out there too, out where the willows lined the riverbank, the pale undersides of their leaves turned to the light wind; and beyond that again, lifted and borne away – and as I looked a heron rose from behind the trees, mounting slowly on broad wings – to where the sky and the estuary merged in a radiance as blindingly seductive as that of any of my childhood visions. These are the moments when anything seems possible: the perfect edifice, an ideal society, knowledge of God. They are the moments we have to guard against.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I can’t say that I have.’
Banks would undoubtedly have pursued the matter had George Harris not entered at that moment. He stood in the shadows, tapping his folded cap against the palm of his left hand, until Banks motioned him forward.
‘It’s all right, George. I’m just leaving. I’ll call by for you at two o’clock, Stannard.’
‘Call by?’
‘I’m visiting Jefford this afternoon. I hope you’re still planning to join me.’
‘It had slipped my mind; but yes, of course.’
‘I look forward to continuing our conversation. Excuse me, George.’
The man stepped aside to let him pass, then ambled up and stood directly in front of me, a little closer than I found comfortable.
‘The work’s done,’ he said. ‘More or less. My brother can finish it off.’
I heard the door scrape shut as Banks left; heard the latch fall.
‘I’m grateful to you,’ I drew my purse from my jacket pocket. ‘I don’t believe we actually discussed your remuneration, but I imagine half-a-crown would be acceptable?’
‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t, sir.’
I was taken aback by the bluntness of his response and the direct challenge of his gaze.
‘But you’ve worked for less than half an hour. My offer’s an extremely generous one.’
‘Generous enough for the work, sir. But I believe you’re asking something more of me.’
/> ‘Meaning?’
‘I think you understand my meaning.’
I understood perfectly, of course, and found some difficulty in containing my anger.
‘This is a form of extortion,’ I said.
‘I don’t mind what you call it, sir. You’re asking for my silence on the matter, and that’s an unwelcome burden for an open-hearted man. I’ll take it up, but you’ll need to pay me for my pains.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘I’ll settle for five shillings.’
I laughed out loud, partly with relief, partly at the contemptible scale of his aspirations.
‘Five shillings it is. You drive a hard bargain.’
The irony of my remark was evidently lost on him. He held out his hand and I counted out a florin and three shillings.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He pocketed the coins, gave me a brusque nod and made off, his nailed boots clicking on the flags. He turned at the door, one hand on the latch, and called out to me with the casual effrontery of his kind: ‘Let me know if you need my help again. I’d be glad to oblige.’
I felt it unnecessary to reply.
4
Banks arrived punctually on the stroke of two. As we left the churchyard the rain began, a dull drizzle at first but gathering force as we walked, so that by the time we reached Jefford’s cottage we were drenched. It was Jefford’s wife who opened the door. The warmth with which she greeted Banks gave place to confusion as she registered my presence.
‘This is Mr Stannard, Laura, come to enquire after your husband’s health. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you at all.’
‘No, of course not, but I should have … if I’d known …’ She was visibly agitated, nervously plucking at the collar of her blouse with one hand and pulling the strands of loose hair away from her face with the other as she stepped back from the doorway. She gave a bobbing half-curtsy as I entered and held out her hand for my hat and coat. I sensed from her manner that she had been in service.
‘You’ll have to forgive us, sir,’ she said, turning to me as she led us through to the back room. ‘We’re really in no fit state to receive visitors at all, let alone … well, Mr Banks knows how it is with us, he understands; but if I’d realized he was bringing you—’
‘Please don’t concern yourself, Mrs Jefford. I’ve simply called by to express my heartfelt wishes for your husband’s speedy recovery.’
‘It’s very good of you, sir.’
She pushed back the door and ushered us in. Jefford was propped in a chair beside the fire, his head tilted back at an awkward angle, his body shifting uneasily against the grubby cushions. His eyes were vague and unfocused and he seemed not to see us at first; then he started forward, like a man struggling from a dream, and attempted to get to his feet. Banks stepped towards him, holding out a restraining hand.
‘You mustn’t disturb yourself. I’ve called to see how you are, as I promised I would; but it’s important that you continue to rest.’
Jefford sank back in the chair. There was a moment’s silence before he spoke, his voice small and unsteady.
‘You didn’t say you were going to bring Mr Stannard.’
Just the faintest hint of reproach. Banks smiled gently, leaned over and laid a hand on his arm.
‘How are you feeling now? Any better?’
Jefford forced an answering smile. ‘Much better, thank you. I should be back at work now if it weren’t for …’ He flapped his hand vaguely across his abdomen and looked helplessly in my direction. ‘When I breathe deeply; so I can’t—’
‘Of course not,’ said Banks reassuringly. ‘There’s no question of your returning to work until you’re fit to do so.’
‘Yes, but when will that be? Will there still be a job for me then?’
Banks glanced at me. I avoided his eyes.
‘Mr Stannard sympathizes deeply with your predicament. I’m sure he—’
‘I shall do what I can, Jefford, though I have to say that we’re already falling behind and, as you’ll appreciate, I can’t hold the job open for you indefinitely. For the moment, however, you may regard yourself as being on sick-leave. Perhaps we could review the matter towards the end of the week.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ A tear ran down his cheek and he turned his head sideways, at the same time passing his hand across his face. His wife felt among the cushions, drew out a small square of frayed cloth and handed it to him. I expected him to wipe his eyes but he simply sat there, clutching the fabric, while the tears gathered and fell.
‘He’s been this way since he was brought back,’ she said. ‘Forever crying. It’s not like him, sir. He’s never been very strong in body, but he’s always had a firm mind. Such a support to me in my own illness – Mr Banks will tell you. Seeing him in this state … it’s like having another child in the house.’
‘How many children have you?’ I asked, knowing the answer but ready to snatch at any opportunity to lighten the conversation.
‘Four, sir. A girl and three boys, one still a baby. The two older ones are at school.’
‘And the other two?’
She seemed momentarily to lose concentration, her eyes flickering towards her husband as he turned stiffly to adjust the cushion behind his shoulder, her long fingers resuming their agitated play about her neck and hair.
‘The other two children, Mrs Jefford?’
As if on cue, there was a muffled wail from upstairs. I heard footsteps crossing the floor overhead. There was a moment’s silence and then the wailing began again. Mrs Jefford went to the door and opened it a crack.
‘Bring him down, will you, Alice?’ she called out. She appeared to wince, or grimace; and then she was coughing uncontrollably, doubled up, groping her way back towards us, fighting for breath. Banks took her by the arm and guided her towards a chair. She fell into it and slumped forward over her thin knees, pressing the back of her wrist against her mouth in a hopeless effort to stifle the racking spasms. And as she gasped and struggled, the door shuddered back on its hinges and a small girl burst in, half carrying, half lugging a yelling baby, bumping it along in front of her as if it had been a sack of meal. She stopped in the middle of the room, her gaze wavering uncertainly between Banks’s face and my own; then she heaved the child over to Mrs Jefford and attempted to lift it on to her lap. Banks leaned towards her.
‘Your mother can’t take him now, Alice,’ he said. ‘Give him to me.’ He reached out and pulled the writhing infant from her grasp.
I try as a rule not to dwell on such things, but that scene continues to haunt me: the bewildered girl, the baby screaming in the rector’s arms, the woman rocking convulsively in her chair while her husband stares into vacancy with the tears running unheeded down his gaunt face. All in a day’s work, no doubt, for a conscientious clergyman but, speaking for myself, I should be unable to sustain regular or prolonged contact with such disquieting manifestations of human misery.
At last Mrs Jefford stopped coughing and leaned back, her face flushed, swallowing hard. Her lips and wrist, I noticed, were smeared with blood. She drew a stained handkerchief from her blouse and, with a slightly furtive, apologetic glance at me, wiped herself clean. Then she took the baby from Banks and began to jig it mechanically up and down on her lap. Its cries became less insistent but it continued to squirm between her hands, reaching intently towards her breast, its small red mouth working vigorously. This, I felt, was the last straw.
‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave now, Mrs Jefford. I’m needed back at the church.’
She looked up, her eyes widening in what might have been interpreted as silent entreaty or even a kind of panic; but she said nothing, and the expression faded almost before I had time to register it. She tried to rise but fell back, jolting the baby’s head against her shoulder so sharply that I wondered, in the momentary hush that followed, whether she had stunned it. Then the unfortunate child drew a deep breath and began squalling again.
‘I’ll see Mr Sta
nnard out,’ said Banks, taking me firmly by the arm. Mrs Jefford gave me a wan smile as I left the room. Her husband seemed scarcely to notice my departure.
The rain had stopped but the wind was up again, buffeting me as I stepped out, tugging at the sodden skirts of my coat as I fumbled with the buttons. Banks stood in the doorway, his right hand gripping the jamb tightly at head-height, his face dark with what might have been construed as either grief or anger though his words, when he spoke, were determinedly casual. ‘I shall be here for another half-hour or so. Shall I find you at the church?’
‘I’ll be there until dusk.’
He closed the door gently and I set off down the lane, shaking my head and shoulders vigorously and drawing the damp air deep into my lungs. I was, I freely admit, relieved to be clear of the cottage and the suffering it held. I am not unsympathetic to the problems of others but it has never seemed to me particularly sensible to brood on them, and I was pleased to find my spirits appreciably lightened by the time I reached the churchyard.
Harris was squatting in the trench, putting the finishing touches to the shoring. The job had been carried out with absurd meticulousness; scarcely a gap between any of the boards and the whole thing held in position by an unnecessarily elaborate system of cross-bracing. He squinted up at me between the struts.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Jefford? Of course.’
‘Is he improving?’
‘I think he’ll be back at work by the end of the week.’
Harris looked doubtful. ‘I saw him yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘He seemed poorly to me. Like a man who’s lost the will to go on, I thought. I talked to him for a while but he wasn’t listening, I could tell. It’s the pain perhaps, or the worry of it all.’
‘He’s feeling a little sorry for himself, that’s all. Look, Harris, do you realize how difficult it’s going to be to move about in this trench with these struts in the way?’
