Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

  The thought had come to him in bed that it being a national superstition it should be dealt with nationally, and who better to do it than a Member of Parliament? And wasn’t there one speaking in the village tomorrow? There was nothing to stop him from going to the meeting and saying, ‘Look here, I want to bring up a question. It’s my belief that half the accidents that are happening on the road the day are caused by hair-brained drivers who rely on nowt more than this here St Christopher medal for protection’, and so on and so on.

  John knew that he had only to bring from his mind into his mouth the thoughts that were there and he would be able to convince anybody that his statement was true. But even with the smooth solution that a one-sided conversation and a comfortable bed brings, John was forced to see the impossibility of himself doing anything in a big way about the matter. If he went into that meeting he would be stamped right away as a Conservative, and some of the folks that didn’t like him because of his lowly occupation might start to cotton on just because they thought he thought like them and he didn’t want that; he had no use for turncoats of any sort. Then some of the folks that did like him would say, ‘Well now, would you believe it? Him on their side.’

  But the prime obstacle against the whole idea, one that always confronted him… talking. Opening his mouth. Yet he had opened it in the kitchen last night all right and not only surprised his family but himself, hadn’t he now? Aye, but to open it in public. Ah! That was a different kettle of fish altogether. He knew that he was no more capable of going to the meeting than he was of taking off and flying by flapping his arms. Even if it had been what could be called a sensible question he was putting, still he knew he couldn’t have done it.

  So John was not enjoying the game as he sat looking intently at it, for his mind was not on it, but on him there—that Member in the hall, and the question he would like to put to him… if he had the guts. If he had the guts he would go ahead and air his views even if he was laughed at, as he surely would be if he set out to attack a harmless saint. One, moreover, who was known to protect travellers.

  Aye, and how did he protect them? By dulling their minds with a false security; by sapping their wills until they no longer thought for themselves, but relied upon his myth, upon this alluring superstition that relieved them of responsibility—of even thinking—until in a lightning flash their power to think was wrenched from them as their brains were spread around the car. John was not actually thinking these thoughts, rather he was feeling them as they moved restlessly here and there in the top layer of his subconscious.

  ‘Four… four… boundary. Oh, good shot!’

  That was the second boundary that Reverend Collins from Battonbun had achieved. Twenty-eight he was on, which made their score sixty-two and the game had only been on half an hour. John brought his mind back to the business of cricket. Battonbun would wipe the village team off the map the day, and good luck to them an’ all. There might have been some hope if Arthur had been playing, but that pot-bellied Duckworth running round there like a barrel on stilts… If the ball was skinning his nose he couldn’t catch it.

  Usually when Arthur was playing he was supported by the entire family, but today John was the only one who had turned up, mainly, so he told himself, to see Duckworth make a mess of the team. And John considered he had gone a long way towards it for he had missed two catches already, and if the Reverend Collins stayed in, there was every likelihood of him missing more. The parson might look like a reed but he was swinging his bat like a seasoned player. He wasn’t playing to hold the side; he was playing for runs. John watched Joe Anderson bowl a loping overarm and said to himself, ‘That one’s asking to be bashed.’ And it was bashed. The Reverend Collins took such a swipe at it that for a moment he appeared to be airborne. As the ball soared upwards, the crowd gave a concerted ‘Ooh’ and at the same time the Member’s voice came through the open windows of the hall asking earnestly, ‘Now, any more questions?’ It was at this exact moment that it happened.

  John saw it coming; he put up his hand to try and stop it. He remembered blinking his eyes rapidly and then… bang. It was as if someone had hit him in the face with his own shovel. One instant he had been looking at a level green with white-clad figures dotted here and there, the next instant the white-clad figures were revolving in green circles, each one separate from his fellow, and rising with terrific speed heavenwards. In a strange flat silence, John watched them go, and just when he thought they were about to disappear, they began their return journey. But they came down more slowly than they had gone up and not until the field had settled itself level once more was he able to hear anything. And then, as if a switch had been released inside his head, he was almost deafened by the roar of voices and he was certainly bewildered by the swarm of faces all flooding round him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Look at the lump rising.’

  ‘Get back and give him air.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Gascoigne?’

  ‘Did he faint?’

  ‘It was enough to brain him.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear. Oh, I am sorry. Come along try to stand.’ It was the Reverend Collins’ concerned voice.

  John blinked up at the thin face bending over him then he put his hand up towards his head. It seemed to be expanding at least a foot on each side of him.

  ‘It’s bound to be very painful. Come into the hall.’

  John felt the Reverend pulling him up from the seat and, when another voice bawled over his head in pompous tones, ‘I’ll see to him, he’s a neighbour of mine. Come on, John, up you get’, John thrust out his arms and almost pushed Henry Duckworth on his back; he was saved only by the press of people around him. Then, depending on the sole support of the minister, John set out on very unsteady legs towards the hall.

  The Member of Parliament himself was waiting on the veranda and he tut-tut-tutted at the sight of John’s steadily rising forehead, and his voice was most kind and solicitous when he said, ‘Good gracious, you have caught it. I think it would be wise to see a doctor.’ He looked at the faces about him. ‘Is there one in the village?’

  ‘No!’ It was a chorus from all sides. ‘Dr Sanderson’s on holiday and Dr Spencer only comes on Tuesdays and Fridays.’

  ‘Cold water compresses, that’s all that needs.’ It was Mr Duckworth again to the fore. ‘I’ve sent for his wife.’

  ‘Damn and set fire to it, what do you want to go and do that for? You’ll scare the wits out of her. Bloody silly thing to do.’ There was no tremor resulting from shock in John’s voice. His tone was firm and his voice louder than he had ever heard himself use in public. ‘And look,’ he addressed those about him, ‘get on with the game and leave me in peace, will you.’

  There was a look of sheer relief on the Reverend’s face as he bent over John. ‘You feel all right, Mr Gascoigne?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right, sir,’ said John.

  Slowly, somewhat reluctantly, the crowd dispersed.

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Take something to knock him out.’

  ‘Be in the papers the morrow “Parson hits gravedigger on conk. Gravedigger conks out.”’

  At this, laughter burst out and spread, at least among those outside the hall and on the veranda. Here, surrounding the Member, everything was decorous and this gentleman turned and looked at John and remarked pleasantly, ‘So you’re a gravedigger?’ and John, returning his look with a steady stare, replied, ‘Aye, and you’re a Member of Parliament?’ Now there was a titter among the elite and the Member actually laughed and said, ‘Yes, I’m a Member of Parliament.’

  ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, here I am. What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘I’ve been wanting to ask you a question.’

  The Member seated himself opposite John and said in a conciliatory tone, ‘Well, fire ahead. Although, if I was in your position I’d be wan
ting to hold my head.’

  A great many ha-ha-ha’s met this witticism. Only John didn’t laugh. His head felt big, about twice its normal size at least, but it wasn’t aching; nor did the lump on his brow feel sore, which, he commented in an aside to himself, was very odd to say the least after the bash he had got. His head must have been knocked so numb that he wasn’t feeling anything yet. That would come, but at present he felt all right, and strangely enough, rather perky.

  ‘Well, what was it you wanted to ask me?’ The Member’s voice was jovial.

  ‘About this St Christopher business.’ John was leaning forward, his look intent and his voice crisp.

  ‘St Christopher business?’ The Member cast a swift glance at those about him. Nobody had mentioned anything about St Christopher to him. Was it the name of a guild or association? The fellow seemed very much in earnest; he must walk warily. ‘What about the St Christopher business?’

  ‘What about it?’ repeated John. ‘Accidents every week at the crossroads—two people killed recently and t’others injured. And you say what about it?’ John paused but no one spoke, not a word, but every eye was on him and this strangely enough intimidated him not the slightest, so he went on. ‘I saw the two dead meself, and the cars mangled and motorbikes up trees and all decorated with this St Christopher.’

  ‘Ahh.’ The Member of Parliament was beginning to see, even if vaguely. It was the St Christopher medal the fellow was on about and the Member, being more sagacious than most people would have given him credit for, thought, ‘That ball has knocked him silly or else he’s probing something a little beyond village depth.’ And, as he continued to look at John, he felt inclined to give him the benefit of the latter impression for it was quite obvious that the company was all for the ‘knocked silly’ version, judging from the tittering and grins and smothered laughter around him.

  ‘You see what I mean, don’t you?’ John was experiencing a feeling of elation for he saw that the Member was with him, and if the Member was with him, what did it matter what this lot of dizzy-lizzies and their menfolk thought? He knew them all for what they were worth. But the Member knew what he was getting at… Aye, he knew.

  ‘Something should be done high up; it’s a racket. You can go into a shop and buy this piece of tin and then it’s “I’m all right, chum, ’cos look what I’m carrying… a saint. God’s on my side, you go and climb a tree.” And that’s what happens in the end—somebody does climb a tree.’

  The laughter now bounced off the wooden stays of the hall roof and it was joined by a wave from the veranda, which had suddenly become thickly populated. The Member was uneasy; he wanted to take this matter seriously, but it was quite evident it was a huge joke to everyone else in the room, a joke that was the outcome of a cricket ball bouncing off the head of a gravedigger. But he felt he owed it to the man before him to let him understand that he saw his point and he said just that.

  ‘I see your point.’

  ‘You do?’ John’s eyes were actually sparkling. Now… now let them laugh… the numbskulls.

  ‘Yes… Yes, I do.’ But what the Member was going to do about the matter at this point he didn’t know. To answer the questions of this intense gravedigger could only be done after some reading up and quite a deal of thought. He knew nothing about St Christopher other than that there was supposed to be a charm in carrying him around with you. The Member blushed inwardly; he had a St Christopher ensconced, if inconspicuously, in his own car. True, he had been put there by his wife…

  ‘Well?’ John was waiting.

  But the Member was saved further embarrassment by the crowd suddenly shuffling to make way for someone coming through. It was Florrie.

  ‘Oh, John, what a sight.’ Her voice was pitying and she put her hand waveringly towards his head only to have him turn on her somewhat impatiently and exclaim, ‘I’m all right. Look, leave me be.’

  ‘Come on home.’

  ‘I’m all right, I tell you. I’m talking to the gentleman here.’ He nodded to the Member, who had now risen to his feet.

  ‘I think you should take your wife’s advice… not because I want to shelve this matter. No, no, not at all.’ The Member wagged his finger down at John. ‘It’s a very interesting point you’ve raised and when I’m next in the district we must get down to it in earnest. Eh?’

  John, feeling now that he was being bulked at, repeated firmly, ‘But I’m all right.’

  ‘Ah… You might think so now, but when the reaction sets in you’ll go flat. I’ve seen it afore.’ It was Mr Duckworth making himself heard again, and John turning on him angrily said, ‘Oh, you an’ what you’ve seen and what you haven’t seen. Why aren’t you on the field finishing the mess you started?’

  ‘John, John.’ Florrie was both startled and worried. The ball must have knocked him silly to go on like that. She gripped his arm firmly and pulled him to his feet saying, ‘You’re comin’ home and this minute.’

  Resisting for a moment, John drew in a long breath then, sighing, he turned to the Member and said, ‘Thank you, sir, at least you knew what I was getting at.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did… I… I do. And we’ll take it up another time, I promise you. Goodbye, goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  The crowd parted and became silent as Florrie led John onto the veranda and down the steps, and he made no attempt to release himself from the embarrassing position for his mind seemed elsewhere. That is until they reached the bottom step and Broderick. Broderick stood dead in front of them and his gaze became fixed on a point about the middle of John’s eyes as he exclaimed in awe, ‘God in heaven, but isn’t that a shiner. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill you stone dead, John.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t,’ John growled. ‘And that, no doubt, you’ll think a pity… Out of me way.’ He gestured Broderick aside with a wave of his arm, then pulling his other arm from Florrie’s grasp, he added, ‘And I can walk, I’m not drunk.’

  Florrie could only stare at her husband in utter amazement. The quicker she got him home and to bed, the better. She gave Broderick an apologetic shake of her head which meant ‘Take no notice’, and Broderick, nodding back and intending to be helpful, said airily, ‘I’m makin’ me way home. I’ll walk alongside of you, John; you might need a hand.’

  John stopped dead. ‘If you as much as put a finger on me, McNally, I’ll lay you out, and mind I’m tellin’ you.’

  As Broderick’s head went back to let out a bellow of laughter, Florrie grasped the front of her dress in agitation. Something terrible had happened to her John. She had never heard him talk that way in her life before. Whatever he thought of Broderick he had always managed to keep it to himself.

  ‘Begod, it’s taken a cricket ball to loosen your tongue, John, just a little cricket ball.’ Broderick was shaking with his mirth. ‘Begod, if I’d known that was all it needed, I’d have bounced one off your napper years ago… Aw, it’s good to hear you retaliate at last, John.’

  John forced himself to turn away from Broderick. It had always been a struggle for him to retort to Broderick’s quips but now he was finding he had his work cut out to stop himself from lashing out at his neighbour, not only with his tongue but with his fists. He hastened to lengthen the distance between them.

  Florrie, almost trotting to keep up with him, exclaimed anxiously, ‘Are you feeling bad, John?’

  ‘No, I’m not feeling bad.’ John suddenly stopped, and swinging round, shouted at Broderick, ‘And you, McNally, stop creeping along behind me if you know what’s good for you, for I neither need your assistance nor your presence.’

  As John marched on again, Florrie cast a glance that held an appeal for understanding back at Broderick and he signalled to her with a wave of his ham-like hand that he wasn’t in the least insulted. His face bore this out for it was one great, amused grin, and he indicated to her that he would return to the cricket field for very obviously his assistance, as John had intimated, wasn’t required.

 
As they neared home, Florrie was thankful for one thing: the street was quiet. There was nobody about… except Gran, who was waiting at the gate.

  Although Gran’s words of greeting were merely an obvious statement, they seemed to carry a trace of disappointment in them. ‘You’re on your feet then… you’re not laid out?’ she said.

  ‘You another one wantin’ to see me on me back? I’ll buy a coffin and have meself delivered to the door for you, if that’ll please you.’

  Perhaps for the first time in her life, Gran could find nothing to say; not only had her son’s words surprised her into silence, but the look of him was causing her some private speculation. Not merely the enormous bump on his forehead, but the expression in his eyes. Their look was no longer veiled or illusive, but was direct and alert. It was a look she had never before seen on her son’s face.

  She allowed him and Florrie to go on up the path for some distance before she turned and followed them into the house. She was further astounded when on entering the kitchen she saw John standing near the sink patting his wife’s hand as he said in a quiet, even a soothing tone, ‘Look, lass, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m all right. If you feel it’s got to be bathed, I’ll bathe it, but I haven’t got a pain or a headache. In fact, I’ve never felt so well in my life, and that’s what it is.’

  Gran watched as her son straightened up and, blinking, swiftly looked around the room as if this last statement had been made by someone else and had come as news to him. There was something funny here. Patting Florrie’s hand in public, calling her lass in that voice and saying he’d never felt better in his life. Definitely there was something funny here… fishy. This wasn’t the man she had reared, and if anybody should know him, she should. He had annoyed her almost from the day he was born, with that cool, calculating, summing-up kind of look that got under her skin. He had never spoken a word until he was turned three and then seemingly with reluctance, and this reluctance to talk had kept up all his life. It was really the main reason for her dislike of him, for dislike him she did. She often thought he could be a son-in-law such was her feeling for him. That she liked her daughter-in-law better than her son didn’t trouble her. Didn’t the majority care for people that were no blood bond to them more than they did any member of their family? Take the case of husbands. You married a man you didn’t know anything about. In the same way you could hate your nearest kin because you knew too much about them. Aye, even your own flesh. No, she saw nothing unusual about disliking her son. But this wasn’t the son she knew.