‘You won’t do it, Gran.’ It was a defiant mumble, but Gran heard and was rearing ready to carry out her threat, when Frankie exclaimed, ‘Aunt Lucy… coo! And I forgot!’
Florrie looked at Frankie where he was standing with his hand across his mouth and she asked, ‘What did you forget?’
‘About Aunt Lucy. Linda on about it just reminded me.’
‘What about her?’ Gran demanded.
It was to her that Frankie turned and said, ‘I saw her on Friday and she gave me a message for Dad.’
‘Where did you see her and what’s the message?’
‘I was on the lorry with Jimmy delivering bricks to the new building and I saw her standing at the bus stop and she waved to me and Jimmy stopped and she came up and said hello…’
‘Well, after all that that tells me nothing. What was the message?’
‘It was for Dad. She just said to tell him she would be over during the week to see him, the early part.’ As Frankie repeated the message he also remembered something else that his Great Aunt Lucy had said… ‘Tell him on the quiet,’ she had added. ‘Tell him I’ll call in at the cemetery and see him…’ Well, he had gone and done it, hadn’t he? He had given it half away. His dad would be furious with him, but that was nothing new. Still, he didn’t want to make him worse the way he was.
‘If she comes here I’ll spit in her eye,’ said Gran.
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Florrie’s tone was sharp. ‘I’ve got enough trouble on me hands. If Aunt Lucy wants to come she can come and welcome and I won’t have her put off. Now understand that, Gran. Here, drink your cocoa’—she pushed the cup towards Gran—‘and let’s hear no more about it.’
Gran took the cocoa and drank it, and not until she had drained the last drop did she speak again.
‘The trouble you’ve got will be nowt compared to what you’ll have if our Lucy’s encouraged here again… she breeds trouble… I should know… mealy-mouthed…’
‘Aunt Lucy used to come here every week before you came four years ago, and if you hadn’t pretended you were going to die, Dad wouldn’t have had you then…’
‘Linda!’ Florrie’s cry silenced her daughter. ‘Go on upstairs.’
Linda, red in the face, left the kitchen and Frankie, his eyes averted from his grandmother, followed her out.
‘Take no notice.’ Florrie was looking at the old woman where she sat with head bowed, quietly tapping the table. ‘The young ones will say anything. I’ll have something to say to her later, see if I don’t.’
There followed an uneasy silence then Gran, lifting her eyes to Florrie, said quietly, ‘She’s right, you know.’
‘Oh, Gran, Gran.’ Florrie, full of pity for the moment, could not speak, but then there was no need to, for after a considerable pause, Gran added, ‘But that’s not to say I won’t fight like hell to keep our Lucy from these doors.’
Chapter Three
It was Monday morning and the first funeral of the week was all but over. Joe Twait from Biddleswiddle walked up the cemetery path, his head bowed and his hat clasped between his hands. He was surrounded by his near relatives—they too wearing suitable expressions—but it was at the chief mourner John looked as he thought, ‘Damned hypocrite, serve him right. Who will he get to look after the bairns now? Not his fancy piece, I bet. Oh no. Now he’s in a fix she’ll drop him like a hot coal… Devil’s cure to him. He’s asked for it if anybody has, for he’s put his wife where she is at this minute.’
Mary Twait’s passing had been what you would call a natural one in as much as it had no association with cars, motorbikes or St Christopher; yet it aroused John to anger. A week ago it would have been none of his business. But this morning everything seemed his business. It was just the way he felt.
As he now approached the grave, shovel in hand, the Reverend Collins, side-stepping from the path, bent his lean body forward and asked, ‘How are you, Mr Gascoigne?’
‘Quite all right, sir.’
John liked the Reverend Collins, he always gave him his title—not like some of them, with ‘Here Gascoigne, there Gascoigne’—and he himself always gave back to the Reverend the deference due to his collar. But now, seeing that the Reverend was looking quite concerned as he gazed at the result of his handiwork of Saturday afternoon, he went further and reassured him. ‘Now, sir, don’t worry at all. I’m perfectly all right. Truth is, sir, I’ve never felt better in me life.’
John smiled and the Reverend, straightening his back, smiled too and they both looked better-looking for the relaxation. Then the Reverend, putting his hand out and patting John’s arm, said, ‘I’ve worried all the weekend. I would have come across yesterday to see you, only you know what Sunday’s like, not time to breathe.’
‘I know, sir.’ They nodded at each other understandingly. Then the Reverend stepped back onto the path and, his smile broadening in farewell, hurried after the mourners.
Slowly and methodically John began to shovel and his thoughts moved downwards towards the coffin as the earth fell onto it. Poor Mary Twait. He remembered her as a harassed woman always with a bairn in her arms and a couple at her skirts. Joe had kept her busy with bairns while he was busy in other quarters, blast him, and all his kin.
‘Well, at least you don’t hold me accountable for this one, John.’
John was in the act of pressing his shovel into the yellow clay. His eyes were on the shovel and he kept them there as his body became rigid. The voice was like none he had ever heard before—it was deep and soft and musical. In some way it reminded him of McNally, but he knew definitely it wasn’t McNally’s voice speaking to him now.
Slowly he raised his eyes from his shovel and looked straight ahead. It was a grand morning; the sun was bright and clear, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. There were no delusionary shadows that twilight creates, it was half past eleven on a Monday morning, and, John told himself, he was wide awake and filling in Mary Twait’s grave.
The rigidity was leaving his body and his knees were dissolving into water when very slowly he turned to the right. The shovel dropped from his hand and slid over the hillock of clay, landing with a resounding plonk on the last exposed part of the coffin.
‘Now don’t look so startled.’ The figure was speaking to him. It was the same figure he had seen in his tatie patch on Saturday night, only close to it looked gigantic. It was a man in a long white robe made of some rough material, so rough that John could see the knobbles in the weave. The head sticking out of the gown was the largest John had ever seen in his life, and it was covered with brown hair that hung down to the shoulders. The eyes too were large, the mouth was large and the nose was large. Everything about the face was outsize. John’s wavering gaze dropped to the feet; they were bare, but the skin around the edges looked so brown and hard as to be made of leather, and they were not only large—they were enormous.
‘Look, let me give you a hand. The sooner you get this done, the sooner we can talk… And we’ve got to talk, John.’
The booming soft tones seemed to penetrate John’s head and then became a loud buzzing sound. The great soft brown eyes looking into his were sending his senses reeling… He felt himself sway, and as the great hand came out to steady him, he gave a yelping cry like a scalded cat and leapt into the air. Before he lost consciousness altogether, he knew that he was taking a header after his shovel into the grave of Mary Twait…
‘Aw-aw, aw-aw.’ John heard the groan repeated deep inside himself before he opened his eyes, and when he did and found himself looking into the kindly concerned face of the Reverend Collins, he put out his hand gropingly and grasped at the minister’s.
‘That’s it, take a deep breath. You’re all right. Just keep calm, we’ll get you home.’ The minister sounded definitely upset.
‘Rev… Reverend.’
‘Yes, Mr Gascoigne. Don’t talk, you’ve had a nasty fall. I don’t think you should have come to work today.’
‘Reverend?’
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‘I think he wants to say somethin’.’ The man speaking was one of two mourners from the funeral and it was evident by the clay on their clothes that they had been the means of getting John out of the grave.
‘I… I’d rather he lay s… still and didn’t talk until we get a doctor.’ The Reverend’s voice was shaking, as was his entire body.
‘Where is he?’ Slowly John forced the hands away from him and with an effort he leant up on his elbow and looked towards the grave; his already pale face became ashen and he spluttered, ‘I… I… I… look, Reverend.’
The Reverend, following John’s pointing finger, asked apprehensively, ‘What is it, Mr Gascoigne?’
John turned his eyes up to the Reverend Collins. He was asking what it was, but that was just a figure of speech for John knew he wasn’t seeing anything out of the ordinary. The Reverend wasn’t seeing what he was seeing at this very moment. The great white-robed figure shovelling the clay into the grave, lifting each shovelful as if it was a bairn’s spadeful of sand. John clutched at both the Reverend and the man near him as he whispered, ‘He’s filling in the grave.’
‘There now, there now, don’t excite yourself for there’s no one there, Mr Gascoigne. Don’t worry. It’s the knock on the head that’s troubling you. God forgive me that it was I who should have done it. I am indeed very, very sorry, Mr Gascoigne.’
John moved his head impatiently, then whispered in entreaty, ‘Do something for me, will you… Go to the grave, will you, Reverend. Go and stand over yon side at the right-hand corner.’
Slowly the Reverend walked towards the grave and did as John requested him, and when he reached the foot of the grave, an odd thing struck him; he had thought it was much deeper when they had pulled the sexton out. In fact, he could have sworn you could still see the coffin lid. But he must have been mistaken, the grave was now half full. He stared at the earth and for a moment he imagined he too was seeing things for the grave seemed to be filling up before his eyes. Then a shout that was almost a scream coming from John startled him so that for a moment he almost lost his balance and fell into the grave himself. Recovering just in time, the Reverend saw that the gravedigger was on his feet and was yelling, ‘Stop it, will you, stop it.’
‘You must keep calm, Mr Gascoigne. You must keep calm.’ The Reverend was now helping to restrain John from going to the grave, and not until John’s head dropped forward, did the minister release his hold.
‘He’s gone.’
Slowly but steadily, John pushed the men and the Reverend aside and made his way with heavy steps to the grave. And there he stood, perfectly still, for some moments, looking into it, before he turned and faced the minister again saying, ‘I think I’ll go home.’
The minister by his side supporting him with a trembling hand on his arm, he walked onto the path and towards the cemetery gates, and when they reached the little chapel near the entrance, the minister gently turned John towards the porch and eased him onto the seat. ‘Take it easy, there’ll be a car here in a minute,’ he said.
Without a word, John sat down. He was glad to sit for he felt sick. Placing his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head onto his hands. All these years and a thing like this to happen to him. Was he going mad… ? Was he already mad… ? But the grave… That hadn’t been half-filled in by hallucinations, that had been filled in by a pair of hands. He turned to the minister but without looking at him he asked quietly, ‘Did you notice anything about the grave, sir? I had just started filling it in when I came over sort of… sort of dizzy.’
The minister was some time in answering, in fact so long that John looked up at him, but the minister did not meet his glance; he was looking out of the church door as if awaiting the approach of the car and he kept his back to John as he said, ‘I shouldn’t talk, Mr Gascoigne, I should keep as quiet as you can until you get home.’
He wasn’t mad, then. The unsteadiness of the minister’s voice proved to him that he had at least seen something. John drew in a heavy breath. Could he depend upon the minister as an ally? He wasn’t sure. He was a nice enough fellow but he didn’t look the battling, die-for-my-conviction type. He was more likely to pray about the matter, then leave it in the hands of God.
John was in bed again and the sweat was oozing from every pore in his body, for although there was nobody visible in the room, he knew he was not alone.
On Saturday night, before he had seen… the thing in the garden, he remembered having a feeling of well-being, an airy, free feeling, a sort of talkative feeling, and he recalled experiencing the same kind of feeling as he had started to fill in the grave this morning… And here it was back again. But this time, knowing what it forebode, he was prepared for it, if sweating with fear was anything to go by. Now to the alerted feeling had been added something more, a sort of awareness. It was as if he had been given another sense.
This feeling of awareness became almost overpowering, so strong was it, that it impelled him to sit up in bed, look round the room and mutter in an agonised whisper, ‘You’re there, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, John, I’m here.’
There it was, that voice of such a depth and softness as to hold notes of music.
In an agony of mind, John closed his eyes and his hand went instinctively to his throat. He felt he was choking and any minute he knew he was going to faint again.
‘Now don’t pass out again, John. This could go on forever. There’s only one way we can get used to each other, at least that you can get used to me. You must look me in the eye and take my hand… Here.’
John forced his reluctant lids upwards but the moment he saw the colossal figure, hand outstretched, bending over him, he went pale to the gills, slid back onto his pillows and once more closed his eyes, so tightly this time that they became lost in the sockets.
‘Give me your hand.’
It was a command and John, bordering on unconsciousness, made a feeble effort to do as he was bidden. Apparently the effort was enough for he felt great fingers closing around his. He felt them pulling him upright, and as he came up, the faintness vanished. It was as if he had been injected with life; quick life. Slowly John’s eyes travelled down the length of his own arm to where his hand became lost in that of the other’s. Then, more slowly still, they travelled until they came to the face, and there they stayed for what seemed an endless time.
‘Who are you anyway? What are you?’ In spite of the airy feeling John could not get his voice above a small croak.
‘Now, John, have you any reason to question who I am?’
‘Why have you come to bother me?’
‘Bother you?’ The great head went back and the laugh that came from the large mouth was an outsize of McNally’s. ‘I think the bothering’s on the other foot, John. There you were ready to start a campaign against me and ruin the work of a lifetime, many lifetimes, and you expect me to do nothing about it.’
‘What are you going to do?’ John was trembling, not only like a leaf but like a whole tree of aspen leaves.
‘Talk, just talk. Inside of yourself you’ve always wanted to talk, John. Now, isn’t that so?’
Yes, John supposed that was so. He’d always wanted to talk but couldn’t bring himself to do it. But at the same time, he didn’t want to have to go to the lengths of seeing things before he could talk… but was he seeing things? This fellow was as real as life itself. He made just the slightest movement forward with his head as he asked, ‘Tell me, I’m not just seeing you, am I? Making you up sort of. You’re there aren’t you?’
‘If you mean am I a hallucination, not a bit of it. I’m as real as you are, John.’
‘Then why can’t the others see you?’
‘Oh, that’s easily explained, but first I’ll get off my feet for a minute.’ He turned and drew a chair towards the bed with an easy, natural movement. When he was seated, his great figure blotted the room doorway from John’s view, and then his face broadening into an illuminating smile, he said, ‘Yo
u ask why the others can’t see me? For the simple reason that I’m only allowed to show myself to two people every five hundred years.’
‘Every five hundred years?’ repeated John in an awed whisper. He was staring into the wide deep-brown eyes as he stammered, ‘But… but… why did you p… pick on me?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, John, there are only about a dozen people in this particular country who are concerned about me and my business—adversely concerned that is. I listened to all of them but had to admit that they weren’t really in earnest about me. They didn’t believe in me sufficiently either one way or the other to take up the matter. Whereas you, John, you did believe in me.’
‘Believe in you! No, I didn’t. Oh no, I didn’t… I don’t.’ John was softly emphatic. ‘Not these medals and bits of tin of you and all that superstition about you in the cars.’
‘There you are wrong, John. There is no one believes in me and the authenticity of my power more than you do. You don’t attack anyone or anything that doesn’t exist, now, do you?’
John stared at the mighty head. He knew he was seeing it yet his common sense told him that it couldn’t possibly be there. This experience might not come under the heading of hallucinations but he knew it wasn’t normal. It was queer… No, not barmy. He refuted this quickly. Just queer… odd… and accepting that this must be one of those strange phenomena never to be explained, he said quietly, ‘You only exist in people’s heads.’
‘And in yours, John.’
‘No.’ John shook his head.
‘No?’
‘No.’ This ‘no’ came as a loud protest.
‘Don’t shout, John.’ St Christopher turned his eyes quickly towards the window and in a very soft voice, which held a trace of amusement, he said, ‘The window’s open and McNally could be coming home any minute for his dinner, and he might hear you. And if I don’t exist, you daren’t be found talking to yourself, now, dare you?’
‘Damn McNally and…’ John stopped himself just in time from adding, ‘you an’ all.’
Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger Page 7