‘Uncle John.’
John turned sharply and looked at where Moira stood in the gap in the hedge and his brows drew together questioningly as he emitted tersely, ‘Aye, what is it?’
‘I’ve got to talk to you.’
After straightening himself, John stared at her blankly before saying, ‘I’m in no mood for listenin’ at the minute.’ He turned his head away. ‘And what’s more, I know what you’re going to say, and my answer is, he’s to be married… It’s all settled, as you well know.’
‘It isn’t about that.’ Her voice was rough. ‘An’ you’ve got to listen to me.’
Slowly he turned to her again. He saw that her face was red and sweating, even her hair looked wet, and the child in her arms had been crying for its face was all stained. He dusted one hand against the other and asked, ‘What’s brought you here, then?’
Moira cast a swift glance around her, looking for some place to sit, and seeing nothing in the nature of a seat she said, ‘I’ve got to sit down or I’ll drop. I’ve run all the way from Thomson’s Cut.’
He hesitated for a long moment before going to the bushes and pulling out a box and when he stood it on its end, Moira sat down with the child on her knee. Looking up at him, she started without any preamble. ‘I had to come and tell you that I heard Dr Spencer say what he was going to do.’
‘Well, what is he going to do?’
She noticed he wasn’t laughing at all today, not even smiling. Her da said he had nearly burst last night. He looked now as she had always remembered him: a bit grim. Hesitantly she began to tell him what the doctor’s intentions were.
As he listened to her, John began to have a strange quaking in the pit of his stomach and the sweat began to break out around his neck and on the palms of his hands. It was all right telling himself that they couldn’t do it, but there were occasions when men like Dr Spencer did do things. They might be wrong but the law was on their side, and after a man was marked for life with the stigma of an asylum, they could be sorry for making a mistake, but nothing then could lift the brand from the man for by that time it would have reached his innards. The quaking in John’s stomach increased, and as it did so he realised he’d had a slight quaking there all day. From the time he had got up this morning, he had felt a bit flat and he recognised this as his normal feeling. But not the quaking; no, that was different… new.
‘They’ll likely come up here,’ said Moira. ‘You’ve got to get away and hide for a time.’
He made no angry response to this outrageous suggestion yet his mind was rebellious. Hide? It was ridiculous… Hide! Him! The quaking now took on a voice. He supposed she was right but where could he hide… ? Freda’s? No, by God, he wasn’t going to Freda’s, she would get a laugh out of this all right and it would be louder than McNally’s ever was. Freda had a streak of spite in her that was as broad as her body. No, he wouldn’t go to Freda’s whatever happened. Then where?
Moira seemed to read his thoughts for she said at this moment, ‘You’d be safer any place than here. This is where they’ll come first since they know you came straight back to work yesterday.’
John found he was looking at the young girl before him with just the slightest trace of suspicion. She was McNally’s daughter, wasn’t she, so why was she doing this and after what happened last night an’ all? And he asked her point blank, ‘What are you doing this for me for?’
Moira’s eyes slipped downward before she said, ‘Well, I’ve always known you, Uncle John, and then you see…’ Her great brown eyes came up to his and explained in a flash how Arthur had become enthralled by her without the assistance of her bust. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘I happen to like you.’
Added to the sweat there now came a pink heat to John’s face.
‘And what’s more,’ went on Moira, ‘from how me da described him last night, I believe you do see the Saint.’ She now cast a swift, half-frightened glance around the enclosure. ‘Me da wasn’t bottled. I know when me da’s bottled. I know him inside out because you see…’ She gave John a half-apologetic smile. ‘You see, we’re alike. We love to laugh and joke and pull people’s legs but there’s another side to us, so that’s how I know me da.’
As John listened to her talking he was overwhelmed with a sense of shame, and no one had had the power to create this feeling in him before. But at the same time, he was aware of a feeling of injustice that he should be made to feel like this. For anything he had done to McNally, McNally had richly deserved, aye, by God he had.
The child had started to cry again, and Moira got to her feet and began to walk up and down as she held him across her shoulder. She patted his back as she walked, and as she walked she talked haltingly as if delivering her thoughts as they came to her. ‘I know what you could do.’
John did not move from where he was but his eyes followed her and as if appealing to an elder he asked, ‘What?’
‘Well, first of all there’s one thing certain, you’ve got to get away out of here and I think you’d better do it now.’ She walked a while and was quiet as if considering. Then she said, ‘You could go up to the Holly Wood near Thomson’s Cut and stay there for a bit and after I get off I’ll come back and see you. I’m off at five thirty the night and by that time I’ll have thought of something.’
It did not seem much of a way out to John but he found that he was obeying her, for the quaking in his stomach seemed to be increasing with each second. Gathering up his tools, he hurried out of the enclosures and went round to the hut and put them away, then he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Without a word now, and without feeling the incongruity of the situation in the least, for his position had taken on a desperate note, he followed Moira to the top gate of the cemetery and across the fields to Thomson’s Cut. When they reached the wood, and before she left him in the prickly seclusion of its depths, she said with motherly concern, ‘Don’t worry, Uncle John, just stay put and I’ll bring you something to eat if I can nip anything from the pantry.’ Then she added, ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
He looked at her for a time before turning away and the thought in his mind at this moment was, ‘How could you heartily dislike somebody one day and like them the next… ?’
In the hour or so he waited for Moira’s return, he had no visit from St Christopher, no airy feeling. He felt very much the old John Gascoigne, and as such he asked himself what had befallen him; how had this come about; and was there anything he could do about it? As far as he could see, no. He couldn’t undo what had happened this past week and in spite of his present flat, normal feeling he couldn’t be sure but that at any moment he’d be feeling on top of the world again; and what then? Well, as he only too well knew, then things happened, and while they were happening he was a different man and didn’t give a damn for anybody. The whole thing was out of his control… Aye it was, there was nowt he could do about it. Nowt. And that being so he was open to the control of Dr Spencer. John started to shiver, and try as he might, he couldn’t stop.
‘I appreciate the reason why you are trying to shield your neighbour, Mr McNally,’ said the doctor. ‘And under the circumstances it is very commendable of you, for from what I hear you haven’t always been on the best of terms.’
‘They’re liars whoever said that.’
‘Well, they might be, and am I to think you’re a liar too? For I cannot, and simply will not, believe—it’s against all reason to expect me to believe—your story of what happened last night.’
Broderick shook his head and then turned it to one side and looked to where his workmate, under the pressure of digging, had one ear cocked to the conversation. He turned it to the other side to where behind the doctor’s car stood another car, that of Mr Fowler, Justice of the Peace. He stretched his arms wide to both sides and said, ‘All right then, doctor, have it your own way. I didn’t see anythin’, but one thing I’ll ask you to reconsider and that is the putting of the blame of what I experienced up in the cemeter
y on the shoulders of John Gascoigne. The man was in his own house when it happened. There were three members of his family who watched me going out of one end of the street as he came in by the other, and so they’ll tell you. And when I returned, there he was sitting quietly at home.’
‘That doesn’t do away with the idea,’ said the doctor quickly, ‘that he could have rigged something up.’
‘He would have had to do a helluva lot of rigging to make anything the size of the man I saw. I tell you he was the biggest creature that walks the earth.’
‘Then you’re sure in your own mind it wasn’t a ghost you saw.’
‘I am; he was as solid as yourself.’ Broderick thrust out a finger that did not speak of either awe or respect for the doctor.
‘Are you of the opinion, then, that the man or thing you saw is the same as that which the gravedigger sees?’
‘I am,’ said Broderick flatly.
The doctor sighed, and his voice had an edge to it as he said, ‘I have two theories about what happened last night. One is that John Gascoigne got himself rigged up to scare you, and if he can scare a man of your stature and cause you to run hell for leather home, as you said, minus half your clothes, just think what effect he’ll have on a less strong character should he decide to scare somebody else. My second theory is that you’re trying, out of the goodness of your heart, to help your neighbour now that he’s in a jam. Therefore, being a joker’—the doctor gave Broderick a small understanding smile—‘you put on the whole show, and very realistic you must have made it. Your intention was merely to prove that your neighbour wasn’t going off his head, so you pretended you had seen the same thing that he had.’
‘God Almighty,’ exclaimed Broderick, closing his eyes. When he opened them he asked the doctor quietly, ‘Do you believe in your Maker?’
Definitely the doctor was embarrassed by the question and his voice was curt as he replied, ‘I’m not going to discuss theology at this point.’
‘So you don’t believe.’ Broderick’s voice was still quiet and his head swung up and down as if on wires as he went on, ‘Good enough, if you don’t believe in a God then there’s little hope of you believing in the Devil. But, mind, I’m not tryin’ to convince you that it was the Devil I saw; this man was no Devil. If I hadn’t been so plumb down scared and taken off me guard I would have said he was of good countenance, and what’s more—’
‘Doctor.’
The call came from a white-haired man who was leaning out of the window of the second car. His voice sounded weary and he looked weary, and both were a perfect indication of his feelings. Mr Fowler was a moderate man, but he had always been allergic to wild goose chases, witch hunts and spirit banishers, and he was of the strong opinion now that this was a mixture of all three. Enthusiastic young doctors, like enthusiastic young priests, were menaces to be found in no other vocation or profession. So had been his experience, and it was proving right again. He had not much time for this young man—give him old Sanderson every time. You knew where you stood with Sanderson. This one had got him out today to help certify a man he had known for years, if only at a distance, and he could not at the moment call to mind anyone less likely to be fey than the gravedigger.
On the odd occasions he had met him, the man had been very respectful, he remembered. Besides which, he was most stolid of appearance. That he of all people was seeing things, saints into the bargain, he couldn’t take in. And he had said as much to this young enthusiast but he had had an answer to that. ‘Saints,’ Dr Spencer said, ‘were the first things a gravedigger would be likely to see. The whole graveyard was dotted with tombstones and flying angels. The connection was so evident it didn’t need any explaining.’
Mr Fowler had felt rebuked at his lack of insight into the business of hallucinations. But now he was losing patience. They had been to the man’s house, they had been to the cemetery, they had travelled the lanes and here they were, at a roadworks, and if Spencer hadn’t the sense to see that he might as well beat his head against a stone wall as try to get reason out of an Irishman, and such an Irishman, it was time that he himself saw a member of his own profession.
‘Doctor,’ he called again. This time it was a command, and when, with seeming reluctance, Dr Spencer left his companion, Mr Fowler withdrew his head, put his hand on the wheel and started up his car, saying briefly, ‘I’m wasting no more time on this, doctor. Pin down the man and I’ll come and see him.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I was due at a committee meeting fifteen minutes ago.’ He let the throttle out and, backing his car to avoid the doctor’s, he turned it smartly in the middle of the road and drove off, leaving Dr Spencer to comment among other things, ‘Pig-headed old blockhead… committee.’
‘Look I’ve told you, Joan, I can’t get out the night.’ Arthur was standing under the back porch looking at his very angry legitimate fiancée. He was speaking in a whisper. ‘Why don’t you go to the club?’
‘Go to the club and have all of them saying “Where’s Arthur?” And you needn’t think it’s because of your company I’m keeping on, it’s because I want to have something out with you.’
Arthur forced himself not to take his eyes off her as he said, ‘Well, whatever it is it’ll have to wait for I can’t leave the house the night. There’s me mother there nearly demented because me dad isn’t in yet and he can’t be found.’
Joan moved her hand impatiently and blinked a number of times before she muttered, ‘I took a stand against my father the other night about your dad, but now I think he’s right; he ought to be put away or seen to after last night’s business and—’
‘Shut up, you.’
‘Don’t you speak like that to me, Arthur Gascoigne.’
‘I’ll more than speak to you if you talk like that about Dad.’ Arthur was still speaking in a whisper but he had moved closer to Joan, threateningly close, and he added, ‘He had nothing to do with last night’s business. As for your father, if he doesn’t mind his own business he’d better look out.’
Joan’s wide, astonished stare brought home to Arthur just what he was saying. In a flash he saw his job being wrenched away from him, then came the dubiously comforting thought that if he got rid of Joan then the job would automatically go with her anyway.
‘Dad’ll be pleased to hear this.’
‘Well, go and tell him.’
‘I will.’
‘Righto.’ Not waiting for her to depart on her mission, Arthur turned round and going into the scullery slammed the door, there to be brought to a halt at the sight of Gran putting a dirty towel into the empty copper. As he watched her replacing the lid he wondered how long it had taken her to do that. She’d likely been listening in as usual. But to his surprise she made no reference to what she had heard. Instead, she beckoned him to her and said under her breath, ‘Here a minute. What’s up with Frankie?’
Arthur stared down into his grandmother’s face. She was like a witch, he thought, and in more ways than one. She seemed to get wind of everything, but then Frankie’s behaviour at teatime had been a bit odd. It was only because his mother was so worried that she hadn’t noticed it. Perhaps she had noticed it but hadn’t remarked on it having enough on her mind.
‘Do you think he’s going to do a bolt?’
‘A bolt? Our Frankie?’ This had not occurred to Arthur.
‘Asking for his best shirt, an’ putting it on and it still damp from the ironin’ and goin’ out dolled up like a dog’s dinner. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t come back either.’
‘Don’t be silly, Gran.’ Arthur walked past her and into the kitchen, but when he came to think of it, it was odd—Frankie getting dressed up like that. He wouldn’t get dressed up to go on the motorbike. The next thought brought Arthur to a stop; he’d likely got dolled up to go and see that woman—his mother. Arthur looked quickly to where Florrie stood at the sink, her gaze fixed out through the kitchen window. Surely he wouldn’t go and do that, would he? But Frankie was a funny
lad, jumpy… nervy, he considered. It was a wonder he hadn’t suspected something about his origin before now, for he was as different from himself and Linda as chalk from cheese.
It was at this point that Florrie swung round from the window and looked towards Gran where she was entering the kitchen and her voice sounded desperate as she said, ‘I’ve just got to go out and look. I must. I can’t stand this waiting any longer and it nearly dark.’
‘If it’s nearly dark you might as well pipe jigs to a mile store as go looking for him now. As I said in the first place, stay put and he’ll walk in on us. But if one or t’other of you go scratching round the lanes looking for him, you won’t know where to lay hands on anybody and I’ve got a strong feeling there might be need of many hands one of these nights when he brings himself home.’
‘Oh, Gran.’ Florrie held her head and turned to the window again. ‘You say the most awful things.’
‘What’s awful about that?’ Gran’s chin was out. ‘I’m merely making a plain statement of things I see comin’. The difference atween me and the rest of you is that I can see things.’
‘That’s where Dad’s got it from then.’ This cynical quip came from Linda where she sat tensely on the sofa, a book on her lap but making no pretence of reading it.
‘I’ll have no more cracks like that, miss, or I’ll wrap me hand around your lug.’ Gran’s voice was high and obviously she was angry.
Florrie turned from the window again and said, ‘Let’s have a row—that’s all we want, a row now.’
‘Well, I ask you, Florrie, was that called for?’
‘The things you say, Gran,’ cried Linda, ‘are never called for, you cannot take your own medicine.’
‘That’s enough, Linda.’ Florrie looked at her daughter. She too, like the rest of her family, seemed to have altered in the last few days. She knew she didn’t care for her gran but she had never come out in the open and said such things to her before. What had come over the house, and all of them? In less than a week, there was John off his head, for he surely was—of this she was firmly convinced although she wouldn’t admit it to the others; Arthur in a fix and unhappy; Linda trying to alter herself overnight to look double her age; and lastly Frankie. The change in Frankie had come about only today. He had seemed a bit odd this morning before he went out but his attitude tonight was positively strange. And the way he kept looking at her when he thought she wasn’t aware of it. Then him putting on his good suit and shirt and, the strangest thing of all, he had scarcely opened his mouth to her from when he came in to when he went out. This was most unusual. She recollected now he had only spoken to any of them in reply. But Frankie wasn’t the kind to wait for replies; Frankie was the questioning kind—he always spoke first. Was he being affected by what was happening to his dad? Oh. She shook her head, she didn’t know.
Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger Page 17