The Printer's Devil

by Chico Kidd

  ‘D’you want to come?’

  Alan’s heart yearned for Italy: like many Englishmen he felt it was his spiritual home; but he had to say, ‘I don’t think I can. I want to, but just look at all this stuff Stephen’s given me.’

  If Kim had any qualms about leaving Alan in the claws of a dawning obsession, she said nothing about it before flying out of Heathrow on Thursday evening. Alan had kitchenware copy coming out of his ears and by the time he said goodbye to Kim the two of them had been reduced to a state of weak giggling helplessness by a series of puns which had begun at awful and deteriorated from there.

  At something of a loose end, Alan decided to go and call on the Westerbridge ringers, in the course of whose outing he had visited Fenstanton: Thursday was their practice night, and it was one which Alan usually enjoyed, and made more effort to attend than some others he could have mentioned, because he liked the people.

  St Michael’s, Westerbridge, had ten bells and more than its share of jokes about underwear, though it was rare now that all ten got going as they had only a few years before. The jokes continued, however.

  The whole day had been incipient with thunder, airless and lion-coloured. Lightning split the heavens as Alan parked his car; he eyed the sky suspiciously, his vision fragmented by the brightness of the fork, and decided to play safe.

  There was an umbrella on the back seat, half-submerged beneath old road atlases, photostatted details of ringing outings from the past five years or so, and other debris. He retrieved the brolly, muttering ‘You can’t fool me’ to whoever controlled the weather. Thunder grumbled in reply. Then he headed for the church’s tall white tower. It was a short walk and the skies retained their burden, bulging yellowly above.

  Various voices greeted him as he opened the ringing-chamber door, and asked him how he was and whether it had started raining yet. He shook his head to the latter enquiry and waved to the Griffiths family, his passengers on the outing: Alec, Josie, and Debbie. Looking at Debbie, whom he’d probably known for eight years or so since she was a gangly Brownie in a peculiar knitted hat with badges all down her arms, it struck him very forcibly then that she’d suddenly grown up quite a lot. It had struck him before, of course, but not in quite such a way. He felt an ambivalent attraction which he hastily shoved away, recalling his strange thoughts in the train.

  All in an instant the air released its held breath and a sudden chill blew in through the ringing-chamber window. The rains came with a sound which was almost a crash, and the smell of long-dry dust absorbing it rose strongly. Debbie leaned up and closed the window, Alan noticing how tall she was, and slim.

  Very swiftly the storm came overhead, announcing its arrival with electrical effects which Alan thought overdone, drowning out the bells momentarily; and was as quickly gone, muttering off into the distance, leaving behind only the rain.

  Even that was past by the time Alan came to go home once more, the only sign of its presence being shining streets and standing water which would drain away before morning came. He looked at his desk when he got in, and as swiftly dismissed it until the following day.

  He awoke at seven, forestalling the alarm, determined to finish with his pots and pans quickly so he could go to Fenstanton at the weekend.

  Despite a minor mishap when a bird’s-nest fern, apparently harbouring a death-wish, jumped off the window-sill and into the kitchen sink, which was filled with water at the time, all was done by ten to five. Alan then spent a good twenty minutes hunched over the fax machine, swearing because it refused to transmit more than two pages in succession. Machinery and Alan did not get on: it had taken him a year to master his word-processor, and he still did not quite trust it not to eat pieces of copy and refuse to disgorge them. Programming the video recorder still remained beyond him, and he left that to Kim.

  Saturday dawned overcast and dull, so Alan took the precaution of slinging his wellies into the car, together with an unspeakable old parka, a spade, and some of the black sacks the council insisted they used for household refuse. He realised, without attaching any particular significance to the fact, that he felt very peculiar. There was a kind of anticipation roiling in his stomach, the sort he hadn’t felt since he was ten years old and looking forward to something exciting.

  He felt at once hot and shivery, more like an incipient flu feeling than anything else: he pulled on a thick sweater and filled his pockets with aspirins, just in case. Then he spent some time staring at the rack of tapes, trying to decide what to take. Eventually he settled on Andrea Chenier and Butterfly, and shelled the cassettes from their boxes.

  Thus fully equipped, he hopped into the car and turned the key with a brief prayer that it would start, which thankfully it did; his departure came as close to laying rubber on the road as a Beetle could. It did not occur to him until later in the day that he could have taken Kim’s car, except that he usually didn’t make a habit of using it if she was away.

  As he travelled eastwards the sky darkened until he was forced to put his headlights on. Briefly, he substituted the radio in the hope of getting a weather-forecast and was rewarded with the information that he was following in the wake of yesterday’s thunderstorms as they fled towards the North Sea, and consequently could expect some rather unpleasant weather conditions and temperatures no higher than eleven degrees Celsius.

  ‘What’s that in fahrenheit, you cretin?’ Alan growled at the radio, trying to convert the figure. He jabbed irritably at the controls, resuming his music.

  By the time he reached Fenstanton the rain was teeming down out of a sky the colour of steel. Alan parked as near to All Saints as he could and stared morosely through the windscreen, all enthusiasm gone.

  Eventually he hauled his grubby parka and wellies from the back seat, squirmed his way into the former and inserted his feet into the cold interiors of the boots. He was pleased to find a pair of fingerless mittens in the pocket of the parka, and, leaving his spade behind for the moment, tramped grumpily through the belt of woodland. Wet branches aimed at his face to slap it, brambles reached for him, and chunks of unseen rock sneaked under his feet so that he turned his ankles. He tightened the string of his hood and tucked his chin down into the warmth of his scarf. It hardly seemed possible that he’d been here in a heatwave just a fortnight ago, he reflected crossly as he tripped over another tangly bit of undergrowth.

  Alan emerged, as he’d planned, close to Roger Southwell’s tomb. Somehow it looked different: he stood looking at it, wiggling his cold toes inside his wellies and wishing for the warmth of the car heater.

  ‘Well, get on with it,’ he told himself firmly, and approached the railings for the third time. As soon as he got through, he saw why it looked not as it had before.

  It was no longer whole. The massive slab on top of the monument was cracked through into three separate pieces, scorched black in the centre. For a long instant Alan did not understand what it was that he was seeing, and then he realised what it must be: the tomb had been struck by lightning.

  As he understood this, his heart gave a wild thump. This was almost as if it happened for him, as if he were meant to find something. For a moment some deep-buried part of him quailed, telling him frantically that it was far too much like the actions of some deus ex machina to be anything good; but he scrambled over the railings, disregarding the warning, and the next instant was tugging at the smallest piece of stone, which despite being the least of the three fragments was nonetheless murderously heavy.

  Stone creaked and squealed on stone, and rain ran down Alan’s neck, as he succeeded in shifting it a quarter of an inch. He stood back, fuming, and was suddenly visited by the fervent wish that he was in Italy with Kim. But, as if it were already too late, he turned his attention back to the tomb.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ he observed, crossly. He stuck his fingertips into the crack and heaved with all his strength. The rough triangle of stone came loose abruptly and Alan jumped back in alarm, swearing, fearing for his toes; but wit
h a hollow echoing boom the piece thus dislodged fell inside the box of the monument. Alan looked round wildly, expecting to find someone alerted by the noise, but calmed his galloping heartbeat a moment later by realising that there could be no-one in range (Only Roger Southwell, ha, ha, he thought), since the only building in view was the church, and that was redundant.

  Fumbling his torch from his pocket, he stepped up on the little ledge surrounding the tomb and shone the light inside. It appeared to be full of grotty-looking debris, he saw with disappointment. Perhaps he wasn’t the first to follow the clues after all.

  No, he thought a moment later; it was all too bloody complicated for anyone who’s not some kind of a lunatic to go through all that. More than a little reluctantly he stuck his arm inside, up to the shoulder, and felt around somewhat gingerly. His fingers encountered cobwebs, and shrank from encountering their weavers. Nothing. He withdrew his arm, and shone the torch in again.

  Without much hope, he pushed at another section of the broken lid. Much to his surprise, it moved, though noisily, sufficiently to allow him to climb in and poke around in the crumbly dirt. He scrabbled in the slippery debris, dust and other matter transformed by the relentlessly falling rain into something between mud and slime.

  Ten minutes later his wet, sore fingers encountered a smoother texture, and he found what he presumed he had been looking for: a small metal-bound box. He could see no catch or opening on it, so he put it on a flat stone and hit it as hard as he could with another, but nothing happened, so he stuffed the box inside the front of his parka - it was too big to fit in the pocket - and sprinted back to his car through the dripping woods.

  Walloping the box with his spade had as little effect, so he put his find on the passenger seat and drove back home with his foot on the floor, wishing, for the first time in years, for his old BMW. Every so often he looked down at the box covetously, and smiled.

  Despite these frequent glances, he did not see the moment when it opened. Later he tried to convince himself he had heard a click, but was not at all sure. He parked the car inelegantly outside their house, wheels slewed, seized the box in one greedy movement, and ran indoors.

  He found himself shivering uncontrollably as with a fever, and forced himself to put on dry socks and a dressing-gown and turn on the gas fire before spreading the contents of the box on the rug before him.

  The Journal of Fabian Stedman II: The Homunculus

  The preachers do tell us Jesus Christ was the Son of God, incarnate for the sake of mankind, living the life of a man that we should be saved; but I never heard tell that he did lay with a woman (not even the Magdalene) so how could he know what it is to be as man, and whole? That is a question I could never ask my father, nor do I think my brother Francis would be amused; he was ever a serious youth and he is grown to a serious man; our mother once said she thought I must be a changeling, so different were we in humour, though Francis be the elder.

  When that Ann Pakeman died I did think that my father would incontinently remove me from my indenture to Master Pakeman; I know not what my master wrote to him; or even whether he did write to him at all; Roger Southwell, I am sure, he would have dismissed his Service save that Roger was in no wise to be found. Certes I kept my own head very low over my work in the months following and worked like a diligent apprentice; taking great care, quieta non movere.1

  Although much of my waking moments my thoughts dwelt else-where, upon Catherine Alsop’s form to be exact. She had got off a gammer a potion of some kind which the beldam had said would stop her conceiving; for my Catherine had said to me the first time that we lay together:

  Hast got a child on me, Fabian?

  And I said I knew not but that whether or no I would wed her; but how can a prentice wed; how feed a wife and child? Hence the potion. Although I never quite believed in its efficacy, she did not quicken, so it must have worked.

  Many a time and oft I did wonder what had become of Roger Southwell, that had fled not from the wrath of Master Pakeman, for he cared not a whit for such, but I do think from his own grief. For I never had heard nor seen hide nor hair of him, as men say. Nor had I seen Hawkin Kemp the craven since that night, although the widow Kempe still did abide with her brother. my master.

  I had kept the puppy’s sword for mine own, for it was a good blade, and I had not owned such until then, which is a lack in a gentleman, the which I do aspire to, after all, as do all we prentices and journeymen.

  And I did have a man make for me a scabbard for it, and both these I kept under my paliasse. I minded quite well that had he been more fortunate or less of a yellow-belly he might have hurt me, and I grew accustomed to wearing the sword, though not in sight of my master; though at the first I had no particular skill with it, this I did make shift to remedy, presuming upon the goodwill of Hugh Bishop whom was late a soldier, to coach me in its use until that I was of a good proficiency.

  Nor had I neglected the art of ringing, having made many notes bearing upon this treatise towards which I work, and attending with others of like mind to ring on divers occasions.

  I have made from simple beginnings a pleasing production for five bells to ring: Pleasing at this time only upon the paper on which it is pricked, with a symmetry that I think will sound very well, for I have given much thought to a pattern or Principle, in which all the bells would follow the same path; excepting only the Tenor, for he must needs keep the rhythm, when the Treble is no longer a marker. I find this production has a fascination all dis-proportionate to the mere act of writing it out and altering the work on paper. For I have not yet introduced my fellow ringers to it, judging that the time be not ripe, and indeed there are many of them to whom Grandsire Bob is a mystery whose depths they may not discover.

  1 i.e. let sleeping dogs lie

  There are many types of men who ring changes; and I have observed that ability comes not, as one might assume, from native wit or cunning. In the main a type of man who is cunning with mathematics or music like unto that Matthew Boys will do well, for he can follow paths in his mind and knowe where the bells will go; but a man who is involved with matters less structured than these, as ’twere a painter, perhaps, or a poet - I mean, a man who will use his fancy and not restrict himself to what doth occur in the world, not that such an one is permitted overly much exercise of his talents by the Puritan-preachers - he will in no wise make an excellent ringer; the other will progress farther than he will.

  Having said which I must confess that I cannot name myself as belonging either to one type or the other, being neither a mundane man nor a fanciful, though perhaps a philosopher of sorts. For although - to cast it in its most basic image - I be involved in mundane matters on the one hand, videlicet, the craft of printing and learning of my trade, the which consists of very much rote and is a most exacting craft withal, yet I am not lacking in fancies of mine own. That these at this time do centre in the main upon Catherine Allsop cannot be denied, but I do consider other matters also. This art has little to do with humours melancholic or choleric, though I do not consider that a man of fiery humour would have the forbearance to learn to ring, being too impatient to aaster the art of bell-handling.

  This thought hath brought me round again to consideration of Roger Southwell, a choleric man I would one time have said but have been proved in error; for such an one would not have acted as he did when that Ann Pakeman died; nor been a Magus neither. I do not like to think upon that night; ’twas a very horrid thing to see that poor dell a corpse in the street. Tis no whit distressing to see a beggar dead, or a rogue, but a pretty wench of seventeen years deserves no such end.

  Kemp should have died that night, ’twould have been a better thing for him to die than she; oft-times I have wondered an if I should have killed him when that I had a sword at his throat; and I also wonder why it was that I did not do so. And although I have no great liking for my master Daniel Pakeman it is fearful to see him now so shrunken, for it appears that he hath aged a score of
years since that night.

  Considering Roger Southwell brought back to my mind the potion he had given to me.

  -Tis not a love-philtre, said he, rather will it make people see you as you would wish to be seen; Or not, as the case may be.

  This I took to mean that Catherine would see how I did love her, but an I would visit her without any one knowing, then I should not be seen. And since I have never pretended to be any thing that I am not, the which I do hope is passing honest, possessed of a good wit, and hard-working, I may believe that Catherine doth lie with me not under any bewitchment save that of love. But this potion, which I must needs employ to be with her in the house of her father, is not endless, and how shall I contrive to visit her when that it is all gone? Tis only rarely that she is able to come to mine own lodging, and that not likely for the night.

  So run my thoughts while I work, and while I am alone; and while I write this journal. And now it is very strange thing to have to set down, that the thought of Roger Southwell hath in some wise materialized the man, an if my thoughts were made incarnate. For we were yestereve lately finished ringing a merry peal when that he entered the ringing-chamber and greeted us so he had not been absent these many months; for myself I was so confounded by his appearance as if he had been an apparition or a phantom.

  So when that we had stood up our bells there was much converse about what Roger had missed these months past; though I did note that he said not overmuch of how he himself had passed the time, nor of whither he had been.

  Not until we had adjourned our gathering to the Swan did he give me any inkling, and that not until the others had departed. He was dressed for travelling, looking very gallant, and his boots, although new, bore marks as of hard use; he looked at me in a strange manner.

  -I see many questions, he said. Sooth to say I have been on a pilgrimage, and I’ve been given leave to speak of it to thee. The which seemed a puzzling turn of phrase.