A Postillion Struck by Lightning

by Dirk Bogarde

  “Let’s take Angelica up to Red Barn Hill.”

  “Oh! Let’s!” said my sister and went to find her Wellingtons in the shed. Angelica was up in her room writing her diary. That’s another thing I didn’t like about her, she always got out of washing up.

  “She’s a year older and the guest,” said Lally, taking sides.

  My sister came clumping back in her Wellingtons, pulling on her old mac.

  “Whatever do you want to go up there for, on a dreadful afternoon like this?” said Lally, blowing hard on a spoon and polishing it on her apron.

  “We want to show Angelica where the witch lives,” I said.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” said Lally, huffing at another spoon. “There’s no such thing. And don’t you go putting the fear of God into Angelica or you’ll catch it.”

  “She’s got that already,” I said, pulling on my boots.

  Lally shoved the spoons into the drawer, hit me on the head, and said, “You should mind your tongue, or the Devil will fork it. You all go into the sitting-room and have a nice game of ludo or something. Or come and help me top and tail the blackcurrants.”

  But we went up to Red Barn Hill, the rain dripping down our necks, and Angelica wincing along in the chalky mud in a pair of my sister’s boots which were a bit too small for her long Catholic feet.

  “I don’t want awfully to see the witch,” she said, stepping round all the puddles she could find. “And in any case I don’t believe in them, there is no such thing.”

  My sister was singing beside me plaiting a bracelet out of water grasses. She stopped singing and said, “Oh yes there are. They nearly all got burned at the stake, but this one got away and lives up there.” She nodded her sou’wester towards the mist-shrouded hill ahead. “They were all burned by the Catholics ages ago … and then got buried at crossroads with bits of wood in their hearts.” She started to sing again. Making very loud “La la-laaaas …”

  “You are really very silly,” said Angelica. “The Catholics didn’t do any such thing. It was just People who did it… and you’ve got it muddled up, because if they did burn them how could they put bits of wood in their hearts at the crossroads? They would not have had any heart left would they? Anyway, that was highwaymen,” she said happily.

  “It was witches and it was crossroads,” said my sister.

  “You’ve got it all muddled,” said Angelica.

  “I have not got it all muddled,” said my sister, shaking rain off her face. “It’s you who are muddled. All Catholic people are muddled.”

  “They are not,” said Angelica.

  My sister went white with rage and brushed her face roughly with her hands as if it was covered in flies.

  “My brother was going to be a Catholic once,” she said.

  “Shut up!” I said.

  “You were! You were! You know you were … you were going to be a Catholic and then you got put off because of all the learning. And he painted a statue of Jesus and gave him black hair and a yellow beard! There you are!” she cried triumphantly. “That’s muddled if you like,” and she walked ahead in the rain, scoffing, under her breath, nodding and wagging her head like a hen.

  “She’s boasting and telling lies,” I said.

  “I think she is a very stupid person indeed,” said Angelica, “and I won’t believe another single word she says.” We walked on in silence. It was awfully difficult trying to talk to her, she was so polite and quiet, and she used words as if they cost her money each time.

  When we went up the lane into the Market Cross my sister was in a happier state of mind because she had suddenly found a penny in the fluff of her raincoat pocket and went clumping into Bakers to spend it, and very kindly she bought us all a present. A farthing humbug each. Two for her, which was fair, it was her penny, and one each for Angelica and me. I shoved mine into my mouth there and then, but I saw Angelica carefully wrap hers in a handkerchief and put it in her bloomers.

  Up in the little wood everything was shrouded in mist and raindrops. The mud was chalky white, and there was no sound except our feet slithering among the elder roots; and the scuttering of a rabbit now and then.

  And then, quite suddenly, there was the caravan; glistening in the wet. A little wisp of smoke coming from the tin chimney stack: shabby looking and muddy. We squatted down under a bush and watched. I could hear Angelica breathing from the clamber up the hill; her breath hung round her face like a muslin cheese bag. My sister was chewing her humbug very quietly, in case Eggshell should hear anything.

  But there was no one about. No cats even. Just an old tin table with a bit of lino stuck on it, some boxes, and a chopping block, and the milk churn, all rusty. The windows were tight shut—and the door. The rain had stopped and we were getting cramp a bit. And cold.

  “If we do see her,” said my sister in a whisper, “let’s only wait a minute and then run away quickly. Just so that Angelica can see her Very First Witch.” And she settled herself down in the dripping grasses like a broody goose.

  Angelica moved a little and slid two inches down the bank. She gave a bit of a cry and hauled herself up to the bush again.

  “I told you all about witches and that. I told you. It’s silly and we’ll all take cold,” she said miserably.

  My sister chewed hard and swallowed quite a large piece of humbug because I heard her do a “squeaking” noise very quietly. I was sucking mine slowly to make it last.

  “All you believe in is Angels and Devils and Eternal Damnation and Purgatory and things,” she said.

  “Are,” said Angelica.

  My sister loooked at her blankly. “Are what?”

  “It’s are not is.”

  “But is what?” I asked.

  “Are Angels, and the things she said just now.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Angels are plural. You can’t be ‘is’ Angels. You have to say ‘are Angels’.”

  “Potty,” said my sister.

  And suddenly we saw Eggshell. It was very frightening; she was coming up the hill through the mist on the other side of the caravan dragging a great big piece of a tree; and there were three cats running beside her. She was wet as wet, an old sack round her shoulders and she was muttering away to the cats. You couldn’t hear what she was saying, just something like, “Tweedie, tweedie, tweedie.” And she was shaking her head from side to side and dragging at the bit of tree.

  We were frozen in a little heap under the bushes. No one even breathed. Eggshell was struggling and pulling at the branch, and the cats all came skittering up to the caravan, but the branch seemed to have got caught in something and suddenly, with a cry, Eggshell fell over in the mud; her legs up in the air and the sack and her hat all twisty. We caught our breaths with horror and suddenly Angelica said: “Help her.” And before my sister or I could stop her she was slithering down the hill to where old Eggshell was struggling to sit up.

  We were very astonished. And suddenly found that we were sliding down the bank too, and the three of us stood awkwardly round the wet and muddy Eggshell, who looked up at us with fury and cried: “What you want then?” Angelica started to try and help her up but got her arm punched for her trouble. “You be off!’ cried Eggshell. “Leave me be.” Anyway she couldn’t get up and Angelica said: “We only want to help you. We’ll pull you a bit.” And my sister and I started to tug at her soaking old coat and she was pushing us away, and eventually we all got tangled up in a bit of a smelly pile, but at least she was standing on her own two legs. She started to brush herself down and tidy her hat, pulling it right over her eyes, and mumbling away like soup boiling. I started to pull up the branch, which was actually quite heavy, and in a few moments we had got to the caravan and the cats, which were crying about the steps. Eggshell started rummaging about in the pocket of her coat, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and took out a big iron key from a crumpled piece of rag.

  Angelica said, “Where shall we leave the wood?” and Egg
shell just mumbled away and pointed under the caravan while she clambered up to the little stable door. Underneath was a big pile of sticks and logs—for her fire, I suppose—and so we lugged the branch underneath, panting and puffing and feeling a bit braver. Nothing terrible seemed to have happened. I mean she hadn’t screamed at us or made a spell; anyway not that we could feel. The cats went on crying and rubbing their legs against the caravan steps and Eggshell opened the door and went in. The cats scampered after her. It was dark inside, as far as we could see that is, but there seemed to be a little iron stove-thing on one side with legs, and a bed and an old cupboard painted yellow and blue. Eggshell was rummaging about in the dark and we started to turn and go away. My sister said suddenly, “I’ve swallowed all my humbug,” and we heard Eggshell call us. We turned in terror; we were just a little way down the path and she was standing on the steps with something in her hand.

  “Come and look,” she said. All wet and muddy and looking terribly like a witch. “Come ‘ere.” And she offered a shape in her hands. It was a huge shell. As big as a hat. Brown spotted, with funny opened lips, like someone laughing. We went to the foot of the steps and she pushed the shell at Angelica. “Read what it says then,” she said. “You read what it says.”

  Angelica took the shell in both her hands and we peered at the thing. “It says Bombay,” she said politely. Eggshell came down a couple of stairs holding the little railing. “What does it say on t’other side?” We turned it round and there was the word MOTHER.

  Angelica said: “On one side it says Bombay and on this side it says Mother.” And handed the shell back to the Witch who took it quickly. “That’s for the wood,” she said, “fer helpin’ with the wood. It’s from my boy, oh a long time ago. They sent all his things. And this was fer me. It says Mother, don’t it?”

  We nodded. Eggshell went back up the steps slowly. The mist drifting away through the woods behind, the cats mewing. “Tiddy, tweedie, tweedie,” she kept saying, and went into the caravan and closed the lower part of the door.

  “That’s fer helpin’ with the wood. Now you clear off and leave me be.” She closed the top half of the door and we couldn’t see her.

  We turned and started to walk down the winding path through the elders.

  We didn’t talk much until we had got down to Sloop Lane and then my sister said we mustn’t forget the paraffin and the bacon. So we went into Wildes the Grocers and got them and started back home. The rain had quite stopped, and a white sun glittered and flickered on the river. The tide was coming in and all the muddy banks were being covered with swirly water. There was a cob swan ducking about slowly and two people we didn’t know were fishing.

  “It’s a funny thing to write on a shell,” said my sister. “Mother and wherever it was.” She pulled off her sou’wester hat and shook her hair. “I suppose it was a sort of present thing, like we bring our mother when we go to Eastbourne.”

  “What sort of things do you mean?” said Angelica.

  “Well, once we bought her a china lighthouse with ‘Eastbourne’ written on it and a sort of shield thing. Didn’t we?” she asked me. And when I agreed she rattled on skipping over the planks of the white bridge … “And once we bought her a dear little china shoe, didn’t we? With little blue flowers on it and it just had ‘Made In England’ on it. But we bought it in Seaford.”

  We crossed the bridge and up the path, over the main road, and through the gate into Great Meadow. The paraffin tin was rather heavy.

  “I think you were very brave about the Witch,” I said. Angelica opened her mac and pulled up her sock which had slipped down. “She’s just a poor old woman with troubles of her own,” she said. “She was very pleased we helped her. And it was rather nice to see her shell. I don’t suppose many people have seen that.” My sister hummed her humming-not-listening song.

  And there was the house, and the wooden fence and the privy roof and Lally pegging out some washing. She waved and called out something about the sun and trying to dry off a few things—but we weren’t really listening. Angelica clambered over the fence and wandered off to help Lally with the laundry basket. My sister sniffed and swung back and forth on the gate. “Hummm,” she said. “Well, it’s very easy not to worry about witches if you’re going to be a Nun. Very easy indeed.” The gate squeaked a bit and she slipped off and helped me carry the paraffin. “Very easy indeed it is,” she mumbled. And did a snort.

  Chapter 5

  I clonked the two buckets gently on to the kitchen floor so that the water wouldn’t spill over the polished bricks. I was a bit puffed because it was quite a long way from the pump. It was my morning job to fill four buckets “for the morning wash”, as we called it… and then I had to do four more after lunch. My sister never had to. She just carried the milk in a white enamel can from the dairy down at the Court. It was quite a long way too; but not near as heavy as eight buckets of water.

  They were still sitting at the breakfast table. Lally was talking to Angelica about her packing and some washing. My sister was building a spilly hill in the sugar bowl, dribbling sugar all over the tablecloth. Lally hit her and spilled a lot more. “Now look what you’ve done, Miss Fiddler,” she cried, “can’t keep still for a minute … sugar all over the place, now we’ll be smothered in ants. Angelica, tell your mother I couldn’t get the stain out of your green cotton. If you’d come to me sooner I might have managed. But damsons is damsons and they stay.” She took up the pile of ironing and set it on the dresser. “That’s ready for you when you start packing this evening … and now,” she said, looking at us all, “what are you going to do with yourselves? Angelica? What would you like to do on your Last Day?”

  Angelica looked a bit startled, I suppose that Last Day sounded a bit deathly or something, but as she was the guest it was up to her to decide.

  “I really don’t mind,” she said helpfully.

  Lally started sweeping up the breakfast things and clattering them on to a tray. “Well make up your minds and get out from under my feet, all of you,” she said.

  The sun was hot even though it was early. There was still dew on the big spikes of larkspur outside the kitchen door. We sat under the apple tree to decide. “We could go grass sledging up at Wilmington,” said my sister. “We make a sledge out of a big old tin tray, and put some rope on it and then we take it up to the very top of the Long Man and slide all the way down … right down to the Royal Oak almost … it’s very exciting.”

  Angelica didn’t say anything. She was busy plaiting three grasses together.

  “Sometimes you fall off,” said my sister. “Once He fell off and cut His knee to the bone … show Angelica where you cut your knee to the bone,” she said. But Angelica didn’t seem interested. She stared up into the apple tree as if there was an angel there. “It bled terribly. Or we could go to the cave or the dew pond. Only you could fall in the dew pond and if you do no one can ever get you out because it’s very deep and goes to a point in the middle. We saw a drowned sheep there once. And the cave is a bit frightening. There are bats.”

  Angelica said, “I don’t like bats, thank you.”

  We were quite silent for a minute and then I had a good idea. “Let’s go to the church, then, and show her the altar and where the murder was. Shall we?”

  My sister was on her feet in a minute and so was I and Angelica rather scrambled up and followed us down the garden path to the lane. I thought it was best just to go, otherwise we should have been there all day or something silly. And we were both rather longing for Angelica Chesterfield to go home to London and stop bothering us. We had to keep on thinking of things to amuse her. She never thought of anything herself. Only reading. And that was very dull and selfish of her.

  We turned left into the lane and clambered up to the top where there was a great field of corn growing. And a little path waggling through it. And in the middle of the field, with great, huge trees all round it, was the Smallest Church In Sussex. Our house was the rectory.
But all we had to do was change the water and the flowers in the vases once or twice a week. On the altar. Well, they weren’t vases for the flowers. Jam jars. But we put white and blue crepe paper round them so they looked rather pretty. And my sister always picked the flowers and arranged them herself. Sitting in the sun on a gravestone singing a hymn-sounding-song.

  There was a little wooden fence all round the church, with a squeaky iron gate and inside the gate was the churchyard. All the tombs and gravestones were squinty, like people standing on a ship in a storm. Leaning in all directions and covered with moss. There was no one buried there who was new. The newest one was called Anne Stacie Departed This Life 1778 aged 78. We thought that was very interesting, but Angelica didn’t. The door was always open and inside there was a lovely cool feeling and a smell of floor polish and candles. It was very, very small. Sometimes the Rector, Mr Eric Bentley, came up and preached a sermon. One Sunday in the month. And we all went. And there was another for the Harvest. And then lots of people came with sheaves of corn and apples and bread and things. And it was lovely. Usually there were only about twelve or fifteen people there: it only had room for twenty anyway. And hikers used to come and people from as far away as Lewes or Polegate. It was too small inside for an organ so there was just a piano at the back and Winnie Maltravers playing hymns and singing very loudly, shaking her bun, so that we waited for it to start falling down round her shoulders, which it always did—in long grey wisps like a horse’s tail.

  On these days Lally wore her Best Brown and a hat with ivy leaves on it which she bought one day in Seaford. It was a bit like a pudding basin and came right down to her eyes so that she had to tilt her head backwards to read the hymn book … only she never wore glasses so she just sang “la la la la” all the time, pretending she could see the tiny printing. Which, of course, with that hat, she couldn’t.