Wood felt beside him for a chair and fell back into it. He held his head in his hands, fighting the pain of accepting the unacceptable. Then he looked back at the photo and diploma, and was confused. It had been a fine graduation—a beautiful clear day, a wild party at night.
Elaine returned from the kitchen. “Now, will you please explain your joke about Richard? You make me feel like such a dummy sometimes.”
Wood looked up at her and frowned. “Richard who?”
Elaine sighed. “I’m not going through that again. Do you have the tickets? I’m ready to go.”
Wood patted his pocket absently, as though something had happened that he had missed. “Yes.”
That night, they enjoyed each other as though it were the first time.
THE EXECUTOR by David G. Rowlands
Born August 1, 1941, David G. Rowlands is a biochemist who makes his home in Buckinghamshire. Presumably such a technical profession would have predisposed Rowlands to direct his writing interests toward “hard” science fiction; instead, he discovered the ghost stories of M.R. James while at Eton College Choir School and had written his own first ghost story at age 13. Writing during college lectures instead of taking notes, Rowlands published numerous ghost stories in student publications between 1958-63, and thus was born Father D. O’Connor, whose reminiscences are very much in the classic English ghost story tradition. Since those days Rowlands’ stories have appeared in The Holly Bough and Ghosts & Scholars; Eye Hath Not Seen . . . a booklet of Father O’Connor stories, was published by Rosemary Pardoe’s Haunted Library recently, and a second such collection is being planned. Rowlands’ other interests include western films, campanology and model railways, and other facets of his writing reflect this: he was associate editor of Wild West Stars, and his books include Spliced Doubles, The Tralee and Dingle Railway, and The Dingle Train (with W. McGrath).
M.R. James observed that “places are prolific in suggestion,” and David. G. Rowlands agrees: “My stories invariably encapsulate a setting that has impressed me. It needs no deep penetration to recognize my ‘Longbury’ of the story as an amalgam of Longville and Rushbury—the latter being one of the loveliest villages in Shropshire. The house/wash-house/chapel complex was situated in my old home village (Iver, Bucks), however, and was only demolished as part of a redevelopment scheme in 1973. It was much as I’ve described it—the scullery with range, the chapel and that dank, dark, gloomy washhouse. I did indeed hear children’s voices all about me—it was a very strange house—and to this day it remains quite inexplicable.”
Fr. O’Connor made it a regular custom to invite other clergy to dinner from time to time, a pleasant little ecumenical exercise resisted only by a somewhat dour Presbyterian. On such occasions the table talk might center on ‘shop,’ local gossip, antiquities or anecdotes.
One particular evening, the Baptist and Anglican ministers only were present—a Mr. Cummings and a Rev. Timothy, respectively. A remark from the Rev. Timothy about the grievous matter of one of his church bells needing to be recast had launched Fr. O’Connor into anecdotes of early itinerant bellfounders. Beginning with Robert Catlin, who had cast the local tenor bell in the churchyard, he came by devious routes to a sixteenth-century monk of St. Milburg’s—the Cluniac Abbey at Much Wenlock in Shropshire—one William of Corvehill: noted for many mechanical and artistic talents, but especially for bell casting and bell hanging . . . but—by your leave—I will keep that for another occasions.
Mention of Wenlock sufficed to enthuse the Rev. Timothy, who was a keen student of architecture, and we had a long exposition of the beauties of the Guildhall in that quiet little Shropshire town. His panegyric on the paneling was interrupted by Mr. Cummings, who inquired whether the wheeled stocks were still there.
“I believe so, my dear fellow,” replied the Anglican, “but why do you mention them? There are a much better set in the Cardiff Folk Museum, you know.”
Mr. Cummings laughed. “No reason, really. It just reminded me that my great aunt Lucy was threatened once by the vicar of Wenlock (or is it Rector? I forget) with being put in the stocks and wheeled through the town and surrounding villages.”
“She must have been a character,” I commented.
“Yes,” he said musingly. “She was widely believed to be a Wise Woman or witch; certainly people came from miles around for her cures.” He laughed (the Baptist congregation being very small in our village). “It’s a pity I haven’t inherited her talents, maybe.” He grew suddenly serious: “Though I’m glad I haven’t.”
Fr. O’Connor caught my eye and winked so that Mr. Cummings could see.
“Ha,” he said, “that sounds like the basis of a good story, Cummings; what about it?”
Mr. Cummings thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “It reflects badly on my relatives, but as they’re all dead and buried long ago, I don’t suppose any harm can come of telling the story now.”
“Well then, gentlemen, I propose we adjourn to the study, where we can talk in comfort over a pipe or two,” said the good Father, rising to say Grace.
When we were all comfortably ensconced, Mr. Cummings began his story:
My grandfather was the son of a Shropshire yeoman farmer,” he began. “He blotted his copybook by marrying a Romany girl (of all people!) and his father threw him out in consequence. The couple went to Hereford, where my father was born, and they both worked in the cattle market. However the girl tired of the restricted life, upped and went off with a drover, leaving him to raise my father alone. He moved to Gloucester as stockman for an auctioneer and lost touch with his family, apart from his sister, this eccentric old dame who lived on Wenlock Edge. (The family farm went to my grandfather’s younger brother). My father entered the auctioneer’s as a trainee clerk, married the boss’s daughter and ultimately managed the business for her family. All this is by the way however; what concerns my story is that at the age of ten, or thereabouts, I succumbed badly to bronchitis and the doctor recommended a holiday away from the lower reaches of Gloucester. My poor Dad was at his wits’ end what to do about it, since he was too proud to ask help from my mother’s family, despite her urgings. Then he remembered his old aunt. Somehow, it was settled that I should go and stay there for six weeks or so.
Longbury, where she lived, was a tiny community on the Wenlock Edge, immortalized by Houseman’s verses. Even such a communal backwater was a microcosm of a divided Christendom, however, for there were Anglicans (of ‘high’ leaning), Methodists, Congregationalists, Baptists, Roman Catholics and even a few ‘Friends’ of austere persuasion, who met over the village shop.
My great aunt’s residence, “Rose Cottage,” was a rambling place that had belonged to her husband’s parents, who used to run the village school; and it was situated at the end of a little lane that led off the main street through the village. A singlestory wing had been added about a hundred years earlier and this was fitted out and used as the Baptist chapel. There was some mystique surrounding my great uncle, who had been custodian of the chapel and lay preacher as well, and I was told he had gone abroad in ‘The Lord’s Service.’ It was only later that I learned he had actually disappeared—at the same time as, and presumably in the company of, a buxom young farm girl who had attended the chapel and in whose spiritual welfare he had shown great interest. Needless to say it had been the scandal of the district for years, though I daresay any eloping couple need have gone no further than had my grandfather to escape local opinion. So far as Shropshire villagers of that period were concerned Hereford and the North Pole were equidistant!
My aunt had assumed the caretaker’s role and a minister used to bicycle over from Stokesay; there being no Sunday train service.
From the start of my visit I was afraid of the old lady, though she was kind enough to me in a gruff sort of way. She must have been in her sixties then, I suppose, dressed always in black material that had gone greenish with age, and which had been polished to a sheen from long use. She had rounded, v
aguely benevolent features, belied both by a sharp pair of hazel eyes and a curiously sibilant voice that instilled respect far more than any stridency could have achieved. Her greeting was typical:
“Well, Harold,” she said, peering at me from top to toe, “I don’t suppose you want to be here any more than I want you, but I suppose we must make the best of it; blood is blood, after all. Mind your manners and keep out of my way, and we shall get along, I daresay.”
How well I remember that cottage! There were two downstairs rooms; the one—termed the ‘Scullery’—was dining and kitchen combined, dominated by a huge kitchen range which I had to ‘blacklead’ every day as one of my tasks, and with red enameled doors that had to be polished until I could see my face in them. The other downstairs room was next to the chapel, sharing a wall (though there was no door connection); cool and dark with chintzy furniture and pervaded by that unmistakable smell of the long-unlit coal fire. Occasionally if I entered on a Sunday, I could hear the chapel piano through the wall—played with more vigor than skill—and the discordant mumble of singing. There was a little alcove, curtained off, with scrubbed table, pair of scales, huge stoneware pestle and mortar and other impedimenta of the herbalist; for the old lady was much in demand locally as a ‘Healer’ or ‘Wise Woman’ and was clearly a thorn in the flesh of the local doctor. Indeed, she had a daily stream of visitors—some furtive, some defiant, some afraid, a few resigned; but all clearly in awe of the old curmudgeon. Since she was both astute and imperious, I imagine she must have accumulated more knowledge about local people and their affairs than was good for them. The path outside divided in two—one main sweep going from the front door (there was no back!) to the gate into the lane; the other went past the new wing, crossing the chapel path (worshippers came in by a different gate) and on to a long dark shed, called ‘The Wash House,’ with sagging rainwater barrel outside and mangles, stones, flatirons and sinks inside. A substantial hook and pulley system ran on a rusty wire the length of the shed, for easy handling of laundry baskets.
My aunt lived alone since her husband’s defection, and a ‘daily woman’ came in: a Mrs. Bardette, who was as taciturn as my aunt and a hard taskmistress. The reading matter available was unquestionably moral and wholesome for a young lad (Mary Webb herself could have grown up with my aunt), but the rewards of the excessively virtuous have never appealed to me as a theme. Missing the company of my Gloucester street chums, as I rubbed the graphite paste onto the range one day, I ventured to ask Mrs. Bardette who there was of my age for me to play with.
She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Playmates?” she cried. “You won’t get local lads coming here, my boy, and that’s a fact.” When I asked the obvious, she retorted, “Because Mistress won’t have them, that’s why. She’d take her stick to them . . . or something.” (This last being something of an afterthought). She looked sideways at me, a slightly malicious nuance coming into her voice. “Not to say you mightn’t get company sometimes; this was once a school you know,” and she cackled to herself as she deposited the washing she was doing on to the big rubbing board and ladled more hot water from the iron pot on the range into the sink. She jumped rather guiltily as my aunt spoke from the doorway; neither of us knew how long she had been standing there.
“Mrs. Bardette, why are you washing in here? The Wash House is the place for that as you know very well. There’s the copper ready for lighting and plenty of firewood.”
Mrs. Bardette shook the suds of Sunlight soap from her arms before folding them akimbo.
“You know why,” she almost shouted. At this juncture my aunt seemed to notice my ears flapping and sent me off to the shop on a pretext. She watched me go, and since the scullery window overlooked the entire path, I could not creep back to overhear more. As I left she was hissing, “Now, Mrs. Bardette, you know perfectly well . . .” And I heard the louder voice reply, “Oh yes, I know all right . . .”
Now, whatever Mrs. B. might feel about the Wash House, I soon discovered what she had meant about the school and company (I only mention this, gentlemen, to give some idea of the atmosphere of the place; so far as I know it has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the story). There was a wide staircase leading up to the bedroom and a bend in the stairs where a window looked across the slopes to Long Mynd. One afternoon, while all was quiet in the house I was running upstairs to my room, and I paused to look out of this window. To my amazement, childrens’ voices—like the far-off clamor of a school playground—were all around me in the air; confused and incoherent, coming from nowhere. I shook my head, but it continued; without rhyme or reason. Then it ceased as suddenly as it had begun. I was strangely frightened and ran back downstairs and into the garden where my aunt was gathering herbs. She was muttering to herself as usual, a wooden lath basket over her arm. It was a measure of my fright that I poured it all out to her. She rose to her feet and put out a hand as if to touch me; then withdrew it.
“Ah,” she said. “You have the gift of hearing . . . don’t worry, it runs in the family. Sometimes you hear things; sometimes you don’t; sometimes you see things . . .” and here she put her hand on my shoulder. I felt a strange sensation, that odd sweetness when a voice or timbre fascinates one; it vanished as she removed her hand . . . “Sometimes you don’t. It’s nothing to worry about. You’ll hear—yes, and see too—more than that in your life, Harold.”
Not a word more did I get from her on the subject; though I was conscious of her speculative glance on occasion and certainly her manner was less severe from that moment on.
There was nothing to be got from Mrs. Bardette either. “Pooh; that’s nothing,” she scoffed with a toss of her head to the window—which I took to indicate the Wash House.
With the temerity of youth, and the curiosity of a kitten, I hung about the shed in the daytime. (I was not allowed out after six at night). It was a gloomy, dank place frequented by the occasional frog and lit only by a much-dirtied skylight. It could be brilliant sunshine outside, but the minute I entered (there was no door), darkness closed in on me and had the physical effect of making me breathless. Overall hung an indescribable mustiness. I could see the old wrought-iron mangles, and the two ‘coppers’ for heating water. In the dimness my eyes could just discern a brace of heavy flatirons on a stove top, and between the intangible outlines of the coppers gleamed the dull white of a sink. Close by this, further into the shadows, hung an inverted face. It was so grotesquely unrecognizable that I stared at it for several moments without realizing what it was. It was bloated and puffy and it began to drip water from the dangling hair to the floor. I had unconsciously advanced into the shed and I turned to run, only to be confronted by another, between me and the doorway. The hair from its sodden features trailed onto the floor. I shut my eyes and hurled myself at where I judged the opening to be, and so ran out into the sunlight; straight into the apron of Mrs. B. who was on the chapel path.
“Hmm, I know where you’ve been,” said she, dryly, and frog-marched me off to the chapel, where I sat on one of the chairs, trembling now, while she collected up the coconut mats. We hung them over the privet hedge and I helped her to beat them with the ‘spider.’ She made no further allusion to the cause of my fright, except to growl, “I’d keep out of there, my lad—and, whatever you do, say nothing to the mistress,” but she kept me beside her, and we went indoors and had a cup of tea together.
That was the eve of my departure, and nothing else untoward happened. I had expected fearsome dreams but in fact passed a quiet night. In the morning, my aunt walked with me to the—getting much salutation from local people—and put me on to the train home. To my utter amazement, she kissed my cheek and pressed half-a-crown into my hand. I was moved to wave from the carriage, but she had gone, and the interest of the journey dispelled all other thoughts.
“Doubtless you have already anticipated the outcome of my little experience, gentlemen?” remarked Mr. Cummings, stirring in his chair and lighting a vile little cheroot that smelle
d like burning cowpost. (I had visions of poor Mrs. Bailey trying to get the smell out of the curtains.) He waved the thing about like a joss-stick, describing smoke trails in the air, and at our lack of response, settled down again and continued.
I heard nothing of my aunt for years, save that thereafter she sent me a pound on each successive birthday. My father’s long illness intervened, and he died. She did not attend the funeral, nor did any others from the family in Shropshire; though I wrote to them all.
I was at theological college when I got a letter forwarded from home. It was written in large, badly formed letters, and was from a second cousin I had never met, telling me of the old Lady’s sudden death. Due to the delay in forwarding, the funeral was imminent and it seemed that she had named me to the family lawyer, and they were inviting me to attend and—later—to execute the will. I got compassionate leave and caught a train within a couple of hours.
The vagaries of railway timetables meant that I had to break my journey at Hereford. I could not resist revisiting the magnificent cathedral. Then, after a bun and an unpleasantly warm glass of milk in a teashop, I caught the Shrewsbury train and headed for Craven Arms.
There I crossed to the platform for the Wellington Branch, where a diminutive tank engine—running backwards—and two coaches were hopefully awaiting passengers. At 5 pm by the station clock we puffed out. Nostalgia awoke in me, for it had been this same train I had caught as a child of ten; a large and embarrassing label with my name and destination affixed to my best (and only) coat. The guard of the Shrewsbury train had handed me over to his counterpart of the branch line to ensure my alighting at Longbury. This time I would have to fend for myself! Even the engine was the same; for I remembered the number well—4401. Surely the carriage too? Had I not seen the sepia picture of Dawlish sea wall before? (But then it is in so many carriages!)
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