by James Long
‘Oh gosh. That makes me sound a bit like the RAC, stopping to help someone who isn’t a member,’ said the vicar, simpering slightly. ‘The fourth emergency service, what? Rushing to the emergency after the ambulance. That’s rather good. I might use that.’
‘They’d sack an RAC man if he went round doing that,’ said Ferney but the vicar took no notice, pulled up a chair and sat down. Ferney glared at him. ‘That’s what they did in the Black Death,’ he said. ‘Except there weren’t any ambulances.’
‘Jolly brave, those priests, going in to minister, don’t you think?’
‘Jolly dead most of them. Bloody fools thought it was all foredoomed, thought only the sinners would die. Didn’t do ’em much good.’
Wigglesworth gave a vague smile that turned into a frown. ‘You can’t hold that against them, surely?’
‘Maybe not, but there’s a lot of other things.’
‘Oh dear. Are we so very bad? A lot of people have gained a lot of support from the . . . you know . . . the unchanging church.’
‘Unchanging? Unchanging?’ said Ferney incredulously. ‘It changes every time you take your eye off it.’
Gally saw a slightly manic look come across his face and wondered if she should try to shut him up.
The vicar kept trying to find his smile again. ‘What do you mean, Mr Miller?’
‘Well, all those miracles and saints and things when everyone was stupid enough to believe in rubbish like that. Then Protestants and Catholics and Protestants again and Puritans. Not being allowed to play games, then having to. Burning the maypoles and making new ones.’
The vicar was trying his best. ‘This is, er . . . the Reformation you’re referring to?’
‘Of course it is. A new religion every ten minutes and on to the fire with anyone who disagrees. What’s God got to do with that?’
‘Well, that was rather a long time ago . . .’
‘No it wasn’t. Then there’s class, that’s another thing. Pews you weren’t allowed to sit in because they were for the smart set and I even remember one vicar who served different communion wine. Expensive stuff for the nobs and rubbish for the rest of us.’
‘Dear me. I’d never do that in my church.’ He had no idea that Ferney, adrenaline reacting with his medication, was in free fall back through time and he grabbed for a straw. ‘So you were a churchgoer once, Mr Miller?’
‘Only when they passed the laws forcing you to go.’
‘But surely there’s never been a law that says . . .’
Gally broke in. ‘I think perhaps this is a bit much for him, Mr Wigglesworth. Maybe it’s time we left him alone to get some rest.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the vicar hastily. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Goodbye then, Mr Miller, I hope you’re up and about again soon.’
‘I’ll have time for religion when it has time for me,’ Ferney said to his retreating back, ‘and when it takes account of all the other planets out there and when it stops telling people they can ruin the earth in any way they please because it was put there for our convenience.’
The vicar had gone.
‘He came a long way to see you,’ Gally said with a hint of reproach.
‘I wish he hadn’t.’
‘Just because he’s . . .’
‘. . . a vicar it doesn’t mean he’s not a good person,’ Ferney finished for her.
Gally clenched her fists. ‘Look, let me say it by myself. I may have said it a million times before, but don’t do that to me.’ There was a silence in which Ferney turned his face away. ‘Have I said it a million times before?’ she asked more gently.
‘A few times,’ he said.
‘Am I wrong?’
‘No, you’re not wrong.’ He turned back towards her. ‘They call it a rock, their church, like granite. Always there, always the same, but we’ve seen it twisting and turning. Okay, there have been plenty of good people in it, but it’s been part of the government much too often for me, part of the whole set-up for persuading all the poor, suffering people that the entire unfair business was for the best. Oh and the blood that’s been spilt. Henry and Bloody Mary and Elizabeth, ducking and weaving and changing the rules and having people killed who said their prayers the wrong way. It made people forget to think for themselves, you see.’ He grabbed her wrist and held it tightly. ‘Follow the sovereign, they always said, it’s the sovereign’s duty to choose. We do what he says and God won’t be cross. Crap. The Church helped invent the class system. It gave all the land-grabbers the best pews. It told us to obey them. Don’t ask me to respect that.’
‘Well, that puts the last two thousand years in their place,’ said Gally faintly.
‘Hey, don’t you forget, we’ve been around well over half of that. We’re entitled to a view.’
The sister arrived, took Ferney’s pulse and tutted. ‘Are you getting worked up, Mr Miller? And after that nice man came all this way?’ She looked at Gally. ‘Mrs Martin, the doctor said could he have a quick word. In my office?’
‘I’ll be back,’ said Gally, pressing Ferney’s hand as he lay back on the pillow looking suddenly exhausted.
The doctor was middle-aged and looked depressed. In a hospital full of youngsters fresh to medicine or older, rich consultants, he was clearly neither.
‘Mrs Martin, sister told me you were here. I just wanted to have a word about Mr Miller.’
‘Yes?’ she said, surprised.
‘I’m afraid we have found some signs of another possible problem with him. It requires a bit of further exploration, but it may be that he has a growth on his intestine.’
‘Stomach cancer?’
‘Well, it’s only a possibility. We’re not certain, of course. It’s a question of whether we should tell him or not.’
‘Why are you asking me?’
‘You are his granddaughter, are you not?’
‘No, I’m not.’
The doctor looked at his file in confusion. ‘Oh, I am so sorry – but he’s put you down here as next-of-kin so I assumed . . .’
‘I see.’ That was a poser. ‘Well, it’s certainly true that he doesn’t have any close relatives. I think you should tell him everything.’
‘You know him well, do you?’
‘I’ve known him for a very long time.’
‘It’s just that there have been occasions when he’s said some odd things and we weren’t entirely sure that the balance of his mind was holding up. He told sister yesterday that he wanted nothing but raw onions and marjoram. He said he’d been eating it for the last five hundred years and he wasn’t going to stop now. Then there’s this business of the heart attacks.’
‘Don’t worry. Just ignore that sort of thing. He’s very sane really.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
She went back into the ward again and sat by Ferney who looked a slightly better colour. ‘What did you say to the sister yesterday about your food? The doctor thinks you’re bonkers.’
Ferney looked blankly at her. ‘Food? Nothing.’
‘Something about marjoram.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘You told her you’d been eating it for the last five hundred years.’
He looked abashed. ‘It’s this stuff they give me. I can’t always remember what I’m not supposed to say. You’re still a vegetarian, aren’t you?’
‘Still?’ Oh good heavens, she thought and I believed it was my own moral, rational decision. This me, not some me from way back. ‘That is irritating,’ she said.
He understood. ‘We know what’s good for us, you and me – vegetables, milk and fruit. We know all the other things to steer clear of. What do you make of supermarkets?’
The question felt rather fierce.
‘They . . . they worry me.’
‘Why?’
‘All that distance things have to travel, I think. From halfway round the world, most of them, just so we can find we’ve let the fresh mangoes go rotten in February.’
‘I’m glad you realize. We’ve always been in touch with the seasons. Our bodies’ needs change with the seasons. You shouldn’t live the same right through the year. Spring and summer, that’s when you need the quick sugar. Winter’s for the slow-burning foods. Now it’s all muddled up – it’s not surprising people don’t know whether they’re coming or going. I think all this youth crime has something to do with that, though I must say, I suppose it’s been worse in the past.’
‘Is there anything you want?’
‘I was serious about the marjoram. Next time you come, can you bring me some and maybe a bit of lavender and either onions or some garlic. It’s good for this.’ He rubbed his heart. ‘If I’ve got to go on a bit longer, I’d rather do it with my own stuff than their chemicals.’
‘Speaking of going,’ she said, ‘I must get back. Mike needs the car. He’s going to be taking it with him, so I may not be able to get here except at weekends.’
Mention of Mike made his eyes cloud. ‘You stay away from cars,’ he said, looking at her stomach meaningfully. ‘Tell him thank you from me.’
‘One last thing. We’ve got the drum. What happened to the swords and the armour?’
‘Funny you should ask. I was thinking about that. I don’t know.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve never quite worked it out. It’s all to do with a lad called Billy Bunter. I’ll tell you the story some other time.’
He watched her stand up. ‘And Gally?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I said in the letter? Try to remember it yourself. Please?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The delivery van driver, due Wednesday morning, precipitated another small crisis when he arrived late on Wednesday afternoon. Gally had finished the last of the small stock of fresh fruit and vegetables in the caravan’s cupboard and as Penselwood had no shop she had been planning a long walk to Bourton and perhaps even a bus ride further on to Mere to stock up. Waiting for the driver knocked that one on the head. The builders were all off on another job. The plasterer had gone for fresh supplies and showed no immediate sign of returning, the plumber and electrician weren’t due again until the next day and she had nothing obvious to do to occupy the time except some more gardening while she waited. What the driver, a balding rural chauvinist to whom she seemed almost invisible, eventually brought with him was the next problem. She had been expecting a fridge. She got a fridge and a freezer.
‘This can’t be for us,’ she said doubtfully.
The driver looked at his clipboard. ‘Says it is here.’
‘Where?’
‘Whirlpool fridge and freezer. See? Matching pair. All paid for.’
Mike’s carbon signature, faint but undeniable, was on the delivery copy.
She sighed. ‘All right.’
‘Nice surprise from your old man, was it? If I’d have known I’d have put a ribbon round it.’
‘Not exactly.’
He trolleyed both machines into the kitchen. ‘Where do you want them?’
‘You can leave them there. I’ll sort it out.’
‘Better wait ’til he gets here before you try and move them.’
He went, blessedly, leaving her in the silence to walk warily round the intrusive white boxes in the middle of the floor. The sketched layout they had made of the way the kitchen would be was pinned to a window frame. She took it down to look at it. The fridge was clearly marked but that was all. They had never talked about a freezer and it annoyed her that Mike had gone out and bought one without even mentioning it to her.
She’d never liked frozen food.
That thought came from nowhere and startled her with its truth and made her look again at the feelings the delivery had stirred up. In London she bought fresh food as a matter of course, but that required little conscious choice with open shops always close by. Ferney had said ignore the supermarkets, live naturally, stay in tune with what the seasons offered. She identified the seeds of her dislike of the freezer in those words, but the thought had opened a tiny, exciting window on last time round. When did frozen food first appear? she wondered. She recognized the tingle of distant familiarity that marked an idea from before. So far they all seemed to feel like that, in that brief first stage before recognition brought them ballooning out. The life just past, the missing life between Cochrane’s brutal act and this present time, must be the source of her feelings on freezers and she found that she very much wanted to be able to fill in that blank. Sitting on a stool, trying to quieten her mind and open it to memory’s tendrils, she cast a mental hook baited with images of frozen food but nothing rose to take it.
Perhaps it’s because I’m rooted here, she thought. This place fed and fuelled my other lives so I can find them again but not this last one. One day maybe I’ll wander down the right road and the lock will open and I’ll suddenly know. That held frightening suggestions that there were black holes dotted around the country with the power to pull her in and maroon her if travel took her in the wrong direction. The freezer went hand in hand with the idea of driving, two unpleasant and dangerous developments. Ferney manages, she thought, remembering his rooms with the videos and the tea-making machine – but he does it by being very selective about what he takes from the devices on offer. It’s not that we’re stuck in the mud – more that we’ve learnt enough to know what’s good for us. We’ve had long enough to find out, after all.
Mike came back on Friday evening expecting praise for his thoughtfulness and generosity in ordering the freezer and, feeling it was unfair to do otherwise, she gave it to him. She made him a cup of tea and took him into the house where he was suitably amazed by the progress.
‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘Won’t it be nice to move in?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘It’s your birthday next week.’
‘We won’t be moving in time for that.’
‘That wasn’t what I was going to say. I’ve had this idea for a present, but I think it’s something I’d better talk about with you first.’
‘All right, if you think so.’
‘I’ve just had a look at something I thought you’d really like.’
His eyes were sparkling with suppressed excitement. She would have preferred the surprise and thought perhaps it was more that he couldn’t keep it to himself than that he really needed her opinion.
‘It’s a little Citroën – a 2CV. It’s a very nice one, red and white, hardly used at all. It would be brilliant round here.’
She was instantly glad that he hadn’t surprised her with it.
‘Oh, Mike. I . . . I don’t need a car.’ She tried to say it kindly, but his eyes showed hurt. ‘It’s a lovely idea but I really enjoy not having one.’
‘It hardly counts as a car, you know. They don’t use up much petrol. I just thought you could be so stuck up here by yourself. I mean, winter’s coming up and if I’m away all week . . .’
‘I’ll manage fine,’ she said. A car meant risk. Could she have it and just drive it locally? No, there’d always be the temptation to go further afield. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you buy me a bike instead? I want something traditional, you know, shiny dark green with three gears and a basket on the front with handlebars that bend round at the end and one of those metal cases round the chain to stop my skirt getting dirty.’
‘You don’t wear skirts,’ he said glumly. ‘I’m sure you’d find a car would make a difference. I mean look at this week, you could have gone to see the old man whenever you wanted.’
‘I’ll go tomorrow in your car.’
He stopped arguing and went very quiet, showing her just a corner of his sulk without displaying enough to prompt an accusation. She was left thinking about the triangular trap of cars, freezers and a village with no shops. It wasn’t a question of convenience. There was no argument on that score and Ferney, she knew, would have been all in favour of cars if it just came down to that. It was the danger – that was the point – the danger
of being out of range of this magnet of theirs when the time came. She had a wild vision of taking the Bag Stone with her, strapped on the roof of a little Citroën and almost giggled, but that would have made it worse with Mike and she managed to stop herself in time.
The next morning she drove carefully to Yeovil, shopped for Ferney’s mixed bag of herbs and vegetables. Ironically she could only find fresh marjoram in the local supermarket after trying everywhere else, but she took the cellophane wrapping with its bar code off before she took it with her to the hospital.
Ferney was not alone. Mr and Mrs Carson, a dour elderly pair from Lancashire who were his neighbours, were there before her, paying a duty visit. Mrs Carson had a face of astonishing narrowness under a frothy hair-do. She looked perfectly normal in profile but as soon as she turned to give Gally a fleeting acknowledgement, her face shrank to an axe-blade.
‘They don’t give you much space for your things, Mr Miller,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Mr Carson wouldn’t like that.’
‘Yes,’ said her husband.
‘That’s not what I call a pillow. We brought you a newspaper. Mr Carson started the crossword for you.’
‘Mrs Martin is repairing Bagstone Farm,’ said Ferney as Gally stood awkwardly at the end of the bed.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Carson, showing no interest whatsoever. She was a picture-window person.
‘It was kind of you to come to see me,’ Ferney said to them with a glance at Gally. ‘I don’t want to keep you.’
‘You’re not,’ said Mrs Carson. ‘We bought a two-hour car park ticket. Mr Carson only had a pound coin.’
It was clear they had no intention of leaving before they’d used it up so Gally, marginalized at the end of the bed throughout a conversation of stilted awkwardness, didn’t stay long despite the desperation in Ferney’s eyes. In fact she was quite glad to have that excuse because she knew that, left alone, he would only have asked her the central question again and she had as yet no answer.
She spent the following week at the cottage, rooted as much in the present as was possible, making sure the radio was on during every waking minute, listening closely to every word spoken on Radio 4, even the repeats, as she moved along in the plasterer’s wake, painting each room before it was really dry enough, glad that the hot weather was continuing.