DANIEL COME TO JUDGEMENT

by MARY HOCKING

  All around the town, little dramas were being enacted.

  ‘I think there must be some kind of a rally on, my dear,’ Canon Peverell’s wife said as she returned from the front door of their house in the cathedral close. ‘There are a lot of cars going round and round the square, and the drivers seem terribly earnest about it, one man looked as though he was driving and praying at the same time. And, do you know, the milkman hasn’t been! It really is too bad.’

  At this moment the milkman was standing in a welter of glass and broken eggs disputing with the driver of a continental lorry so huge it should never have ventured down Hog’s Lane, let alone . . . The driver of the lorry was making wild gesticulations and stabbing one finger towards the end of the road, while the milkman shouted that he had lived in this town for fifty years and had been doing a milk round for thirty of them, and no gibbering foreigner was going to tell him that the law of the land had been changed overnight so that motorists drove on the right, Common Market or no bleeding Common Market!

  In Poope’s Place, usually quiet and rather superior, a woman in a flowered hat was sitting in a Rover 2000 which had stalled in the middle of the road while she was executing an elaborate three- point turn; she was crying hysterically while a taxi-driver shouted at her to move. ‘I can’t! I can’t!’ she screamed. ‘I’ve been trying to get out to Westgate for forty minutes and I keep coming back here.’

  ‘You just go down to the end of the road, you silly bitch!’

  ‘But it’s a one-way street, my good man!’

  By now, the narrow road was so jammed with cars that the question of where to go, and how, was merely academic.

  The sun was up, the mist was dispersing, it promised to be yet another hot day. At many cottage doors, the old folk were comfortably seated to watch the extraordinary display put on for their benefit. Few had expected to live to see a day when the motorist would be so discomfited and there were rapt smiles on their lined faces as they nodded encouragingly to the perspiring performers. One well-groomed young executive wound down his window and leant out, shouting to an old man in shirt sleeves who was meditatively filling a pipe:

  ‘How do I get to the town hall, Grandad?’

  ‘Back where you come from.’

  ‘But there’s a diversion sign pointing this way.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ The old man ruminated for a while, and then said, ‘Reckon you’ll have quite a journey, then.’

  ‘But WHICH WAY DO I GO?’

  At this stage, the old man’s intelligence appeared to flicker and grow dim; he sat back in his chair, his face vacuously happy.

  In Middle Court Street, a diversion of a different kind had been caused by the efforts of an eager traffic warden who had somehow contrived to thrust a diversion sign attached to a long broom handle through the back window of a baker’s van.

  ‘I can’t deliver bread with glass in it to my customers,’ the driver was protesting.

  ‘You can’t deliver it anyway!’ the now harassed warden retorted. ‘How are you going to get past that lot?’ Ahead, some cars had tried unsuccessfully to overtake and the traffic resembled a pig-tail plaited by someone with badly arthritic fingers.

  The superintendent of police, who had wisely decided to view his stricken town on foot, stood in Westgate and pondered on the wilful behaviour of motorists. Above his head there fluttered a banner which announced, ‘This is your council’s new one-way system.’ Ahead, to his right and to his left, he could make out several signs of uncouth design and doubtful stability – ‘no entry’ notices wobbling on insecurely fixed posts, diversion signs chalked on blackboards supported on rickety easels, crudely painted pieces of blue metal with white arrows hoisted on trees, or attached to pillar-boxes. It was incredible! Motorists who could blindly ignore warning lights on motorways, who drove blithely past hashing fights at level crossings, who failed to notice warnings of double bends, steep hills, road works in progress, who appeared not to comprehend the meaning of double white lines in the centre of a road, had had their attention riveted by signs which might conceivably be part of a carnival but could hardly be related to anything in the Highway Code. And not only had they read, marked, learned and inwardly digested, a fair number had attempted to obey and were at the moment performing the most extraordinary manoeuvres, backing out of side streets into the main road, mounting pavements, using pedestrian islands in order to perform U turns. He was sorry to see a police car taking part in this circus. He continued to the top of the road where a few demented cars were going slowly round and round the market cross to the consternation of a large Friesian, a sturdy cob, and a sheep dog, all of whom were tethered there.

  ‘See to that,’ he said briskly to one of his sergeants who was standing on the pavement being talked to by Alderman Pike and Councillor Clare. Alderman Pike detached himself from the sergeant and purposefully accompanied the superintendent back to the police station.

  The sergeant sucked in his breath and gazed morosely across at the cow which had a placard round her neck which read. ‘This is a small market town – we want it to stay that way!’ Beside the cow, the cob displayed a placard which read, ‘Yeominster for the people of Yeominster!’ The dog had no placard, but had been thoughtfully provided with a bowl of water at which he lapped, in between snarling at anyone who went near the cow.

  ‘Important witnesses,’ the sergeant said slyly to Harry Glare.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I live at Blakey Holt. That’s Tom Protheroe’s sheep dog, and that’s his cow.’ His mouth twisted sourly. ‘The Rose of Sharon. Won a prize recently. Silly creatures, aren’t they? Always remind me of those fat women who take size three shoes.’

  ‘Tom Protheroe, did you say?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ The sergeant looked straight ahead. ‘Son goes to Mansfield School.’

  They stared across at the cow while the sergeant whistled tonelessly between closed teeth. Harry said, ‘I suppose they might have come with . . . almost anyone . . .’

  ‘Cow might have done,’ the sergeant said. ‘Not the dog.’ He turned to a constable who had pushed his way towards him carrying a length of rope.

  ‘What’s that? A skipping rope?’

  ‘Best I could find, sarge.’

  ‘All right. Now, I want you to attach that to the cow. I don’t mind how, as long as it’s secure. And lead the animal to the police station. That clear?’

  ‘Ye . . . es.’ The constable was doubtful. ‘What about the dog?’

  ‘Oh, I expect the dog will go along, too.’

  The constable hesitated and the sergeant looked at him stonily. The constable pushed his way through the traffic which was now at a complete standstill. He untethered the cow, watched closely by the dog to whom he addressed occasional soothing noises. When he turned away to attach a halter round the cow’s neck, the dog leapt forward and nipped his backside. The cow moved ponderously towards Eastgate, patiently making her way between the packed vehicles. The dog was now biting the constable’s trouser leg. The sergeant rushed forward, shouting to the people on the far pavement, ‘Get that cow!’ No one showed any disposition to further upset the dog. Harry was left staring unhappily at the broad, retreating back of The Rose of Sharon.

  ‘Dog’s over-excited, poor thing, and no wonder!’ a woman bystander said to Harry, as the dog turned fiercely on the sergeant. At this moment, the restraining rope broke and the woman darted nervously into a doorway. But the dog was already heading away down Eastgate.

  Harry embarked on an inspection of the town. He foresaw a period ahead during which his patience would be tried and his powers of persuasion taxed. He did not like the prospect. As he walked, his face lost much of its usual good-humour. The glare of light on metal dazzled his eyes, petrol fumes choked his lungs. A frown nicked between his brows, his lips pursed.

  In St. Peter’s Passage, a van carrying tomatoes had overturned and the valiant citizens of Yeominster were out in force with paper bags, shopping baskets, buckets,
jugs and basins, zealously helping to clear the street.

  ‘People seem to be taking this remarkably well,’ Harry observed to the driver.

  ‘They’ve reason to.’ The driver lit a cigarette and contemplated the tomato-gatherers with disfavour. ‘Makes you lose your faith in human nature, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What happened?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I never come down here normally, street’s too narrow; but when I saw the one-way sign, I thought perhaps I could cut a corner, avoid the high street . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders and said sourly to on energetic woman, ‘Missed one under your push chair, lady.’

  The radio in the van was still on; a programme had been interrupted and a voice said, ‘We have a police warning; motorists are advised to avoid Yeominster owing to an obstruction in the centre of the town which is causing some . . .’

  Harry said to the driver, ‘You didn’t see any official signs which had been defaced?’

  ‘I don’t remember what I saw,’ the driver said wearily. ‘Does it matter?’

  It mattered to Harry. As chairman of the governors of Mansfield School he hoped that the miscreants had kept within the law. Councillor Clare had a rather more punitive attitude: he believed it was healthy that people should show a due irreverence for authority, but he also believed in authority. It was important to him that in any confrontation, authority should win and be seen to have won. He continued his tour of the town, keeping a look-out for any instance of wanton damage. In Poope’s Place, he met Dorothy Prentice.

  ‘Isn’t this marvellous?’ She sounded gay as if she was at a fairground. ‘Have you been to Cathedral Square? No? Oh, you must. It’s really scintillating there!’ She went on her way, scintillating herself. Her enjoyment seemed to him to go beyond the bounds of the reasonable; he thought she was by now a little mad.

  The haze had cleared, the sun was very hot; the town steamed. The Rose of Sharon, although she moved slowly and had a face so constructed as to appear permanently placid, was in fact extremely disturbed, and Mick, the collie, was in no better state. They had rested for a time on a pleasant patch of green where the dog had lain down and the cow had taken a little refreshment from a hedge; but excited people had descended upon them and they had had to move on. They walked slowly along a pavement, the dog going ahead, panting and snarling, clearing a way for the cow. The pavement came to an end and there were cobblestones which the cow did not find easy to negotiate; to the left was a large barn of a place which looked cool and quiet and the dog led the way towards it gratefully.

  Harry walked thoughtfully down Westgate. He had taken off his jacket because the heat was so intolerable. He felt less of a piece than usual, as though the close seams of personality were pulling apart. He looked around him, unable to recall a time when he had been so wretchedly uncomfortable. There was an attitude one adopted to this kind of situation, but he could not get the feel of it. He was conscious of one part of himself observing another part of himself making mistakes. If only it hadn’t been so hot. His tie was tight, his shoes hurt, he could feel dust clogging the pores of his skin and his eyes smarted. He shouldn’t have taken off his jacket, it made him feel as though he had detached a part of his personality. As he paused at the crowded entrance to the Militia Man, the driver of a bus which had mounted the opposite pavement tried to ease the vehicle back on to the road; it hit a farm tractor which nudged the car behind. The tractor was carrying liquid manure; the impact, though slight, set off the mechanical muckspreader. Harry was one of the fortunate ones who managed to crowd into the foyer of the Militia Man. In the few moments during which the street was still visible, he saw the entire front of Gerald Grey’s office turn from white to dung colour. Gerald Grey, more pugnacious than prudent, rushed out to protest and in a matter of seconds was dancing on the pavement like a chocolate- coloured coon.

  The sweating, red-faced driver pulled frantically at the switch which had jammed. Behind him, motorists were desperately winding up windows, and gradually their distressed faces grew dim and finally disappeared as the liquid covered their vehicles. A weary police constable rounded up the worst affected of the passers-by and shepherded them to the fire station, directing the minor casualties to a near-by launderette. Another constable joined the driver and wrestled with the switch. Harry turned to a man standing beside him in the foyer. The man’s suit was lightly dappled with manure, as was Harry’s shirt, but they both counted themselves fortunate.

  ‘What would be a full load, do you think?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Several hundred gallon, I reckon.’

  ‘Dear God! This could go on for some time, then.’

  The confusion was at its height when Erica came into the town. She went to meet chaos, head up, like a swimmer breasting a rough sea. Once she felt the full force of the crowd, she gave herself to it and allowed it to carry her. Occasionally, she said, ‘What is it? What is happening?’; but there was never time to listen to an answer before she was swept on to the next question. People turned, twisted, pushed and cursed; a child was sick in a shop doorway; someone in a car had fainted and was being held, head down, half-in, half-out of the front seat; a dark liquid gushed along the gutter, it had a froth on it and smelt of beer. In front of Erica a man hoisted a child on his shoulders and the child shouted and clapped. ‘Is it the Queen?’ Erica asked. A sudden surge carried her away. She was at the entrance to Westgate. It was inexplicably darker here and there was a very bad smell. Something must have happened to the sewers. She remembered a horrifying story she had read about sewage coming up through the floorboards of a house – she supposed it could happen to a whole town. She struggled towards the comparative safety of the steps of the National Provincial Bank where she gained a good view of the muckspreader. People stood close, eagerly contemplating the misfortunes of those farther down the street; the feeling of comradeship was strong.

  While Erica laughed and talked to strangers on the steps of the National Provincial Bank, Harry left the Militia Man by a rear door and began to make his way through the back streets to the police station. He had almost reached it when he met Tom Protheroe and two constables.

  ‘They’ve found my cow,’ Protheroe told him.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Attending matins in the cathedral. This day has put years on me!’

  Harry joined the party. Their progress was hindered by the muckspreader which was still working at full stream, gradually blotting out the buildings on either side of the centre of Westgate. A detour through the back streets was necessary. It was quieter here, but the smell of manure was overpowering. Harry and Protheroe walked silently, locked in their private nightmares. Harry thought, ‘The important thing is to refuse to make an immediate statement. Keep quiet and let someone else make the news. Any publicity is going to be bad.’ Matins had been over for some time when they arrived at the cathedral, but the congregation, which consisted of seven elderly ladies in the pews and the cow and the dog in the nave, remained transfixed. Whenever anyone moved slightly, the dog made a crooning noise in his throat, when a step was taken his lip curled back revealing ugly yellow teeth. Canon Peverell, who did not see himself as a latter-day St. Francis, stood unamused, guarding the chancel steps.

  ‘I think this is in extremely bad taste,’ he said, as soon as Protheroe appeared. ‘Please remove these animals at once.’

  ‘I can’t possibly lead the cow back through the streets,’ Protheroe said.

  ‘She came through the streets, presumably,’ the canon pointed out.

  They carried on their conversation over the head of the cow.

  ‘Do you know what it is like out there?’ the farmer demanded.

  ‘Hardly,’ the canon retorted icily, ‘since I have been so long detained here.’

  ‘Would it be possible to allow the cow to wait in the cloisters until we can get a truck up here, sir?’ One of the constables joined Protheroe in the nave.

  ‘Certainly not!’

  At this, one of the old ladies
cried out, ‘I can’t wait here any longer, I really can’t!’

  Canon Peverell, threatened on all sides, grimly relented, and with a great deal of gentle persuasion from both Protheroe and the collie, The Rose of Sharon was finally guided to the south door and out into the nourishing green tranquillity of the cloisters.

  ‘Someone is going to hear about this,’ Canon Peverell told Harry. ‘Do you realise how much damage might have been done?’

  ‘What has in fact been done?’ Harry asked anxiously.

  ‘I regard this incident as nothing short of blasphemy.’

  ‘But nothing has been desecrated?’ Harry persisted.

  ‘Judging by the ghastly smell, I should imagine it has.’

  ‘That comes from a muckspreader which has run amok.’ Harry laid his hand on the canon’s arm: he was disgusted to see that it was sweaty and the nails were black. ‘You know, you really have been quite fortunate. Come outside and see what you have missed.’ It was now noon and Daniel, having finished his morning period with a group of boys who seemed to be particularly restive, had walked into the town intending to visit the council’s archivist. The streets on the outer rim of the town seemed unusually crowded, but he did not realise how bad things were until he reached the level crossing at the station. The crossing was completely blocked by cars. On one side of the gates, a goods train fussed, while on the other the London train stood austerely silent like a great, sleek monster with its ears well back. The platforms were crowded with people whose faces had drained of hope. The signals all the way down the track were at red. The traffic lights in the town were still working. The signal at the junction of Station Road and Potter Street was at green. In the centre of the junction a traffic warden who had been attempting to divert some of the traffic was now so securely wedged amidst it that it seemed only a crane could extricate him. Daniel walked on.