Isabel's Light

by Andy Jarvis

  “Eve, you see, partook of the first bite,” he said, twirling the apple round in his hand and holding it up to the light. “Look at the shine on that! The way the light of the room, even the flicker of the fire catches the polish and dances upon its surface, a gemstone of red and green and the promise of ecstasy in its beauty. But it was a false promise – the promise of the devil. She willingly took the apple against the forbiddance of our Lord. Then she corrupted Adam.”

  “Yeah, but surely the church doesn’t follow the Old Testament stuff these days,” I said.

  “They are good teachings, whether you believe them to have happened or not,” Reverend John said brusquely.

  “Alright then,” said Baz. “But how come Adam isn’t…”

  “Where do you think they went?” Reverend John fired, striking the table again. “Do you think they went off and bought a nice semi in Suburbia and lived happily ever after? Eve committed the original sin and was the first cast out of the Garden. Folk think it’s about sex; that’s what they interpret as meaning original sin. They think the apple – the so-called forbidden fruit – is just a metaphor for conjugal relations. I say it’s about trust. God trusted Adam and Eve not to partake of the fruit. It’s what I’ve just been talking about. If you’re given responsibility, privileges or so-called rights, then you don’t break rules. You want rights, you must accept the responsibilities that go with them, or you must take the consequences.”

  “Is that what happened to Isabel?” Baz piped.

  “Isabel! Where did you hear that name?”

  Reverend John shot glances between us that could have slackened a seized boiler nut. Baz was getting flustered. He fidgeted uneasily and looked at me pleadingly.

  “Um…the old man at the village hall,” I said calmly. It was a desperate lie and bluff call. The old git hadn’t mentioned Isabel by name. Diffuse the situation, hope for Baz to keep his fat mouth shut and await Reverend John’s reply. Fingers crossed under the table. Buttocks clenched.

  “Silas!” thundered Reverend John. “Old fool, I might have guessed. You realise you were talking to the village idiot? Pay him no mind. Besides, what do you want to go snooping around the village hall for? The whole matter is in hand.”

  “So...it’s not really that important to give thanks before a meal?” I ventured.

  Reverend John frowned, then leaned back and smiled as he remembered the original subject of discussion: “I didn’t say it doesn’t matter. Merely that I don’t insist upon it at my table. Not everyone who’s sat at this table has been a Christian.”

  “You mean like you’ve had other atheists besides me and Ed?” said Baz. “Still, I thought it was important to mention grace, out of respect like. No offence intended.”

  “And none taken, but I don’t just refer to atheists. I’ve entertained heads of all types of religious community – Hindu, Muslim, Sikh – you name it. I even had a chap come up from London, representative of the Rastafarian movement he was. I never insist upon them practising our own Christian custom, although most have their own way of giving thanks.”

  “Bet you never practised any Rasta customs, eh, Reverend?” said Baz.

  “Most certainly not. Anyway, as I was saying, it doesn’t matter a great deal about little things like saying grace before a meal. It’s our actions upon which God will judge us. How we live our day to day lives. Try to think of those in the world who cannot go to church, or who through handicap or starvation or living in isolated parts of the world cannot even pray. God will look kindly upon those that live their lives according to the teachings of Jesus, even if they have never heard his name.”

  “So, isn’t it sort of dishonest then?” I asked. “I mean having people fork out to try and get salvation in the belief that they will suffer eternal damnation otherwise?”

  “Dishonest? No, not at all. You see I believe it. There truly is a Hell, as certain as I’m sat here.”

  “How can you be so sure?” said Baz.

  “I’ve seen it,” he said.

  We always have a pint before bedtime, especially when it’s on McBright’s expenses.

  The evening with Reverend John had ended cheerily; he having ended the subject of religion altogether, and we spent the last couple of hours chatting about everything from the weather to classic television comedy.

  “Chorley Cake,” Reverend John chuckled at the door. “Well there’s nothing so queer as folk, as they say up your way.”

  “Queerer than you can imagine,” said Baz nudging me. We thanked Reverend John for a smashing buffet and headed back to the Bell.

  “What the hell was all that about?” I said, setting the pints down.

  “Yeah I know,” said Baz, “especially that thing about seeing Hell. What was that?”

  “Not him! You, you daft bat! Oh yes, Reverend John! Let’s say grace! We wouldn’t touch nothing we aren’t supposed to, Reverend John! Are you out of your tiny little mind? And what were you thinking mentioning Isabel? You could get us shot you could!”

  “He won’t suss though,” said Baz. “He said the old geezer was an idiot. He’ll never find out that he didn’t tell us that name. After all, he told us all that other crap about witches and stuff, right? Maybe he really is the village idiot. Anyway, I couldn’t help myself, it just slipped out; you know how I am. Oh, thanks by the way, for bailing me out like that.”

  “Yes but all that other crap was also in the Parish Council Records. Good job we got the village idiot as alibi. Anyway, what was all that about, the seeing Hell thing that is?”

  “I don’t know, Ed. It just felt like one of those questions you got to ask but daren’t. I think I’d asked enough dodgy questions for one night anyway. Besides, he changed the subject, like he said it and immediately started talking about other stuff. What do you think?”

  “I think we should leave well enough alone. It seems RJ may have a skeleton in the cupboard he doesn’t want digging up, pardon the pun. You can’t really blame him for wanting to keep a lid on it. Speaking of digging, don’t mention it by the way, next time I’ll just leave you to shovel your own way out of the shit.”

  We drank up and retired to our rooms, Baz with his half-finished Sun crossword and me with my book. Reading in bed, I soon fell asleep into the weirdest of dreams, filled with images of a Reverend shrouded in mist and secrets along with witches and stained glass art.

  In the early light a dream of dawn’s break ended with actual breaking sounds which turned out to be Baz pounding my bedroom door. “Hey, wake up gayboy, it’s time for work. Man, did I have some weird dream,” he said stepping inside.

  “You too, eh?” I said sitting up, wiping the crud from my eyes and slapping a still sleeping arm with no blood and less feeling than a bratwurst.

  “God, it was like winged creatures,” said Baz. “All leathery and like them Nazgul things in the Lord of the Rings; really dark and creepy.” He crossed the room and threw open the curtains to a feebly lit dawn. “How about yours?”

  “Oh nothing really. It was like something there telling me that RJ isn’t on the level.”

  “Yeah, well maybe he isn’t. But we’ve been through all that and we can’t blame him, can we? No wonder he wants to keep it all quiet, right? Anyway, it’s a bit early for all this isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  Baz left, and I one arm dressed as best as I could, letting the numb one flop about helplessly. Shaving could wait.

  Looking out the window, I caught a glimpse of something moving, silhouetted against the grey ground frost near to a low hedge out across the fields. Too big for a dog, too quick for livestock, it moved cat-like, sniffing the ground and scratching at the earth. In a single leap it cleared the hedge and vanished.

  In the street below, Reverend John marched past, stopping briefly to share greetings and gossip, or a small joke with the milkman, who laughed in a respectful not-bad-for-a-vicar sort of way as he lifted his pints. Reverend John carried on down the cobbles, whistling as he went
.

  Later, as we loaded the van I told Baz about the shadow in the fields. “Too much ale, mate. The beast of the beer,” he laughed, thumping my shoulder.

  5.

  As with most of McBright’s jobs there was a hitch. The crushing weight of cast iron and years of alkaline water leakage had taken their toll on the vestry floor. Of course McBright blamed his workers as usual: “Should have done a proper survey! How many times have you been down there on call outs, on my expense account I might add, for water pissing out and you didn’t anticipate a problem with the flooring?” Being psychic is simply another one of McBright’s expectations.

  Loosening the boiler from its mountings and moving it to the fire exit door on rollers was relatively easy compared to the shifting of Reverend John’s precious tapestry of St. Mark. He surveyed our every move. We unfurled the poles and leant them against the south wall, the heavy banner itself, almost twenty feet of it, slipping down to touch the floor, but still high enough to partially block the light from one of the windows.

  “Give it a chance to air, it can be a bit stuffy and damp back there,” said Reverend John. “Then perhaps over the back of the altar for Easter.”

  We surveyed the floor where the boiler had been. The mounting bolts had just pulled out effortlessly, the mortar in the floor having virtually turned to sand. The boiler itself, dripping and rusted, stood forlornly on rollers by the fire exit, awaiting Chorley and the low loader to arrive for its final journey.

  Reverend John appeared uneasy. He knew instinctively that the floor was going to mean another delay.

  “I can’t say how long,” was my honest reply. “Needs a day or two to set before any load bearing, and that’s after removal of the rubble, preparing the ground and relaying concrete. And it needs a special mix, acid and alkaline resistant, like they use on chemical works floors to stop it happening again, not that the boilers going to leak or anything. And all that’s after McBright decides he can afford a couple of masons to send down with the gear to start the job. Sorry.”

  He disappeared very disgruntled while Baz and me stopped for lunch and a brew after which we started to dig out the soft mortar into a pile while waiting for Chorley to arrive.

  Charlie Eccles, aka Chorley, was the living embodiment of one of those truckers you always imagined behind the tinted glass and high cab crawling past you in the fast lane during motorway rush hour. Stockily built and brawny from years of heavy lifting, middle aged, stubbly faced with a couple of teeth missing and a waistline that suggested years of dedicated crunches (on fried bread and crispy bacon) and working out at the bars. (Wetherspoon’s, Yates’s etc) Couple this with a mouth that spewed profanities like rats from a flooding sewer and you’ve got the picture.

  However, driving a low loader – even a smaller one like McBright’s use – is a real knack, and Chorley is the best. But the narrow cobblestone lane leading up to the vestry door was about to test his skills to the limit.

  St. Mark’s is built on a rise near the centre of the village, presumably so that the worshippers of past could all see as well as hear the peel of its bell calling the faithful to their knees. This meant that the lane had a nasty camber among its rutted cobbles. And it was dry-walled at both sides. To make matters worse there was a bend half way up.

  But we had faith in Chorley. He arrived mid afternoon, slowly inching his way up the lane in reverse guided by Baz and myself, the cobblestones rocking the loader worryingly. Chorley was like Captain Bligh himself – capable of steering his vehicle through the narrowest of straits, accompanied by a great deal of the usual cursing and swearing that would do any ancient seafarer proud. Fortunately Reverend John wasn’t about.

  Besides driving, Chorley was an expert rigger. An hour after gently alighting his ‘craft’ at the vestry entrance, the boiler had been rolled, winched up ramps and strapped to the truck platform, on the high side to compensate for the lane camber. A great beast of cast iron, post Victorian ingenuity, sadly awaited its final resting place – one of Chorleys’ back street scrappers.

  Chorley muttered something about the damper on the truck’s nearside being shot to pieces. “But it’ll have to do,” he said. “If McBright won’t fix it, he’ll have to risk it.” Then some more swearing and, “Oh I nearly forgot! McBright wants to know if you’re up for some overtime this weekend. Something about floor repairs; says he’s sending the hire centre around first thing in morning with a mixer and stuff.”

  “What about a mason?” asked Baz.

  “Never mentioned that. Double time though for Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Why hasn’t he phoned me on the mobile himself?” I asked.

  “Cause he’s not taking no for an answer; enough said?”

  “Double time Ed!” said Baz, nudging me. “We can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Now you know where RJ disappeared to. He must have been on the phone to McBright. He’s desperate for the job to be done before the winters out.”

  “Going to cost him this is though. Plant hire and materials, premium rate labour; it all goes on McBright’s invoice.”

  “We can always find a use for the cash though, right mate?”

  “As long as the bar tab’s still in place, I’m in!”

  It was Chorley’s worst nightmare. The platform listed badly; every little rut and rise rocking the boiler alarmingly, while the truck sides swayed dangerously close to the stone walls. Chorley inched downhill. Then came the bend and, bang! The damper Chorley mentioned gave with a sound like gunshot. The platform sank to the downside. The boiler slipped a strap, twisting as it went. Crashing the side panel, it tipped momentarily, taking out four sets of coping stone from the wall before righting itself.

  If he was swearing before, Chorley was cursing for England now. Baz tried to calm him, then disappeared saying he’d make everyone a brew. As for me, well I’ve done a bit of dry-walling in my time. I hopped up the platform, squeezed past the boiler onto the wall, and along with two more loose stones tumbled awkwardly into the allotment beyond.

  I scrambled to my feet as an oddly familiar figure approached. If it wasn’t for the garments I’d have recognised him straight away. Green wellies, grey cardigan, garden fork and the thickest pair of specs I’ve ever seen.

  “Afternoon,” I said, brushing myself off. “You’re Silas aren’t you? Sorry about the wall, mate. I was just about to mend it.”

  “You know my name then?” said the man.

  “Sure, Reverend John told us. He said you were…you were…an old mate!”

  “I know what John Cannon thinks of me.” He paused briefly and without expression, looked me up and down with hugely magnified eyes that then stared straight into mine. I hate that. I either feel uncomfortable staring back or guilty looking away.

  “Here, take these,” he said, thrusting two odd looking roots into my hands.

  “Um…it’s a bit nippy out to be plucking veggies isn’t it?”

  “You don’t think I’ve just picked these do you? I keep ‘em in storage all year round. Keep ‘em in the kitchen. Keep ‘em in the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom. All over.”

  He was staring again.

  “So…alright then…you’re on the toilet…and you suddenly have this craving for parsnip. You’re sorted. Cool.”

  “It’s not parsnip, it’s mandrake. Helps to ward off evil, so it’s said. You may find it useful.” He turned to walk away.

  “Hang on,” I said chasing. “Explain what you mean. I don’t like riddles, and this isn’t the first time either. What gives around here, eh?”

  He stopped and turned. “I’m not at liberty to say. More something I feel, or sense if you like.”

  “Such as?”

  “That you and the other lad may be in danger.”

  “If you’re referring to the corpse we found and all this shit about ghosts, witches, well that’s just…”

  “Age supposedly brings wisdom, but there are still those that cannot see,” he said, clutching my wrist wi
th a grip I found surprisingly painful for an old man. “And those that can…yet they turn a blind eye.”

  “Well that makes a lot of bloody sense.”

  “You shouldn’t dilly-dally too long in Candlewell. Finish your work as quickly as you can, then you should leave just as quickly. That which slumbers does not sleep; it rests and waits in fathoms deep.”

  “Hey! Are you helping here or what!?” screamed Chorley.

  “Chorley, Chorley, wait!” I shouted running back to the wall. “Just give me five minutes! Get Baz for me quick!”

  “Ed, I need to get this rig back to McBright today. Suspension’s shot; it can make it if we shift this son-of-a-bitch boiler to the front corner. But two of us can’t manage…understand? And I need to drop it off in Leicester on the way for my twenty quid. Now come on, muck in will you? McBright’s not paying you to share gardening tips with the scarecrow!”

  “What’s up?” said Baz, popping his head over the wall.

  “It’s the old geezer, Silas.” I turned to point.

  He was gone.

  6.

  His name was Arden Staniforth, head of the Southwell Archaeological Trust. A bit of a toff, I thought. Well spoken, probably public school; definitely well educated at least, but I suppose you have to be, as an archaeologist. He was smartly dressed in charcoal grey, suited and tied almost like a car salesman, and carrying a small briefcase. I got the uncomfortable sensation that the meeting was to be more than just casual.

  Baz said he belonged in a Carry On film, a bit like the Leslie Philips character – complete with moustache, and cigarette which he held from an elegantly poised arm, which bore a striking resemblance to a pouring teapot spout each time he tapped the end into an ashtray. Baz made fun of him behind his back with send ups like: “I say old chap,” or “raaa-ther!” In reality he never said any of these things, but if he did it would have suited him down to the ground.