Remains of an Altar mw-8

by Phil Rickman

  Eyebrows went up. A thin woman of about Mum’s age gave Jane a hard look.

  ‘Because, like, Coleman’s Meadow is a very important ancient site which should be protected,’ Jane said. ‘I’d have thought somebody might’ve noticed that.’

  Nobody was smiling much now.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jane,’ Jeff said. ‘This particular development would be what we would call acceptable infill. We’re very pleased that site’s become available. So I don’t think any of us quite understands what you’re getting at there.’

  ‘Right.’ Jane swallowed more wine. ‘I can draw you a proper plan if you want but, basically, Coleman’s Meadow is the key point on an ancient alignment from the top of Cole Hill, through a burial mound and Ledwardine Church and then on to, like, a couple of other sites. Coleman’s Meadow is really important because the field gates are perfectly sited on the alignment and because the old straight track actually exists there … like, you can see it, and…’

  She was going to say feel it. Decided to leave that aspect alone at this stage.

  Lyndon Pierce blinked. Jeff and another guy looked at each other.

  ‘So … so, what I’m saying, if you have new houses – totally unnecessary new houses – built on Coleman’s Meadow it would completely obliterate the most perfect, like one of the clearest examples of … of a…’

  ‘Ley line?’

  An older guy, wearing a cream sports jacket, half-glasses and a half smile.

  ‘Ley,’ Jane said.

  The older guy nodded. ‘I wondered if that was what you were talking about.’ He looked relieved.

  ‘So…’ Lyndon Pierce lowered the wine bottle to the flags at his feet ‘… you know what she’s on about, Cliff?’

  ‘I’m sure you must’ve heard of ley lines, Lyndon.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them, yeah—’

  ‘Periodically, someone revives the idea that prehistoric stones and burial sites were arranged, for some mystical purpose, in straight lines, along which old churches were also built. If you ask the County Archaeologist, he’ll tell you it’s a lot of nonsense. But, like many ideas discredited by the archaeological establishment, it’s become a cult belief among … well, usually old hippies or New Age cranks.’

  ‘So it’s like, flying saucers and that sort of stuff?’ Lyndon Pierce asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ the older guy said.

  ‘So nothing to … ?’

  ‘No, no.’ The older guy shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘Not at all.’

  Jane thought of Alfred Watkins, reserved, bearded, magisterial, a pillar of the Hereford community but with an open, questing mind. Everything she’d been taught suggested that society in the early part of the twentieth century had been nowhere near as liberal and adventurous as today’s.

  Yeah? Well, no wonder there was no statue of Alfred Watkins in High Town, with bastards like this running the county.

  ‘How can you…’ She couldn’t get her breath for a moment. ‘How can you talk like that? How can you, like, just rubbish something that throws a whole new light on the countryside … that makes it all light up? Especially in Herefordshire, where Alfred Watkins was, like, the first person in the world to … to…’

  ‘Ah … Watkins, yes.’ Cliff smiled at her, cool with this now. ‘Charming old chap, by all accounts. Typically English eccentric, very entertaining, totally misguided.’

  ‘That’s a typical Establishment viewpoint!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Cliff said. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I rather suppose that’s what we are.’

  ‘So, thank you for coming, Jane,’ Lyndon Pierce said. ‘But I’m afraid a fantasy conjured up by some old, dead eccentric guy is really not going to cut much ice today. I was elected, as I’m sure your parents will tell you, on an expansionist ticket. Nowadays, rural communities grow or die, and I want to see Ledwardine getting more shops, restaurants, leisure facilities … and far more housing. We could have a thriving little town here.’

  ‘But it’s not a t—’

  Jane stared at Pierce, who seemed to be bloating before her eyes into something obscene.

  ‘Jane…’

  It was the woman who’d given her the hard look. Short curly hair, dark suit. Possibly seen her somewhere before, but not here.

  ‘Jane, is this just a personal issue for you?’ the woman said.

  ‘Well, I’m also doing a project for school. On the interpretation of landscape mysteries?’

  ‘Ah. How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  Somebody started to laugh.

  ‘And which school do you go to?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Moorfield High?’

  ‘Robert Morrell,’ the woman murmured to Cliff. ‘Jane, does Mr Morrell know you’re here?’

  ‘Look … sorry … what’s it got to do with him?’

  ‘Quite a lot, I should have thought, as he’s the head of Moorfield High.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t live here, does he?’ Jane felt herself going red. ‘Like, I care about this place. I don’t want to see it ruined. I don’t want to see the ancient pattern all smashed for the sake of a bunch of crap, bourgeois piles of pink brick like … like this. I mean, sod your new community centre, you should be having a public meeting about the annihilation of Coleman’s Meadow, don’t you think?’

  ‘I really don’t think we should be arguing about a plan that’s not yet come before the council,’ the woman said. ‘Certainly not with a schoolgirl.’

  ‘But if nobody says anything, it’ll just get quietly pushed through, won’t it, by people who don’t give a—’

  ‘I should be very careful what you say, if I were you,’ the woman said coldly.

  ‘Particularly to the vice-chair of the Education Committee,’ Cliff said.

  A rock landed in Jane’s gut. This was, of course, the woman who’d been sitting next to Morrell on stage at the prizegiving ceremony.

  Jane looked down at her wineglass; it was empty.

  ‘Well, I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you guys. I think I need to get home to…’

  She backed away to the nearest corner of the house called Avalon and then looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘… Work out how best to shaft you,’ Jane said.

  And turned and ran through the summer-scented dusk, past the crooked, sunken, black and white cottages of Virgingate Lane.

  14

  A Dim and Bleary Light

  Spicer led Merrily and Lol into his spartan kitchen, offered them seats at his table but no tea. The sun had dropped into a bank of cloud, and the conifers at the end of the garden were turning black.

  Spicer switched off the radio.

  ‘I suppose it’s like people seeing Shakespeare’s ghost in Stratford-on-Avon.’

  He joined them at the table but didn’t put a light on.

  ‘Or Wordsworth in Grasmere,’ Merrily said. ‘Brontës in Howarth. Yes, I do get the picture.’

  Recalling once looking up a number under E in the Hereford phone book and noticing Elgar Carpets and Interiors, Elgar Coaches, the Elgar Coffee Shop, Elgar Fine Art … like that for about half a page.

  In all these establishments, you’d be shelling out twenty-pound notes with an engraved portrait on the back of a man with neat grey hair, a generous moustache, faraway eyes.

  ‘See, in comparison,’ Spicer said, ‘Wordsworth and Shakespeare are remote figures. Elgar’s been dead barely seventy years. It’s like he still lives around here, with everything he’s come to represent. Go to the Elgar museum at Broadheath, they say you can see his betting slips.’

  He had his back to the window bay, blocking more light from the room, which had three doors, all shut. One thing was sure: you’d never see Syd Spicer’s betting slips. Merrily wondered if visitors were confined to the stripped-down kitchen so they wouldn’t clock his books or his CD collection or pictures of his kids.

  ‘I should’ve realized. The soundtrack of the Malverns. The obvious spirit of the place
.’

  ‘Maybe more obvious than you know,’ Spicer said. ‘Joseph Longworth, the quarry boss who built the church, as well as being a born-again Christian or however they put it in those days, was an Elgar fanatic. The church was built that size to accommodate an orchestra and choir able to perform the great man’s works. Elgar’s said to have attended the dedication.’

  ‘It’s all coming out, isn’t it?’

  ‘If Longworth could’ve called it St Edward’s he would have.’

  ‘But Elgar was a Catholic, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, he was,’ Spicer said, ‘and he wrote extensively for the Catholic Mass, as you … presumably heard. But, of course, his music was played in Anglican cathedrals, and cathedral sound was what Longworth was paying for.’

  ‘Sounds like he was getting it.’

  ‘Not for long. They held a few concerts here, but Longworth died and then Elgar died. And nothing much happened until Tim Loste arrived. Who thinks Elgar’s God. So this is becoming Elgar city again after many years. I’m sorry, maybe I should’ve told you.’

  ‘And should I have heard of Tim Loste in a wider context?’

  ‘Nah. Used to be a music teacher at Malvern College, now he’s a private tutor. Got an amateur choir drawn from miles around. At least, it started amateur; they’re making a bit of money now. From my point of view, the parish gets its cut, and if most of the music’s heavily Catholic, well…’

  ‘Fills the church.’

  ‘Yeah. Situation now is, we’ve a whole bunch of people in Wychehill and down the valley who’ve moved here solely because this is Elgar country. Listen to some of them, you start picking up this maudlin kind of patriotism. “Land of Hope and Glory.” Don’t you hate that song?’

  ‘Apparently, Elgar hated it, too,’ Lol said. ‘But then, he didn’t write the words.’

  Merrily glanced at him. She didn’t know he knew any more about Elgar than she did, which, frankly, was not much.

  ‘Let’s deal with the bottom line, Syd. Who’s saying the supposed presence is Elgar?’

  ‘Out loud, nobody. It’s one of those situations where an idea develops. Can I tell you why I’m not happy about it?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you about Tim. Good conductor, great teacher, they say … but would like to be a great composer and isn’t. Some part of him is deeply frustrated. He’s prone to depression. So this particular night he goes off the road, hits a telegraph pole. Nobody else involved, no injury, no need for police. Which was just as well, because Tim was pissed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Happened just across from the church. I heard the crash. I go over, help him out of the wreckage – this is about half-nine at night, month or so ago, getting dark. Bring him back here, administer the black coffee. He’s shaking all over. I was going down to Ledbury, he says, to buy a light bulb for my desk lamp. Trying to write, bulb blew. Going down to Ledbury for a light bulb – that tells you the state he was in. I’d’ve given him a bloody bulb, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Is he often … ?’

  ‘Drunk and incapable? Now and then. Couple of us had to go down the Oak one night, get him away from the bouncers. He’d broken a window. I didn’t tell you about the Oak, did I?’

  ‘I know about it.’

  ‘Naturally, Tim really hates the Royal Oak. A disruptive force sent to destroy his life’s work. Lost it completely one night when the wind changed and all this rap music … it kind of rises up and bounces off the hill. Anyway, that’s by the by: this crash was on a week night, and the Oak was quiet. Tim reckoned he’d just pulled out of his drive when he saw what he described as a dim and bleary light. When it got closer, he could see it was a bicycle lamp. He said.’

  ‘But he was drunk.’

  ‘Very. Anyway, the light’s some distance away at first. And then he said it was like he must’ve blacked out for about half a second – which doesn’t surprise me – and the next thing the cyclist is coming straight at him. He says he can make out what seems to be a high-buttoned jacket and a hat. And a big, dark slice across the face.’

  ‘Moustache.’

  ‘That’s the inference. And the eyes are white, according to Tim, like the eyes in a photo negative. Tim swerves, goes into the pole.’

  Spicer fell silent. In the fading light, he was very still, hadn’t moved since sitting down, didn’t seem to need to rearrange himself like most people, to find a comfortable position.

  ‘But how did he know it was Elgar?’ Lol said.

  ‘Mr Robinson, he’s got pictures of Elgar all over his walls, Elgar music seeping through the brickwork. Tim sees Elgar every-bloody-where. He’s … I like the guy, most people like him, but nobody’s gonna deny he’s well off his trolley. Planted an oak tree in his front garden. Have you seen the size of his front garden?’

  ‘And what did you do?’ Merrily said.

  ‘Sat him where you’re sitting now, told him to stay there. Rang a mate, runs a bodywork garage the other side of Colwall. Got him to bring his truck and get Tim’s car away before the police got word. If he’d lost his licence I think he’d have gone into a depression he might not have come out of easily. I said, Go home, get some sleep, Tim, and don’t even think of telling anybody what you just told me. As if.’

  Spicer snorted.

  ‘He did tell people?’ Merrily said.

  ‘He told Winnie Sparke. That was enough. The American lady? Winnie is Tim’s … protector. Nurtures his sensitive talents, knows about his problems. Find out about you very quickly, Americans, because they just ask. You have an alcohol problem, Tim? I have herbs for that.’

  ‘So it was Winnie Sparke who spread it around?’

  ‘Couldn’t’ve timed it better. There’s a retired geezer, Leonard Holliday. Been here about two years. Leonard’s chairman and secretary of WRAG – the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group. Committed to getting rid of Inn Ya Face and restoring the Royal Oak to the gentle hostelry where Elgar himself … it’s said that Elgar used to drop in for a pint of cider when he was staying at his summer cottage over at Birchwood. So, anyway, there was a meeting of Holliday’s action group to appoint a deputation to lobby the council. Somebody says what a pity we don’t have a celebrity living here, like some of the villages have. Holliday says, pity we don’t have someone like Sir Edward here any more. And Winnie says, You’re sure we don’t … ?’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  Merrily closed her eyes, suddenly quite deflated.

  It all made sense. A gift for a protest group, the idea of England’s greatest serious composer rising up from the grave against Raji Khan and his filthy jungle music.

  ‘When was this, Syd?’

  ‘The meeting was about ten days ago. Winnie Sparke says it just slipped out, but it couldn’t’ve worked better if she’d timed it. Sir Edward Elgar riding into battle on Mr Phoebus?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Elgar called his bike Mr Phoebus. Name of a Roman sun god.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I think, to be honest, Holliday was dithering a bit. On the one hand, it would get in all the papers, attract massive publicity to their cause. On the other – apologies, Merrily, but who really believes ghost stories? It could easily be the wrong kind of publicity. But then there was another accident.’

  ‘Mrs Cobham?’

  ‘Stella. Stella and Paul. Famous for their very loud rows. Stella’s little BMW roaring down the middle of the road after some fracas, practically spitting flames. Cyclist coming down the middle of the road. Stella swerves. Family of German tourists in a mobile home looking for their campsite. Bam.’

  ‘Anybody hurt?’

  ‘Bit of whiplash for Stella. And shock. Says she’d never believed in anything like that, until … I don’t think you’ll get any change out of her. Doesn’t like talking about it any more. Doesn’t want to get a reputation as … you know … a bit of a Winnie Sparke. Actually, Winnie’s much more intelligent.’

  ‘You do
n’t have many illusions about your flock, do you, Syd?’

  ‘I’m supposed to? I thought it was our job to lead them to God. Merrily, there is no flock. This is not a village, it’s a bunch of disconnected houses jammed into rock crevices.’

  ‘So what about you?’ Merrily said. ‘What would you like to happen?’

  ‘I’d like people to be sensible. I’d like Donald Walford to stop worrying about his daughter, Joyce Aird to get her Polo out of the garage again instead of having all her groceries delivered. Sounds insane, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not in an isolated community. I suppose a lot now depends on whether the driver of the Land Rover is claiming to have seen anything immediately prior to a crash that makes the other three look trivial.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spicer nodded slowly. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Has he said anything yet?’

  ‘Not to me. Not yet. But he’s chairman of the parish council. Which means he’ll be chairing tomorrow’s meeting. You got the message about that?’

  ‘It’s why I came back tonight. Do you think I should go and see Mr Devereaux now?’

  ‘Whatever he’s decided, you won’t change his mind.’

  ‘I don’t want to change his mind.’

  ‘Merrily.’ Spicer stood up. ‘With respect, if you’ve spoken to Joyce, I think you’ve done enough. She’s the one wants an exorcism of some kind. What we’ve done, by getting you in, is brought it all to a head. Wychehill’s split three ways: the ones who don’t believe any of it, the ones who want whatever it is exorcised because they’re afraid of what will happen next and … the Elgar fans.’

  Merrily thought about the American woman, Winnie Sparke. There’s something there that must never be parted, you know what I’m saying? Like, you can walk out on the hills at twilight and you can sense his nearness. It’s a strange and awesome thing.

  Sensing his nearness.

  Like Hannah Bradley who, quite reasonably, didn’t want it put around that she’d been been touched up, from the other side of the grave, by England’s most distinguished composer.