by Phil Rickman
‘The Glades?’ Lol smiled. ‘I used to know somebody there. How do you mean, fond of the meadow?’
‘Used t’ be a bench near the gate, and her’d go and sit there sometimes on a nice day. Peaceful place, nobody disturbed her. That was all I remembered, but after Jane come over the other night, I went to see an ole boy name of Harold Wescott. Know him?’
Lol shook his head. Gomer pinched the ciggy from between his lips with his thumb and forefinger.
‘Gotter be over ninety, now, has Harold, but still got his own house. Can’t tell you what he had off the meals-on-wheels yesterday, but you wanner know about anything happened in Ledwardine fifty year ago, he’s your man. Anyway, Harold, he knowed Maggie Pole pretty well, and he remembers her was real careful who her let the meadow out to, for grass. Wouldn’t have no overgrazin’, no ploughin’ up. Said it was a piece o’ history.’
‘Did she?’
‘Don’t get too excited, boy, wasn’t nothin’ to do with ley lines, far as Harold knows. ’Fact, he didn’t know nothin’ about ley lines. Not many of the old folks does. That was harchaeology – not for the likes of we.’
‘So why was the meadow a piece of history?’
‘Dunno. Harold reckoned it was Maggie’s mother used to go on about it. Maggie’s dad, ole Cyril Pole, he was a bit of a rough bugger, but her ma was a lady – real cultured, read books, had her own wind-up gramophone. Point is, Harold Wescott says Maggie told him her ma always said Coleman’s Meadow wasn’t to be touched.’
‘And it … you’re saying it was left to Maggie Pole on that basis?’
‘Sure t’be. But things get forgot, ennit? No kids, see, Maggie, never married, so that’s why it all went to the nephew and the niece. Niece got the money, this Murray had the ground.’
‘Did anybody else know the meadow wasn’t to be touched? Could be important, don’t you think?’
Gomer put the last inch of ciggy into his mouth, took a puff.
‘Hard to say, boy. Been all overgrown, round there, see, for a good while, since the orchard started goin’ to rot. Hell, aye, I’m sure some folks knowed, over the years, but mabbe they thought it best kept quiet about, like all these things. I’ll keep askin’ around. Where’s Janie now?’
‘My place. Should be at school, really, but she’s hiding from the papers and the TV. Not so sure any more that she’s got it right, you know? What are people saying in the village?’
‘Hippie thing,’ Gomer said. ‘That’s what they’re sayin’, boy. Sorry.’
Figured. In this area, the antique term hippie applied to any incomer of relatively unconventional appearance who couldn’t afford a luxury executive home.
‘What about the housing scheme, the loss of the field, the view of Cole Hill?’
‘Don’t affect many folks, see. They’ll do bugger-all, ’less it affects them personal. You listens to ’em, spoutin’ off in the shop…’
‘What are they saying about Jane?’
‘Leave it, Lol. These is just folks as don’t know the girl. Not like what we does.’
‘No, come on … what are they saying?’
Gomer squeezed his ciggy out.
‘They’re just ignorant people with too much time.’
‘Gomer … ?’
‘Ah … sayin’ it’s no wonder her’s goin’ off the rails when her … when her ma en’t around half the time. And no wonder Janie’s livin’ in a bit of a fantasy world when the vicar spends her time chasin’ things as don’t exist.’
‘Instead of looking after the parish.’
‘Ar, more or less. Sorry, boy, but you assed.’
35
Three Choirs
Walking down the lane towards the church, Merrily tried Lol’s number again. Still engaged. Tried his mobile and Jane’s. Both switched off. Left a message that just said, in a voice which she hoped did not sound over-hysterical, ‘The Guardian?’
She’d asked Stella Cobham if they happened to take the Guardian. They didn’t.
She replayed the message from Amanda Patel of BBC Midlands Today, watching Mrs Aird leaving the church with a shopping bag, crossing the road and becoming gradually shorter as if she was sinking into the green verge on the other side. Wychehill people disappearing into their homes like rabbits into burrows.
There were now six more messages on the machine about Jane: BBC Hereford and Worcester, Central News, Daily Mail, Hereford Times, Hereford Journal. And a clipped and icy Robert Morrell, school director, Moorfield.
‘Mrs Watkins, perhaps you can call me, ASAP.’
No wonder the bloody kid was out early. Merrily walked into the churchyard. Where, for heaven’s sake, was she going to get a Guardian in Wychehill? She was recognizing the onset of a cold sweat when a seventh message was delivered by a voice like suede and sounding close enough to lick her ear.
‘Mrs Watkins. Khan.’
Quite a long pause, as if Mr Khan was used to people dashing to disable their answering machines and pick up once they knew it was him. And then he said, ‘Call me back, would you?’ A patina of impatience. ‘I’m in my Kidderminster office.’
She plucked half a pencil and a cigarette packet from her shoulder bag and sat down on the steps of the Longworth tomb to write down the number. No hurry to call him back. It was probably going to be a courtesy call, apologizing for bothering him. Any requiem now was likely to be a cosmetic exercise.
She ought to call Morrell. At least he’d be able to tell her what was in the Guardian. On the other hand, if she revealed to Morrell that she didn’t know, what was that going to look like?
Leaning her head into the still-cool shadow of the stovelike tomb Merrily found herself staring up into the grotesque inverted rictus of the Angel of the Agony.
Purgatory. I think we can deal with purgatory right here, Winnie Sparke had said.
How true that was.
It’s as good as over. Directing this thought at the Angel of the Agony. I expect you know all about being burdened with crap.
She’d knocked on Hannah Bradley’s door. No answer. Probably one of her days at the Tourist Office in Ledbury. The mountain bike wasn’t around. If Stella had lied and Loste was delusional, how likely was it that Hannah had told her the truth?
But she’d been so convincing. It had been like a breath of pure air. Who could you trust?
Merrily stared at the writing on the tomb.
‘ALL HOLY ANGELS PRAY FOR HIM
CHOIRS OF THE RIGHTEOUS PRAY FOR HIM.’
So the quarry owner, Joseph Longworth, had seen an invented angel in a blaze of light and built a huge and costly church?
Wondering if Tim Loste’s choir was praying for him, she heard not prayer but laughter and, peering around the tomb, saw two people walking into the church drive.
One of them was Winnie Sparke in her long, pale, flimsy dress. Winnie was laughing, her good and abundant hair thrown back.
Merrily slid down behind the tomb.
The man with Sparke was a very big man. Overweight, but with the height, almost, to carry it. Wide-shouldered, wearing a flannely sort of shirt outside his trousers. His dark hair was long and brushed back, and he had a moustache – not Lord Lucan, not Freddie Mercury, but a wide, black, muscular kind of moustache, like the one on the face on the back of a twenty-pound note.
Jane had washed her face; her eyes were bright but a little wild.
‘I can’t find the printer.’
‘Haven’t got one.’
Lol shut the front door and, for some paranoid reason, barred it. Although Church Street was deserted, there would be eyes at windows. This was Ledwardine.
‘Lol … you’ve got a laptop but no printer?’
‘Just an oversight. I’ll get one sometime.’
‘Jeez.’ Jane stood up. ‘Did you see anybody?’
‘Gomer. The fence guys’ve gone now. Gomer’s not sure what’s happening there either, but he does know a lot of people.’
‘He’s still on our side, though?
’
‘Jane, this is Gomer Parry. Anybody rung?’
‘Bloke called Dan. Friend of Prof Levin’s. I said you’d call him back. Then I had to go on-line. You ought to get broadband.’
‘Don’t use it enough. What did you find?’
‘I was going to print it out when you got back, but under the circs I’d better give you the basics.’
Lol sat down on the sofa. Jane had the laptop on the desk, with a curtain half-drawn.
‘Wychehill Church. Dedicated to St Dunstan, who’s one of the patron saints of music. He was Bishop of Glastonbury in the eleventh century, and he played the harp or something. But the church was only dedicated in the 1920s. Built in the Victorian Gothic style by Joseph Longworth, quarry owner, after his conversion which – get this – was said to have followed a visionary experience on the hill.’
‘What kind of visionary experience?’
‘Haven’t been able to find out. This was a boring ecclesiastical website, mainly dates and architectural features. All it says is that Longworth was stricken with remorse at the damage his quarrying had done to what he now realized was “holy ground”. And so he went to Little Malvern Priory and prayed for forgiveness and was subsequently directed to this spot.’
‘By God?’
‘That’s all it says about that. But something must’ve directed him because when he got there he found the remains of what was described as “a single-cell rectangular building” which was thought to be a monk’s cell or a hermit’s sanctuary.’
‘Next to the road?’
‘There wasn’t a road there in those days, just a quarry track, and that was a few hundred yards away, so the road must’ve been put in later, probably after Longworth was dead. So he built his church on top of the foundations of the single-cell rectangular building – you could get away with that kind of thing in those days. It says he built a church big enough to take a full choir and orchestra.’
‘Interesting.’
‘And then he built the rectory and houses for the church warden and the choirmaster. And then other people built houses there, as the Malverns had become fairly sought-after with the spa and everything. So Longworth is actually credited with establishing what is now considered to be Wychehill. Lol – is all this anything to do with that guy getting his throat cut on the Beacon?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ Lol said. ‘It’s a holistic world.’
‘You want me to keep searching?’
‘No, give it a rest. I’ll ring this bloke. Thanks, Jane.’
‘Took my mind off things a bit.’ Jane closed the laptop. ‘Feel like a … fugitive.’
‘We’ll deal with it.’
‘It’s not your problem.’
‘I suppose I’d like to think it was,’ Lol said.
‘Sorry.’ Jane smiled. A strained kind of smile. ‘I’d be honoured to be your problem. Especially if you can restrain Mum.’
Dan turned out to be the choir guy and he lived up near the Frome Valley, which was presumably how he came to know Prof Levin. He also knew…
‘Lol Robinson! I was at your concert at The Courtyard. Amazing. Shit hot. I mean it, man. A comeback in the truest sense.’
‘Well … thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Best tenor in these parts, me,’ Dan said. ‘But I’d give it all away for a croak if I could write songs like you. Seriously, I’d rather be in a band – Robert Plant, or something, big-voice stuff – but if you’ve got the finest tenor in Much Cowarne you’re expected to use it. Cross to bear, man. On the plus side, you get to work with some unexpectedly wild people.’
‘Tim Loste?’
‘Yeah.’ Dan’s voice came down like he’d been unplugged. ‘Prof told me. It’s crazy, man. You look at Tim Loste, you think, yeah, wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night in a back alley. You talk to Tim Loste … no way. With a knife? Utterly out of the question. Problem is, the police talk to him … different wavelengths, you know?’
‘Can you tell me a bit about his … wavelength?’
‘Oh man, I could bend your ear for hours about Lostie. Only, I’m still in the choir, in a loose way, so none of this came from me, right?’
‘Count on it.’
‘Well, it’s a big choir. The Loste boys – and girls. Drawn from maybe a fifty-mile radius. And you don’t have to totally love Elgar, but it helps. Me, I like him better than I used to – when you’re born in this area, you get the guy shoved down your throat from an early age. You live in Elgar Country. It’s an honour. Yeah, thanks.’
‘So you sang at Wychehill Church?’
‘St Timothy’s. As we call it. Acoustics are amazing. The quarry tycoon who had it built … Longthorne? You know that story?’
‘Longworth?’
‘That’s the man. Venerated Elgar, saw himself as like Gerontius, from the oratorio, an ordinary man who’d sinned a bit, and now he’s facing the final judgement and he’s shitting himself. So the guy builds a bloody church. Stairway to heaven or what?’
‘A very big church designed for sacred music.’
‘I think he wanted to buy into the Three Choirs.’
‘Right. That would be The Three Choirs Festival? Gloucestershire, Worcestershire and Herefordshire?’
‘Oldest fest of its kind in the country. Dates back to about 1700. But it’s a cathedral thing, mainly, so I don’t suppose Wychehill was much involved. The road wouldn’t’ve been much more than a quarry track in those days. But it obsesses Tim. I don’t get too close, to be honest, you get … roped into stuff, and for every one that works there’s a lot of time-wasters. He’s inclined to exploit people – fair enough, he is a bit inspirational, and the women fancy him, not that they can get too close with the Witch of Endor around.’
‘Winnie?’
‘Spooky.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Just is. She gets the ideas. There was one where we were divided into groups of twelve, and Tim fixed up for us to use three different churches – Wychehill, Little Malvern Priory and St Bart’s at Redmarley D’Abitot. We had to go to these separate churches and sing a set programme at the same time. I copped for Little Malvern – the parish church now, it is – and we had mobile phones connected with Tim and Winnie at Wychehill. And he’d give the word, and we’d all start singing simultaneously.’
‘Singing what?’
‘Gregorian chant, to start off, the warm-up. Then Elgar’s Kyrie Eleison. These solid C of E establishments reverting to their Catholic roots. Strange at first but quite … moving. The other thing I remember is how weird it felt, but I don’t dwell on these things.’
‘Weird how?’
‘I dunno … unexpectedly exciting, really. We did it by candlelight – that was Winnie’s idea, too. Dunno whether you know the Priory church, but it’s quite small and narrow. And it was, you know, quite a thrilling experience. I was a bit cynical about the whole idea at first, taking the piss, as you do, but … I’d do it again tomorrow, I mean it, I’d travel a long way to do it.’
Dan sounded like he’d surprised himself, saying that. Lol waited. He was fascinated. He sometimes thought about playing in a church, not in some dumb happy-clappy band, but … he didn’t know; he just wanted, sometimes, to put himself into a situation where his music might find a different level.
‘It was the things that were happening in my head,’ Dan said. ‘And my whole body, really. A vibration going through you, like wiring, and it’s like different parts of you are lighting up in sequence. Can’t explain it. I mean, all right, the chant usually gives you a bit of a lift. But this time the interconnectedness thing … it wasn’t just three churches coming together, it was like being inside a big … orb of sound. Like we’d broken through to another place. I mean it. More than that, really, I … bugger me, I sound like I’d taken something, don’t I?’
‘Why those particular churches?’
‘Well, Tim never explained, he never does. He’s an inarticulate bugger at the best o
f times; you think if he could talk in notes and chords, instead of words, he would, you know? They say he was a useless teacher. But we worked it out, kind of. Comes down to the three churches being in the Three Counties – Wychehill in Herefordshire, Little Malvern Priory in Worcestershire and Redmarley D’Abitot in Gloucestershire. So what he’d done, he’d assembled his own Three Counties choir … the Three Counties united in sacred chant. Weird.’
‘And he never tells you what’s behind all this?’
‘Not talked about, Lol. We’re all a bit funny about that kind of thing, en’t we? One woman – this is just one woman, mind, and I don’t know her very well, but she was white as a sheet when we come out. Said that when we were doing the Mass, she seen like a figure, up at the altar. Tall hat. Well, a bishop’s mitre. And he’s standing there with his arms raised. Like … like a bishop, I suppose. She was pretty shocked, but it might’ve been just the state we were all in.’
‘This happened when you were singing music from the Mass – Elgar’s music?’
‘Well, yeah, but I later found out there was a famous photo taken in there where you’re supposed to be able to see the ghostly shape of a bishop with his crozier. So she may’ve come back down with that in her head. You’re a bit high with the singing and you find you’re focused on the same spot that you’ve seen in the picture, and it’s all candlelit. When she told us, she wasn’t frightened exactly, it was more white with awe. And I remember thinking, Yeah, we woke him up, and he’s celebrating the Mass. And suddenly the idea of celebrating the Mass made sense to me for the first time.’
‘Well,’ Lol said. ‘Thanks.’
‘You should write a song about him,’ Dan said.
36
The Dream
Stashing away the notebook and the phone and shouldering her bag, Merrily walked directly over. But Winnie was already blocking the porch, her hands out, long nails, and her eyes almost black in the full sunlight.
‘No way.’
‘They let him go?’
‘I’m asking you, Merrily, with civility, to back off.’