by Alan Garner
“Genesis thirteen.”
“How do I know?” she said.
“It’s carved on the screen right in front of you.”
“I love you,” she said, “and this cake’s good.”
“Tom’s a-cold.”
“Fancy warming this church for nobody,” said Tom. “I bet it’s empty all week.”
“Pick up your crumbs. The church is warmed for somebody—us.”
“Space, peace and you,” said Tom. “That’s all I ask.”
“Here we are.”
“But we’ll have to go soon.”
“It’ll still be here.”
“Can we come next time?”
“Not if we have to cross those sidings!”
“Can we come? It’s so big, and quiet, and we can talk. No fuss. Together.”
“I’d like it.”
“What about Christmas?”
“I’ve volunteered for duty. The girls chip in a bit if someone doesn’t mind staying. It lessens the odds for them. We might be able to have an extra day on it.”
“But no presents. Every penny goes towards this. Right?”
“Right. And Mow Cop.”
“If we can.”
A door opened, and air moved in the church, making small sounds that echoed.
“Who’s this?” said Tom. “Saint Bert?”
The Rector, tall, thin, silver-haired, small in the emptiness, walked down the aisle. He stopped when he saw Tom and Jan.
“Good—afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” said Jan.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting in your church,” said Tom.
“Ah. Good.”
“Is it all right? I mean, are we interrupting?”
“No. No. Not at all.” The Rector’s voice was mild, but his face was red.
“I’m sorry if we made you jump,” said Tom.
“What were you doing?”
“Talking.”
“Ah.”
“Aren’t you used to finding people here?”
“I suppose it’s in order,” said the Rector. “Talking: yes. You were talking—”
“Yes, we were,” said Jan.
“Ah.”
“We were sitting quietly, talking.” Jan’s voice rose.
“A problem nowadays—”
“Who is?”
“We were very impressed by the water stoup by the North Door,” said Tom. “And the tympanum on the exterior of the chancel.”
The Rector looked at Tom as if for the first time.
“But, if I may say so, the execution of the Flight into Egypt on the south panel of the altar is one of the finest pieces of Tudor carving in my experience. The vernacular detail is delightful. I would hazard a guess that the font cover is of the same period.”
“What is your college?” said the Rector. “Mine is Caius.”
“I haven’t gone up yet,” said Tom. “It’s a choice between three at the moment.”
“Ah.”
“I notice that you keep the South Chapel locked,” said Tom. “We were hoping to examine the Fulleshurst monuments.”
“Well, you see, one has such problems these days,” said the Rector. “I’m afraid the keys are at the Rectory. Perhaps next time.”
“Of course,” said Tom.
“Do call.”
“We shall.”
“Would it disturb you if I said Evensong?”
“Not at all.”
“You’re welcome to participate.”
“I’m afraid we have to go very shortly.”
“Perhaps another time.” said the Rector. He genuflected to the east, and began to address the church from the chancel steps.
“When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.
“Dearly beloved—”
Tom and Jan left the church.
“They always make it dirty! They always try!” Jan stamped up and down outside at the foot of the tower. “They always try to make it dirty! I even feel dirty!”
Tom comforted her. “No. He was a bit thrown when he found there was a congregation.”
“Always!—And what was that you baffled him with, for Christ’s sake?”
“Please don’t use words loosely,” said Tom, and held her as her exasperation flared. “It was just an academic trick. Jargon.”
“But how did you know all that?”
“I flipped through the pamphlet on the table as we went in.”
“He thought! He did! He thought we—!”
“He doesn’t now,” said Tom. “Which is all that matters. He doesn’t equate architecture with immorality.”
“We weren’t being immoral!”
“I know,” said Tom. “And now he knows.”
“You’re always so tolerant with strangers. Even that furniture salesman. You savage the people near you.”
“Perhaps it’s to do with open scholarships and closed caravans.”
They left Barthomley, and walked back to Crewe by road. It was dark when they reached the town.
“I’m sorry I blew my top,” said Jan. “It’s not spoilt the church for us, has it?”
“Of course it hasn’t.”
The library was still open. Tom went to the reference section and found the tithe map. Hardly any of Crewe had been built when it was drawn, and he was able to trace the line of a path crossing the fields.
“There’s the river, and the cobbled tunnel’s a road, see, going to that square which has the houses backing on it now. Look, it used to be the yard to Oak Farm.”
“Nothing else in sight. Out in the wilds. And now.”
“I told you the path was special.”
“It all was.”
“Even the sidings.”
“Especially the sidings!”
“I’ve had a marvellous birthday,” Tom said at the barrier.
“Hello, then.”
“Hello.”
John came up to relieve Randal Hassall on the tower.
“Where are they?”
“There’s fires, across from Basford, and coming this way.”
“If my father’s right, they could be nearer,” said John. “We’ve pulled everybody in, so if they’re not burning empty dwellings they could be nearer.”
“You’re not going bloody soft, are you?”
“No. We stick. After Oak Farm—”
“Good lad.”
“Eat something,” said John. “There’s beef ready.”
“We could smell it. That stair’s like a bloody chimney.”
“Send Dick to relieve Thomas in an hour.”
Randal moved his head, as if he wanted to speak. Thomas was leaning over the tower wall, his musket aimed.
“What?” said John.
“Him. He’s quiet. Not a bloody word. He’s not shifted since I don’t know when. Reckons he’s taking on a bloody army, by the looks of him.”
“He’d like to be some help. Leave him.”
“He’s neither use nor ornament. I’d watch that one.”
“I shall.”
“I’ll go and have baggin, then.”
“Let me know if I’m wanted.”
“Never sweat,” said Randal, as he went down. “You can’t be everywhere. There’s many another day at the back of Mow Cop.”
Thomas jerked. “Eh?”
John smiled at him. “No need to look out all the time,” he said. “We’ll likely hear them before we see them.”
They watched the smoke above Crewe.
“You’re not vexed?”
“At you?”
Thomas nodded.
“Why should I be?”
“I was wrong road round, wasn’t I?”
“Were you? I thought it was pretty clever to be guarding the east side as well. You could save us from a sneak attack.”
“That’s right.”
“One thing, though. You we
re a bit obvious. A good soldier uses cover better. Is your musket primed?”
“Yes, John.”
“Then point it somewhere else, and not at me.”
“Yes, John.”
“Randal says you weren’t talking.”
“I wasn’t. I was thinking. Lots.”
“Ay?”
Thomas squatted below the wall. He was silent.
“Is anything the matter?” said John.
“No.”
“Would you like to go to Margery?”
“I can do sentry same as the best!”
“Where’s the thunderstone?”
“I give it her before I come up.”
“You seem out of sorts.”
“I’m all right.”
“Why keep watching Mow Cop?”
“I don’t! I don’t!”
“Thomas! Put your musket down! Now! Thomas!”
The musket slid against the tower.
“I’m all right. I’m not badly.”
John went to him.
“I’m not badly.”
“What’s to do, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me about nothing. I may be able to help.”
“Happen.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve wet me.”
“Couldn’t you—?”
“No. I was that scared, and sudden like, and frit—”
“We’re all scared,” said John.
“But I thought I was scared for Madge. But I wasn’t. I’m scared for me. And I think so much on her. She’s so good.”
“You love her.”
“I do.”
“Then don’t be scared. You’ve had luck today, finding the thunderstone. Even if the Irish come, and things go wrong, you’ll be all right. You’re nothing to do with me.”
“She’ll not leave. I’ll not leave you.”
“You’ll not be foolish. You’ll get away safe. You’ve no children.”
“That’s not my fault! I know what they’re saying! It’s not true!”
“You’ll have them when you’re ready.”
“We will!”
“You’re both fit.”
“I wish I was badly.”
“Why?”
“Then I’d be out of it. I’d not know.”
“Margery would. You’d be leaving her.”
Thomas sucked his sleeve.
“What’s it like when you’re badly?”
“I can’t remember. Sometimes.”
“What do you see?”
“How did you know?”
“Guessed.”
“It’s not real, what I see, when I’m badly.”
“What isn’t?”
“And colours: all them blues and whites: and sounds.”
“What?”
“Noises.”
“Do you hear words?”
“Not proper. I can’t say. It’s just before, when I’ve got to lie down quick, or else. Sounds. All sorts. Echoes backwards.”
“What do they mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you see anything?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What?”
“Nothing real.”
“But what?”
“I don’t know. They don’t have names, don’t these. I make them up. I see a face.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it God?”
“Eh?”
“Do you see God?”
“How should I know? I’ve never.”
“Tell me about the face.”
“It’s scared. It scares me. He’s caught. He sees he’s caught. I know him, but I can’t tell where. Happen it’s through being badly. I think I’ve seen him that many times. But I know all about him. Is it me?”
“I don’t understand you,” said John.
“Is it me? Is it me? Is it me? Is it me?”
“Thomas!”
“Is it me?” He shouted at the hills, as if they threatened him. “Is it?”
“Why were you watching Mow Cop when I came up?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Are you more scared of Mow Cop than of the Irish? Is it Thomas Venables you see?”
“Shut your trap, John Fowler.”
“Is it Venables?”
Thomas had lost all his colour.
“He joined the army, didn’t he?” said John. “So how can he be up Mow Cop?”
Thomas flailed at him, but there was no control, like a child, and John held him off with one hand. The unaimed fists swung beneath his long arm. He waited for the fury to be spent.
She came from behind, from the stair, and hit John with the full force of her body, back-handed, across the face. Thomas dropped, and she knelt, holding him.
John looked at her, trying to smile.
“How interesting—”
But her eyes were open like a cat’s.
“I hope I live to see your coffin walk,” she said.
He dared not speak again, but turned from them down the stone spiral, into the dark of the tower.
“What shall we do today?” said Jan.
“Come and see,” said Tom. He led her round the corner from the station. Two bicycles were propped against a street lamp.
“The world’s our oyster,” he said.
“How did you manage it?”
“Easy. Well, luck and a bit of cheek. I was taking back the watering can my father borrows from Mr. Hulse, and I saw Lay-by Lil’s bike outside her caravan. She hardly ever uses it: so I asked. I’ve said I’ll paint her fence for her in the spring.”
“But how’ve you got it here?”
“Ridden one-handed.”
“In this cold?”
“What’s frostbite between friends?”
“All that way? For me?”
“For us,” said Tom. “Barthomley?”
They set off. Jan cranked the rusted pedals. “I oiled what I could,” said Tom. “It needs running in.”
“You need running in. You’re not safe loose!”
Tom was so much taller than his mother’s bicycle that he rode bow-legged. “You mean the velocipede?” He began to slap the road with his feet, in long, scissored strides. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“You ass!”
“Observe the effect of one asspower!” He straightened his legs, slid, and swung the bicycle off the ground. “It’s the dual braking system.”
“It must’ve been agony, riding these to Crewe.”
“Never noticed. How’re you doing?”
“Anything’s better than having to cross that railway again.”
“Did you realise that Basford sidings are two hundred and fifty metres across? I’ve checked on the Ordnance Survey. I’d no idea.”
“I had, by the time you’d finished!”
“Do you want my gloves?”
“No, mine are OK.”
They progressed.
“I forgot,” said Jan. “Happy New Year.”
“And a Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks for the card. Did you get mine?”
“No.”
“I sent one.”
“I thought you hadn’t.”
“Love, I’m sorry—”
“I wasn’t bothered. I thought you were saving. It must’ve got lost in the post.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” said Tom.
The church was quiet and empty. It was warm, smelt of oak and stone. Any noises from outside were made distant.
“I told you it’d still be here,” said Jan. “Nothing changes.”
“People do.”
“Or your attitude towards them.”
“That’s perceptive.”
“You condescending prig!” Jan laughed.
“Agreed. I’m too happy to argue. So if you’ve any complaints, now’s the opportunity.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes. Why
? Have you?”
“One.”
“What is it?”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about us—I mean the real, private us.”
“Who with?”
“Your parents.”
“I don’t.”
“I get letters from your mother: and she mentions what we’ve said.”
“How? She can’t. I never talk about us.”
“She knows about here. Barthomley.”
“She can’t.”
“She does. When I made that crack about the Rector.”
“What crack?”
“In my letter. When I said he’d made the same mistakes about us as your parents did. I said she was a victim of hormones and circumstance. Was it necessary to tell her, just to score? Was it worth it?”
“Listen. I’m going mad or something. I’ve had three letters. Three. In two months.”
“I write every week,” said Jan. “You’ve not had them?”
He shook his head.
“Your mother’s been opening my letters? Keeping them?”
He nodded.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m glad we’re here,” said Tom. “I need this place. Do I look normal?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve gone berserk. Can you tell? It needs a church. Hold me.”
Jan cradled him. “Let it go,” she said. “Let it go into the stone.”
Tom screamed, and tried to stop.
“Let it go.”
He was still. The church settled round them.
“They gave me a special present,” said Tom. “For Christmas. For scholarships. For being good. It’s a cassette player, with cans. They’ve been saving up. They’ve been trying to understand.”
“You mustn’t despise them. They can’t widen their vision to include yours.”
“The trouble is they’re not in a textbook.”
“It’s happening everywhere,” said Jan. “Mum and Dad spend their lives picking up the pieces.”
“Fine. Great. Lovely field experiment, this.”
“Don’t.”
“You tell them from me, it’s cold on the dissecting table.”
“Tom—”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wax somewhat Draconian, the way I’m feeling right now.”
“They don’t mean to harm.”
“That’s the trouble. Hey, you know what the loving slobs did? They bought me the player—and no cassettes.”
“Oh, no!”
They both laughed and were appalled.
“So what happens?”
“I lie there, pretending. They’re more comfortable than the cans I used for work.”
“Hasn’t your father realised?”