The Moonlit Door

by Deryn Lake

‘Evening,’ said the vicar, but there was no reply, just a general quiet.

  Nick stole a look at his companion and knew at once that there was something not quite right. He guessed at autism or some similar mental disorder.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

  This time he was rewarded by a glance from a pair of eyes, ice blue in colour. The man nodded and turned his head in Nick’s direction and the smell of old, sour alcohol hit him head on.

  ‘Will you be staying here long?’ the vicar asked politely.

  For answer, Dickie got to his feet and began a low, rumbling song which the vicar vaguely recognized. His grandmother had sung it, accompanying herself on the piano, and it was entitled ‘Come to the fair’.

  To say that Nick was nonplussed would have been to understate the case, yet there was something lovely and rural and jolly about the fact that an autistic man was on his feet, singing. For no reason that he could possibly state, Nick stood up and joined in, humming along when the words failed him. He felt rather than saw Daft Dickie Donkin’s approval. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Dickie turned and shuffled off in the direction of the pub’s outdoor lavatory. At least the question about sanitary arrangements was answered. Nick, in a better frame of mind, went back into the Great House.

  The Tuesday club were agog.

  ‘Well, Vicar, did you see him off?’

  ‘I didn’t try to. He’s a perfectly harmless, friendly soul. He uses the outdoor lavatory and does not leave litter lying about. But I don’t think he likes company much and I expect he will move on tonight. There, does that satisfy you, gentlemen?’

  There was a half-hearted shuffle of feet.

  ‘I think it best that he was spoken to by somebody in an official capacity,’ said the bank manager who looked like Captain Mainwaring.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ murmured one or two voices.

  ‘Well, now I’ve done my Christian duty, I think I’ll leave you to your crosswords. Forgive me, gentlemen, but I want to make the tramp the subject of my next sermon, so I’d better get on with it.’

  As the door of the Great House closed behind him, he heard someone say, ‘Odd fish, that one.’

  ‘Doesn’t quite fit in.’

  Grinning broadly, Nick headed purposefully towards the warmth of the vicarage.

  THREE

  After a certain amount of deliberation the organizing committee of the forthcoming Medieval Fair had decided to make it a two-day event. At the urging of the Reverend Nick Lawrence it had been advertised widely, a considerable sum of money being laid out on bright, colourful posters which announced that it was going to be genuinely ancient with displays of archery and unrivalled morris dancing, together with stalls, pedlars and a fortune teller. These flyers had been distributed almost throughout the county with the help of determined folk driving great distances and pinning them to noticeboards. The die was cast. It was to be a two-day stint.

  ‘Provided that we get sunny weather, of course. But with your help, Father Nick, that’s a forgone conclusion,’ said Mrs Ivy Bagshot, with a conspiratorial smile.

  Nick had wondered how he was so supposed to perform the miracle but guessed that he was probably meant to have a direct line through to the Almighty.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied in his customary manner, grinning cheerfully and looking reasonably confident. But within he questioned, as he did so often, whether God would bother with the minutiae of the Lakehurst fête or whether He was more concerned with problems more profound. Whatever the answer, he still sent a small, meek prayer for the weather to be fine as he walked into the Great House two days before the event.

  Dr Kasper Rudniski, the latest addition to the stable of doctors who served the community, was still regarded as a new boy, despite having been in Lakehurst nearly four years. Nick had arrived in the village shortly after the doctor and the two of them had formed the sort of bond that strangers in a new environment frequently do. Now he was pleased to see the Polish man as he walked into the Great House.

  ‘Hello, Kasper. Haven’t seen you in a while.’

  ‘No, we have a doctor off sick and I have been covering her duties.’

  ‘Poor soul. Will you have time to come to our Medieval Fair?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Are you having a maypole?’

  ‘Yes. And hopefully pretty little children dancing round. Which reminds me, I’ve got the task of going to the school and getting a list of their names and who will be taking them to the field. I rather dread it, in a way.’

  ‘Why? They’re only kids.’

  ‘I know, Kasper, I know. But they stare at me with unsmiling faces and I try to be jolly but they don’t laugh at my jokes.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s sad. You’re a vicar and you don’t know how to handle children.’

  Nick gave a sloping grin. ‘I know. It’s pathetic. But they scare me stiff.’

  ‘You should go for hypnosis.’

  ‘I think perhaps I will.’

  ‘When is this terrible event to take place?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Just after break time. They will file into their classroom to be greeted by me.’

  ‘What a treat,’ said Kasper, and smiled sweetly as he ordered a round.

  Yet Nick felt genuinely nervous as he walked the short distance between the pub and the vicarage. Letting himself in, he told himself not to be idiotic as the smell of old wood and log fires greeted him, followed by the familiar feel of Radetsky, his cat, stropping round his ankles. After all, they were only children and he would give them a short talk on the origins of the maypole – omitting the fact that it was a phallic symbol and the dances round it were exuberant expressions of fertility. Very like the carol sung on the church roof on May Day, which Jack Boggis was still maintaining was an invention of the socialists.

  Nick had just settled down to watch television when there was a knock at the vicarage door. Putting on a smile, he went to answer it. The leader of the group of morris dancers known as Mr Grimm’s Men stood in the entrance.

  ‘Good evening, Vicar. I was visiting a friend in West Street and thought I would call just to check a few facts with you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in, come in.’

  ‘Nice old place you have here. I thought most vicarages were a bit modern and dreary.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I was very lucky to get it, I can tell you. You’ve seen a few of them, then?’

  ‘The group gets called upon for the odd village fête, so I have visited one or two, yes.’

  ‘Well, Mr O’Hare, do sit down. Would you like a glass of wine? How can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, please. And it’s about what you want us to do at the fair.’

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you could mingle with the crowd when you’re not dancing.’

  ‘That should be all right. As long as we can mingle in the beer tent.’

  ‘Some of the time, certainly. But if you could chat up the visitors a bit? We’re hoping that one or two will come in costume.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky.’

  Perhaps because he was tired or perhaps there was something slightly odd about O’Hare but Nick was finding it difficult to make conversation. He was trying to think of something to say to the strange young man, with his peroxide hair and his pointy green eyes, when Chris spoke.

  ‘Do you come from Sussex, Vicar?’

  ‘No, I was actually born in Dorset. But my father’s family lived in the west of the county.’

  ‘We’re all Sussex men – or should it be men of Sussex? – in the dance troop. That’s how we got our name.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow.’

  ‘Mr Grimm is old Sussex slang for the Devil.’

  Nick stared, not quite sure how to answer, then said, ‘Is it a joke?’

  ‘Apparently not. Back in the 1500s when the group was originally formed, it had for its leader, one Thomas Hennfield, who was supposedly in league with Mr Grimm. The story goes th
at he fancied a girl called Alison Fairbrother but that she would have nothing to do with him. She was betrothed to someone else and was not interested. To cut a long story short, Thomas sold his soul to the Devil and Mr Grimm promptly removed his rival and Alison married Tom and had fourteen children. True or false, that’s the story.’

  ‘Rather a creepy tale.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And you’ve kept the name all these years?’

  ‘When the group was reformed post-World War II, it was decided to keep the old title, despite its demonic connections. And it hasn’t done us any harm. It usually causes a chuckle amongst the people who know what it means.’

  ‘Well thank you for telling me, Mr O’Hare …’

  ‘Chris, please.’

  ‘Chris. It’s a very interesting piece of folklore.’

  ‘It is indeed. But there are some people who say that Mr Grimm is still practising his wicked ways in Sussex.’

  ‘Do they indeed? Well, I’ll just have to make it my mission to prove them wrong, won’t I?’

  Chris O’Hare made no answer but stared, eyes glinting, into his glass of wine.

  Dickie Donkin loved walking in the woods at night. He liked listening to the sharp, cracking sounds made by the creatures as they moved from one place to another, foraging for food and hunting, or the great swishing of wings as the owls hovered over a poor wee mouse before gobbling it up. Every note that came from the forest sounded to his ears like a rustic rhapsody, a great harmonious burst of sound, and he was grateful to whatever it was that had turned him into a nightwalker so that he could enjoy alone this vast melodic symphony.

  Standing by himself in a little clearing, thrilling to the great music he could hear, he put his head back and sang his appreciation:

  All through the night there’s a little brown bird singing

  Singing in the hush of the darkness and the dew

  Would that his song through the stillness could go winging—

  He broke off abruptly as a different noise came like the sound of a saw through delicate fretwork. A car was driving down the lane nearby and drew to a stop a few feet away from where Daft Dickie was standing. The tramp faded into the shadows as there was the sound of the door opening and a man relieving himself. Dickie felt annoyed that the beauty of the night-time anthem should have been shattered so rudely and wondered what he could do. He crouched down in one of the inkier patches of darkness and let out a low growl. He listened and heard the man hurrying to adjust his dress, noticing with satisfaction that the fellow’s breathing had become shallow and nervous. Grinning, Dickie shuffled a foot closer and this time howled like a wolf. The cry rang out, deep and sinister. This time the man leapt into his car and drove off at speed.

  Dickie laughed, a strangely sweet and melodious sound, and continued with his song, while the creatures of the forest stayed hushed to hear him.

  FOUR

  The next morning Nick rose bright and early and walked up the High Street then down East Street to where the Church of England primary school stood in all its Victorian glory, with one or two latecomers still hurrying inside. He had been asked to take morning prayers and was determined to try his best not to let his nervousness show. Striding manfully on to the platform in the wake of the headmaster, a weary man named Mabbit, Nick took the plunge and gazed out to where the children sat cross-legged on the floor. Fifty pairs of eyes stared at him glassily, all – or so it seemed to him – without expression. At least they aren’t hostile, he thought, and gave them a smile. Nobody smiled back, with the exception of one little boy who looked as if he was part of another era with his long, floppy fair hair and large blue eyes. Nick was so grateful that he gave the child a broad grin, which was greeted with a faint laugh from someone or other. The vicar braced himself for the singing of hymns, during which his light baritone voice sounded loud, to say the least of it.

  ‘Gladly, my cross-eyed bear,’ he heard distinctly and glanced up to try and see the miscreant. A small girl with bobbing primrose plaits was looking so demurely at her hymn book that he decided it must be her.

  Nick was called upon to lead the Lord’s Prayer and could have sworn that he heard ‘Harold be thy name’ coming from the same source. He looked reprovingly but the child did not meet his gaze.

  Afterwards he was ushered into a small classroom where a selection of the ten best dancers – as chosen by Miss Dunkley, who was in charge of Music and Movement – stood waiting tremulously. Nick was glad to see that the child with the floppy hair was present and was giving another tentative smile. He squatted down next to him.

  ‘Hello, young man. What’s your name?’

  ‘Billy Needham.’

  ‘I hope you’re going to dance round the maypole at the fair.’

  Miss Dunkley put in enthusiastically, ‘Oh, Billy’s a very good dancer – as are they all, Vicar. If you’d like to see them do their stuff, we’ve got a pseudo maypole in the playground. Would you?’

  ‘Very much.’

  They all trooped outdoors where a makeshift log had been placed in a Christmas tree holder. Someone on a ladder had pinned a series of colourful ribbons to the top and as a portable CD player suddenly burst into life, the children rushed forward, grabbed a ribbon and started to dance. They formed the most intricate patterns, the strands of colour crossing over then under each other. Nick was amazed and turned to Miss Dunkley eagerly.

  ‘They really are awfully good. I presume you taught them all this?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m a true history buff. I’ve read all about the maypole and the patterns you can weave with the ribbons. It’s very interesting.’

  ‘The dances were originally fertility rites, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Dunkley, brimming with gravity. ‘They were indeed.’

  Nick changed the subject, addressing the children. ‘That was very good. Now will you be able to come for two days?’

  They all nodded and there were little shouts of ‘Yes’.

  ‘And will your parents bring you?’

  Miss Dunkley interrupted. ‘I’ll be bringing some of the children myself. And I shall stay as their chaperone, of course.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Health and safety and all that.’

  ‘And all that,’ echoed Miss Dunkley in an undertone.

  Billy piped up. ‘Can I sit in the front, please?’

  ‘Yes, darling. Provided you do up your belt.’

  There was a very small buzz of ‘Teacher’s Pet’.

  Miss Dunkley faced them. ‘Will whoever said that step forward.’

  A frenetic-looking child with challenging blue eyes and a mop of untidy dark curls stepped forward, then glared over her shoulder to see who else would have the nerve. At this a boy and the girl with the primrose plaits stepped forward.

  Nick wondered if the teacher would dress them down here and now and was rather impressed when she did so, clearly not believing in the idea of delayed punishment.

  ‘Chrissie, John and Belle, that was a very nasty thing to say. You know that Billy lives in the children’s home in Mill Street because his parents are dead and I often give him a lift in my car. I happen to live in a flat nearby and it makes sense that I should pick him up on my way. He is not my pet – and neither are you three. In fact, I’ve a good mind to take you out of the maypole dancing team.’ She turned to Nick. ‘What do you think, Vicar?’

  He was no longer ill-at-ease. ‘I hate cruelty and unkindness and it was nasty to tease Billy. But I think on this occasion you should let the children continue to dance at the fair.’

  ‘Very well. Say thank you to Father Nick, the three of you.’

  The frenetic child would not meet his eyes, growled her thanks and went back to the rest of the class, the boy the same. But the little girl with the swinging plaits gave him a polite curtsey, a sweet smile and said, ‘Thank you so much, Father Nicholas. You have been very kind to me,’ before she rejoined her playmates.

  Walking with the teacher as t
he children hurried back into their classroom, Nick asked about her.

  ‘Oh, Belle? A pretty little thing, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very polite, I thought. Unusual these days.’

  ‘She’s brought up by her grandparents, you know. Her mother and father were killed in a terrible road crash. Miraculously she escaped. It’s rather pathetic. She calls them Mummy and Daddy.’

  ‘Poor little girl.’

  ‘Oh, she has a very good life. They indulge her every whim.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Is her grandfather Major Wyatt? Mid-fifties, rather a good-looking man?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know them?’

  ‘I called at their beautiful house once on a pastoral visit. He was in but his wife and the child were out. He told me that they didn’t go to church but offered his help with any events we were running. In fact, he and his wife are manning a stall at the fair.’

  ‘I shall see them there, then.’

  ‘I do hope it’s going to be fine,’ said Nick, and Miss Dunkley patted his arm and said she was sure it would be.

  Dickie Donkin was thinking. He was remembering his mother, who had looked like Mrs Noah except that her eyes had been like violets and not the dark, snapping ones of the wooden toy. He remembered a huge fist crashing into her face, rearranging her features, sending her flying to the floor crying out ‘Stop! Stop!’ He remembered crouching over her and receiving a barrage of blows to his head. He remembered punching as hard as he could into his stepfather’s crutch, making him bend over and gasp for air. The last thing he remembered before waking up in hospital was a great boot kicking him violently in the head.

  His mother had been taken in to a home after that last and most vicious attack and Daft Dickie, leaving hospital, had slipped through the net of authority and gone to live rough, earning a pound here and there by chopping wood or helping farmers with the animals or anything else he could turn his hand to. But one night, when he was about twenty, he had crept back through the darkness to his old home and spied his stepfather in a drunken stupor, sitting in the rocking chair by the fire, mouth gaping, snoring thunderously. It had given Dickie enormous pleasure to creep up behind him and slit his throat from ear to ear, then turn and run like the wind, dumping his bloodstained clothes on the way and taking up his position in the barn where he slept and, to be sure that Farmer Packham had to wake him up in the morning, dressed in his son’s old clothes, sleeping very deeply.