The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Connie’s shoulders sank. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

  “Me too.”

  In the first light of Sunday morning, Naomi Hargreaves awoke to a familiar prodding sensation. She lay on her side watching tiny fingers of grey dawn creep across the lime-washed, wattle and daub bedroom wall. One of Joe’s thick, muscular arms clamped around her midriff. Hot breath emanated from beneath his ginger-nut beard. A broad nose nuzzled her ear as the man’s morning wood pressed with an insistent urge to turn spooning into penetration. So much of the neglected woman wanted to respond. To have him ravish her and then cuddle close in an affectionate afterglow. But their unions had been animalistic and mechanical for months. And that on the rare occasions they happened at all. Joe would finish and have his shirt on before his wife even approached something resembling emotional equilibrium. A woman of a timid disposition under most circumstances, Naomi knew it was time to make a stand. She wasn’t a resource to be used and discarded, she was a person. A living woman with a soul, as well as a body that cooked, cleaned and climaxed on demand. Joe pushed himself hard against the fabric of her nightdress. Naomi took a breath and thrust her upper torso into a sitting position.

  “What’s wrong?” Joe lifted himself on one elbow, his tone somewhere between concern and annoyance.

  “I’m getting up.” She swung her legs off the bed.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to get ready for church.”

  “You what? Church? Since when have you been a church-goer?”

  “I used to attend when I was at school.”

  “You said that was Harvest Festival and Christmas.” He reached out to touch her waist.

  “No, Joe. Let me alone. You’ve treated me like I’m not there for too long. Things have got to change.”

  Joe pulled her close from behind. “Come back to bed and I’ll show you how ‘there’ you are.”

  Naomi pushed him off. “No you won’t. I’m a living soul with feelings, damn it.” She bit her lip. Curse words on the mouth of Naomi Hargreaves were as rare as the Pope talking dirty.

  Joe growled. “Oh, I get it. The blacksmith will be there.”

  “What?” Naomi went pale.

  “Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at him. Jesus, Naomi, he’s ten years younger than you.”

  “What are you suggesting?” She knew exactly what he was suggesting. In recent days his suggestion had formed an unrelenting series of fantasies that distracted her daily chores.

  Joe rubbed his eyes and lay back down. “I’m sure the vicar will take exception to you and Dan hooking up. Adultery was a sin in the Christian church, last time I checked.”

  “I’m not going there for Dan.” It was a half-lie. Naomi needed something: A light in her life; some sense of love and affection. The quiet blacksmith represented forbidden fruit, and the imagined promise of loving sensitivity with strength. But more than that, he had woken the woman up to the reality of her unmet needs. “Reverend Colefax invited me to attend. We’re going to rededicate the grave of a young boy who died here.”

  “When?”

  “He was part of the previous group that fixed up the church.”

  “So why the re-dedication?”

  “He didn’t have a proper grave marker. Dan has fashioned a beautiful one from-”

  “Oh Dan has fashioned one, has he? If you want to serve God, then get back in here and serve your husband.”

  Naomi stood and walked to the door. “What’s happened to you, Joe? I don’t recognise the man I married anymore.”

  The builder watched her leave the room, then tossed a pillow at the door. “Fine. Sod off to church with your blacksmith then.”

  At St. Guthlac’s, Naomi positioned herself in a pew behind Daniel Charter. Close enough to steal occasional glances at him, but with sufficient space to avoid gossip, speculation and controversy from the other attendees. The old hymns came back to her from childhood, their familiarity restoring something lost to soothe a troubled soul. Stephen Colefax’s Bible reading and sermon added to her sense of calm. Could she find what she needed in this place? Did prayer work and might Joe come around in time if she tried it? Naomi loved her husband. But, the harshness of their new life without modern distractions, forced her to realise that couldn’t remain a one-way street. She must also receive love herself and find contentment.

  Once the service was over, the builder’s wife accompanied Maggie Leonard and family to a spot in the ancient churchyard, amidst its tumbledown memorials. The remaining congregation gathered round with their vicar. Dan Charter hammered the beautiful iron cross into the sod, his square wooden mallet striking against the metal with a crisp ringing sound. The marker’s brass plaque glimmered in the late morning light, polished and like new.

  Stephen Colefax stood at a spot approximating the foot of the grave. “Let’s bow our heads as we offer a benediction for the boy’s eternal rest.”

  The assembly complied.

  Reverend Colefax paused, a gentle breeze the only sound breaking the silence. “Lord, we come before You to ask a blessing on the soul of Howard Spencer. As we set this memorial in place, we ask You to keep Howard in Your love and grace. May he know eternal rest and find a safe harbour in Your loving arms.” He made the sign of the cross in mid-air. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  All joined in with a collective: “Amen.”

  An uncomfortable heat rose to Naomi’s cheeks. A sensation of being watched caused her head to tilt towards the lychgate. There stood Joe, staring at her and the blacksmith with unblinking intensity. He lingered a moment longer, then paced back towards the huts.

  Sarah Claridge leaned close to Tim Leonard. “He was another Howard, like your mysterious pal.”

  Tim didn’t respond.

  Sarah pressed him. “Are you sure Howie isn’t an imaginary friend? How come he never shows up when we’re together?”

  The farmer’s boy shrugged. “He’s a private person, like me. Doesn’t like people barging into his life and poking their noses in.”

  Both ends of the young blonde’s pretty mouth turned down. “I didn’t deserve that, Tim. It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Deeping Drove gets lonely. How do you think I feel with no other girls my age to befriend?”

  Tim’s eyelids lowered. He wiped one uncomfortable foot through the thick grass. “I’m sorry, Sarah. Something about this grave makes me feel weird, that’s all. I have asked Howie about meeting you.”

  “And?”

  “And he always says that he’ll say ‘hi’ if you’re ever there when we meet up. You can’t rely on him to book a play date. I suppose the boy doesn’t do schedules, like us here. But he’s been a good friend to me.”

  “So he’s a free spirit. Okay, I get it. Tim?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Am I a good friend?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Of course you are.”

  “Just checking. So, what’s Howie’s last name, anyway?”

  “I’ve never asked him. Why?”

  Sarah fixed her eyes on the iron cross. “No reason. That plaque made me wonder.”

  Tim turned to go. “Can we get out of here?”

  “Do you want to go for a walk before Sunday lunch?”

  “Okay.”

  Reverend Colefax watched the pair of youngsters stroll down the path to the lychgate. The hopeful glimmer of reinvigorated fantasies over a future wedding burned true in his old eyes. He cast one final glance at the grave marker, then walked back towards St. Guthlac’s to disrobe.

  “Charter?” Joe Hargreaves’ furious, half-cut voice resonated through the forge.

  The smith rose from stowing his mallet after the re-dedication. His eyebrows pushed together. “What’s up, Joe?”

  “Stay away from my wife.” The builder poked a chubby but commanding index finger at the craftsman, as if shooting a gun.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

 
Dan screwed up his face. “I haven’t touched your wife. Why would I?”

  “Because she’s sweet on you. Now you’ve got her going to church.”

  The smith leaned back against his anvil with folded arms. Quiet though he might have been, threats, bullying and false accusations always caused Dan's blood to rise. “I haven’t got Naomi doing anything. She asked Reverend Colefax if she might attend.”

  “Did you hold her hand?”

  “Don’t be daft, man. She sat in the pew behind me. Look, if you two are having problems, I’m sorry to hear it. But don’t come laying the blame at my door, okay? If church isn’t your thing, that’s fine. Those of us who attend take the sanctity of marriage seriously. I’ll always offer a kind word or a listening ear to Naomi, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  Joe staggered against the far wall. “You watch yourself, pal. Because I’ll be watching.”

  “Why don’t you do your wife and yourself a favour and lay off the booze? Whatever your problems are, you won’t find answers at the bottom of a bottle.”

  “Shut your face. Bloody religious hypocrite.” He slammed one fist into the wall and stormed out in a semi-straight line.

  Naomi fixed Sunday lunch for her and her husband. It was a tense meal, eaten in silence. By the time they sat down, the builder had regained his wits. A large, folded white cloth lay atop a chest by the fire. Joe jerked his head towards it and broke the standoff. “What’s that?”

  “An altar cloth.” Naomi was quiet and economical with her words.

  “What’s it doing here?”

  “Reverend Colefax asked if I would embroider it.”

  Joe huffed. “And so it starts. Doesn’t he need it for church?”

  “That’s the spare. He’s always admired my needlework. It will be nice to have a creative project again.”

  The builder’s eyes narrowed. “As long as it keeps you away from the forge.”

  Naomi chose not to honour his comment with a response. “It’s getting dark early again. Maggie Leonard said Tim and Sarah would carve some pumpkins this afternoon, to decorate huts for anybody who fancies them. It’s Halloween on Thursday.”

  Joe twiddled his thumbs. “Are they going trick or treating too?”

  “No, Joe. Connie suggested we have a party in the barn. Some food, wine from the store, bobbing for apples, that sort of thing. Bit of a social the whole community can take part in, rather than a church affair. It’s a time of year when we could all do with our spirits lifted.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Naomi allowed a weak smile to break her anxious face. “So you’ll join in?”

  “If the whole crowd are going and there’s lots to drink, why not? Besides, that way I can make sure you don’t sneak off for a cuddle with Dan Charter.”

  “Please stop that, Joe. Dan and I haven’t done anything. He’s a good man.”

  “And I’m not?” The builder thrust his head forward.

  “I didn’t say that. You’ve always been a good man. A good man who’s suffered some bad luck you didn’t deserve. Why do you insist on punishing me for it?”

  Joe’s eyes watered. He turned away, stood up and stomped towards the front door.

  Naomi got halfway to her feet. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to clear my head.” The builder ripped open the door, strode out and slammed it shut behind him.

  If Joe Hargreaves intended to clear his head, a visit to the wine store in the barn might produce the opposite effect. At least he didn’t have to drink alone. Abigail Walters reclined on a pile of hay, Mugwort roll-up in one hand and half-empty bottle of parsnip wine in the other. She barked at the builder as he opened one of the barn doors. “Let the cold in, why don’t you?”

  Joe closed the solid portal with a bang. “Looks like I’m not the only one who needed a stiff drink.”

  Abigail blew out a potent cloud of aromatic smoke. “We all have our vices. There’s plenty of plonk to go around. This stuff isn’t half bad.” She downed the rest of her wine in several loud gulps, followed by a long belch. “Oops. Better out than in.”

  Joe moved through an interior lit only by two flickering lanterns suspended from nails hammered into structural wooden beams. He rummaged around in a stack of boxes at the rear of the barn. “One for you, one for me.” He passed Abigail a fresh bottle.

  The psychic swiped it from his hand. “That’ll do for starters. So, what’s new with our resident builder?”

  Joe plonked down in the hay beside her and uncorked the bottle. “Don’t ask.” He knocked back some wine with a rapid toss of his head.

  Abigail offered him a puff of her stinking cigarette. “Smoke?”

  “No thanks. I’ll stick with this.” He stared into space as if lobotomised.

  Abigail took another drag on the mugwort. “If that’s not the face of marital discord, I don’t know what is. Your wife struggling with this bizarre new life, is she?”

  Joe had another belt, his eyes watering again. “I think…” He stammered. “I think I’m the one that’s struggling. The problem is, I’m pushing Naomi away and I don’t know how to stop.” The confession poured out as if to a trusted counsellor. It even took the builder by surprise.

  “Uh huh.” Abigail gulped down some liquid. “It’s because you love her.”

  Joe frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Love never does. You hurt her because you love her and can’t express what you’re going through. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t bother.”

  The stocky man gazed down at the hay between his legs.

  Abigail elbowed his arm. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Joe trembled. “No. No you’re not.”

  The woman swiped his bottle away. “Then let her know how you feel, before you can’t string a coherent sentence together.”

  The builder flushed, realising he was on the brink. He didn't like to show emotion, not even to his wife. His distant father raised him on the mantra: ‘big boys don’t cry.’ He coughed. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Do you still shag your missus?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Abigail inhaled more fumes, let the taste dance across her tongue and then expelled a perfect smoke ring. “I’d call that trouble in trouser land. Let me put it this way: Sex starts in a woman’s head. Settle her mind and you’ll be amazed at how everything else falls into place. Make her suffer and expect nothing but trouble. You’re a big bloke and your wife is a timid, dainty little thing. You expect me to believe you can’t confess your problems to her? Shit man, did you leave your balls behind when you moved out here?”

  Joe let out an involuntary laugh. “You don’t mince your words, do you?”

  Abigail stubbed her cigarette into a pottery bowl used as an ash tray, to avoid setting the barn alight. “Life’s too short to mess around. Fuck that. Stop being a pussy and man-up. Tough guy builder, my arse.”

  Joe rubbed his forehead. He thought for a moment then clambered to his feet. “Okay. Guess I can give it a go. God, I hope she’s in a receptive mood.”

  “You won’t know until you try. Be gentle, Joe. Give her a massive benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’ll do the same for you?”

  The builder walked over to the barn doors and hesitated without looking back. “Thanks, Abigail. It's bloomin' odd, but I needed this crazy chat and a kick up the backside.”

  The psychic puffed out her cheeks. “It’s what I do best. All this talk about sex has got my libido up now. I’ve gone from needing a stiff drink to a stiff something else.” She chugged down the remainder of both bottles without coming up for air and wobbled aloft.

  Joe grinned. “You can sure put that stuff away, can’t you?”

  “Years of practise.” Abigail started in his direction, but veered off course as the alcohol in her system fought for control of the helm.

  Joe opened the doors. “I can’t h
elp you with the ‘stiff’ thing.”

  Abigail rested one reassuring, semi-drunk hand on his shoulder for stability. “Don’t worry, I know a guy.” She winked.

  The builder moved back inside to extinguish both lanterns. “I’m sure you do.” He closed the doors behind them and they went their separate ways.

  When he reached his hut, Joe found Naomi embroidering the spare altar cloth. Rays of a rushlight were magnified through a glass ball of water on a stand. It provided enough illumination for her to work in the dark, October evening. She looked up as he entered, his face strained but soft. The cloth fell from her hands and she gasped at the transformed man who rushed to clutch hold of her.

  Out in the chilly night air, Abigail Walters reached the historian’s hut. “Right then. Time to see what Bob’s up to.” She hiccoughed. “It’s been a while since he chased something fluffy down a rabbit hole.” After three raps of her knuckles, the wooden barrier opened; a shaft of lamplight spilling outside. Abigail crossed the threshold, and the door closed behind her.

  11

  Digging up the Past

  Abigail’s eyes opened to dancing shadows on the thatched roof above. Bob’s bed was comfortable; more so when wrapped in the warm blanket of post-coital wellbeing. She rolled over to find his side empty. There were no candles alight in the tiny sleeping chamber, but the door into the main living/kitchen area stood ajar. A stirred-up fire with the addition of fresh logs, snapped and added to whatever other forms of illumination the historian had lit. She estimated the time to be somewhere in the small hours. The woman slipped one leg out from beneath the quilt, then yanked it back in. “Jesus, the temperature must have fallen.” A cloud of vapour accompanied that shocked vocal outburst. She wrapped the quilt about her like a walking version of Cleopatra concealed in a rug and hopped into the doorway. In the nicer weather, Abigail might have stood there stark naked with brazen intent. A sight to entice her ‘booty call’ chum back for seconds. Bob was a more considerate and less frantic lover whenever they flipped their record to the B-side. At this moment, the first frost of autumn cooled Abigail’s ardour but not her curiosity. “Whatcha doin’?”