by Alan Millard
I collected the paper one morning and as I was leaving the shopkeeper asked if I felt all right. He rarely said anything to me other than mumbling thanks and he’d never before inquired about my health. When I told him I felt perfectly well he raised his eyebrows and said as if with feeling, ‘Well you look after yourself. There’s a lot of it about.’
I didn’t stop to inquire what it was. I felt in good health and being told by others how poorly I looked was disconcerting and made me doubt my own self-assessment. I walked home with the newspaper but couldn’t settle to read it. I was feeling sorry for myself.
My thoughts turned to Wendy wishing she were here to console me. I fooled myself that she’d have comforted me which was nonsense. Wendy’s response to adversity was pragmatic. Rather than cry over life’s spilt milk she set about clearing it up. Unlike me she also thought ahead. Before she became ill she set about purchasing a funeral plan and so-called companion plot in the church we attended so that when the time came we could be buried together. At the time I thought she was being morbid. We’d only been married a few months. But as I was feeling now the prospect of lying with her in our companion plot seemed oddly comforting not that I had any hope of there being much companionship there.
It was thinking of Wendy that gave me the urge to visit the church where we’d married and where she now lay. St. Mary’s Mudford was two or three miles away but I chose to walk and prove I was still in good health. In a fresh wind with clouds scudding across an otherwise clear blue sky I set off for Mudford walking briskly.
Despite the distance I reached the village in good time. Realising this was the road that Trevor had travelled before that ill-fated shortcut I walked a little beyond the church to the bridge where floods had been. Leaning over the parapet I gazed at the river now safely confined within its banks and thought how fickle fate was and how the future depends on the choices we make in the present. If Trevor had stayed on the main road or if I’d kept Howard’s tales from Priscilla how different things might have turned out. Knowing how pointless it was to dwell on the past I brought myself back to the present and made my way back up the road to the village shop for some flowers to put on the grave.
The tiny shop was crammed with everything from dustpans and brushes to jellies and jam. The short, plump woman behind the counter gave me the kind of suspicious look reserved for strangers. I asked if she had any flowers.
‘Only them,’ she said, pointing to a bucket in the corner of the shop filled with garish bundles of multicoloured blooms wrapped in cellophane. They weren’t what Wendy would have chosen but having no choice I asked for a bunch.
‘Any particular one?’ she said, lifting the counter hatch and making her way to the bucket with a long-suffering sigh.
‘No,’ I said. They all looked the same to me. I paid her and left for the church. Wendy’s grave was at the far end of the churchyard where the more recently deceased were buried. I picked a path between the ancient headstones and laid down the flowers. I intended to put them in water but as I looked at their gaudy colours and imagined Wendy wincing at the clash of hues I decided it might be better to let them fade and die. For a moment I stood in silence reading the inscription I’d lifted from a book of epitaphs at the undertakers.
Much loved, although for you we mourn
With heavy hearts and tears forlorn
We know, despite our present pain,
We’ll, one day, be with you again.
In my state of abject grief at the time the words had seemed appropriate. Reading them now the sentiment seemed fatuously trite and its promise highly improbable. Standing there I felt a sudden chill realising one day I’d be interred in the same grave. I was also stricken with guilt remembering that for the past few months I’d been missing Priscilla more than Wendy. As I turned to leave I felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘William! How good to see you.’
I recognised a familiar voice from the past but couldn’t immediately place it. Not knowing who it was and half expecting it to be Howard I was relieved to find the vicar standing beside me. He looked older than when I’d last seen him and his fair hair, once as thick and profuse as a lion’s mane, had thinned and greyed. Although he looked half the man he once was there was still an air of determination and strength about him. ‘Vicar, how are you?’ I said. ‘It’s been a long since I last saw you. Are you keeping fit?’
‘I’m very well but what about you?’ It was typical of the Reverend Higgins not to ask why I’d been remiss in my church attendance since Wendy’s death. He had a simple childlike faith and saw only the good in people. It was strange to remember him as he was on the day of our wedding. He was healthy and upright but now he looked frailer and slightly bent.
‘I’m fine,’ I assured him. ‘Fit enough to have walked here from home and, hopefully, to walk back again.
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Shall we be seeing you at Christmas?’
‘You most certainly will.’ I again felt guilty that Christmas and Easter were now the only times I attended church.
‘Excellent, but take care, won’t you? You’re looking thinner. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’
‘Fitter than ever,’ I said.
‘If you say so. But don’t overdo things. One needs to be careful as one gets older.’ He left me at Wendy’s grave believing I’d want to meditate alone when all I wanted to do was to get away from the place. If anything I was more depressed and confused by coming here than when I’d set out. Howard, Trevor, Wendy and all of the other spectres along with Priscilla were weighing me down by their absence or paradoxically by their presence. To make matters worse the vicar had been the third person to question my health or apparent lack of it.
Directly opposite the church a rough set of steps cut into the bank led up to a stile giving access to the mead, a large expanse of meadowland through which the river ran. I had seen it in all of its different moods throughout the seasons when Wendy and I had been regular churchgoers. It had been filled with buttercups on sunny days, covered in mist on autumn evenings and white with frost in the dead of winter. Not being ready to tackle the journey home I decided to walk across the mead to the river as I’d often done with Wendy after matins. As I stood staring down at the river unwanted ghosts came back to haunt to me. I pictured Gary surrounded by the hills of Exmoor pondering by the brook on the road to Oare and of Sophie watching the ducks and the swans as she tried to shake off the fears awakened by reading An Inspector Calls.
Walking back to the road I noticed one of the cottages next to the church had a sign outside: Hunter and Sons. For Sale. Later that night I was lounging in front of the television flicking through the channels and wondering what I could do to shake myself out of the rut I was in. Priscilla was never going to ring, Wendy was dead and nights at the club held no appeal. Desperate for change and for something to stir me out of my lethargy I thought of the cottage and wondered if a house move might be the answer. I knew the village. I liked the vicar and even though my belief in God was sorely lacking the church might provide for my social needs. Some of the congregation I already knew. I could rekindle friendships, meet new acquaintances, get involved in activities and make a new life for myself. There was nothing for me in town anymore. I’d never lived in a village and village life might be just what I needed. I felt excited for the first time in months and next day I set things in motion.
Hunter and Sons was close to St. John’s church. The agent was a strapping young lad who in spite of the cold wore no jacket. His shoes were highly polished, his trousers immaculately pressed and his shirt dazzlingly white against the dark red tie with its Hunter and Sons logo. He spoke with the confidence of youth. ‘Good morning sir. How can I help?’
I mentioned the cottage and asked for the details. ‘Mead Cottage,’ he said, ‘a charming place with a beautiful outlook and recently reduced.’
I studied the particulars. There were three bedrooms, a living/dining area, lounge and bathroom. ‘Is there a kitchen?’ I asked.
‘Not as such sir, but there are cooking facilities in the living room.’
In spite of the recent reduction the asking price seemed on the high side but that could be negotiated later. I was determined to buy it whatever the cost. I asked if the cottage had a garden since I knew there was none at the front.
‘Not a garden as such sir, but there is a fenced-off area at the back with a patch of grass large enough for a garden chair where you could sit in the sun.’
‘Any other selling points?’ I noted he’d only mentioned room for one garden chair.
‘Very thick walls which keep it cool in summer and warm in winter. The present owner has made extensive improvements, exposed the ceiling beams in the lounge and uncovered a small but cosy inglenook fireplace. I’m told the cottage is five hundred years old so there’s no chance of it falling down in the near future.’
I waited until he stopped chuckling at his own joke and asked how soon I could move if the purchase went ahead.
‘Straight away,’ he told me. ‘A widow lives there, a Mrs. Davis or Davies. I understand she could move at a moment’s notice.’
I explained that I had a house to sell but was sure it would appeal to any buyer. I refrained from mentioning the deplorable state it was in.
‘I could arrange a viewing after valuing your house,’ he said. ‘Would tomorrow be suitable to call on you?’
I made an excuse of being busy for a few days and arranged for him to come at the end of the week. Once home I blitzed everywhere, dusting, shoving things into cupboards and drawers, clearing and cleaning worktops and vacuuming carpets. I scoured the toilet, washed away the rings of scum from the bath and wash basin, ran a wet cloth over the tiles and bought some flowers for the lounge. When the work was done I surveyed every nook and cranny as though I were inspecting the place through Wendy’s eyes. Apart from having to rearrange and plump up the cushions, everything was ship-shape.
At precisely ten thirty on Friday morning the agent arrived, viewed each room and gave me his valuation which came as a pleasant surprise. It would easily cover the cost of Mead Cottage with plenty to spare. Without a second thought I gave him instructions to place my property on the market and arrange for a viewing of Mead Cottage. Half an hour later he phoned to tell me that Mrs Davis would be pleased to see us at ten on the following day.
I was up early on Saturday and eager to go. Filled with fresh hope I hadn’t the slightest doubt about the course of action I’d chosen. I was out of the rut and ready to make a fresh start. I drove to Mudford and parked on the driveway leading up to the church. The agent was waiting. He greeted me with a firm handshake. One strike of the lion-head knocker brought the owner to the doorstep. The agent spoke first. ‘Mrs. Davis, I’m Martin. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’
‘Mrs. Davies,’ she corrected him. ‘You’ve brought the viewer I see.’
I introduced myself and held out a hand for her to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.
‘Well, you’d better come in then,’ she sighed ignoring my outstretched hand. ‘I’ll leave you to show him round.’ The widow was not as I imagined. She looked to be in her late thirties and was wearing close-fitting jeans and a chunky woollen jumper. Her straggly brown hair hung loosely down to her shoulders and her sharp facial features were matched by her brusque, snappy manner.
The living room was more or less as described on the agent’s details with a sink and cooker. There were two windows opposite each other which made the room feel like a railway carriage. The window at the front looked on to the mead. The sink and cooker were set beneath the opposite window which overlooked the boundary fence. The ceiling beams had been darkly stained to mask the woodworm holes and the creatively-labelled inglenook was no more than a small, bricked alcove housing a wood-burning stove. There was little more to see on the ground floor apart from a tiny bathroom and small lounge. Two sets of stairs on opposite sides of the living room led to the top floor comprising two compact bedrooms at either end of the principle bedroom. In the principle bedroom one side of the double bed was propped up with books where the floor level dropped - the complete works of Shakespeare and a bulky Tennyson Anthology. I glanced at the agent to show him I’d noticed.
‘Rather unusual isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I believe the building was originally two cottages which were knocked into one. I expect the builders lacked spirit levels in those days but the split level floor adds to the rustic charm don’t you think?’
‘You could say that,’ I replied as I looked at the uneven walls, the wonky lines of the protruding chimney breast and out-of-true planks which were nailed to form the doors. We left the bedroom and went back down to the living room on the second set of stairs.
‘Another unusual feature,’ remarked the agent. ‘Not many dwellings have two sets of stairs. If you and your wife have a dispute in the living room you can go to bed separately and make up when you meet in the bedroom.’
He expected me to laugh but I kept a straight face. ‘If you have a wife,’ I said. I liked the place and was eager to move in but was careful not to seem too keen in the hope of getting it for less than the asking price. After saying our goodbyes to Mrs Davies who gave us a grunt in response we returned to our cars. The agent paused by his expecting some feedback but I gave nothing away. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said, ‘Mr...’
‘Martin, do call me Martin.’
‘I’ll be in touch Martin,’ I said and drove off without letting him know how determined I was to go ahead. Over the coming days I made several phone calls to Martin with different offers but realising Mrs. Davies had no intention of budging I agreed on the asking price. I kept my own house in pristine condition dusting and polishing every day. There were several viewers in spite of the time of year. They all seemed impressed but none made an offer till mid November when a couple with two young children were keen to purchase. They’d been looking for a place with a garden large enough to accommodate their children’s play equipment and mine was ideal. Being cash buyers with nothing to sell they were ready to move in as soon as possible. With all the legalities speedily completed the contracts were signed and exchanged and just before Christmas the move took place.
My furniture was soon dispatched to the various rooms. I propped up the bed with the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations and AA Illustrated Guide to Britain and plugged in the all-important television. For the next few days I moved things around and by Christmas Eve the cottage seemed truly mine with everything just where I wanted. All was well except for a niggling worry in the back of my mind which I couldn’t pin down but felt had something to do with Mrs. Davies. Letting it go I surveyed the living room. The only thing lacking was festive cheer so I drove into town and bought a small Christmas tree and some decorations. Once trimmed and adorned with lights the tree fitted neatly on to the mead-facing window sill where as well as brightening the room it would cheer passersby on their way to Midnight Mass.
As darkness fell I lit the wood burner with the logs Mrs, Davies had left piled up what had been an outdoor privy but which now served as useful storage space. I prepared a light meal of cold, cooked meats and cheese from the fridge and opening a bottle of whisky I settled down to an evening’s viewing. I hadn’t planned on attending Midnight Mass but I changed my mind. The sound of passing footsteps and voices engaged in lively banter enticed me to join in the celebrations and I left at eleven thirty. The gravel path to the church was lined with lighted candles encased in glass lanterns. The porch door was closed but I lifted the latch, went in and seated myself at the back just as the service commenced.
Since Wendy’s death my Christmas worship had been confined to the eight o’clock BCP service on Christmas morning simply because it was brief, devoid of singing and sermons and over in half an
hour. Without Wendy attending Midnight Mass had been too painful a step to take. But now, as the church lights dimmed and the congregation’s candles were lit for the opening carol, my heart was filled with a sense of wonder I’d hadn’t experienced for years. For whatever reason, whether because of the Holy Spirit or the sprit I’d been drinking earlier, I sang O Come all ye Faithful with all the fervour of a newly-converted youth. There was in that precious hour all I could have wanted. The holly and ivy cascaded from the window ledges and hung from the pulpit, the Christmas tree gleamed beside the altar and the air was filled with sweet singing in the choir. The Reverend Higgins’ homily contained a little light-hearted humour but conveyed his childlike certainty in birth of the Holy Child born to bring joy and peace to the world. As the congregation filed out to the organ music everyone present seemed touched and blessed with that joy and peace of which the vicar had spoken.
Sitting near the door I could have slipped out before the others but hearing In Dulci Jubilo being played on the organ in what sounded like a Bach arrangement I thought of Harold remaining in his pew at St. John’s until the organ stopped and in homage to him as well as to Bach I stayed in my pew.
The vicar beamed when I stood in the church porch and thanked him. He took my hand and stood gazing into my eyes as though I were the lost sheep returned to the fold. ‘William, how good to see you and how wonderful to have you in living the village with us. I would have called in to see you earlier but I thought you’d need time to settle in. May I call on Boxing Day?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said.
‘Are you sure you feel up to a visit?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Only that you’re not looking very much better than when I last saw you.’