Beckett was a relieved man when the bright lights of the city appeared before them. He finally parked the car in the hotel car park at gone eleven o’clock. For some reason he felt unusually tired, lonely and disconsolate.
“Fancy a night cap?” asked Cavendish as they entered the hotel foyer.
“No thanks, Marsh, I think I’ll have an early night if it’s all the same.”
“Thomas,” said Cavendish as he put his hand on Beckett's shoulder to stop him walking off towards the lift.
“Yes?” Beckett replied without looking at Cavendish.
“Thank you for your help today, I know it was a little rushed, but I truly am grateful. I realise I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”
“That’s okay; I’ll see you in the morning.” Typically, Thomas Beckett felt guilty as the lift doors closed, guilty that he had left Marchel Cavendish alone to fester alone in the bar.
CHAPTER 18. SPIRES, DESIRES AND FAMILY FAVOURITES.
Sunday was a day to be revered or loathed. As a boy, Beckett detested Sundays, for Sundays in the 1960’s, despite the mythology of ‘the swinging sixties’, were deadly dull for a child. He still considered the 1960’s as the last throw of the dice for the austere years of post-war Britain.
No shops were open and TV was nonexistent, except for black and white matinee films, and what was considered classic drama, usually Dickens, which the young Beckett found depressing and frightening in equal measure.
The radio presented a lunchtime forces request show, ‘Family Favourites’, which made many references to an organisation called the ‘Naafi’ and inexplicable place names such as Akrotiri and other such exotic sounding locations. Radio, or ‘wireless’ as his adopted parents preferred to call it, also offered comedy, yet being of the TV generation, he found words without pictures anything but amusing.
Teatime, when Battenberg cake was ritually consumed, was accompanied by the harmonious tones of a choir supplemented by an accordion in ‘Sing Something Simple’. The theme tune of this broadcast was synonymous with the weekly bath ritual, signifying the end of another boring Sunday. It was as if Sunday was a conspiracy he was not part of. Thank God for warm summer days when he could play outside and for the great man, whomever he was, who invented the 1970’s.
“Are you alright, Thomas, you seem remarkably quiet?” Beckett returned from his time travels to the reality of coasting up the M5 motorway at nine o’clock in the morning on a lovely spring morning. They had risen early, grabbed a swift light breakfast and were on the road just after eight o’clock.
“Sorry, I was just reliving my lovely childhood. The best days of your life, apparently.”
“Do you think so?” asked Cavendish, “I hated mine.”
“Somehow, that statement doesn’t surprise me.” After a pause, Beckett asked a more pertinent question. “So tell me about Chesterfield, do you know the place well?”
“Not well, I have visited the market town once. King John granted its first charter, I believe. With the coming of the railway, it increasingly industrialised with heavy engineering and the Derbyshire coalfields. However, like many such places, the heavy industry and the mines have gone. It has undergone substantial redevelopment and fortunately, the heart of the town survived intact. I feel the place has an honest soul.”
“‘An honest soul’?” Beckett repeated. “Do towns have a soul?”
“You know very well they do. You’ll like Chesterfield.”
“You seem very certain about the people and places I might like.”
“You’ll like the Medieval Spring Fayre,” added Cavendish.
“What happens, sword fights and jousting, eh?”
“No, it’s more like a festival for New Age hippies and their like. Actually, that is a very poor description. The festival, which morphed into a family-friendly ‘ye olde fayre’, started some ten years ago by a group of folk musicians. They thought it would be fun to celebrate the spring rites by borrowing from Celtic and pagan lore. So they combined Imbolc and Beltane and various other things to form a festival.”
“What the hell are Imbolc and Beltane? It sounds to me like something from a black mass,” asked an intrigued Beckett.
“I don’t know exactly, I was raised a Catholic, and that has enough mumbo jumbo, as you put it, to keep me engaged. As I understand it, Beltane is to do with the cleansing flame, so is observed with bonfires and Imbolc has something to do with the fertility of sheep. Forgive me for being so vague, I’m only going by what someone at Flash Seminary told me.”
“So it’s all good clean fun,” suggested Beckett.
“Well it is, but it has been apparently usurped in part by modern pagans and occultists. Apart from the main events, there are shadowy sideshows; I'm told it has its dark side. I suppose it’s a bit like the Edinburgh Fringe for hippies and witches. It reminds me of Walprugisnacht in Germany, which is observed at the end of April and is celebrated with dancing and bonfires. There is the tradition in the Harz Mountains of witches and warlocks. In southern Germany, it’s the time when kids get up to pranks, much like Halloween in your country and the USA.”
“So I wasn’t too far off the mark with black masses? Sounds to me like something from ‘The Wicker Man’.”
“I’m sure there are some devilish things taking place but on the whole it’s a family event spread over the weekend. What exactly is ‘The Wicker Man’?”
"Let me explain..."
They made good time on the journey, and it was prior to eleven o’clock when Beckett caught his first glimpse of the Crooked Spire. Even in this century, the church of St Mary and all Saints still dominated the town’s skyline.
“That really is an incredible sight,” exclaimed Beckett, “how the hell did the spire corkscrew like that?”
“It is generally ascribed to the use of green unseasoned timbers. I prefer the story that the spire twisted in shock when a virgin was married in the church.”
“That’s very good, Marchel. You’re becoming almost human; the Derbyshire air must be good for you.”
“We will register at the Holmcourt,” stated Cavendish, “and then I’ll have to leave you to entertain yourself for a few hours. I have a couple of errands to run in preparation for Dr Spelman’s visit.”
“Where is she staying, at the same hotel?”
“No, I had a devil of a job securing our rooms for the night. I don’t know where she is staying.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” asked Beckett.
“Enjoy the town’s hospitality; I’ll give you some pocket money to spend.” Cavendish grinned at his partner.
“Gee, thanks Dad,” said Beckett shaking his head.
The hotel car park was at the rear of the building. The hotel appeared to be of a half-timber construction of painted black beams and white panelling. An elderly man in a white coat was marshalling the small car park, ensuring room for guest parking but also charging non-residents to park their cars. Everyone in Chesterfield was out to make a few pence during the weekend fayre.
A back staircase took them up to the red carpeted reception area, that the carpet was well worn in certain places did not escape Beckett’s attention. Yet the dark wooden panelled walls, the ornate staircase with a tall stained-glass window as its backdrop afforded the old railway hotel a distinct warmth and charm. Behind the reception desk, a young woman in a smart blue uniform with red trim took their details.
“Can you take my luggage to my room, Thomas?” asked Cavendish. Beckett grunted his compliance. Cavendish looked thoughtfully at Beckett before saying, “leave the bags there for a moment, Thomas, come with me, I want to give you something.”
Cavendish led Beckett off into one of the side wings of the hotel, home to the extensive lounge bar. Beckett felt at home already. The bar was busy with festivalgoers but Beckett hardly had chance to take in his surroundings before Cavendish handed him a mobile phone. It was the same model as Cavendish used.
“Here, take this, I think y
ou deserve it. It has unlimited credit; my number and important other numbers are in it. It has a few hidden extras that I’ll show you later. It’s fully charged so you don’t have to worry about that for a few days. I’ll ring you later to sort out what is happening with Dr Spelman. Are you alright?” Cavendish observed that Beckett appeared overwhelmed.
Beckett looked down at the hi-tech phone, comparing it to his own pay-as-you-go model. The memories of childhood again came flooding back to him, he recalled how he always wanted a ‘Johnny Seven’, an all singing, all dancing toy rifle. A boy down the street had one and he too desperately desired the toy rifle but was realistic enough to know that his foster-parents could not afford such a gift. Marchel Cavendish had suddenly given him his ‘Johnny Seven’.
“Thank you, Marchel,” was all he could meekly say.
“Excellent, then I’ll see you later. Enjoy the day! Oh, car keys, in case I need them.” Cavendish took the keys and exited quickly through the main entrance doors.
The hotel had no lift requiring Beckett to make two trips up the sweeping staircase and a smaller set of stairs to reach the second floor and their allocated rooms. He dropped off Cavendish’s large holdall and then collected his own over-large case and sought his own room at the far end of a narrow corridor.
It was not a spacious room but it had a decent en-suite bathroom. He drew aside the net curtains that fronted the bedroom windows to peer outside in an attempt to gain his bearings. Having arrived via the rear of the hotel he had not realised how close they were to the town centre as he looked down onto a teeming market square.
It was the smaller of the two squares; originally, the town had one large market square that had been unequally bisected by the building of the red-bricked market hall. The market stalls that made up this section of the town’s thrice-weekly market stood brightly garbed and bedecked in a modern day interpretation of how a medieval market ought to appear, plumes of smoke rose slowly in the still air from the many stalls offering take-away food. He eagerly opened the window to allow the sounds and smells of the square to pervade his room and instantly he recognised the smell of burning charcoal and the sickly reek of combined food odours.
The fayre bustled with people, many dressed in period costume, others more conventionally attired, as they meandered enquiringly around Chesterfield. He caught the disparate sound of music, an intermingling of competing sounds from various parts of the town that fought for his attention. The scene brought a smile to his face; his eyes flitted from stall to stall as he soaked up the sensory cornucopia.
The day was mild so he dispensed with his heavy coat and wore his cord jacket, which just managed to accommodate his new phone in one of the two breast pockets. Carrying his digital SLR around his neck, he descended into the street-world he had just been observing and he snapped away at the carnival scenes around him without conscious planning, hoping to capture the atmosphere of the day by serendipity alone.
His wanderings took him up the slope to the top of the square where he was drawn by the heady perfume of ale as he approached a pub. Good-natured drinkers spilled out onto the street as it filled with weekend revellers yet Beckett's temptation for a beer was kept at bay by his curiosity to explore all that the fayre had to offer. His walk took him along the street that passed the indoor market hall and onward towards the main square. He dodged the crowds and the kaleidoscope of stalls as he went, casting furtive glances at what the traders’ proffered wares.
At the main square, he found stalls only around the periphery, the central area having been railed off, which naturally funnelled his attention to what stood at its cobbled heart. The scene made him stop dead in his tracks. He had earlier joked about the film ‘The Wicker Man’ yet what he witnessed before him would not have looked out of place in that cult movie.
Dominating his view was a three-dimensional effigy of a blatantly satanic image, standing twenty feet or more high. As he studied the structure, he distinguished the broad pattern of fireworks covering its surface and the charred nature of the figure was evidence of its previous use. Circling the giant effigy stood a dozen large braziers stacked full of wood. He pictured in his mind’s eye the nighttime scene of the burning braziers and fireworks erupting from Beelzebub, lighting up the whole square in a panoply of colour. He shook his head in quiet disbelief. How had he never heard of this surreal festival before?
His journey took him away from the square and towards St Mary’s church. He appreciated the half-timbered Tudor-style buildings that he encountered along the way, for they provided a fitting medieval backdrop. A group of jugglers, entertaining the audience with a thrilling display of flaming baton flinging, amiably distracted him before he emerged upon the freshly cut lawn outside the church. The green was home to several ancient trees, whose bare limbs pointed skyward, as if drawn to the anomalous crooked church spire.
His arrival coincided with a rally held by a motley Christian order, whose troll-like speaker was berating his congregation concerning the unholy and aberrant frivolities that the town was enjoying. The Preacher’s impassioned sermon warned them of the dire consequences of such sin and fornication.
Beckett was a romantic at heart, who still held onto a noble concept of love and chivalry, and he wondered what planet the preacher came from. It must be a very troubling world if all he could see was the potential unhappiness and misery of the next life. Surely, these preachers should preach joy, not doom and gloom? He ruminated upon the fact that his mortal life was not exactly a barrel of laughs.
The crooked spire of the parish church corkscrewed high above his head in such a way that would have been impossible to replicate artificially and he miserably wondered if the spire was representative of something much deeper. It became obvious that the killjoy sect was depressing him; all too often these days a sense of despondency lurked close beneath his veil of shallow rhetoric.
Beckett snapped a few pictures of the famous crooked spire before deciding to head back towards the hotel. He wandered aimlessly, wallowing in the miasma of his melancholy with its futility and angst, and so it came as a revelation when he realised that he was lost. Perhaps the expression ‘lost’ was an inaccuracy on his part, for in reality Chesterfield was scarcely big enough to disorientate anyone. What he did not realise was that he had wandered into the Shambles.
The Shambles was possibly the oldest area of the town that once housed its butchers and meat traders. It was a place where the streets once stank of death and ran with the blood of slaughtered animals. All that now survived was a narrow, central street crossed at right angles by several alleyways in the heart of the old town. The main street was narrow and the half-timbered buildings closed in dauntingly on both sides.
The New Age contingent visiting the fayre had adopted this knotted area of the town. To Beckett it seemed as if civilisation had collapsed and nature had stepped in to reclaim it. From the sides of the buildings foliage and boughs of shrubs of unknown species, to Beckett at least, draped coquettishly. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, and perhaps other substances that were unfamiliar to Beckett. A pub lay at the heart of the Shambles, a sign proclaimed its ancient heritage, yet Beckett paid scant attention to the wording before deciding to enter. Ivy grew up the side of the building and this natural growth had been embellished with additional greenery so that the building took on facade of an organic entity.
The interior was gloomy, made artificially so by dark wall hangings that depicted Celtic and mythological representations, garnished by yet more vegetation. Candles lit the bar and the air felt heavy to breathe, intense with the aroma of incense and other pungent odours. It felt as if someone had built a temporary wall around a damp forest clearing.
The bar space was crowded with what Beckett might collectively call ‘hippies’. His lack of any knowledge pertaining to their world precluded a more accurate description. He instantly decided that this was not his scene and turned on the spot to reach for the door handle to leave the Fetid Pig.
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“Hold hard there, soldier,” announced a man’s voice and he felt a hand take hold of his arm, “let’s not be too hasty, eh?”
Beckett felt an adrenalin rush as he faced the person holding him back but his apprehension faded when he noticed that the hand tugging at his sleeve was the only one that his would-be assailant possessed. Indeed, the man was not only missing most of his left arm but also his left leg.
“Sorry, my friend,” said the man and for the first time Beckett recognised the gentle Geordie accent, which again was an insulting inaccuracy as the man hailed from Gateshead. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, thought you could do with a drink.”
Beckett relaxed a little. “Why not,” he said carefully.
Two other limping men joined the man, who Beckett placed as being in his late twenties or early thirties. All three were similarly attired and similar in appearance. Despite their apparent injuries all three exuded confidence inspired by physical fitness, and sported varying degrees of facial hair.
Each wore a white tee shirt with four letters emblazoned across the chest, ‘FUIA’. Beckett’s new acquaintance watched Beckett’s eyes roll over the letters.
The man laughed and declared, “Fucked up in Afghanistan!” The man held out his hand to Beckett, “I’m Smudger, this here is Baz,” Smudger pointed to the man on his right, “and that there is Big Davy,” said Smudger pointing to the shortest man of the group.
“I’m Tom, pleased to meet you.”
“A West Country boy, unless I’m very much mistaken?” stated Smudger.
“Bristol,” replied Beckett.
“Hey, we’ve got a cider-head, a pint of Blackthorn for the man, Charlie,” demanded Smudger of the man behind the bar.
“Actually, I don’t really drink cider, I’m a bitter man,” corrected Beckett.
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