With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  ‘He’s lost his ability to make the right decisions,’ said one, earnestly.

  ‘Definitely,’ another agreed.

  ‘And all voted for the motion,’ added another.

  ‘Which means it can’t be overridden?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Are we all agreed then that that is the case?’ asked another, the Elder most likely to be voted in as the next Senior.

  All agreed, yes. Afterwards, The Village Hangman was ordered to arrest any person who refused to pay their instalments. He saw only good times ahead: the Elders would have to pay him and his men overtime.

  The news of the extra tax spread even faster than the first announcement. The Villagers who were willing to fund the repair of the Hall were a tiny minority. The rest resented having to pay out for such an extravagance. There were better things to spend their money on – though few could think of any when pushed: beer said some.

  ***

  Late one evening, when the chickens had come home to roost, Sinead returned to her brother’s house having told him that she was spending the night with Grimble: her ‘new man’ as she referred to him. But a bust-up with his mother had scuppered that plan, and so she was back, only to see her enemy, the Vicar entering the house. She sneaked up and peered in through the window, but no sign. She crept on up to the front door and pushed it open, a little at a time, hoping to spot her enemy before he spotted her, but still no sign. She went on in, deciding to confront him, but still no sign! Confused, she approached her brother’s bedroom for she could hear talking between her brother and the enemy. It was more than the talk of friends. It was the intimate talk of two people who were more than friends. It was the talk she and Grimble should have been having but never seemed to. This was the talk of two people displaying affection for each other and saying sorry for bad thoughts and bad words. This was the talk of two people in love. Sodomites! Sin! Sinead had been warned of such people. And one of them was her brother: a shock multiplied; a sin which stung her, an innocent girl. Hence the expulsion from the heaven which was the family farm.

  Unable to share their air, she retreated from the house, not wishing to be caught, to stand in the cold air, to calm herself down. When she had recovered enough to handle this new revelation, she stowed it away for future use; for that time when it would be of most use, do her the most good, and bring the evil man down, along with his church. God had meant this to be, she decided. God had given her a powerful weapon with which to destroy a wicked man; the only drawback being she would have to destroy her brother. But a sodomite was a sodomite. His choice. His sin. She went to her tent, the purist place in The Village, she concluded, intent on spending the night there, unsure if she could ever sleep in her brother’s house again.

  A galvanised Sinead, flanked by Grimble and his Skunks, went on the offensive, to raise a petition to deliver to the Elders: stop the tax; no repairs to the old discredited church or The Village Hall; let a new church rise from the ruins of the Hall, her church. Many took to it, and gave her their names, for the simple reason they did not wish to be taxed. Upon hearing of her fresh endeavour, an outraged vicar began spreading the rumour that the crazy girl had started the fire.

  ***

  Lady Agnes could not escape her scar. It went where she went. It kept her indoors, out of sight. She hated having to step outside, into the daylight, especially when it was sunny. If she did, she had to cover up her face, only to attract looks of suspicion. She felt trapped: trapped by her face; trapped by The Village; trapped by a prince who didn’t give a damn about her. Such reoccurring thoughts constantly exhausted her.

  The thought of being pregnant, of becoming a mother, of raising a child without the support of a father, of having a child who would despise his ugly mother, drove her to consider an abortion. That meant another visit to The Village witch for she could not stomach seeing the doctor, even if he was free.

  She took the back entrance, which led into the rear garden, not wishing to be seen. There she saw a young man, a hooligan, smack The Village Idiot over the head before grabbing a bag of what looked like green leaves then storming off in a nasty, very vocal temper.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ he sneered as he passed her by.

  Lady Agnes recoiled, unable to answer. She had encountered worse back at the Castle, but here, now, in her fragile state, she was prepared to turn back. But The Village Idiot saw her and asked if she was lost if he could help. He sounded sweet, and she could not refuse his offer. She said she had to see the old woman, so he took her hand and led her through his garden – a garden of delights which he was not supposed to share – to the old woman, and left smartly, sensing that a man was not welcomed, despite being an idiot. The old woman did not seem surprised to see the girl from the brothel. (She refused to regard her as anything else, despite having been corrected more than once now.)

  ‘Your burn, does it still hurt?’

  ‘Sometimes. Especially if I lie on it when asleep.’

  ‘I can give you more lotion if you’re willing to pay. Otherwise there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Yes, please. But that’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘You have come about your rash?’

  ‘No, something else.’

  ‘Not clearing up?’

  ‘No. I need to get out of this place first.’

  We all do, thought the old woman. ‘Do you scratch it?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ Fuck my fucking rash! Screamed Lady Agnes inside.

  ‘What then?’

  The old woman offered the brothel girl a chair and eyed her intensely as she sat down, her guard still up. Lady Agnes looked uncomfortable as she struggled to formulate her enquiry.

  ‘Do you do abortions? I might want one.’

  ‘You might want one?’

  ‘I might. I don’t know if the time is right for a baby.’

  ‘Does the father know?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’ Possibly never, Lady Agnes thought privately.

  ‘I see.’

  You see nothing, thought Lady Agnes. You’re too old to see anything.

  The old woman saw clearly the expression of contemptuous, instant dismissal on the girl’s face. You’re too young to see anything, she thought.

  ‘Would he care if he did know?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Does he love you?’

  ‘No.’

  Yes, was the answer. The old woman could do an abortion. When? Was her next question. Lady Agnes said she would think about it, which caused the old woman’s head to rock, either with sympathy, or sadness or in anticipation of large medical fees.

  ‘You do that. It may be a one-way trip.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had an abortion once. After that I had a miscarriage, then another. So be warned. There may be a price to pay. An abortion can fuck up your body.’

  That piece of new information slid slowly into Lady Agnes’ consciousness like a well-placed, razor-sharp sword. Lady Agnes said nothing after that. She didn’t even ask about the fee. Price was not the issue here. Her sanity was. As she got up to leave, she pointed in the direction of the idiot loitering outside.

  ‘So he’s not your grandson then?’

  The old woman looked up at the ceiling and laughed as she slapped her thigh. ‘As if!’

  ‘Why does the idiot – ‘

  ‘His name is Simon.’

  ‘Why does your Simon hand out bags of leaves – weeds? – to people?’

  ‘What!’ The old woman looked out of her window, as if suddenly very disappointed and very angry.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Fair enough, thought Lady Agnes and she left, and as she walked away, back through the garden, a night
mare vision exploded inside her head. She saw herself as old, wizened, childless, unloved; despised, neglected and rejected; perhaps in the service of a young, vibrant, beautiful queen; perhaps a nanny to her children. And she didn’t know what to do; except hang on, and pray for time to stop while she found herself a good man who would love her and look after her for the rest of her life regardless of her looks or the state of her body: someone like Timothy or even Mutz, despite his lack of noble blood. Could she seduce Prince Timothy a second time? Could she make a king out of him? She laughed, loudly, so loudly that it caught Simple Simon’s attention. It was too loud. It was the laugh of a maniac.

  Whilst returning to the brothel – the place where she spent nearly all of her time now when not trying to sleep – Lady Agnes came across the big Tent on the hill. Curious, she tackled the climb and, after catching her breath, popped her head inside, wishing to see what all the fuss was about. She was immediately struck by the bad smell. Was it coming from this wreck of a girl collapsed out on the floor before her? It was the crazy girl, the one selling religion around The Village. She looked like she was lost in a very uncomfortable daydream. She looked in a bad way. She looked underweight. Was she ill? She looked ill. Her bad state suddenly made Lady Agnes feel a lot better. Sinead looked up at the scarred face. The poor girl needed her help.

  ‘You should eat more,’ suggested Lady Agnes, trying to be helpful.

  The suggestion did not go down well, and Lady Agnes received stony silence.

  ‘Doesn’t your god allow you to eat a decent meal?’

  That went down even worse, like a piece of rotten meat fat.

  The opportunity for two damaged souls to connect, in a positive way, was finally blown away the moment Sinead opened her mouth and tried to sell her god to Lady Agnes. Her medicine failed, miserably, and she ended up shouting Lady Agnes from her tent while Lady Agnes shouted back even louder that she could stick her stupid god where the sun didn’t shine. There was still some fight left in Lady Agnes, which meant she had to have the last word.

  She pointed at her face, her once beautiful, boy-busting, face; a face that could trap a prince just as much as her large breasts.

  ‘God! You talk about a god and his plan! Are you telling me your god did this to me as part of some great plan! Why am I so fucking important to him! I don’t believe in your shit!’

  Sinead wanted to strike her down but could not find the energy to rise up and attack.

  ‘Get out, woman! Get out of my tent! You don’t deserve us!’

  As she left, Lady Agnes found herself laughing. She suddenly felt great for a change. But the greatness was gone by the time she was back at the brothel – but at least she still knew how to fight, when fight was all there was.

  ***

  On the day of the fete – just one miserable day this year by edict of the Elders – The Village people began to trickle in then flood into the Fete which, for the second year running (no one knew why) was being held on land belonging to Farmer Giles. It was land outside The Village Limits which gave him the freedom to do whatever he damned well liked on this day, his day. And it was a good day: the rain kept away; it was warming up fast; no clouds blocked the sun, and it gave out sweet light for the enjoyment of the crowd.

  Farmer Giles stood proud, legs apart, like he was about to mount a sexy cow; waving people in and on up to his food stands. He was particularly proud of the pork pies which he had ordered cooked for the occasion: pies encrusted with the word ‘fete’. That justified the high price, he had argued to his cook. With unbounded enthusiasm, he herded The Village people on to the traders located behind their own stands. They wanted to sell stuff that The Villagers did not need, and on a normal day would not consider buying. Farmer Giles had sold the traders licences to trade and would take a cut of the sales profits. He rubbed his hands in anticipation of what was to come. Corbelli the village cobbler hoped to win a lot of orders for shoes and boots that day. He had them in his sights. The married tailors had their best cloth spread out across their table. Giles had erected gallows as a laugh, as two fingers up to The Village Hangman who held the monopoly on hanging people. He was there with his men, on the lookout for bad behaviour, brawling, and drunkenness. (He would find it in abundance.) He didn’t get the joke. (His men did.) For a fee, you could pretend to hang a friend. No one took up the offer that day.

  Again this year, like last, The Village Pickpocket made an appearance. His name was Tom. Unbeknown to his parents (who thought it was just down to luck that he had never been caught) Tom secretly received the protection of The Village Hangman: he took a percentage of Tom’s earnings. Today, he watched Tom as and when he could, to gauge how much the rascal was taking, ensuring his fair share. There was no honour amongst thieves, only business opportunities, victims, and denials.

  There were flower sellers, again only with the permission of Farmer Giles, but at least he charged no fee: his reasoning being that there was little to be made from selling flowers, but they looked sweet as they begged for business. There was cheese on sale, and jugs of cider; and hats and bonnets and cheap haircuts; and beard-trimming services; and shirts in all sizes but few colours. There were doughnuts, but this year without the nut in the centre. Most felt cheated by the tight-fisted fat Farmer Giles, but only a few complained. Yet still, they paid, while Giles laughed and waved them away.

  The Village people came to fill time; to have fun (the cheap kind), perhaps make trouble later; to kill the boredom; to make new friends and avoid existing ones. Some came to get away from their aging parents; some to stir their other half; some to lose the kids for a while. Some came unhappy, simply wishing to leave in a happier state of mind. Some would. Some would not: of those, some would recognise their misfortune; some would not. Some had come to stuff themselves silly. Some had come just to be silly. Some were always silly: perhaps today they would be more serious. Some wanted to go absolutely crazy. Some wanted to go just a little crazy, enough to stay sane. Some liked nothing more than to stand back and watch others go crazy and make fools of themselves. Some (the fools) would not realise they would be made fools of.

  The few Elders who did dare to make an appearance, wore their formal gowns to advertise their wealth and place in the world, and quickly came to regret it. They stuck out like sore thumbs, which The Village people wanted to bite off and spit out. Early on, they would give up trying to ‘mingle’ and melt away, back to the safety of their homes, and the tall gates which surrounded them, and (for some) the 24-hour protection of their guards.

  The Village people came dressed in their best dresses, frocks, jackets, trousers, and jerkins. Some came to impress. Some just wanted to look respectable, smart. Some men posed in their best codpieces – some handed down through the generations. Some would pose questions: why do we do this, why did we do that, will we keep on doing it? Some particular women secretly compared outfits – cut, colour, and stitching – on the level of ‘today’ versus ‘yesterday’ versus ‘my parents’. Some remained satisfied. Others became discontent: husbands would suffer.

  Some wore wigs. Some tentatively approached the stand set up by The Village wig-maker, and of those, some shied away when they caught his eye. A few, however, did engage, and were sold a brand new wig, or a replacement, or agreed to restoration work.

  Some came with their kids almost on a leash. Some came with their pet pigs definitely on a leash. Some pigs sported a bowtie. Both village people and village pigs wished to show off their best bacon. Some came seeking fortune. Some came seeking relief. Some wanted to climb the walls, but what was the point? Some wanted to start again, but what was the point? Some wanted to walk out on their wives, but what was the point? So spend the day at the Fete instead, and dump the bad stuff inside the head for a day and a night.

  Even the aged turned up: those who were not infirm or were given help to get out for the day; some holding on to their kids or gr
andkids for balance and direction until they were shaken off and left stranded, to stand on their own two feet, to congregate like a flock of unsure sheep, or pigeons on the watch, sometimes agitated by too much noise and movement like a herd of disgruntled cows. All that aside, they would do their best to enjoy themselves before being sucked back inside and forgotten again.

  ‘Why did we bother?’ thought some as they watched their kids – and their kids’ kids – go crazy.

  There were freakish couples with their freakish kids in tow: the kind who rarely left their home; who did not know how to mix; whose kids never got on with other kids and always wound up in fights (like their dad). Today, as always, they failed to mix and went home once the kids had had their fill.

  The Village cripples turned up, late; some were hobbling on one wooden stick, some on two. Some were pushed along in little, purpose-built buggies by a relative or best friend (their only friend) who arrived mostly worn out, despite initially being generous of heart and driven by a vague sense of devotion or duty. Luckily it was only once a year. The helpers would dump their cargo for long periods whilst they went off to have some much-needed fun. While they were away, kids and gang members would sneak up behind the parked cripples and clap or shout obscenities before running off. Even a few adults would succumb to playing the cruel joke.

  Village cripples were not popular on Fete Day. Most of The Village people thought they spoilt the atmosphere by showing themselves. Despite that, The Village cripples tried their best to have a good time: some even did; refusing to be depressed; refusing to soak up the bad atmosphere created by others in good health (relatively speaking).

  A blind man turned up, clinging on to the arm of his sister. He heard almost everything that was happening around him, whilst seeing nothing. The soundscape was a feast for him. His sister, on the other hand, saw little and heard little – her choice – but despite that, she still enjoyed herself. It was good to get away from the drudgery of housework and caring for her brother – her last remaining brother, all the others having died soon after childbirth.