‘Reporters?’
‘Didn’t you know? From the Banner, or so they said. The guy chatted me up a bit, and I mentioned you. Didn’t he get in touch?’
The phone at the Court had rung an hour or so ago … but Cedric had been thinking about other matters. He shook his head.
‘If he did, he must have spoken to my belovèd mother. What’ll you have?’ – as he pushed open the door.
‘Cider, please.’
‘Pint?’
‘Pint.’
They drank under the baleful glare of Colin, which grew even sourer when Stick unwrapped and ate his sandwiches. Cedric’s order of a pasty and salad mollified him, but only slightly.
‘Know something?’ Cedric said after long consideration.
‘What?’ Stick brushed crumbs from his beard.
‘I promised Chris I’d have a word with Colin about not letting the pilgrims in. Think I dare?’
‘You can always try it on. I mean, he’s not likely to bar you from the place, is he? And if he does, you can always go over the road.’
‘I know,’ Cedric said unhappily. ‘That’s what’s wrong with this bloody country … Excuse me! Colin! My-uh-my friends Chris and Rhoda said you aren’t letting them in here, or the people who’ve come with them. But you never minded back in the summer, and it’s more or less the same lot, you know.’
Colin exchanged glances with Rosie, then advanced to lean on the bar with folded arms.
‘Back then,’ he said, ‘we didn’t know what was going on. Now we do!’
Cedric jerked his head, for the words hit him like a slap. He said feebly, ‘I don’t understand!’
‘We do. We’ve been working it out. Now we’ve been here five years. It’s our third pub, and we’ve done well in all of ’em. We bought this one in good faith, knowing it had a brisk summer trade and a steady one, at least, in winter. And for the first two years it was like that – wasn’t it, Rosie?’
She nodded until her much-powdered dewlap wobbled.
‘But lately it’s changing. Trade’s dropped off. We don’t get half the casual custom that we used to, nor half the regular neither. Do we, Rosie?
‘And we’ve been thinking back, working it out. The drop began just about the time these – these pagan folk that you’re so friendly with started arriving on their ungodly so-called pilgrimages!’ A snort. ‘No thanks to Mr Draycock for suggesting that that’s what they call ’em!’
Cedric’s mind filled with counter-arguments: inflation, unemployment, the impact of television, the opening of a drinks counter in the back room of Jacksett’s, more young people owning cars so they could go to pubs in Chapminster or Powte or Fooksey where there were discos or other entertainment … He was too slow, for Colin was saying with immense deliberation, ‘It’s been like a leak.’
‘A – what?’ Cedric ventured.
‘A gas leak!’ Rosie said, pushing her ponderous body off her stool and coming to stand with one arm across her husband’s shoulders.
‘That’s exactly it,’ Colin said. ‘We’ve been discussing it, working it out. First you get the odd smell, and you don’t know what it is. Then the leak gets worse. Then, if some expert doesn’t come and tell you, you find out the hard way, don’t you? Everything blows up!’
‘And Mr Phibson had told us what’s going on,’ Rosie stated firmly. ‘And I’ve been saying to Colin: we should have listened to Joyce Vikes before! That’s why we’re not letting in your pagan chums!’
There was a dead silence. Eventually Stick and Cedric met each other’s eyes and by mutual agreement drained their tankards and headed for the door.
On the threshold, though, Stick turned back and said in the mildest possible tone, ‘There’s just one point, Colin.’
‘Yes?’
‘Rosie said you ought to have believed Joyce long ago.’
‘Yes!’
‘How do you square your complaint about declining trade with her calling your pub a den of vice? Are we to take it that you’d have been happy keeping it that way so long as your turnover stayed high? Come on, Ced. Leave them to work it out.’
And he slammed the door with quite un-Sticklike force.
Why did I never have that damned drive tarmac’ed? The grind of wheels on gravel gets on my nerves!
Fuming, Basil Goodsir flung wide the front door of the Court and strode out to confront the driver of the Sierra that was pulling to a halt.
‘Who are you and what the blazes do you want?’
‘My card, sir,’ said the driver as he got out. ‘Donald Prosher, of the Globe. This is my associate Mr Spout. It will make him blush as red as his hair when I mention it, but you may recall that last year he won a major award for his photography. Would you by any chance be Basil Goodsir?’
Basil had been about to order them off the premises. The Globe, however, was one of Britain’s three most highly regarded Sunday papers, albeit not the one he read himself. Taking the card, he admitted, ‘As a matter of fact, I am. But’ – he recollected something Helen had said earlier after answering the phone – ‘I thought it was that rag the Banner that had sent reporters to Weyharrow!’
‘Well, one never wishes to decry a colleague,’ Don said in a tone of deprecation. ‘But … Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. And some of the other – let’s be blunt – the other scandal-sheets also have plans to invade this lovely village. I’m just hoping against hope that something can be done to prevent it being smeared nation-wide.’
‘Really?’ Basil growled.
‘Yes, really! The way some of our contemporaries are likely to exploit a parson who has claimed from his pulpit that the Devil is at work hereabouts …! Why, it beggars belief, doesn’t it? That’s why I’m appealing to you. My paper, as I trust you know, doesn’t deal in that kind of crude sensationalism. But we do have a first-class record of investigative journalism. I’m much afraid that in tomorrow’s press there will be at least a scattering of ill-founded rumours about Weyharrow … My editor sent us here with an eye to setting the record straight on Sunday. An extra twenty-four hours ought to lend the necessary perspective to what’s going on. That is, of course, provided we can obtain sufficient information to counteract the absurd rumours that no doubt you’ve heard.’
He waited, smiling. He could read Basil’s face like a four-column headline. It was no surprise when he turned indoors, beckoning them to follow; nor when he met a thin fair woman in the hall – that would be his wife Helen, an ex-model, some of whose pre-marriage photos survived on the file, including a few nude shots – and said, ‘These gentlemen are from the Globe. They want an interview!’
The woman’s expression had been glacial. At once it melted.
‘Come into the drawing-room!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll ring for coffee. Or would you care for something stronger? I remember from my modelling days …’
Don suppressed a sigh. It was going to be one of those.
But he forced a smile, that broadened when Marmaduke limped from one of the rooms leading into the entrance hall, stick thumping on the stone-flagged floor, demanding what the row was all about.
He’d heard about Marmaduke. He wanted to know more. What a shame that the boy Cedric, on inquiry, proved to be elsewhere. Still, this lot between them should be good for most of the background data that he needed.
His smile threatened to become a grin. He substituted a look of gravity befitting an underling permitted access to the haunts of his superiors, and followed the effusive Helen, recorder at the ready.
Unfortunately Marmaduke proved to be a dreadful letdown.
This morning Vic Draycock had missed the excitement caused by the arrival of the hippie bus and the planting of tents on the village green; this was because he and Carol lived across the river on the Chapminster road, and he drove to work in Powte while she walked Tommy to Weyharrow primary school.
But he found out, as of the moment when he called the roll and asked why Harold Ellerford was absent.
His q
uestion was met with giggles.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ one of the pupils said eventually. ‘His mum’s gone off her rocker!’
Someone else said. ‘Serve ’em right! Him and that horrid Paul!’
‘Know what Eunice Hoddie said to Paul?’ interjected a third voice – a girl’s – and the entire class rocked with laughter.
When he had sorted out a bit of sense from the kids, Victor felt duty-bound to inculcate a trace of social empathy instead of concentrating on the next stage of Britain’s conquest of Canada. He had never approved of imperialism, even though probably three-quarters of his pupils would still have liked to celebrate Empire Day.
That was how he found out about Mrs O’Pheale’s accusation concerning Miss Knabbe, and Tom Fidger driving on the wrong side of the road, and Eunice’s put-down of Paul Ellerford …
Feeling as though he had spent the past day on another planet (and perhaps he might as well have done), he swallowed his initial fury and asked for further information.
He obtained it, but he didn’t like it. Although of his over-large class only those who had so far spoken hailed from Weyharrow, the rest, while they shared the common detestation of the Ellerford boys, were already au fait with the scandal. They knew the parson had gone crazy, knew about Ken Pecklow fighting Harry Vikes, and Mary Flaken throwing eggs all round the Blockets’ kitchen, and the rest. And they declared it was no more than Weyharrow deserved because it was full of wicked people.
‘What makes you say that?’ Vic challenged, expecting to hear that these children had been indoctrinated thanks to the publicity accorded to last summer’s drug-arrests.
But the answers amounted to: we’ve always known it.
Gradually Vic came to the conclusion that he had tapped into a folk tradition. His pupils must have been told that Weyharrow was a scene of evil-doing long before they came to school. That meant the tradition must go back to the earliest incursion of Christianity!
The bell rang.
Exultant, during the morning break and over lunch Vic tried out his theory on his colleagues, most of whom were local, or had at least been in the area much longer than himself. Far from impressing them it was rebuffed by sour ripostes. Had he not considered the prosperity of the Slaking House and the jealousy it must have generated, for instance at Trimborne when the once-rich mill was falling into disuse? Had he not thought about the impact of the manor being inherited by Reverend Matthew, that notorious bigot from the distant north, who wanted to deprive the local people of their ale and cider? And how about the fact that Weyharrow had formerly been the highest navigable point on the Chap, so that it marked the limit where smugglers could dispose of foreign goods brought from the coast by water?
‘We thought you’d been boning up on all this stuff!’ said one of them.
Seething, Vic was more than customarily rude to his afternoon classes … though in his heart of hearts he was relieved to think that his article was not after all going to appear in the Chronicle, at least in the form that he remembered.
He’d promised it to Jenny Severance. He must get in touch and apologize.
Luckily, this term, he had arranged to have no extra duties on Friday. He was able to pile into his car immediately the final bell rang and head for home.
Or, more precisely, for Weyharrow Green. He wanted to talk to the returning pilgrims.
It was going to be another rainy night. Chris was much relieved about that; it would discourage people from coming out later on and messing with the camp-site. A good few of the younger locals, met last summer, had dropped by to say hello – some visibly tempted by the idea of cutting loose from their roots and taking to the road rather than hanging around here where there was neither work nor fun to be found – and some had warned of exactly what he feared: an attack on the hippies under cover of dark.
On the other hand, the drizzle did make it hard to keep the fire alight …
Such problems, though, paled into insignificance when he saw a familiar orange car draw up behind the bus, a baby Renault. He exclaimed aloud.
‘That’s Vic’s car, isn’t it? Vic Draycock’s?’
Indeed it was. Hair tousled, looking harassed, Vic emerged to shake their hands and kiss some cheeks. He still looked excessively respectable in suit and tie, but one had to make allowances; it was because of his headmaster’s stuck-in-the-mud attitude, and he stood to lose his job if he gainsaid the guy.
The pilgrims had debated the problem last summer, and come to the conclusion, if reluctantly, that it was better on the whole for there to be some people like Vic around, who might help to open children’s minds a bit.
But when they invited him into the shelter of the bus, the first thing that he said was most unpromising: ‘I daren’t stay long, I’m afraid. Carol’s expecting me for supper. I just dropped by to say hello and find out what’s going down.’
Going down? Oh, well …
Chris shrugged. ‘We’ve spent all day talking about it. We think the ancient power is stirring again. We don’t know why, but it could be to do with the weather, or the pattern we created when we came here in the summer … What do you think?’
After a pause Vic muttered, not looking at him, ‘I’m almost ashamed to admit how out of touch I’ve been. I had to be told what’s been happening by the kids.’
‘Well, you do remember we performed some rituals … Say, we were talking earlier to Cedric. Have you seen him this afternoon?’
Vic shook his head. ‘I’ve been in school.’
‘It’s very odd. He went off to try and talk Colin and Rosie into letting us in the pub – they’re putting up barricades – and Stick went with him, and we haven’t seen either of them since … Speak of the devil!’
Stick himself was banging on the door of the bus, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. Now the rain was thickening; Rhoda made haste to let him in.
Shaking wet from his hair, he climbed aboard and sat down, bestowing smiles and greetings. ‘Hi! Hi, Vic! Hi! Listen, Cedric said you’d asked if I’m holding, and the answer’s yes, so –’
‘But what’s become of Cedric?’ interrupted Rhoda.
‘Chickened out.’
‘What?’
‘After we left the Marriage he got back on his bike. Went home, I suppose. I don’t know why! I don’t think it was anything I said … I’ll make a guess, though.’
All faces looked expectant.
‘There’s been a crisis at the stately home. His old man took leave of his senses yesterday, just like the parson, right?’ Stick gazed seriously at each of his listeners in turn. ‘And if I know Cedric, he got scared. He found Colin and Rosie treating this bit about the Devil literally. That hadn’t crossed his mind before. I don’t know for sure if that was it, but it could be. Could be.’
He sat back, linking hands around one upraised knee.
‘That’s not what I came to tell you, though.’
‘Then what?’ – from half a dozen throats.
‘You got some hangers-on. Some steaming nits who think they’re holy beggars. Seems a few of them decided this is the bit of the world that owes them a living today. So the fuzz are back. In force.’
Chris started. ‘We didn’t hear –’
And at almost the same moment Vic said, ‘Where? I didn’t see them.’
‘Down by the river. Didn’t have the lights or sirens on. But I was on my way home and I saw them picking up a bunch of samideanoj –’
‘What?’
‘It’s Esperanto.’ Stick was forever coming up with improbable scraps of information; sometimes people pestered him with questions about his past, but he never talked of it, not even to Sheila. ‘Means “people with the same ideas”. I remember someone suggested we ought to invent the word “milver” so as to have a rhyme for “silver”, which there isn’t … Where was I? Oh, yes: the fuzz.
‘I had a word with Joe Book and apparently Tim – the chef at the hotel – caught them raiding his larder.’
‘Not our lot!’ Chris exclaimed.
‘Nobody I recognized,’ Stick concurred. ‘But Joe said they’d taken a side of beef –’
‘We don’t eat meat!’ Rhoda cried.
‘I know, I know! And this lot weren’t planning to eat it either. Said they wanted it for a blood sacrifice at midnight. Not that I see how that could work, do you?’
Rhoda said in a dead tone, ‘Sounds like the lot we didn’t let come with us to church this morning.’
Chris bit his lip before remembering how swollen and tender it was. He heaved a sigh.
‘You could be right. Shit! That’s going to get us the worst possible publicity. Here we are trying to be non-violent and respect other people’s ideas, even if we don’t hold with private property, and … A sacrifice? Oh, shit! I knew the vibes were bad round here, but this is worse than any of us thought. Right?’
A chorus of agreement followed.
‘Maybe we should sort them out,’ someone proposed.
‘Too late.’ Stick spread his hands. ‘The fuzz already did.’
There was an empty pause. Vic broke it by rising to his feet.
‘I’ll see you in the morning, friends. There’s a lot I want to talk about. Right now –’
‘Right now,’ Stick interrupted, ‘why don’t you tell the people about tomorrow’s meeting?’
Vic shook his head, one hand on the bus’s door.
‘Why is it that I always seem to be ahead of everyone with news?’ Stick pulled a face. ‘It’s set for eight, in the village hall. All we’ve got to do is survive the next twenty-four hours. You planning any rituals?’
Chris and Rhoda exchanged glances. She said at length, ‘Maybe a private one.’
‘My advice is: keep it private. After what those nitwits did … Well, I’d best be on my way.’
‘Me too!’ Vic said, as though released from mental bondage. ‘Want a ride home? It’s raining pretty hard.’
‘Sure, thanks … I’ll see you in the morning, gang.’
The door slammed shut. Despondent, Chris said, ‘I knew the vibes were bad. I said so, didn’t I? But this is bad. We better work the rite. There’s power loose, and I don’t like it much.’