Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

‘I really don’t think we should be arguing about a plan that’s not yet come before the council,’ the woman said. ‘Certainly not with a schoolgirl.’

‘But if nobody says anything, it’ll just get quietly pushed through, won’t it, by people who don’t give a—’

‘I should be very careful what you say, if I were you,’ the woman said coldly.

‘Particularly to the vice-chair of the Education Committee,’ Cliff said.

A rock landed in Jane’s gut. This was, of course, the woman who’d been sitting next to Morrell on stage at the prizegiving ceremony.

Jane looked down at her wineglass; it was empty.

‘Well, I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you guys. I think I need to get home to…’

She backed away to the nearest corner of the house called Avalon and then looked at each of them in turn.

‘… Work out how best to shaft you,’ Jane said.

And turned and ran through the summer-scented dusk, past the crooked, sunken, black and white cottages of Virgingate Lane.

Spicer led Merrily and Lol into his spartan kitchen, offered them seats at his table but no tea. The sun had dropped into a bank of cloud, and the conifers at the end of the garden were turning black.

Spicer switched off the radio.

‘I suppose it’s like people seeing Shakespeare’s ghost in Stratford-on-Avon.’

He joined them at the table but didn’t put a light on.

‘Or Wordsworth in Grasmere,’ Merrily said. ‘Brontës in Howarth. Yes, I do get the picture.’

Recalling once looking up a number under E in the Hereford phone book and noticing Elgar Carpets and Interiors , Elgar Coaches , the Elgar Coffee Shop , Elgar Fine Art … like that for about half a page.

In all these establishments, you’d be shelling out twenty-pound notes with an engraved portrait on the back of a man with neat grey hair, a generous moustache, faraway eyes.

‘See, in comparison,’ Spicer said, ‘Wordsworth and Shakespeare are remote figures. Elgar’s been dead barely seventy years. It’s like he still lives around here, with everything he’s come to represent. Go to the Elgar museum at Broadheath, they say you can see his betting slips.’

He had his back to the window bay, blocking more light from the room, which had three doors, all shut. One thing was sure: you’d never see Syd Spicer’s betting slips. Merrily wondered if visitors were confined to the stripped-down kitchen so they wouldn’t clock his books or his CD collection or pictures of his kids.

‘I should’ve realized. The soundtrack of the Malverns. The obvious spirit of the place.’

‘Maybe more obvious than you know,’ Spicer said. ‘Joseph Longworth, the quarry boss who built the church, as well as being a born-again Christian or however they put it in those days, was an Elgar fanatic. The church was built that size to accommodate an orchestra and choir able to perform the great man’s works. Elgar’s said to have attended the dedication.’

‘It’s all coming out, isn’t it?’

‘If Longworth could’ve called it St Edward’s he would have.’

‘But Elgar was a Catholic, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah, he was ,’ Spicer said, ‘and he wrote extensively for the Catholic Mass, as you … presumably heard. But, of course, his music was played in Anglican cathedrals, and cathedral sound was what Longworth was paying for.’

‘Sounds like he was getting it.’

‘Not for long. They held a few concerts here, but Longworth died and then Elgar died. And nothing much happened until Tim Loste arrived. Who thinks Elgar’s God. So this is becoming Elgar city again after many years. I’m sorry, maybe I should ’ve told you.’

‘And should I have heard of Tim Loste in a wider context?’

‘Nah. Used to be a music teacher at Malvern College, now he’s a private tutor. Got an amateur choir drawn from miles around. At least, it started amateur; they’re making a bit of money now. From my point of view, the parish gets its cut, and if most of the music’s heavily Catholic, well…’

‘Fills the church.’

‘Yeah. Situation now is, we’ve a whole bunch of people in Wychehill and down the valley who’ve moved here solely because this is Elgar country. Listen to some of them, you start picking up this maudlin kind of patriotism. “Land of Hope and Glory.” Don’t you hate that song?’

‘Apparently, Elgar hated it, too,’ Lol said. ‘But then, he didn’t write the words.’

Merrily glanced at him. She didn’t know he knew any more about Elgar than she did, which, frankly, was not much.

‘Let’s deal with the bottom line, Syd. Who’s saying the supposed presence is Elgar?’

‘Out loud, nobody. It’s one of those situations where an idea develops. Can I tell you why I’m not happy about it?’

‘Please.’

‘Well, let me tell you about Tim. Good conductor, great teacher, they say … but would like to be a great composer and isn’t. Some part of him is deeply frustrated. He’s prone to depression. So this particular night he goes off the road, hits a telegraph pole. Nobody else involved, no injury, no need for police. Which was just as well, because Tim was pissed.’

‘Oh.’

‘Happened just across from the church. I heard the crash. I go over, help him out of the wreckage – this is about half-nine at night, month or so ago, getting dark. Bring him back here, administer the black coffee. He’s shaking all over. I was going down to Ledbury, he says, to buy a light bulb for my desk lamp. Trying to write, bulb blew. Going down to Ledbury for a light bulb – that tells you the state he was in. I’d’ve given him a bloody bulb , for God’s sake.’

‘Is he often … ?’

‘Drunk and incapable? Now and then. Couple of us had to go down the Oak one night, get him away from the bouncers. He’d broken a window. I didn’t tell you about the Oak, did I?’

‘I know about it.’

‘Naturally, Tim really hates the Royal Oak. A disruptive force sent to destroy his life’s work. Lost it completely one night when the wind changed and all this rap music … it kind of rises up and bounces off the hill. Anyway, that’s by the by: this crash was on a week night, and the Oak was quiet. Tim reckoned he’d just pulled out of his drive when he saw what he described as a dim and bleary light . When it got closer, he could see it was a bicycle lamp. He said.’

‘But he was drunk.’

‘Very. Anyway, the light’s some distance away at first. And then he said it was like he must’ve blacked out for about half a second – which doesn’t surprise me – and the next thing the cyclist is coming straight at him. He says he can make out what seems to be a high-buttoned jacket and a hat. And a big, dark slice across the face.’

‘Moustache.’

‘That’s the inference. And the eyes are white, according to Tim, like the eyes in a photo negative. Tim swerves, goes into the pole.’

Spicer fell silent. In the fading light, he was very still, hadn’t moved since sitting down, didn’t seem to need to rearrange himself like most people, to find a comfortable position.

‘But how did he know it was Elgar?’ Lol said.

‘Mr Robinson, he’s got pictures of Elgar all over his walls, Elgar music seeping through the brickwork. Tim sees Elgar every-bloody-where. He’s … I like the guy, most people like him, but nobody’s gonna deny he’s well off his trolley. Planted an oak tree in his front garden. Have you seen the size of his front garden?’

‘And what did you do?’ Merrily said.

‘Sat him where you’re sitting now, told him to stay there. Rang a mate, runs a bodywork garage the other side of Colwall. Got him to bring his truck and get Tim’s car away before the police got word. If he’d lost his licence I think he’d have gone into a depression he might not have come out of easily. I said, Go home, get some sleep, Tim, and don’t even think of telling anybody what you just told me. As if .’