Phil Rickman - Remains of an Altar

‘I know.’

Embarrassed by her ignorance, Merrily had picked up a slim guide to Elgar’s Herefordshire, skimming through it before Sophie came in. It was a start.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Sophie said. ‘May one ask?’

‘Well, with your help, as an Elgar enthusiast and a Cathedral chorister for … how many years … ?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘… I want to look at it sensibly. Because whatever your misgivings about the idea of Elgar’s ghost, my instinct is that there is something .’

Sophie scowled.

‘Please? I’ve a christening this afternoon, and then I’m supposed to go to this parish meeting. Or not.’

Sophie went to sit at her own desk, waved a limp hand.

‘Go on…’

‘I need to know enough to be able to discount crap, but I have to be prepared for the possibility of it not being crap. Which would leave two options: an imprint or what Huw Owen would describe as an insomniac .’

‘A restless spirit.’

‘In this case, an angry spirit, disturbed – much as you are – over the invasion of the Malverns by the hoodies and bling element. Which is a potentially sensitive issue because of … well…’

‘Racism. Always the weapon used against us. As if appalling behaviour and criminal acts should be protected for so-called cultural reasons.’

‘Lol reckons that, with Elgar, it wasn’t so much political patriotism as a pure love of the countryside – the landscape itself. That in fact he even developed a bit of a distaste for “Land of Hope and Glory”? That true?’

‘I suppose he had misgivings about the jingoism in the words. He was a lifelong Conservative, however, Merrily, never forget that.’

‘Although, unless I’m wrong –’ Merrily remembering something else from Elgar – A Hereford Guide ‘– a good friend of lifelong socialist George Bernard Shaw?’

‘No, you’re not wrong,’ Sophie said, maybe through her teeth. ‘What point are you making?’

‘Just trying to form an opinion on whether, in theory, the raging essence of Edward Elgar might be summoned, like King Arthur from his cave, by a blast of trip-hop over his sacred hills. If something’s happening, then something must have set it off.’

‘You don’t believe that for one minute.’

‘Open mind, Sophie. It’s what this job’s about.’

‘And what’s the alternative?’

‘The alternative, if we’re accepting the possibility of a paranormal element, is an imprint. Spicer says Elgar used to bike through Wychehill, maybe stopping for a pint of cider at the Royal Oak.’

‘Possibly when he was exploring the location of his cantata Caractacus , in the 1890s. Its main setting is Herefordshire Beacon.’

‘It’s about the last stand of the Celts against the Romans?’

‘A legend now discredited. The final defeat of Caractacus was probably not, as once suggested, on the Beacon. Which wouldn’t have bothered Elgar too much. He simply loved the drama of it and … was fascinated, I’m afraid, by Druid ritual. Blood-sacrifices and prophecies in the oak groves.’

‘I should listen to it.’

‘Yes, you should, but you’ll find it essentially a patriotic work dedicated to Queen Victoria. Ending with what I expect you would call an imperialist rant – the British might have been defeated this time but would rise again, with an empire greater than Rome’s.’

‘I expect it was … of its time. And presumably – again – he didn’t write the words?’

‘Elgar told his publisher that he’d suggested the librettist should dabble in patriotism, but didn’t expect the man to “get naked and wallow in it.”’

Merrily smiled.

‘Actually,’ Sophie said, ‘thinking about this, his cycling phase might have begun later, although it certainly started at Birchwood. Possibly while he was completing his masterpiece, The Dream of Gerontius .’

‘That’s not set in the Malverns, though, is it?’

‘Merrily, your ignorance of great music astonishes me. It’s set in the afterlife .’

‘Erm … OK. But we can assume Elgar was familiar with Wychehill? Travelling that road – on his bike or on foot – drawing from the landscape and also projecting his imagination into it. Fitting the criteria for an imprint – a recurring image in a particular location. A recording on an atmospheric loop.’

Sophie’s face was expressionless. Merrily wondered sometimes if she believed any of this. Even for someone as unwaveringly High Church as Sophie, Christianity could still be a discipline rather than a journey of discovery.

‘He undoubtedly did draw from the landscape and always saw his music through nature. Even as a boy, sitting by the river, he said he wanted to write down what the reeds were saying. Much later he was to say that the air was full of music and you just took as much as you required.’

Interesting. Merrily made a note.

‘His principal biographer, Jerrold Northrop-Moore, an American, says the Cello Concerto projected to him – in America – an image of a landscape he’d never seen, and when he finally came over to Worcestershire it all seemed strangely familiar. He also suggests that Elgar’s pattern of composition reflects the physical rhythm of the Malvern Hills.’

‘And Lol said that when he was dying…’

‘Either he was being gently humorous in his final hours or he truly believed his spirit belonged in the hills. Does that fit your criteria for an imprint?’

‘Maybe more than that,’ Merrily said. ‘But let’s settle for an imprint for the moment.’

‘And is that necessarily bad ? An animation that simply replays itself?’

The phone rang and then stopped as Sophie reached out a hand. She sat back and rearranged her glasses on their chain.

‘Linking Elgar with road-death, however, is abusive to the point of indecency.’

‘People are worried .’

‘And to allay their fears, you call upon God to banish the spirit of a genius?’

The phone rang again, and Sophie hooked it up. ‘Gatehouse.’ She covered the mouthpiece. ‘Might it not be appropriate to bring this whole issue to the attention of the Bishop?’

‘Not yet. Let’s see what happens tonight.’

So where did you go with this?

Perhaps you started by strolling across the Cathedral green to confront the compact, tidy gent in bronze, leaning…

… On his bike. Of course he was.

Mr Phoebus, if this was Mr Phoebus, didn’t have a lamp. But then his wheels didn’t have any spokes either.

It was, Merrily thought, essentially a modest, unobtrusive piece. Life-size, dapper: Elgar the bloke. She sat on the grass in the sunshine with an egg mayonnaise sandwich, contemplating him from a distance while finishing off Elgar – A Hereford Guide .

Finally, she wandered across.

Could you … ? Keeping a respectful distance. Could you possibly help me, Sir Edward?

Look, this wasn’t stupid. Sometimes … call it intuition, call it divine inspiration, call it…

But Elgar had higher things on his mind. Overdressed for the weather, he was gazing at the Cathedral tower with its unsightly scaffolding. The Cathedral where he’d spent so many hours – even, in later years, recording some of his music there.

Look, I accept that I don’t know enough about your work. I’m sorry. I hope to deal with that .

No reaction.

No impressions. No guidance. Elgar was miles away, and music was Merrily’s blind spot. In church, anyway. All the trite Victorian hymns she’d been trying to edge out of services for the past two years.