Phil Rickman - The Cure of Souls

‘And you want her to be exorcized.’

‘I feel it’s not something we can ignore.’

‘Yeah, but it’s… it’s not something we undertake without a lot of… There’s a procedure, OK? I’m afraid it would involve bringing in a psychiatrist, initially.’

Hazel Shelbone didn’t turn around. Her whole body had stiffened.

‘We need to be sure.’ Merrily put a hand on her arm. ‘What might at first appear to you or me to be demonic possession could be some form of mental breakdown.’

‘Reverend Watkins…’ Hazel Shelbone stared up at the crucified Jesus in the window above the altar. ‘We’ve had our share of problem children, David and I. We’ve had children from broken homes… children whose parents have been admitted to psychiatric institutions… disturbed children, a child who ran away after smashing up our living room. There’s really not a lot anyone can tell me about child psychology.’

‘We have to be sure,’ Merrily said, and took a step back as the big woman spun round at her.

‘Is this what it’s come to? Has the Church become a branch of the Social Services now? Do I have to sign forms? Mrs Watkins, it’s quite simple – I would like the darkness to be driven out, so that God may be readmitted into the heart of my daughter. Is that too much to ask of a priest?’

‘No. No, it shouldn’t be.’

‘Then?’

Then, Merrily needed advice. This sounded like a simple and sudden adolescent rejection of parental values, but you could never be sure. Before taking this any further, she needed at least to talk to Huw Owen over in Wales. Who, of course, would warn her not to leave the village without praying for and – if possible – with this girl.

‘Mrs Shelbone,’ Merrily said softly, ‘is there something you haven’t told me?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ It came back too quickly.

‘It’s just that for you to want to put your daughter through the stress of a spiritual cleansing—’

‘She knows things,’ Hazel Shelbone mumbled.

‘What?’

‘She knows things she shouldn’t know. Things she couldn’t know.’

‘Like… what?’

Mrs Shelbone bowed her head once, and moved away from the altar. ‘She will look into my eyes sometimes and tell me things she could not possibly know.’

She started to walk quickly back towards the nave, where her homely shopping basket sat on the raised wooden floor at the foot of the front pew.

‘All right.’ Merrily moved behind her. ‘Where is she now?’

‘At home, I assume, in her room. She spends most of her time in her room. I’d better go now. Her father will be home in an hour.’

‘Why don’t we both go and have a chat with her?’ Merrily suggested.

LIKE A FINE-boned girl , he thought: pale and graceful and slim-hipped .

Lol was suddenly besotted. Since coming into the museum he’d been aware of little else. His gaze kept returning to this shadowed alcove, overhung with tumbling bines.

The man standing by the counter covered with books and leaflets was watching him, smiling. He wore a white linen jacket, of Edwardian length, and looked about sixty-five. He had long white hair and a pointed chin, goblinesque, and there were tiny gold rings in both his ears. He gestured towards the alcove. ‘Go ahead.’

Lol moved closer but didn’t touch.

Mother-of-pearl was inlaid around the soundhole but the softwood top was otherwise plain, with a dull sheen but no lacquer, no polish. There was an orange line of yew in the neck. She was like one of those old parlour instruments from the late nineteenth century.

A holy relic. What was it doing here?

Lol said reverently. ‘She’s a Boswell.’

‘Mother of God!’ The man with long white hair strode out from behind the counter. ‘She’s a guitar!’ Carelessly plucking the instrument from its stand, handing it to Lol. ‘Go on, take her. But no plectrum, if you don’t mind. I’d hate to need a scratchboard.’

‘I’m no good with a plec, anyway.’ Lol accepted the guitar, one hand under its sleek butt.

‘Quite right, lad.’ The man clapped his hands, two rings tinking. ‘Plectrums, thumb-picks – condoms for the fingers. Why would God have given us nails?’ His sharp rural accent, with flat northern vowels, was unplaceable, the kind sometimes affected by traditional folk singers.

The guitar was unexpectedly lightweight.

‘Yours?’

The man smiled. Check out the back room , Prof had said earlier, winking. Back room?

‘Ah, you’re embarrassed,’ the goblin man said. ‘All right. I’ll leave you alone with her for a while.’ From behind the counter, he pulled a wooden stool for Lol to sit on. ‘I’ll give you just one tip – don’t be too delicate with her. She won’t repay you.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Remember now, Lol, she’s not sacred. She’s only a guitar.’

Lol looked up at him, unsure whether he’d fallen on his feet or into a trap.

‘The Prof.’ The goblin smiled – a couple of gold teeth on show. ‘The Prof said you’d be around sooner or later.’ He unlatched the door. ‘I shall be back in about ten minutes. Enjoy!’

The Hop Museum was set back from the main road to Bromyard, about fifty yards from the turning to Knight’s Frome. Like Prof’s place, it was the remains of farm buildings, but in this case with a few acres around it. There were two ponies and a donkey in the field in front, and a pond with ducks. Also, a gypsy caravan in green and gold.

The River Frome passed unobtrusively under the access drive, through what looked like a culvert.

Earlier, Lol had played the Frome song for Prof, as far as it went. The chorus had written itself, but sounded a bit trite.

The River Frome goes nowhere in particular

It isn’t very wide

There’s nothin’ on the other side …

Pity it was pronounced froom , to rhyme with doom and gloom . Lol had decided he’d still have it sounding in the song like home and loam so as to carry the vowel in that first line: Frome goes nowhere . He was, after all, a stranger.

‘You don’t know enough about the place to finish this song,’ Prof had said flatly. ‘It might be about what a complete loser you are, but you still need some images to carry it. What do you really know about this sodding river except its name and that it isn’t very wide? You ask me, Laurence, it’s time you went to talk to Sally, down at the hop museum. The river, the hills, the woods, the people – Sally knows everything about them all.’

‘Sally?’ Lol had stared at him. ‘You actually know this woman? I thought you had a policy of not knowing local people unless they could play something useful?’

‘It was an accident,’ Prof said.

It was about five-thirty when Lol had set off to walk the half-mile or so from the studio. The white-haired man had been closing the gates at the foot of the drive but had beckoned Lol in anyway. The only visitor they’d had all afternoon, he said. Admission was a pound, and there were a few items on sale inside.

But not, presumably, the Boswell guitar, handmade by the great Alfonso Boswell who had given all his guitars women’s names. The same instrument on which Lol now played the slow and ghostly Celtic instrumental he called ‘Moon’s Tune’… knowing it was going to remind him of the abandoned hop-yard, the place of the wilt, and the woman he’d seen there. He’d dreamed of her since, twice in one night. Not pleasant, though, as dreams went.

Are you all right? Then letting her approach to within a few inches before he slunk bashfully away. Registering by the rhythm of her movements and her blurred smile that she was not hurt, bar the scratches, and had not been attacked or forcibly stripped… was more likely some stoned moonbather who’d assumed she was alone but didn’t really care .