Phil Rickman - A Crown of Lights

Robin shook his head, uncomprehending – a little more spooked.

The nightlife of Old Hindwell.

HUDDLED IN JANE’S duffel coat, she walked past the village square, where the cobbles were glassy with frost. The moon was in the west, still hard and brighter than the security lamp beside the front door of the Swan.

It was five-thirty a.m. She clutched the church keys in a gloved hand. She planned to pray before the altar for Barbara Buckingham and for the soul of her sister, Menna.

Merrily walked in through the lychgate. Somewhere, beyond the orchard, a fox yelped. Down in the churchyard she saw a soft and now familiar glow.

‘Last time, vicar. Honest to God.’

‘Gomer, I don’t mind, really.’

‘Unnatural, sure t’be. Be thinkin’ I’m some ole pervert, ennit?’

Merrily smiled. He was crouching by Minnie’s grave, an area of raised earth, an elongated mole-tump, with the hurricane lamp on it. No memorial yet. No sound of underground ticking.

‘I was just thinking, like,’ Gomer said. ‘I don’t want no bloody stone. I got to have a stone?’

‘Don’t see why.’

‘Wood. I likes wood. En’t no good with stone, but I could carve out a nice piece of oak, see.’ He looked up at Merrily, lamplight moons in his glasses. ‘En’t nothing to do with the money, like. Be a proper piece. We never talked about it, but her liked a nice bit of oak, my Min. I’ll put on it about Frank as well, see.’

‘Whatever you like, Gomer. Whatever you think she’d have wanted.’

‘Summat to do, ennit? Long ole days, see, vicar. Long ole days.’

Merrily sat on a raised stone tomb, tucking her coat underneath her. ‘What else will you do, Gomer?’

‘Oh.’ Gomer sniffed meditatively. ‘Bit o’ this, bit o’ that.’

‘Will you stay here?’

‘Never thought about moving.’

‘Jane thought you might go back to Radnorshire.’

‘What for?’

‘Roots?’

Gomer sniffed again abruptly. ‘People talks a lot of ole wallop ’bout roots. Roots is generally gnarled and twisted. Best kept buried, my experience.’

‘Yeah, you could be right.’ She had a thought. ‘You ever know a family called Thomas down on the border?’

‘Knowed ’bout half a dozen families called Thomas, over the years. Danny Thomas, up by Kinnerton, he’s a good ole boy. Keeps a ’lectric guitar and amplifiers in his tractor shed, on account his wife, Greta, she hates rock and roll. They was at Min’s funeral.’

‘Around Old Hindwell, I was thinking.’

‘Ole Hindwell.’ Gomer accepted a Silk Cut from Merrily’s packet. ‘Gareth Prosser, he’s the big man in Ole Hindwell. Laid some field drainage for him, years back. Then he inherits another two hundred acres and a pile o’ cash, and the bugger buys ’isself a second-hand digger at a farm sale. Always thought theirselves a cut above, the Prossers. County councillor, magistrate, all this ole wallop.’

‘These particular Thomases had two daughters. Barbara was one?’

‘Got you now. Her runned away?’

‘That’s right.’

‘An’ the other one wed Big Weal, the lawyer.’

‘Menna.’

‘Their ole man was Merv Thomas, Maesmawr, up by Walton. Never worked for ’em, mind – too tight, digged their own cesspits, never drained a field. Merv’s dead now, ennit? Ar, course he is. Her’d never be wed otherwise.’

‘You know Weal?’

‘Always avoided lawyers,’ Gomer said. ‘Thieving bastards, pardon me, vicar. Weal’s ole-fashioned, mind, but that don’t make him any less of a thieving bastard. Looks after his wife, though, ’cordin’ to what they says.’

‘Menna’s dead, Gomer.’

‘Never!’ Gomer was shocked enough to whip the ciggy out of his mouth.

‘Died in the County, same night as Minnie.’

‘But her was no more’n a kiddie!’

‘Thirty-nine. A stroke.’

‘Bugger me.’ Gomer stared down at the soil. ‘Big Weal must be gutted.’

‘Could say that.’

Gomer put his ciggy back, shook his head. ‘Ole Hindwell, eh? You know what they says about that place, don’t you, vicar?’

‘Tell me.’ Merrily managed to get her cigarette going before the breeze doused the Zippo.

‘ “Place as God give up on”,’ explained Gomer.

‘Lot of places like that.’

‘With the church, see. Lets their church fall into ruin and never had another.’

‘Until now.’

‘Ar?’

‘There’s a kind of missionary minister who’s holding services in the parish hall. Father Ellis?’

‘Oh hell, aye.’ Gomer puffed on his ciggy. ‘Nutter.’

‘That’s what they say about him, is it? Nutter?’

‘Had two or three proper, solid ole churches under his wing, and they says he favoured Ole Hindwell village hall above the lot of ’em. An’ all this clappin’ and huggin’ and chantin’ and stuff. Mind, in Ole Hindwell they wouldn’t notice another bloody nutter if he was stark naked in the snow.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Inbreedin’.’ Gomer chuckled. ‘We always says that. Some places gets that kind o’ reputation for no reason at all other’n being a bit off the beaten track. And havin’ its church falled into ruins.’

‘Why did it fall into ruins? Apart from God giving up.’

‘Now, there’s a can of ole worms, ennit?’

‘Is it?’

‘Last but one vicar, they reckoned he went mad.’

‘Like Ellis?’

‘No, mad mad. All kinds o’ rumours, there. Never come out, proper. You got a problem out there, vicar?’

‘Well, erm... Mr Weal seems to be set on putting Mrs Weal into some kind of tomb in his garden.’

‘Well, well,’ Gomer said non-committally.

‘And Barbara doesn’t think that’s a good idea. She doesn’t think Weal’s quite grasped the need to let go of the dead. And she wants me to go to the funeral with her, to hold her hand... or maybe to restrain her. And I think there’s something odd about that whole situation. Would, er, would you happen to know anybody who might know the score there?’

Gomer nodded slowly. ‘I reckon.’

‘And maybe a bit about Barbara and why she hates that area so much.’

‘Likely. Anythin’ else?’

‘Father Ellis? Seems to me that for everybody who thinks he’s a nutter, there must be another five can’t get enough, if you see what I mean.’

‘No accountin’ for the way folks is gonner go, them parts. Seen it before, oh hell, aye. Gimme a day or two.’

This time, Gomer declined the offer of tea and breakfast, said he’d got himself a nice, crusty cob needed using up. She could tell he was pleased to have something to occupy his time.

And digging was what Gomer did best.

Merrily went into church and prayed for Barbara and Menna and asked the Boss about another matter – kind of hoping she’d get a strong negative response.

Back at the vicarage just before seven, she punched out Tania Beauman’s Livenight number. Waited for the answering machine to kick in.

‘Oh... this is Merrily Watkins at the Hereford Diocese. Sorry for not getting back to you last night. I’ll be in the office from about half nine, if you want to talk about... what I might be able to contribute to your programme. Thanks.’

No backing out now.

Be something different, anyway: bright lights, hi-tech hardware, the fast chat, the tat, the trivia, the complete, glossy inconsequentiality of it.

Jane came down for breakfast, all fresh and school-uniformed.

‘Been up long, Mum?’

‘Couple of hours. Couldn’t sleep.’

‘So, you rang Livenight , then?’

‘Not much gets past you, does it, flower?’