Phil Rickman - The Wine of Angels

‘And you do like to tweak, don’t you, Dermot?’

Dermot grinned. He leaned back on the tombstone, legs apart, hands behind his head. ‘I like to think,’ he said, ‘that I orchestrate. The parish organist. One takes great pleasure in that. The first, dramatic chords which stir the blood and energize the sleeping church. Like auld ciderrrrrr ... does to a man. Wonderful.’

He stretched and spread his legs, assisting the slippage of the dark, cotton robe from his fat, red, naked thighs.

‘Cassidy hates all that, as you know. To him, it’s an academic exercise, for purely commercial purposes. Like his phoney wassailing. I didn’t go to that. It was always going to be a silly charade, with his pompous speeches and Caroline fussing and tinkling. Mind, wasn’t a charade in the end, was it? Old reality burst on to the scene with a vengeance. Thank God for the Powells.’

Merrily realized she’d lost it. He couldn’t care less whether she knew about him or not. He felt completely secure in revealing the side of him that, when you thought about it, he’d never entirely hidden behind the civilized glaze of educated frivolity.

She said, ‘I suppose you’ll say old Edgar topped himself at the wassailing specifically to show up the superficiality of it all’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t see Edgar throwing away a good old country death on the Cassidys. Salt of the earth, the Powells. A bloody good phrase, salt of the earth. Overused, devalued. But it’s a good one for the Powells. A good, dark, old family.’

‘Older than the Bull-Davieses?’ This was ridiculous, she was merely making conversation now. He’d insulted her to her face and she was just sidling away from it.

‘The Bulls?’ Dermot snorted. ‘Norman blood, there. Acquired the Davies adjunct a few generations ago to highlight a little Welsh strand amounting to nothing. The Bulls of Ledwardine. Sounds good, doesn’t amount to a lot. Always liked to think they had control, but they were still newcomers compared with the Powells. Something strong and tight and sturdy about the unassuming Powells. That’s where the real tradition lies.’

She was picturing Garrod Powell in his well-pressed slacks and his blazer.

‘Rod?’ He startled her, seeming to snatch the thought from her head.

‘Can’t see it in Rod, is it? Well, you can’t see anything, can you? You’re an outsider. Even if your grandfather did farm at Mansell Lacy, you’re way out of it now and you’ll never get back in. Let me tell you about Rod. Raised the old way. Ever hear talk of Edgar’s wife? Scabby old harpy, she was, but eyes like diamonds. I remember her on Pig Friday, marvellous great toothless grin and blood up to her elbows. And then home to teach young Rod a thing or two. If you know what I mean.’

‘What?’ Merrily’s legs felt suddenly weak.

‘Ha! Shocked you at last, have I, Reverend? What d’you think traditional country life’s about if not fecundity and potency? And making sure your eldest boy knows what a woman likes best on a dark night in front of the fire. Country life, Merrily: home cooking, home sex and plenty of auld cider, home milled with a dead rat or two thrown in, for flavour. The farmer’s wife hoisting up her skirts and pissing into the mix.’

‘I’m going.’ Merrily turned away. ‘Thank you for the anthropological lecture.’

‘Go on, give us a real blush, girlie. How’s this?’ He leaned right back on the tombstone, grinning into the sun, sliding the robe to the tops of his flabby thighs where the thin fabric rose up triumphantly. ‘Whoops,’ Dermot said.

‘Well, that’s that, isn’t it?’ Her voice distressingly shrill. ‘You’ve finally made sure we aren’t going to be able to work together again.’

‘Sad, isn’t it? We could have got on so well’

He pulled down his robe, the smile vanishing.

‘Where will you go, Merrily? Leave the clergy, perhaps? We all make mistakes, don’t we?’

‘I could have you arrested. Enough police about the place.’

Dermot sat up. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said soberly. ‘I’m glad you reminded me. I do have to see the police. Did you notice the prowler in your garden? In the vicarage garden? Last night? Latish?’

‘No.’ She began to walk away along the blossom-strewn path, the big sandstone church in front of her, the old country church with its erect steeple. She wanted to scream. The bloody goblin had been creeping about her garden?

‘Not a very big chap,’ he called after her. ‘Spectacles.’

She froze.

‘Just had a haircut, one couldn’t help noticing that. And dressed, bizarrely, as a clergyman. What happened, you see, I’d returned to the church to collect some music and couldn’t help noticing him going through your gates. I think the lady inspector would want to know about that, don’t you? What d’you think, Merrily? Or should one tell Ted Clowes first? Good old Uncle Ted. No, the police, I think. It might be important.’

His forced but merry laughter followed her all the way to the lych-gate. She slowed, evened up her pace, would not show him her panic.

He delivered Sunday papers, too, then.

‘Oh,’ Jane said, like this was an afterthought. ‘And a couple of bottles of that – what’s it called? – Wine of Angels.’

Jim Prosser, who always looked too big for the counter at the little Spar shop, reached up instinctively to the shelf and then paused.

‘How old are you again, Jane? Fourteen, is it?’

‘Fifteen!’

‘Old enough to know the rules, then.’

‘Oh, come on, Jim, it’s only cider.’

‘No such thing as only cider. Cider’s stronger than beer, and this stuffs stronger than your average cider.’

‘It’s not for me. It’s a present.’

‘That’s what they all say, my dear.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Jane, exasperated. ‘You’re always selling cans of Woodpecker and stuff to Dean Wall and his mates. This is sexism.’

‘Oh, come on now,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t give me a hard time. The place is crawling with coppers, and you are the vicar’s daughter.’

‘For my sins.’

Jane paid for the two bags of Doritos. This was going to be a problem. There was whisky in the house, a few bottles of wine. No cider.

‘You wouldn’t like it, anyway,’ Jim Prosser said. ‘It might be in a fancy bottle, but you can get better at half the price, I reckon.’

MERRILY STOOD IN the Sunday morning square and prayed silently for guidance. Two parishioners discreetly crossed into Church Street, pretending they hadn’t seen her.

Or perhaps she’d become invisible now. A nine-day wonder and the nine days were over. Nobody special any more, just another single mother to be ignored, gossiped about, sniggered at, flashed at.

Stop it!

All right. So Dermot Child had recognized Lol Robinson, knew where he was hiding. Had gone to the trouble of delivering a late-edition Sunday tabloid to make sure Merrily knew the police had named Lol as someone they wanted to question. The devious Goblin planning ahead. Setting something up.

Blackmail? Would he have held on to the information and tried to blackmail her? Demanding what, in return for his continued silence? Precisely what? The mind boggled. The loins shrivelled. Her hand went to her mouth, stifling reaction.

‘Vicar ...’

Gomer Parry stood a few yards away, breathing heavily, cigarette waggling whitely in his teeth. He’d run after her.

‘A word, Vicar?’

‘Sure.’ She followed him between the oak pillars into the market hall.

‘Apologies for the state, Vicar. Cleanin’ out your boundary ditch, I was, see.’ Gomer held up both mud-red hands. ‘I know, I know ... the sabbath, it is, but there en’t gonner be a fine day for near-enough a week, ‘cordin’ to the farmin’ forecast, so I reckoned I’d get to grips with the bugger, do the manual ‘fore I brings in ole Gwynneth, see?’