Phil Rickman - The Wine of Angels

‘That’s Mrs Goddard. Priscilla. Lives in the Stables House at the end of Old Barn Lane.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Osteoporosis, quite advanced.’

‘Brittle bones, yes? I wonder what they called it in the seventeenth century. Is she in much pain?’

‘Much of it emotional. She used to be an enthusiastic horsewoman. Ran a riding school from her home. Now the stables are empty, she’s looking out on an empty field and she feels her life’s effectively over. Needs to be handled with great care.’

‘I understand.’ Stefan made a note in the stiff-backed book he’d brought with him. He asked about any other people who were chronically ill, or who’d been recently bereaved, or had sick and disabled children or grandchildren ... or conspicuous money worries, marital problems, difficulty conceiving a child.

All a little disturbing. Audience participation was one thing, meddling with a congregation something else. And what good would it do him if he made a mistake and insulted someone?

‘Stefan, you can’t hope to absorb all that information. Even I still have problems remembering everybody’s name.’

‘Not a problem for me, Merrily. Indeed, my notes are a formality. I don’t forget faces. I have a photographic memory. I’m not boasting, it’s a simple fact, I can learn a fifty-minute television script in a night. And today’ – he leaned over the pulpit – ‘today, I am concentrating.’

He was certainly a presence in the church. Although he wore tight black trousers and a billowy white shirt out of one of those old Douglas Fairbanks Jr movies, there was nothing effete about his movements or his speech today. He had, Merrily thought, stepped out of Richard Coffey’s shadow oozing intensity of purpose. No more toyboy.

‘You’re taking this very seriously, aren’t you?’ she said, without thinking, the echo emphasizing the stupidity of the question.

‘It will be the performance of my life.’ He said it simply, quite quietly, no histrionics, no camp melodrama. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘there won’t be another.’

‘Oh, I think there will. I think, somehow, you’re going to win a lot of support. It’s already quite a talking point. I suspect everyone’s going to rather enjoy it.’

‘ Enjoy? ’

‘Wrong word?’

He came down the pulpit’s wooden steps, stood behind the carved-oak eagle lectern. Oh my God, Merrily thought, he’s going for the full Messianic bit.

‘I should like one spotlight, if I may. Just ... here.’ He stood at the foot of the pulpit. ‘One of the high, rear ones, so that it’s quite wide. Is there someone who could operate that? Merely a question of switching it on shortly before dusk, say half an hour into the performance, so that everyone will have become accustomed to it by the time it takes effect.’

‘Jane could do that. As you can see, we’ve actually got several spots up there, which we could vary without too much difficulty. I mean, I don’t know much about theatrical lighting, but—’

‘Just the one will be sufficient. In the pulpit and elsewhere, I shall be using candles. Do you have candles?’

‘Few dozen.’

‘I’ll bring more. I want these people to believe totally that they are in the seventeenth century and that Wil Williams is their minister. If that doesn’t offend you.’

‘No, that’s ... that’s fine. In fact that may be easier than you think. You know the pageant thing the Women’s Institute are organizing for the festival – the working life of Ledwardine through the ages?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve paid scant attention to the other aspects of the festival’ Even his speech pattern had altered, become more formal, a touch archaic.

‘They’ve been making costumes,’ Merrily told him. ‘Authentic stuff. It’s not all seventeenth century, obviously, there’ll be Victorian and medieval ...’

Stefan said warily, ‘There won’t be Roman soldiers or anything, will there?’

‘No Roman soldiers. No Tudor doublets and ruffs. No Second World War fighter pilots. I’m not saying there won’t be anachronisms, but they’re unlikely to be glaring. Besides, working country clothes have always been very muted and they haven’t changed much – look at the Barbour.’

‘Yes.’ He considered. ‘Yes. That would be wonderful. It would add to that sense of otherness. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Take them out of themselves.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I also thought ... Well, the seating pattern. It was different then. I mean, the arrangement of the pews, facing the chancel, facing the pulpit ... that was roughly the same. But in those days pews were allocated according to your social standing. Areas were set aside for the gentry and other areas, well away, for the servants, and the servants were packed in like sardines, while the nobs had room to lounge about. Now, obviously we can’t attempt to segregate people in that way. But ... well, men and women were also separated.’

‘Were they really?’

‘Women were generally relegated to the north side.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because women were naturally considered less important, and the north side of the church – any church – was supposed to be more exposed to the influence of the devil, I don’t quite know why. Certainly people didn’t want to be buried at the north end of the churchyard. Look at any church around here and you’ll find the more recent graves to the north, and not many of them.’

‘And would they do that? Will the men sit separately?’

‘They will if their wives tell them to. Times seem to have changed in that respect, at least.’

‘And the women will go to the north?’

‘I’ll organize it. What about the Bull-Davies pew? If he doesn’t come, which he probably won’t, it’s going to stand out as conspicuously vacant. Do you want—’

‘No. It must remain empty. I can use that.’

‘It’s your show,’ Merrily said.

‘Thank you. You’re a good person, Merrily. I ... Yes. I’ve studied the parish records and various histories. There are certain old families who I know have descendants in the village: the Monks, the Prossers, the Woods, the Cadwalladers ... Will you stand with me this evening, somewhere discreet – the Bull chapel, perhaps – and point out the various people as they come in?’

‘All right. And then disappear, huh?’

He smiled. ‘Once they enter the church, I want it to be my church again.’

‘You going to spend the afternoon here, rehearsing?’

‘I don’t need to rehearse. I shall walk among the apple trees. I want to meditate. Open myself to him.’

‘Right. I’ll leave you then.’ Merrily stood up, not entirely comfortable with this. ‘Good luck ... Wil.’

‘Merrily!’ She stopped. ‘Don’t ... don’t joke about this,’ Stefan said. ‘I beg you. The performance of my life, remember?’

‘Yes.’

GOMER’S LUNCH WAS on the table, Minnie’s potato pie, when the phone rang. ‘Tell them to call back,’ Minnie shouted through from the kitchen. ‘And if it’s that man about the septic tank, don’t forget – you’re retired.’

‘Ar,’ said Gomer non-committally.

‘If you can’t bring yourself to tell him, you put him on to me,’ Minnie went on. ‘I’ll give him septic tank!’

Gomer groped for the phone.

‘Jeff Harris, Gomer. You were right, boy. Wouldn’t use this stuff to unblock my sink.’

Gomer sat up.

‘Shirley was coming through Ledwardine this morning, so I asked her to call for a bottle. You had me worried, see. Got to protect the image of the product or we’re all done for. Uncorked it – not so much a pop as a fizzle. Poured half a glass, took it to the window, held it up to the light ...’