Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

‘It’s all coming out, isn’t it?’

‘If Longworth could’ve called it St Edward’s he would have.’

‘But Elgar was a Catholic, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah, he was,’ Spicer said, ‘and he wrote extensively for the Catholic Mass, as you… presumably heard. But, of course, his music was played in Anglican cathedrals, and cathedral sound was what Longworth was paying for.’

‘Sounds like he was getting it.’

‘Not for long. They held a few concerts here, but Longworth died and then Elgar died. And nothing much happened until Tim Loste arrived. Who thinks Elgar’s God. So this is becoming Elgar city again after many years. I’m sorry, maybe I should ’ve told you.’

‘And should I have heard of Tim Loste in a wider context?’

‘Nah. Used to be a music teacher at Malvern College, now he’s a private tutor. Got an amateur choir drawn from miles around. At least, it started amateur; they’re making a bit of money now. From my point of view, the parish gets its cut, and if most of the music’s heavily Catholic, well…’

‘Fills the church.’

‘Yeah. Situation now is, we’ve a whole bunch of people in Wychehill and down the valley who’ve moved here solely because this is Elgar country. Listen to some of them, you start picking up this maudlin kind of patriotism. “Land of Hope and Glory.” Don’t you hate that song?’

‘Apparently, Elgar hated it, too,’ Lol said. ‘But then, he didn’t write the words.’

Merrily glanced at him. She didn’t know he knew any more about Elgar than she did, which, frankly, was not much.

‘Let’s deal with the bottom line, Syd. Who’s saying the supposed presence is Elgar?’

‘Out loud, nobody. It’s one of those situations where an idea develops. Can I tell you why I’m not happy about it?’

‘Please.’

‘Well, let me tell you about Tim. Good conductor, great teacher, they say… but would like to be a great composer and isn’t. Some part of him is deeply frustrated. He’s prone to depression. So this particular night he goes off the road, hits a telegraph pole. Nobody else involved, no injury, no need for police. Which was just as well, because Tim was pissed.’

‘Oh.’

‘Happened just across from the church. I heard the crash. I go over, help him out of the wreckage – this is about half-nine at night, month or so ago, getting dark. Bring him back here, administer the black coffee. He’s shaking all over. I was going down to Ledbury, he says, to buy a light bulb for my desk lamp. Trying to write, bulb blew. Going down to Ledbury for a light bulb – that tells you the state he was in. I’d’ve given him a bloody bulb, for God’s sake.’

‘Is he often…?’

‘Drunk and incapable? Now and then. Couple of us had to go down the Oak one night, get him away from the bouncers. He’d broken a window. I didn’t tell you about the Oak, did I?’

‘I know about it.’

‘Naturally, Tim really hates the Royal Oak. A disruptive force sent to destroy his life’s work. Lost it completely one night when the wind changed and all this rap music… it kind of rises up and bounces off the hill. Anyway, that’s by the by: this crash was on a week night, and the Oak was quiet. Tim reckoned he’d just pulled out of his drive when he saw what he described as a dim and bleary light. When it got closer, he could see it was a bicycle lamp. He said.’

‘But he was drunk.’

‘Very. Anyway, the light’s some distance away at first. And then he said it was like he must’ve blacked out for about half a second – which doesn’t surprise me – and the next thing the cyclist is coming straight at him. He says he can make out what seems to be a high-buttoned jacket and a hat. And a big, dark slice across the face.’

‘Moustache.’

‘That’s the inference. And the eyes are white, according to Tim, like the eyes in a photo negative. Tim swerves, goes into the pole.’

Spicer fell silent. In the fading light, he was very still, hadn’t moved since sitting down, didn’t seem to need to rearrange himself like most people, to find a comfortable position.

‘But how did he know it was Elgar?’ Lol said.

‘Mr Robinson, he’s got pictures of Elgar all over his walls, Elgar music seeping through the brickwork. Tim sees Elgar every-bloody-where. He’s… I like the guy, most people like him, but nobody’s gonna deny he’s well off his trolley. Planted an oak tree in his front garden. Have you seen the size of his front garden?’

‘And what did you do?’ Merrily said.

‘Sat him where you’re sitting now, told him to stay there. Rang a mate, runs a bodywork garage the other side of Colwall. Got him to bring his truck and get Tim’s car away before the police got word. If he’d lost his licence I think he’d have gone into a depression he might not have come out of easily. I said, Go home, get some sleep, Tim, and don’t even think of telling anybody what you just told me. As if.’

Spicer snorted.

‘He did tell people?’ Merrily said.

‘He told Winnie Sparke. That was enough. The American lady? Winnie is Tim’s… protector. Nurtures his sensitive talents, knows about his problems. Find out about you very quickly, Americans, because they just ask. You have an alcohol problem, Tim? I have herbs for that.’

‘So it was Winnie Sparke who spread it around?’

‘Couldn’t’ve timed it better. There’s a retired geezer, Leonard Holliday. Been here about two years. Leonard’s chairman and secretary of WRAG – the Wychehill Residents’ Action Group. Committed to getting rid of Inn Ya Face and restoring the Royal Oak to the gentle hostelry where Elgar himself… it’s said that Elgar used to drop in for a pint of cider when he was staying at his summer cottage over at Birchwood. So, anyway, there was a meeting of Holliday’s action group to appoint a deputation to lobby the council. Somebody says what a pity we don’t have a celebrity living here, like some of the villages have. Holliday says, pity we don’t have someone like Sir Edward here any more. And Winnie says, You’re sure we don’t…?’

‘Oh dear.’

Merrily closed her eyes, suddenly quite deflated.

It all made sense. A gift for a protest group, the idea of England’s greatest serious composer rising up from the grave against Raji Khan and his filthy jungle music.

‘When was this, Syd?’

‘The meeting was about ten days ago. Winnie Sparke says it just slipped out, but it couldn’t’ve worked better if she’d timed it. Sir Edward Elgar riding into battle on Mr Phoebus?’

‘Who?’

‘Elgar called his bike Mr Phoebus. Name of a Roman sun god.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I think, to be honest, Holliday was dithering a bit. On the one hand, it would get in all the papers, attract massive publicity to their cause. On the other – apologies, Merrily, but who really believes ghost stories? It could easily be the wrong kind of publicity. But then there was another accident.’

‘Mrs Cobham?’

‘Stella. Stella and Paul. Famous for their very loud rows. Stella’s little BMW roaring down the middle of the road after some fracas, practically spitting flames. Cyclist coming down the middle of the road. Stella swerves. Family of German tourists in a mobile home looking for their campsite. Bam.’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘Bit of whiplash for Stella. And shock. Says she’d never believed in anything like that, until… I don’t think you’ll get any change out of her. Doesn’t like talking about it any more. Doesn’t want to get a reputation as… you know… a bit of a Winnie Sparke. Actually, Winnie’s much more intelligent.’

‘You don’t have many illusions about your flock, do you, Syd?’

‘I’m supposed to? I thought it was our job to lead them to God. Merrily, there is no flock. This is not a village, it’s a bunch of disconnected houses jammed into rock crevices.’