Phil Rickman - The Chalice

Jesus God, don't tell her it was a sign.

'It would be quite a costly venture,' Diane said.

'You mean, have I suddenly got money to throw away? Well, the old bank balance stands at about twelve grand. But I could write to Danny. I bought him out of the shop when he… when he needed to leave. Which put me in the red for quite a while, and fortunately he still feels bad about that. Also, I may approach the Pixhill Trust.'

Diane looked blank. 'Colonel Pixhill?'

'You knew him?'

'I sort of remember him. My father claims he conned my grandmother over the sale of Meadwell after the War. Father was abroad with the Army at the time He was furious. They kept trying to buy Meadwell back, but the Colonel wouldn't play.'

'Poor old Pixhill,' said Juanita. 'They say he lived his last few years on fresh air to keep that place together and then, when he died, his family couldn't even sell it because of the Pixhill Trust, this rickety charity seemingly run by the Colonel's old army pals, most of them miles away.'

Diane said. 'Archer was very friendly with Oliver Pixhill the Colonel's son. Same school. Inseparable for a while.'

'Oliver was apparently seriously pissed off at not being able to flog Meadwell. His inheritance was zilch. But now they say he's a member of the Trust.'

'What's it do, this Trust?'

Juanita perched lightly on the arm of Diane's chair. 'Good works, my child. Worthy things, connected with – and I quote – the Spreading of the Light for the Furtherance of Peace and Harmony in a Troubled World. Does that sound like The Avalonian or doesn't it?'

'They'd give you money?'

'For services rendered. Hang on. Stay right there.'

Juanita went through to the shop and unlocked the cabinet where the antiquarian tomes were kept. She returned with a slim, pocket-sized, softbacked book. It had a rather drab, green, cloth cover.

'I may live to regret this, but you're bound to see it sometime.'

You had to hold the book up to the light to make out the wording, in black, on the cover: GEORGE PIXHILL: THE GLASTONBURY DIARIES

'Take it,' Juanita said. 'Won't take you long to read. Gets seriously depressing towards the end, but you might find you and the old guy have a certain amount, er, in common.'

Meaning an unhealthy obsession with certain aspects of Glastonbury. But at least it would show her where this sort of thing could lead.

Diane held the little book gingerly in both hands, like a child with a first prayer book. 'Why've I never heard of this?'

'Probably because it's only been published a couple of months. And because it's never exactly been advertised. You have to ask for it. Oh, and because this is the only shop that sells it.'

'What?'

Juanita lit a cigarette.

"Bout a year ago, an old buffer called Shepherd – "Major Shepherd, good day to you ma'am" – swans in with this dog-eared manuscript. Wants some advice on publishing it. An absolute innocent. Left the manuscript – the only copy, mind you – left it with me to read. I'm expecting some tedious old war memoirs, Rommel and Me sort of thing.'

Diane put her knees together, her elbows on her knees and her chin between cupped hands. Juanita stiffened, her memory superimposing a plump schoolgirl with spots from too much comfort chocolate: Diane a dozen years ago when Juanita had given her Dion Fortune's The Sea Priestess to read.

Oh God.

'Not Rommel and Me,' Juanita said. 'Although he did serve in the Western Desert with Montgomery.'

Diane nodded eagerly. As if she knew what was coming Jesus, Juanita thought, she'll see it as another of those portents.

'You probably think I'm pitiful,' Tony Dorrell-Adams said, not for the first time tonight.

'Not at all. my boy.' Jim thought it was best to sound fatherly, this was what he seemed to need. 'Women go through phases. Particularly, erm… particularly here, for some reason.'

Actually, he was bloody embarrassed. Chaps flung together in pubs, there were, after all, long established ground rules about what might safely be discussed. Sport, work, the Government. Women as a species. Certainly not – not even after lour Chivas Regals – your, erm, intimate personal problems.

'She's a completely different person,' Tony Dorrell-Adams said miserably. 'We've been here nearly four months. It's getting worse. It's as if… well, as if it isn't me she wants. Not me as an individual. Just the male element. like… like a plug for her socket.'

'Quite,' said Jim gruffly.

'Except she's the one that lights up. Last night…'

Tony's eyes had a deceptive brightness, suggesting a man who hadn't slept in a long time. 'Last night, after dark, she made me do it in… in the window'. I mean the shop window.'

Pause for effect. Jim just nodded. Strewth.

'And I… I nearly couldn't. You know? I mean, it's against the law, isn't it? In public? Not that anybody was about. Least, I don't think so.'

'Oh, you'd have heard.'

'Suppose so. You see, the very reason we came here… I'll tell you, shall I?'

'If you think it'll help.' Jim groaned silently.

'It wasn't all that good between us, you see. I'd had a bit of a thing going with another teacher, to be frank. Nothing important, but it left a gulf, as you can imagine. Well, coming here, that was supposed to be a new beginning. In a place that was, you know, blessed. I thought, if we were working together, in a compatible way, things would straighten themselves out. Especially somewhere like this. Somewhere steeped in magic and earth energy. Somewhere that would feed our hearts. They say, you know, that Glastonbury is actually the heart chakra in the great spiritual body of the world.'

'You came here to put your marriage together?'

Jim shook his head in real sorrow. No wonder they were staring at each other across a gap the width of the Severn Estuary.

'Tony, this is the very last place. Yes, it is uniquely spiritual, but that doesn't make it an easy place to live. Quite the reverse. And as for marriages… same again, is it?'

He handed Tony a tenner and Tony went for more drinks. Jim leaned back, eyes half closed. I'm not like that, am I? I didn't come here expecting anything, surely? I'm just a painter. Came for the mystery.

He was aware of the bar filling up. One or two locals, but mainly incomers – healers and psychics, artists and musicians – the ones who thought it was OK spiritually to drink alcohol. He saw Archer Ffitch come in, moving discreetly through the bar to sit at a table occupied by Griff Daniel.

'Have you seen our new range, Jim?' Tony Dorrell-Adams, distinctly unsteady now, placed another Scotch in front of Jim, spilling some.

'I came to see you, old son," Jim said patiently. 'You remember? I saw all your pottery.' 'She's actually the potter. Domini. Glazes are my thing. And design. On-glaze colours, you know? I thought we were becoming compatible at last. You saw my Arthurian range, didn't you?'

'Oh, yes. Very, er…'

He'd seen the plaques decorated with knights and ladies and heraldry, Morte D'Arthur manuscript stuff; nothing exciting, but that seemed to be Tony. Nothing too exciting.

'Going bloody well. Quite well. People liked it. And the ley-line stuff I did with Woolly Woolaston. Now we're doing this set of six plates on Joseph of Arimathea. Joseph and the boy Jesus on the Isle of Avalon. Joseph collecting the Blood in the Grail. Planting his staff on Wearyall Hill. Damned collectible. Expensive, but it's a limited edition. That's the way ahead, I think. Limited editions.'

'Indeed.' Jim was bored. He saw Archer Ffitch stand up to leave. Archer turned and smiled at someone who'd probably been congratulating him on his candidacy.

'It's this bloody goddess group,' Tony said, 'the bloody Cauldron. That's what changed everything. All female? You know? She goes twice a week now. It's supposed to be a consciousness-raising thing. Discussion and meditation. But who knows what goes on behind closed doors. Do you know?'