Phil Rickman: The Chalice

For a long time, Diane had thought imagination must be a sort of ice-cream; the lights too – some as white as the creamy blobs they put in cornets.

Years later, when she was in her teens, one of the psychologists had said to her, You were having rather a rough time at home, weren't you, Diane? I mean, with your father and your brother. You were feeling very lonely and… perhaps… unwanted, unloved? Do you think that perhaps you were turning to the Tor as a form of…

'No!' Diane had stamped her foot. 'I saw those lights. I did.'

And now the Tor had signalled to her across Britain. Called her back. But it wasn't – Diane thought of her father and her brother and that house, stiff and unforgiving as the worst of her schools – about pretty lights and candyfloss sunbeams. Not any more.

Unwrapping a creamy new beeswax candle, Verity laid it down, with some trepidation, on a stone window ledge the size of a gravestone.

Still not sure, not at all sure, that she could go through with this.

It was late afternoon, but, even with all its hanging lights on, the room was as deep and shadowed as the nave of an old parish church.

The best-known old buildings in Glastonbury, apart from the Abbey, which was ruined – so tragic – were the one-time courthouse, known as the Tribunal, and the George and Pilgrims inn, both in the High Street, both mellow and famously beautiful.

And then there was Meadwell.

Which was hunched among umbrella trees about a mile out of town, to the east of the Tor. And was terribly, terribly old. But not famous, not mellow and not what one would call beautiful.

Rather like me, thought Verity, who looked after Meadwell for the Pixhill Trust and ran it as a sort of guesthouse. Most of the time she was decidedly not a sad or introspective or timid person. But tonight was the night of the Abbot's Dinner – and, as the sourly humid November day dwindled into evening, she realised that her little cat, Stella, had still not come home.

Of course this was not the first time. Nor was Stella the first cat to decide that, despite the veritable army of mice, it simply did not wish to live at Meadwell.

But tonight being the night of the Abbot's Dinner, Verity could not bear to be entirely alone.

Because Meadwell was so venerable, Grade Two listed and starred, little could be done to relieve the dispiriting gloom resulting from tiny, mullioned windows which must never be enlarged, oak panelling too delicate to disturb and enormous beams so oppressively low that even little Verity was obliged to stoop.

A touch of whitewash between the beams might have lightened the atmosphere a little, but there were sixteenth-century builders' marks to be protected. Also, in two of the upstairs rooms without panelling, repainting of the walls was forbidden because of what was described as Elizabethan graffiti – words, names perhaps, carved and burned into the sallow surface.

Of Verity's own presence here there was little evidence beyond, on a shelf inside the inglenook, a collection of novels by the great John Cowper Powys, whose sensually extravagant prose was her secret vice and her refuge. She considered it part of her role not to disturb the house's historic ambience, to flit mouselike about the place.

Most of the holiday guests – elderly, educated people, retired doctors, retired teachers, friends of the Trust – said how much they absolutely loved the house, with its tremendous character. In summer.

But even high summer entered Meadwell with uncharacteristic caution, pale sunbeams edging nervously around the oaken doors like the servants of a despot.

And it was getting darker. It was. Not simply because of the time of year; the house itself was gathering shadows, its beams blackening, its walls going grey like old, sick skin, its deeper corners becoming well-like and impenetrable.

It was as if only the Colonel had been able to keep the shadows at bay, and now the fabric of Meadwell was darkening around her, as if hung with mourning drapes; And in spite of her faith she was beginning to be…

… afraid?

But I do not see.

Verity Does Not See. It had become like a mantra – and after all these years in Glastonbury and attendance at hundreds of esoteric lectures at the Assembly Rooms, there was very little one could tell Verity about mantras.

'I do not see.'

Whispering it as she opened the door of the oak cupboard in the corner to the left of the great inglenook and took down the silver candlestick. It should have been cleaned and polished this morning, but she'd been putting it off ever since the upsetting telephone call from Major Shepherd.

'Awfully sorry, my dear. Most awfully sorry.' His wheeze had been like an old-fashioned vacuum-cleaner starting up, the bag inflating.

Verity had told him, in her bright, singing way, not to worry in the slightest. Just look after himself, drink plenty of water, keep warm, leave everything to her.

Not expecting, for one moment, that the Abbot's Dinner would be able to proceed without the chairman of the Trust. Without, in fact, any guests at all, only Verity, who would prepare the meal, and…

… and the Abbot.

Whom She Did Not See.

This day was almost invariably a dull day. Subdued. When the late Colonel Pixhill was here, it was the one day of the year on which he was never seen to smile. He would mope about the garden, gathering the first dismal crop of dead leaves, pausing occasionally to sniff thoughtfully at the air like an old English setter.

On this day nearly twenty years ago, the Colonel had come into her kitchen, put a sad hand on her shoulder and solemnly thanked her for all her years of service. Saying sincerely that he didn't know how- he would have managed here without her.

It had occurred to Verity later, with a shiver of sorrow and unease, that he must have sniffed his own death that morning on the bitter wind coming down from the Tor.

Don't think of it.

Verily pursed her lips, straightened up and glared defiantly into the gathering dark of the dining hall.

'At least… at least I…'

Although, apparently, it had been the most essential qualification for a mistress of Meadwell. At her initial interview, some thirty years ago, the Colonel had broached the issue delicately but with persistence.

Quite an old place, this, Miss Endicott. Damned old. Damned cold. Bit grim, really. Lot of ladies would find that off-putting.

I suppose they would.

Might be… how shall I put it?… a trifle timid about living here. If they were left alone.

Yes.

But not you? Think about it before you answer. Wind howling, timbers creaking sort of stuff.

You mean they might be afraid of… spirit-manifestation, Colonel.

Well. Hmm. That sort of thing.

I… I am not privileged to see the dead.

I see. Consider it a privilege, would you? If you could see the damn things?

No, I… I suppose I'm rather a superficial person, that is, I believe in God and have an interest in the spiritual, as… as a force for healing. And therefore I should dearly love to live in Glastonbury. But I don't think it necessary or desirable for us all to have… communion. If we believe, then that is enough, and if we do not wish to see, God will respect that. I am not afraid of old places. I try to be a simple person. I get on with what I have to do, and I… I do not See.

Each year she'd polished the candlestick and laid the table for the Abbot's Dinner, as if it was just another evening meal. After the Colonel's death, she'd imagined and rather hoped – that the Dinner would be discontinued.

However, under the direction of the Pixhill Trust, it had become even more of an Occasion – now also as a memorial for Colonel Pixhill. It was, said Major Shepherd, one of the most important of the Colonel's conditions.