Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

The churchyard offers a spectacular view over the Moss and the surrounding countryside, which, to the rear, gives way to a large tract of moorland, uninhabited since prehistoric days.

During evensong, though he still didn't know quite what had happened with Matt, the Rector said a short prayer for the dying landlord of The Man I'th Moss.

Holding on to the lectern, eyes raised to the bent and woven branches of the Autumn Cross, he said carefully, 'Grant him strength, O Lord, and… a peaceful heart.'

Not quite sure what he meant, but he felt it was the right thing to say; you learned to trust your instincts in Bridelow. Sure enough, several members of the congregation looked up at him, conveying tacit approval. Briefly, he felt the warmth of the place again, the warmth he'd always remember, a quite unexpected warmth the first time he'd experienced it.

Unexpected because, from the outside, the church had such a forbidding, fortress-like appearance, especially from a distance, viewed from the road which traversed the Moss. He remembered his first sight of the building, close on thirty years ago. Not inspiring, in those days, for a novice minister: hard and grey-black with too many spiky bits and growling gargoyles. And Our Sheila perpetually playing with herself over the porch.

This was the 1960s, when what the young clergyman dreamed of was a bright, modern church with a flat roof and abstract stained glass (after ten years it would look like a lavatory block, but in the sixties one imagined things could only get better and better.)

'Amen,' the congregation said as one. The old schoolmaster, Ernest Dawber, glanced up at the Rector and gave him a quick, sad smile.

The warmth.

Sometimes it had seemed as if the church walls themselves were heating up under the pale amber of the lights – they were old gas-mantles converted to electricity, like the scattered streetlamps outside. And at Christmas and other festivals, it felt as though the great squat pillars either side of the nave had become giant radiator pipes.

But the warmth was rarely as apparent now. The Rector wondered if it would even be noticeable any more to a newcomer. Perhaps not. He'd gone to the expense of ordering more oil for the boiler and increasing the heat level. Knowing, all the same, as he went through the motions, that it couldn't be that simple.

There'd been a draught in the pulpit today; he certainly hadn't known that here before. The draught was needle-thin but it wasn't his imagination because, every so often, the Autumn Cross would sway a little over his head, rustling.

It rustled now, as he read out the parish notices, and something touched his hair, startling him. When he reached out, his flingers found a dead leaf. It crackled slightly, reminding him of the furious flurry of leaves blasted against his study window at dusk, like an admonishment: you must not watch us… you must turn your face away.

A strikingly cold autumn. October frost, nearly all the trees were bare. His arthritis playing up.

Giving him a hard time tonight. Difficult keeping his mind on the job, wanting only to get it over and limp back to his study – even though, since Judy's death, this had become the loneliest place of all.

'… and on Wednesday evening, there'll be a meeting of the morrismen in the Function Room at The Man, that's 7.30…

The congregation numbered close on seventy tonight, not a bad turnout. A few regular faces missing, including several members of the committee of the Mothers' Union, but that wasn't too surprising, they'd been here this morning. Couldn't expect anyone to attend twice, even the Mothers.

He rounded off the service with a final hymn, accompanied as usual by Alfred Beckett on the harmonium – a primitive reedy sound, but homely; there'd never been an organ In Bridelow Church, despite its size.

'Well done, lad,' Ernie Dawber said at the church door patting his shoulder. 'Keep thi chin up.' Fifteen years his senior, Bridelow born and bred, Ernie Dawber had always called him 'lad'. When the Rector had first arrived, he'd expected a few problems over his name. It had still seemed too close to the War for the locals not to be dubious about a new minister called…

'… Hans Gruber,' the schoolmaster had repeated slowly rolling it round his mouth like a boiled sweet.

'Yes.'

'That's German, isn't it?'

Hans had nodded. 'But I was actually born near Leighton Buzzard.'

Ernie Dawber had narrowed his eyes, giving the new minister a very hard look. 'Word of advice, lad. Keep quiet about that, I should. Thing is…' Glancing from side to side '… there's a few folks round here who're not that keen on…' dropping his voice,'… southerners.'

The Rector said now, thinking of his lonely study, 'Come back for a glass, Ernie?'

'I don't trunk so, lad.' Ernie Dawber pulled on his hat 'Not tonight.' 'I'll never forgive you for this.'

He was gripping the stiffened edge of the sheet like a prisoner clutching at the bars of his cell, his final appeal turned down.

'We should never have let you go home, Mr Castle,' the nursing sister said.

'Matt, please…' Lottie put her cool hand over his yellowed claw. 'Don't say that…'

'You never listen.' Feebly shaking his head, inconsolable All the way here in the ambulance, Lottie holding his hand, he'd been silent, away somewhere, still on the Moss perhaps.

His eyes shone with the tears that wouldn't come, no moisture left in his body.

The nurse said, 'I think he should have some sleep, don't you, Mrs Castle?'

'Sleep?' Matt was bleakly contemptuous. 'No real sleep in here. Comes out of the bloody… drug cabinet… only sort sleep you can get in here.' He looked past the nurse, 'Where's Dic?'

'I told you, Matt,' Lottie said gently. 'He wouldn't come in. He's too confused. He's probably walking round the grounds, walking it off. He'll come in tomorrow, when he's…'

'Might be too late, tomorrow.'

Lottie smiled at him. 'Don't be soft.' There was a small commotion behind her, a nurse and a young porter putting screens around a bed opposite Matt's.

'Another one gone,' Matt grunted.

'Bath time, that's all,' the nurse said unconvincingly.

'Give you any old crap in here. Look, tell Dic…' His faltering voice forming words as dry and frail as an ancient cobweb… Tell him, he can be in the band. If he wants to. Then… when Moira comes, he can play. But you won't, will you? You never do owt I say.'

'You tell him,' Lottie said. 'Tell him when you see him in the morning.'

Matt Castle made no reply. He seemed too dehydrated to sweat or to weep. It was as though somebody had talcumed his face, like a…

Lottie swallowed hard.

'Useless… bitch.'

Matt fell asleep. Shrivelled leaves, unseen, chattered on the window-pane. The dead leaves said, Go away, draw the curtains, put on the light.

It's not your affair, the dead leaves said.

The Rector didn't move, just as he hadn't moved in the late afternoon, at dusk, when the warning flurry had hit the pane, as if flung.

At the top end, the vicarage garden almost vanished into the moor. When the light faded, the low stone wall between them dissolved into shadow and the garden and the moor became one. On the other side of the wall was a public footpath; it was along this they came, and sometimes, over the years, around dusk, the Rector had seen them, had made himself watch them.

Tonight, resting up before evening service, sitting in the window of the darkening study, wedged into a hard chair, his swollen foot on the piano stool, he'd watched three of them enter the churchyard from the footpath, passing through the wooden wicket gate. They were black, shapeless, hooded and silent. A crescent moon had wavered behind smoky cloud.