Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Poetic licence. What happened was, the gypsies were in town, right, just passing through. Two of them – I was twelve – these two gypsies were waiting for me outside the school. I'm thinking, you know… run like hell. But, aw… it was… intriguing. And they seemed OK, you know? And the camp was very public. So I went with them. Well… she'd be about thirty then and already very revered, you could tell. Even I could see she was my mother.'

'Holy shit,' said Macbeth.

'We didn't talk much. Nobody was gonna try and kidnap me or anything. Nobody offered me anything. Except the comb. She gave me that.'

'And is it a magic comb?'

'It's just a comb,' Moira said, more sharply than she intended. 'He's close to you,' the Duchess said.

'Who?'

'The departed one.'

'Still?'

'We'll have some tea,' the Duchess said in a slightly raised voice, and a young woman at once emerged from the kitchen with a large silver tray full of glistening white china. 'One of my nieces,' the Duchess said, 'Zelda…' There would always be nieces and nephews to fetch and carry for the Duchess.

She lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed. 'Earl Grey. Never mind. You should take a rest, Moira. Unravel yourself.'

'Maybe I'd rather not see what's inside of me.'

The Duchess stirred the tea in the pot, making it stronger, making the Earl Grey's rich perfume waft out. 'Maybe you should get away, and when you get back your problems will be in perspective. Go somewhere bland. St Moritz, Barbados…'

'Jesus, Mammy, how much money you think I'm making?'

'Well, England then. Tunbridge Wells or somewhere.'

'Tunbridge Wells?'

'You know what I mean.'

'Yeah. You're telling me it's something I'm not gonna get away from no matter where I go.'

'Am I?'

'You said there was damage to repair. You think I damaged Matt Castle?'

'Do you?'

'I don't kn… No! No, I don't see how I could have.'

'That's all right, then,' said the Duchess. She smiled.

Moira felt profoundly uneasy. 'Mammy, how was he when he died? Can you tell me that?'

'Moira, you're a grown woman. You know this man's essence has not returned to the source. I can say no more than that.'

Moira felt the weight of her bag on her knees, the bag with the comb in it. The bag felt twice as heavy as before, like a sack of stolen bullion.

She said in a rush, 'Mammy, somebody was after the comb. I had to fight for it.'

'Yes. That happens. The comb represents a commitment. Sometimes you have to decide whether or not you want to renew it.'

'So it was this struggle which caused… See, I'm confused. I feel exhausted, but I feel I made it through to a new level, a new plateau. But that usually means something heavy's on the way. Well, doesn't it?'

The Duchess blinked. 'How is your father?' she said brightly. 'Docs he speak of me often?' She said goodbye to Donald at the gate and patted the Dobermans. Her old BMW was parked about fifty yards away near a derelict petrol station. Parked behind it was a car which had not been there before, a grey Metro with a hire-firm sticker on the rear window.

Leaning against the Metro was a man wearing a dinner jacket over a black t-shirt. On the t-shirt it said in red, I ¦ Govan. The remains of a thistle hung out of one lapel of the jacket.

His face fumbled a grin.

'Uh, hi,' he said.

Moira was furious.

'You followed me! You fucking followed me!'

'Listen… Moira… See, this has been… Like, this was the most bizarre, dramatic, momentous night of my life, you know?'

'So? You've had a sheltered life. Is that supposed…?'

'I can't walk away from this. Am I supposed to like, push it aside, maybe introduce it as an anecdote over dinner with my associates?'

Moira stood with her key in the door of the BMW. She wanted to say, OK, while you're here maybe you can tell me something about a tall, pale man with white hair.

Instead, she said, 'Macbeth, you shouldn't believe everything a woman tells you when she's in shock.'

'I… Goddammit, I saw. And I tried to sleep on it and I couldn't, so this morning…' Mungo Macbeth looked sheepish and spread his hands…

She gave him a cursory glance intended to wither, fade him out.

'I figured maybe you could use some help,' he said.

OK,' she said. 'You see those gates? Behind those gates is a guy with two huge and ferocious dogs. The dogs'll do anything the guy says… And the guy – he'll do anything I say. You got the message?'

'Couldn't we go someplace? Get a bite to eat?'

'No, we could not.' Moira opened the driver's door of the BMW and got in, wound down the window. 'You think I need a strong male shoulder to lean on, that it? Or maybe a bedpost?'

Macbeth said helplessly, 'I just think… I just think you're an amazing person.'

'Macbeth…" She sighed. 'Just go away, huh?'

He nodded, expressionless, turned back to his hire car. He looked like he might cry.

This was ridiculous.

'Hey, Macbeth.. Moira leaned back out of the window, nodded at his T-shirt. 'You ever actually been to Govan?'

'Aw, hell…' Macbeth shrugged. 'I cruised most of those Western Isles. Just don't recall which is which.'

Moira found a grin, or the grin found her. Hurriedly, she put the car into gear, drove away, and when she looked back there was only a bus, a long way behind.

From Dawber's Book of Bridelow.

THE BREWERY

Fine beers have been brewed in the Bridelow area since time immemorial, the most famous being the almost-black Bridelow Bitter.

This, or something similar, was first produced commercially, on an relatively small scale, by Elsie Berry and her sons in the late seventeenth century, using a species of aromatic bog-myrtle as a preservative. The Berry family began by providing ale for the Bridelow pub. The Man I'th Moss, but demand grew swiftly in communities up to fifteen miles away.

The Bridelow Brewery as we know it today was founded in the early nineteenth century by Thomas Horridge, a businessman from Chesterfield who bought out the Berry Family and whose enterprise was to provide employment for many generations of Bridelow folk. He at once began work on the construction of the first proper road across the Moss to facilitate the movement of his brewery wagons.

Descendants of Thomas Horridge continued to develop the industry, and the family became Bridelow's greatest benefactors, building the village hall, enabling major repairs to be carried out to the ancient church and continuing to facilitate new housing as recently as the 1950s.

However…

In the bar at The Man I'th Moss, lunchtime, Young Frank Manifold said, in disgust, 'Bloody gnat's piss!'

And angrily pushed his glass away.

'I'll have draught Bass next time,' Young Frank said. Never thought I'd be saying that in this pub. Never.'

'Eh, tha's just bitter, lad.' said Frank Manifold Snr, who preferred Scotch anyway. 'Tha's a right to feel bitter, mind, I'm not saying tha's not… Know what they've done, now, Ernie? Only paid off our drivers and replaced um wi' their own blokes.'

'Ken and Peter?'

'Paid off! Cut down lorries from five to two – bigger uns, like. Needed experienced HGV drivers, they reckoned. Makes you spit.'

Ernie, who also was on whisky, had a sip out of Young Frank's beer glass. 'Lad's right, I'm afraid,' he said. 'It's gone off.'

'Well, thank you!' Young Frank said devoutly. 'Thank you very much, Mr Dawber.'

'Only just don't go shouting it around the place,' Ernie muttered. 'Lottie's got to sell the stuff and she's enough problems.'

'No, she doesn't,' said Young Frank, back-row smart-arse in Ernie's top class fourteen years ago. 'Doesn't have to sell it at all no more. Free house, int it?'