Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Dic, black-suited, glaring moodily out of the window, his hands in his hip-pockets. Lottie just carried on talking, far too quickly.

'And also, you see, in a normal situation, what happens is the funeral cars arrive, and they all park outside the house, with the hearse in front, and all the relatives pile in and the procession moves off to the church.'

'Would've been daft,' Dic said, 'when it's not even two minutes' walk.'

'Which means… I mean, in the normal way, it means the coffin doesn't leave the back of the hearse until it reaches the church door. Not like this… it's quite ridiculous in this day and age.'

The two of them standing alone in the pub's lofty back kitchen.

Alone except for Matt's coffin, dark pine, occupying the full length of the refectory table.

'But I mean, what on earth was I supposed to say to them?' Lottie said. 'You're early – go and drive him around the reservoirs for an hour?'

The relatives would be here soon, some from quite a distance, some with young children.

'I keep thinking,' Dic said, his voice all dried up, 'that I ought to have a last look at him. Pay my respects.'

'You had your chance,' Lottie said, more severely than she meant to. 'When he was in the funeral home. You didn't want to go.'

'I couldn't.'

Her voice softened. 'Well, now's not the time. Don't worry. That's not your dad, that poor shell of a thing in there. That's not how he'd want you to remember him.'

God, she thought, with a bitter smile, but I'm coping well with this.

Of course, half the Mothers' Union had been round, offering to help with the preparations and the tea and the buffet. And she'd said, very politely, No. No, thank you. It's very kind of you, but I can look after my own. And the old dears had shaken their heads. Well, what else could they expect of somebody who'd turn down Ma Wagstaff's patent herbal sedative…

Yes. She was coping.

Then Dic shattered everything. He said, 'Mum, I've got to know. What happened with that nurse?

Lottie dropped a glove.

'At the hospital. The night he died.'

'Who told you about that?' Picking up the glove, pulling it on, and the other one.

'Oh, Mum, everybody knows about it.'

'No, they don't,' she snapped.

'They might not here, but it was all round the Infirmary.

Jeff's girlfriend knew, who's on Admissions in Casualty.'

'They've got no damn right to gossip about that kind of thing!'

Dic squirmed.

'God, you choose your bloody times, my lad.'

'I'm sorry, Mum.'

'Not as if she was hurt. She had a shock, that was all. He didn't know where he was. He was drugged up to the eyeballs. She was a young nurse, too inexperienced to be on a ward like that, but you know the way hospitals are now.'

'They said he attacked her.'

'He didn't attack her. God almighty, a dying man, a man literally on his last legs…?'

Dic said, unwilling to let it go, 'They said he called her, this nurse, they said he called her… Moira.'

Lottie put her gloved hands on the pine box, about where Matt's head would be, as if she could smooth his hair through the wood, say, Look, it's OK, really, I understand.

'Leave it, will you, Dic,' she said very quietly. 'Just leave it.'

'She's not corning today, is she? The Cairns woman.'

'No,' Lottie said. 'She's not.'

'Good,' said Dic. Cautious as a field mouse, little Willie Wagstaff peeped around the door, sniffed the air and then tiptoed into the dimness of Ma's parlour.

The curtains were drawn for Matt, as were the curtains in nearly all the houses in Bridelow, but at Ma's this was more of a problem, the place all cluttered up as usual with jars and bottles and big cats called Bob and Jim.

He crept over to the table. In its centre was a large aspirin bottle, the contents a lot more intriguing and colourful than aspirins.

The principal colour was red. In the bottom of the bottle was a single red berry, most likely from the straggly mountain ash tree by the back gate. All the berries had vanished from that bugger weeks and weeks ago, but this one looked as bright and fresh as if it was early September.

Also in the bottle was about a yard of red cotton thread, all scrimped up. One end of the thread had been pulled out of the bottle and then a fat cork shoved in so that about half an inch of thread hung down the outside.

The bottle had been topped up with water that looked suspiciously yellowish, the tangle of red cotton soaked through

'By the 'ell,' Willie said through his teeth. 'Nothin' left to chance, eh?'

'You put that down! Now!'

Willie nearly dropped it. Ma's eyes had appeared in the doorway, followed by Ma. Too dim to see her properly; she was in a very long coat and a hat that looked like a plate of black puddings.

'Bloody hell, Ma, scared the life out of me.'

'Corning in here wi'out knocking. Messing wi' things as don't concern you.'

'Me messing!' He gestured at the bottle. 'I bet that's not spring water, neither.'

'Used to be!' Ma glared indignantly at him. 'Been through me now. That strengthens it.'

'Oh, aye? I thought you were losing your touch.'

Ma stumped across to the table, snatched up the bottle and carried it over to the ramshackle dresser where her handbag lay, the size and shape of an old-fashioned doctor's bag. She was about to stow the bottle away then stopped. 'Who's carrying him, then?'

'Me. Eric. Frank Manifold Senior. Maybe young Dic.'

'That Lottie,' Ma said. 'She's a fool to herself, that girl. If she'd let the Mothers' Union give her a hand, we'd all be sleeping easier.'

'Eh?' He watched Ma passing the aspirin bottle from hand to hand, thoughtfully. 'Oh, now look, Ma.. – just forget it. I am not… Anyway, there'll be no chance, Lottie'll be watching us like a bloody hawk.'

'Aye, p'raps I'll not ask you,' Ma said, to his relief. The thought of opening Matt's coffin turned his guts to jelly.

'And anyway, why d'you need a thing like that? I thought it were all sorted out.'

'You thought' Ma was contemptuous. 'Who're you to think, Willie Wagstaff?'

'Ma, I'm fifty-four years old!' Willie's fingers had started up a hornpipe on the coins in the hip pocket of his shiny black funeral pants.

'And never grown up,' Ma said.

'This is grown-up?'

Ma bent and put the bottle down on the edge of the hearth. The fire was just smoke, no red, all banked up with slack to keep it in until Ma returned after the funeral.

She straightened up, wincing just a bit – not as sprightly as she was, but what could you expect – and faced him, hands clamped on the coat around where her bony old hips would be.

'It's like damp,' Ma snapped. 'Once you get an inch or two up your wall, you're in trouble. If your wall's a bit weak, or a bit rotted, it'll spread all the faster. It'll feed off… rot and corruption. And sickness too.'

'Ma…' Willie didn't want to know this. He never had, she knew that.

Ma picked up his thoughts, like they'd dropped neatly in front of her dustpan and brush. 'Comes a time, Willie Wagstaff, when things can't be avoided no longer. He were a good man, Matt Castle, but dint know what he were messing with. Or who.'

'Probably dint even know he were messing wi' owt.'

'And that wife of his, she were on guard day and night, nobody could get near. He were crying out for help, were Matt, by the end, and nobody could get near. Well…'

'Matt's dead, Ma,' Willie said warningly.

Ma picked up the aspirin bottle. 'And that,' she said, ramming the bottle deep into the bag, 'is why he needs protection. And not only him, obviously. This is crucially important, our Willie.'

'Oh, bloody hell,' said Willie. It had always been his way, with Ma, to pretend he didn't believe in any of this. Found it expedient, as a rule.