Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

Hans kept trying to tell them something, but his mouth wasn't shaping the words.

'Can't fee… fee…'

'Pop, stay quiet. Let's put your overcoat over your legs. How's that? Mr Dawber, don't you think we should get the doctor to him?'

'I do. You go and make us some tea, Catherine. Dic, ring for an ambulance.'

When they'd gone, Ernie leaned over Hans. 'Don't try and talk, just nod, all right? Are you trying to say there's bits of you you can't feel? Hey up, you don't have to nod that hard, just tilt your jaw slightly. Is it your arm? Your shoulder?'

Hans pushed an elbow back into the sofa, trying to raise himself. 'Chest. Shoulders.'

'Now, then…' Ernie raised a warning finger. 'Listen, lad, we've known each other a long time, me and thee. I'll be frank with you. I'm not a doctor, but my feeling is you've had a bit of a heart attack.'

The Rector squirmed in protest.

'Ah, ah! Don't get alarmed, now, I've seen this before. It's nowt to get panicked about. What you are is a classic case of a man who's been pushing himself too far for too long. I know this is not what you'd call an easy one, this parish, for a clergyman, and you've handled things with tremendous skill, Hans, and courage, over the years, anybody here'll agree with that…'

The Rector's eyes flashed frustration.

'Aye, I know. It's not the best of times to get poorly, what, with… one thing and another. And that Joel… by 'eck, he's a rum bugger, that lad. Impetuous? Well… But, Hans, be assured, they'll cope, the Mothers' Union. They will cope. They've had enough practice. Over the years.'

Wished he felt half as confident as he sounded. The trouble with Bridelow was so much had been left unsaid for so long that nobody questioned the way the mechanisms operated any more. It was just how things were done, no fuss, no ceremony, until there was a crisis… and they found the stand-by machinery was all gunged up through lack of use.

When they heard the warble of the ambulance, Hans grabbed hold of Ernie's wrist and began to talk. 'I've buggered things, Ernie.'

'Don't be daft. Don't worry about Joel. This time next week he'll think it was all a bad dream.'

The Rector's dry face puckered.

'Don't think so? Oh, aye. Folk do, y'know. Things heal quick in Brid'lo. The thing about it… and I've been thinking about this a lot – and writing it down. Started a book – don't say owt about it, God's sake – Dawber's secret Book of Bridelow. Not for publication, like, Ma Wagstaff'd have a fit… just to bring all the strands together, reason it out for meself…'

'No, look…' Hans blinked hard.

'No, the thing about Bridelow… it's so prosaic. Know what I mean? Not sensational. No dressing up… or dressing down, for that matter. Nowt to make a picture spread in the News of the World. Joel? Nobody'd believe him, would they? You think about it.'

He patted the Rector's hand. 'No, better still, don't think about it. Get yourself a bit of a rest. I'll handle things. Brid'lo born, Brid'lo bred. Leave it to Uncle Ernie.'

This had been his forte as a headmaster. Getting the kids to trust him. Even when he hadn't the foggiest idea what he was doing.

As the ambulance men crunched up the path, Hans said, 'Shurrup, you old fool and listen. It's Joel.'

'Like I said, we'll handle him.'

'No. You don't understand. Know where he's… where he's going to spend the night. Do you?'

'Back in Sheffield if he's got any sense.'

'No. He's… made up a bed. Little cellar under the church. Ernie… Don't let him. Not now. Not after this.'

'Oh,' said Ernie. 'By 'eck. You spent a night down there once, didn't you?'

She told him that not only had she never eaten here, she'd never even been inside the joint before. And he, having stayed in better hotels most of his life, felt – as usual – like an over privileged asshole.

She had the grouse, first time for that too. (Didn't Scots eat grouse on a regular basis, like Eskimos and seal meat?) He joined her, a new experience for him also. The grouse wasn't so great, as well as which, it looked like a real bird, which made him feel guilty.

Afterwards, looking up from the sweet trolley, she said, 'I suppose you'll be wanting your pound of flesh, then.'

'Aw, come on, Fiona. I can buy a girl dinner without the question of flesh coming into it.'

'I should be so lucky.' She smiled enticingly. 'I was referring to Moira. You'll want to know about Moira.'

'Well,' he said, 'yeah. But only if this isn't gonna get you into any kind of, uh…'

'Shit?' said Fiona. 'I don't think so. I see all Mr Kaufmann's receipts, he never comes here. Anyway, it's nice to live dangerously for a change. I bet you live your whole life dangerously.'

'Me?' For one and a half years after leaving college he'd been a trainee assistant director. The very next day he was an executive producer. Mom's company. 'Uh, well, not so's you'd notice.'

'You do look kind of dangerous, Mungo.'

'Looks can be deceptive.' Last thing he planned was to seduce this one.

'Irish,' she said. 'You look Irish, somehow.'

'So people keep telling me.'

'Mungo,' she said. 'Aw, hey, that's really incredible. Mungo Macbeth.'

'Of the Manhattan Macbeths. My Mom's real proud of that.' Giving her the condensed autobiography. 'From being a small kid, I learned how the actual King Macbeth was really a good guy whose name was unjustly blackened by this English hack playwright.'

'That's true, actually,' Fiona said. 'He wisny a bad guy.'

'I'm told they also used to play pipe-band records to me in my cradle,' Macbeth said, screwing up his nose. 'But that made me cry, so they hired this genuine Scottish nanny, used to sing me Gaelic lullabies. That part I remember. That was great. That was how I got into the music'

'My dad used to sing me Tom Jones,' Fiona said glumly.' "The Green Green Grass of Home". Not so great.'

'My dad never got to sing me anything,' Macbeth said. 'He didn't last that long. He was kind of jettisoned by my mother's family before I was born. They are the Macbeths. My dad's name was Smith. I mean, Smith? Forget it. So, anyhow, this trip came up, she said. Go… go feel the true power of your Celtic heritage.'

'You feeling it?'

'I'm feeling a jerk is what I'm feeling. I won't say she was expecting a delegation from the clan Macbeth to turn out for me at the airport in full Highland costume, but you get the general picture.'

'Out of interest, have you actually seen anybody in a kilt since you got here? Apart from at the Earl's do?'

'Nope.'

'So what'll you tell her when you get home? Hey, would it be OK for me to have the profiteroles?'

'And just a coffee for me,' he said to the waiter. 'Make that two – I'll wait. What do I tell Mom? I'll say I had a peculiarly Celtic experience. I'll say it was too deep and personal to talk about.'

'Oh, wow,' Fiona said, rolling her big eyes. Problem was that tonight she didn't look eighteen any more. She was in a tight red dress – well, some of her was in it. Macbeth thought hard about Moira Cairns to take his mind off this comparatively minor but far from discountable temptation.

'I'll tell her I met a real witch,' he said. 'One of the weird sisters.'

'Aw, she's no' a witch,' Fiona said scornfully.

'No? What is she?'

'She's what my granny used to call fey. OK, maybe a bit more than that. Like, one day she was very annoyed with Mr Kaufmann… I mean she's usually quite annoyed with him but this was something… Anyway, here they are, raging away at each other, and she's about to storm out the door and then she just turns round, like she's gonny say something else, only she canny find the words. And then… one of the damn filing cabinets starts to shake and… I'm no' kidd'n' here… all four drawers come shoot'n' out at once. Really incredible. Awesome silence afterwards.'