Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

He remembered attending her wedding back in… 1957, would it be? This high-born, high-breasted Cheshire beauty, niece of Lord Benfold, on the arm of a grinning Arthur Horridge, boisterous with pride – free ale all round that night in The Man. 'Sturdy lass,' Ma Wagstaff had observed (they were already calling her Ma back in the 'fifties). 'Never pegged her own washing out, I'll bet.'

Ma talking then as if Eliza Horridge were nowt to do with her. As if there was no secret between them.

It was years before Ernie had put two and two together.

… put me hand on her shoulder and she nearly had hysterics, I want Ma, I want Ma…'

Oh, Lord, Liz. Answer the bloody door. Please. Hans said, 'I realised a long time ago where the essence was. That' a real centre of spirituality was what was important – that what kind of spirituality it was was, to a large extent, irrelevant.'

'You say you realised…' Cathy said slowly. 'Did that come in a blinding flash, or were you… tutored, perhaps?'

'Both. They started work on your mother to begin with, through the well-dressing. She was always interested in flowers.' Hans laughed painfully. 'Can you imagine? Doing it through something as utterly innocuous as flower arranging? Millicent Gill it was taught her – only a kid at the time, but she'd been born into it. Flowers. Petal pictures. Pretty.'

'Yes,' Cathy said.

'Then flowers in the church. Nothing strange about that. But in this kind of quantity? Used to look like Kew Gardens in August.'

'I remember.'

'And the candles. Coloured candles. And the statues. I remembered commenting to the bishop – old Tom Warrender in those days, canny old devil – about the unexpected Anglo- Catholic flavour. "But they still turn up in force on a Sunday, don't they, Hans?" he said. And then he patted me on the shoulder, as if to say, don't knock it when you're winning. Of course, even then I knew we weren't talking about Anglo-Catholicism – not in the normal sense, anyway. And then, when we'd been here a few years, your mother went into hospital to have you and Barney…'

'Which reminds me, Pop, Barney called from Brussels – he'll be over to see you before the end of the week.'

'No need. Tell him…'

'There's no telling him anything, you know that. Go on. When Mum was in hospital…'

'I was approached by Alf Beckett, Frank Manifold and Willie Wagstaff. They said the house was no place to bring families into, far too dismal and shabby. Give them a couple of hours and they and a few of the other lads would redecorate the place top to bottom. Be a nice surprise for your mother – welcome-home present from the village.'

'I didn't know about that.'

'Of course you didn't. Anyway, I said it was very good of them and everything, but the mess… Don't you worry about that, Vicar, they said. You won't even have to see it until it's done. We've arranged accommodation for you.'

'Ah,' said Cathy.

'They'd installed a bed in the little cellar under the church,' said Hans. 'The place had been aired. Chemical toilet in the passage. Washbowl, kettle, all mod cons. Of course, I knew I was being set up, but what could I do?'

Hans paused, 'I spent… two nights down there.'

'And?' Cathy discovered she was leaning forward, gripping the leatherette arms of her chair.

'And what? Don't expect me to tell you what happened. I came out, to put it mildly, a rather more thoughtful sort of chap than when I went in. Can't explain it. I think it was a test. I think I passed. I hope I passed.'

'But you didn't want Joel sleeping down there?'

'God, no. The difference being that I'd been there a few years by then – I was halfway to accepting certain aspects of Bridelow. They knew that. Somebody took a decision. That the vicar should be… presented. To Her. I think… I think if I hadn't been ready, if I hadn't been considered sufficiently… what? Tolerant, I suppose. Open-minded… then probably nothing would have happened. Probably nothing would have happened with Joel. But I didn't want him down there. I don't want to sound superior or anything, but that boy could spend fifty years in Bridelow and still not be ready.'

Cathy said, realising this wasn't going to do much for her father's recovery, 'Suppose… suppose he did spend a night down there. And he was already worked up after that business at the funeral. And he stirred something up. Brought something on. Suppose he was tested – and failed?'

'Well,' Hans said. 'There's an old story Ernie Dawber once told me. About what really happened when that bishop spent a night down there in eighteen whenever. They say he went totally bloody bonkers.'

Hans patted Cathy's hand. 'But then,' he said, 'wouldn't have been much of a story at all if he hadn't, would it?' There was a loud, urgent rapping on Willie's front door, which could only be Milly.

Who knew the door was hardly ever locked – certainly not when Willie was at home – but who'd knock anyway, for emphasis, when it was something important.

Willie had been re-reading Moira's note. It had been a relief at first; didn't think he could really apply himself to Matt's bogman music, not right now, not the way he was feeling.

But what did she mean, I have to go home? Why did she have to go so quickly she couldn't wait to say ta'ra?

'Aye,' he shouted. 'Come in, lass.'

'Willie.' She stood panting in the doorway, her flowery frock dark-spotted with rain.

'I were just going to make some toast for me tea. You want some?'

'Willie,' she said. 'Come and see this.'

"s up?'

'You've got to see it,' Milly gasped,

'It's pissing down. I'll need me mac'

'Never mind that!' She pulled him out of the door, dragged him up the entry and into the street. 'Look.'

'It's a bus,' said Willie.

A big green single-decker was jammed into the top of the street outside the Post Office. Thin rivers of rain were running down the cobbles around its back wheels. On the back of the bus it said, Hattersley's Travel, Sheffield.

'Coach tour?' Willie said, puzzled. Coaches would come to Bridelow quite often in the old days. In summer, admittedly, not on a wet Sunday at the end of October.

'Look,' Milly said.

About forty people had alighted from the coach, mostly young people in jeans and bright anoraks. A small circle had gathered around the unmistakable, golden-topped figure of Joel Beard. They stepped forward in turn, men and women, to hug him.

'Praise God!' Willie heard. As he and Milly moved further up the street, he heard the phrase repeated several times.

Willie looked at Milly through the lashing rain. 'What the bloody hell's this?'

Milly nodded towards two young men unwrapping a long, white banner. Gothic golden lettering explained everything – to Milly, anyway.

'Who the bloody hell,' said Willie, 'are the Angels of the New Advent?'

'They've got a church in Sheffield. Me cousin's daughter nearly became one about a year ago. They're fundamentalist Born Again Christians, Willie. They see the world as one big battleground, God versus Satan.'

'Like the World Cup?'

'It's not funny, Willie.'

'This is what you've dragged me out to see? A bloody Bible-punchers' outing?'

'You're not getting this, are you, Willie luv?' Milly's greying hair was streaming; her dress was soaked through.

Willie noticed with a quick stirring of untimely excitement that she wasn't wearing a bra.

'What I'm saying, if you'll listen,' Milly hissed, 'is that they're God. And we're Satan.' A short time later, Milly heard a small commotion and looked out of the Post Office window to see a group of people assembled in the centre of the street between the lych-gate and the Rectory.

One of them was Joel Beard. Someone held up the trumpet end of a loud-hailer and handed a plastic microphone to Joel.