Anthony Powell - Hearing Secret Harmonies

Mr Gauntlett laughed at some amusing thought of his own in this connexion. When he voiced that thought the meaning was not immediately clear.

‘Ernie Dunch won’t be joining us today.’

‘He won’t?’

There was nothing very surprising about this piece of information. It looked as if Mr Gauntlett had cut across the fields from Dunch’s farm, which was out to the west from where we were walking. Mr Dunch farmed the meadow on which The Devil’s Fingers stood. He was not the farmer who had acted as figurehead in purchase by the quarry of the neighbouring fields, his land running only to the summit of the ridge, but his own attitude to quarry development was looked upon as unreliable by those who preferred some restriction to be set on the spread of quarry workings. Dunch was unlikely to bother much about what infringements might be taking place on territory with scenic or historical claims. Idle curiosity could have brought him to the meeting, nothing more. He would be no great loss. For some reason Mr Gauntlett found the fact immensely droll that Mr Dunch would not be present.

‘Ernie Dunch didn’t feel up to coming,’ he repeated.

‘I don’t expect Mr Dunch cares much, one way or the other, what the quarry does.’

‘Nay, I don’t think ‘tis that. Last Tuesday I heard Ernie saying he’d be out with us all today, to know what was happening nextdoor to him. I said I’d drop in, and we’d go together. I thought I’d see, that way, Ernie did come.’

Mr Gauntlett laughed to himself.

‘That’s natural enough, since the quarry would extend quite close to his own land. I’m glad he feels himself concerned. What’s wrong with Mr Dunch?’

Obviously, from Mr Gauntlett’s manner, that question was meant to be asked. He had a story he wanted to tell. I was not particularly interested myself why Dunch had made his decision to stay away.

‘Ernie’s quite a young fellow.’

‘So I’ve been told. I don’t know him personally.’

‘Two-and-thirty. Three-and-thirty maybe.’

Mr Gauntlett pondered. We plodded on through the heavy furrows. Mr Gauntlett, having presumably settled in his own mind, within a few days, the date of Ernie Dunch’s birth, changed his tone to the rather special one in which he would relate local history and legend.

‘I’ll warrant you’ve heard tell stories of The Fingers, Mr Jenkins?’

‘You’ve told me quite a few yourself, Mr Gauntlett — the Stones going down to the brook to drink. That’s what we want to make sure they’re still able to do. Not be forced to burrow under a lot of quarry waste, before they can quench their thirst. I should think the Stones would revenge themselves on the quarry if anything of the sort is allowed to happen.’

‘Aye, I shouldn’t wonder. I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Smash up the culvert, when the cock crows at midnight.’

‘Ah.’

I hoped for a new legend from Mr Gauntlett. He seemed in the mood. They always came out unexpectedly. That was part of Mr Gauntlett’s technique as a story-teller. He cleared his throat.

‘I’ve heard tales o’ The Fingers since I was a nipper. All the same, it comes like a surprise when young folks believe such things, now they’re glued to the television all day long.’

Mr Gauntlett watched television a good deal himself. At least he seemed always familiar with every programme.

‘I’m pleased to hear young people do still believe in such stories.’

‘Ah, so am I, Mr Jenkins, so am I. That’s true. It’s a surprise all the same.’

I thought perhaps Mr Gauntlett needed a little encouragement.

‘I was asked by a young man — the one who told you where to find Daisy — if the Stones bled when a knife was thrust in them at Hallowe’en, or some such season of the year.

‘I’ve heard tell the elder trees round about The Fingers do bleed, and other strange tales. I can promise you one thing, Mr Jenkins, in Ernie Dunch’s grandfather’s day, old Seth Dunch, a cow calved in the dusk o’ the evening up there one spring. Old Seth Dunch wouldn’t venture into The Fingers thicket after dark, nor send a man up there neither — for no one o’ the men for that matter would ha’ gone — until it were plain daylight the following morning. Grandson’s the same as grandfather, so t’appears.’

‘If Ernie Dunch is afraid of The Fingers, he ought to take more trouble about seeing they’re preserved in decent surroundings.’

Mr Gauntlett laughed again. He did not comment on the conservational aspect. Instead, he returned to young Mr Dunch’s health.

‘Ernie’s not himself today. He’s staying indoors. Going to do his accounts, he says.’

‘Accounts make a bad day for all of us. You’ve just been seeing him, Mr Gauntlett, have you?’

I could not make out what Mr Gauntlett was driving at.

‘Looked in on the farm, as I said I would, on the way up. I thought Ernie ought to come to the meeting, seeing we were going through his own fields, but he wouldn’t stir.’

‘Just wanted to tot up his accounts?’

‘Said he wasn’t going out today.’

‘Has he got flu?’

‘Ernie’s poorly. That’s plain. Never seen a young fellow in such a taking.’

Mr Gauntlett found Ernie Dunch’s reason for not turning up excessively funny, then, pulling himself together, resumed his more usual style of ironical gravity.

‘Seems Ernie went out after dark last night to shoot rabbits from the Land Rover.’

Rabbit-shooting from a Land Rover at night was a recognized sport. The car was driven slowly over the grass, headlights full on, the rabbits, mesmerized by the glare of the lamps, scuttling across the broad shaft of light. The driver would then pull up, take his gun, and pick them off in this field of fire.

‘Did he have an accident? Tractors are always turning over, but I’d have thought a Land Rover ought to be all right for any reasonable sort of field.’

‘No, not an accident, Mr Jenkins. I’ll tell you what Ernie said, just as he said it. He passed through several o’ these fields, till he got just about, I’d judge, where we are now, or a bit further. He was coming up to the start o’ the meadow where The Fingers lie, so Ernie said, in sight o’ the elder copse — and what do you think Ernie saw there, Mr Jenkins?’

‘The Devil himself.’

‘Not far short o’ that, according to Ernie.’

Again Mr Gauntlett found difficulty in keeping back his laughter.

‘What happened?’

‘Ernie hadn’t had no luck with the rabbits so far. There didn’t seem none o’ them about. Then, as soon as he drove into the big meadow, he noticed a nasty light round The Fingers. It seemed to come in flashes like summer lightning.’

‘Nasty?’

‘That’s what Ernie called it.’

‘Probably was summer lightning. We’ve had quite a bit of that. Or his own headlights reflected on something.’

‘He said he was sure it wasn’t the car’s lamps, or the moonlight. Unearthly, he said. It didn’t seem a natural light.’

‘When did he see the Devil?’

‘Four o’ them there were.’

‘Four devils? What form did they take?’

‘Dancing in and out o’ the elder trees, and between the Stones, it looked like, turning shoulder to shoulder t’ords each other, taking hold o’arms, shaking their heads from side to side.’

‘How did he know they were devils?’

‘They had horns.’

‘He probably saw some horned sheep. There are a flock of them round about here.’

‘It was horns like deer. High ones.’

‘How were they dressed?’

‘They weren’t dressed, ‘cording to Ernie.’

‘They were naked?’

‘Ernie swears they were naked as the day they were born — if they were human, and were born.’