Crybbe (AKA Curfew) (83 page)

   
'Don't let yourself lose this
one,' Jean said.
   
Fay?

   
Please . . . What can't I
see
?

   
'And when I get to the Tump,'
he asked weakly. 'What am I supposed to do then?'

   
'You're looking for
Boulton-Trow, aren't you?'

   
He stared at her, Arnold
throbbing against his ankle.

   
'If Boulton-Trow has
orchestrated all this, then he has to find somewhere, has he not, with his wee
conductor's baton. He has to have a podium, from which . . . if you really want
to end all this - you must dislodge him. I'm sorry, Joe, it's never easy. You
know that really, don't you? You could indeed lend Jim Preece a supporting arm
as he climbs the steps to the belfry, but are you going to be there again
tomorrow night, and the night after?'

   
Powys stood up. His legs felt
very weak. He was afraid. He gathered the trembling Arnold awkwardly into his
arms, looked vaguely around. 'Where's the Canon?'

   
Jean saw him to the door. 'Don't
worry about Alex. He's coming to grips with his past, too.' She gave his arm a
sympathetic squeeze, it's the night for it.'

Col Croston was pleased and yet disappointed, too. It was going
smoothly, Max Goff was making his points very cogently and had been impressing
him
as the strictly neutral chairman.
And, no, he hadn't expected fireworks.

   
But wasn't this just a little
bit
too
tame?

   
Hadn't once had to bang his
gavel or call for silence. Just that spot of aggression towards the cameraman -
minor pre-meeting nerves. And that single, reedy interruption during his
introduction. All of this before he'd even called on Goff to address the
meeting.

   
And now the fellow had been
given a more than fair hearing.

   
'Right,' Col said. 'Well, I
think I've put all my questions, so what about all of
you
? What's the general feeling? I think we at least owe it to Mr
Goff for him to be able to walk away from here tonight with some idea of how
the townsfolk of Crybbe are reacting to his ideas.'

   
Wasn't awfully surprised to get
a lot of blank looks.

   
'Well, come on, don't be shy.
This is a public meeting and you are, in fact, the public'

   
When he did get a response it
came, unsurprisingly, from the wrong side of the room.

   
The large, middle-aged woman
with the white hair was on her feet.

   
'Yes?' said Col. 'Mrs Ivory,
isn't it? Go ahead.'

   
'Mr Chairman,' Mrs Ivory said
sweetly, 'I'm sure we seem a pretty strange lot to the local people.'

   
She paused. If she was waiting
to be contradicted, Fay thought, she'd be on her feet for the rest of the
night.

   
'Well . . .' Mrs Ivory blushed.
'I suppose we all have adjustments to make, don't we. I know I got some
very
odd looks when I went into a
sweetshop and said I preferred carob to chocolate, actually, and didn't mind
paying the extra for a no dairy alternative.'

   
Good grief, Col thought, is
this the best you can do?

   
'What I mean is, Mr Chairman, I
suppose we
have
got what seem like
some funny ideas, but, well, we're
harmless
,
and don't mind people thinking I'm an eccentric, as long as they accept me as a
harmless
eccentric. That's the point
I want to make. We don't want to take over or impose some weird new regime.
We're not like the Jehovah's Witnesses - we won't be knocking on doors or
handing out pamphlets saying, "Come and join the New Age movement."
We're gentle people, and we're not going to intrude and . . . well, that's all
I have to say really. Thank you.'

   
'Thank
you
, Mrs Ivory,' said Col. 'Well, there you are, I think that was
very, er . . . a valuable point. So. What about some local reaction? Mr Mayor,
you're down there on the floor of the meeting tonight, somewhat of a new
experience for you, but what it
does
mean is you
are
entitled to speak
your mind. Give us the benefit of your, er. . .'

   
He was going to make a little
New Age sort of joke then about the Mayor's 'ancient wisdom', but decided
perhaps not.

   
'. . . years of experience.'

   
He watched Jimmy Preece rising
skeletally to his feet.

   
'Not expecting a sermon. Just a
few
words, Mr Mayor.'

   
'Well, I . . .' Jimmy Preece
looked down at his boots, and then he said prosaically, 'On behalf of the town,
I'd like to thank Mr Goff for coming along tonight and telling us about his
plans. Very civil of 'im. I'm sure we'll all bear in mind what 'e's 'ad to
say.'

   
And the Mayor sat down.

   
Col looked helplessly at Max
Goff.

At the back of the room Fay Morrison looked at her watch, saw it was
coming up to twenty minutes past nine and was very much relieved. Within a
couple of minutes the meeting would be wound up and all these people would go
their separate ways, they'd be off the line, away from what she was slowly and
less credulously corning to think of as the death path.

   
'Thank you, Mr Mayor,' Goff
said, rising to his feet. 'Thank you, Mr Chairman. But this is only the start
of things . . .'

   
What?

   
Goff said, 'I'd like you to
meet at this point some of the people you'll be seeing around town. For those
who wanna know more about the heritage of the area, the distinguished author M.
Powys will be, er, with us presently. But I'd like to acquaint you, first of
all, with some of the very skilled practitioners who, for an introductory
period, will be making their services available entirely free of charge to
anyone in Crybbe who'd like to know more about alternative health. As Hilary
said a few moments ago, there'll be no proselytizing, they'll simply be around
if required, so first of all I'd like you to meet . . .'

   
He stopped. The chairman had
put a hand on his arm.
   
'One moment, Mr Goff, I think we
appear to have another question . . . Think I saw a hand going up at the back.
Oh.'

Col had recognized Fay Morrison, the radio reporter. This was public
meeting, not a media event; however, in the absence of any worthwhile response
from the floor, he supposed it would be all right to let her have her say.
   
'Yes,' he said. 'Mrs Morrison.'

   
Goff's head spun round. 'This
is not a press conference, Mr Chairman.'

   
'Yes, I'm aware of that, Mr
Goff, but Mrs Morrison is a resident of Crybbe.'

   
'Yeah, sure, but . . .'

   
'And I
am
the chairman,' Col said less affably.
   
Goff shut up, but he wasn't happy.
   
Col was. This was more like it.
   
'Go ahead, Mrs Morrison.'

   
I'd like to know if Mr Goff is
going to introduce us to his chief adviser, Mr Boulton-Trow.'

   
'I'm afraid,' Goff said coldly,
'that Mr Boulton-Trow is unable to be with us tonight.'

   
'Why not?'

   
Goff dropped his voice. 'Look,
Mr Chair, I've had dealings with this woman before. She's a load of trouble.
She makes a practice of stirring things up. She's been fired by the local radio
station for inaccuracy, she's . . .'

   
'Mr Goff. . .' Thin steel in
Col's voice. 'This is a public meeting, and I'm the chairman. Go ahead, Mrs Morrison,
but I hope this is relevant. I don't want a slanging match.'

   
'Thank you, Mr Chairman,' Fay
said. 'I've certainly no intention of being at all argumentative.'
   
Oh God,
go for it, woman.

   
'I'd simply like to ask Mr Goff
what contribution he expects will be made to the general well-being of Crybbe
by employing a descendant of perhaps . . . perhaps the most hated man the
history of the town.'

   
She paused. People were turning
to look at her, especially from the Crybbe side of the room and Goff was on his
feet. 'This is ridiculous . . .'

   
The chairman slammed down his
gavel. 'Please!'

   
'I'm referring,' Fay said,
raising her voice, 'to the sixteenth century sheriff known popularly, since his
death, as Black Michael, and widely known at the tune for unjustly hanging . .
.'

   
'Mrs Morrison,' said the
chairman. 'With the best will in the world, I don't honestly think . . .'

   
'Andy Trow has, of course,
reversed his real surname. He is Andy Wort, isn't he, Mr Goff?'

   
There was a silence.

   
Oh fuck it. Fay thought. Take
it all the way.
   
'He's also, I understand, your lover.'
   
And the lights went out.

CHAPTER VI

Plea se. Take my arm.
   
Better.
   
Good.

   
Do you remember when I used to offer you my arm in the street and
you absolutely refused to accept it
 
'Not
until we're married,' you would say, even though you were quite poorly. Worried
about your reputation, I suppose. Bit late for that.

   
And then, of course, when we were married it was quite
impossible, with you in a wheelchair and me pushing the damn thing..
   
All right now, though, isn't it?
   
Yes. All right now.

   
Which way shall we go? No, you choose. Down to the river?

   
No?

   
To the church! Yes, of course. Bring back some memories. Young
Murray did rather well, I thought. Yes, I agree about the amendments to the
vows; saved any embarrassment, didn't it? Indeed it did.

   
It is dark, isn't it? Careful now. Mind you don't trip over the
kerb or the end of your shroud.

   
Do tell me, won't you, if you're feeling tired.
   
Jolly good.

As Joe Powys drove, on full headlights, into the lane that slipped down
beside the church, he formed an image of Crybbe as an old and poorly built
house riddled with damp. Periodically new people would move in and redecorate
the rooms: bright new paint, new wallpaper, new furniture. But the wet always
came through and turned the walls black and rotted the furniture.

   
And eventually people stopped
throwing money at it and just tried to insulate themselves and their families
as best they could. It wasn't much fun to live in, and the people who stayed
there were the ones with few prospects and nowhere else to go.

   
And that was the basic
socio-economic viewpoint.

   
Trying to explain the
supernatural aspects in terms of rising damp was more complicated.

   
If only he could speak to the
shadowy figure who, in the late 1500s, had attempted to install, just above
ground-level, an effective damp-proof course.

   
Let's assume this man was John
Dee, astrologer at the court of Queen Elizabeth I.

   
Powys braked hard as a baby
rabbit shot from the hedgerows, into the centre of the road and then stopped,
turning pale terrified eyes into the headlights.

   
He switched off the lights, and
the rabbit scampered away
   
Just for a moment, Powys smiled.

   
There's a portrait. John Dee in
middle age. A thin-faced man with high cheekbones. Watchful, but kindly eyes.
He wears a black cap, suggesting baldness, and has a luxurious white beard,
like an ice-cream cone.

   
In Andy's notes, Dee (if it is
he) gives only graphic descriptions of experiences, like the visit of the spirit
(Wort?) in the night.

   
Perhaps somewhere Dee has
documented the action he took to contain the rampant spirit after Wort's death.