Ritual (2 page)

2

The photograph of Dian Spark plus her bouquet of garlic flowers appeared a day later in the local paper. Gilly Rowbottom’s account of the accident was set out in medium print below and that was the end of that.

Apparently copies of the paper reached London, Manchester and Birmingham and it was even mentioned fleetingly by the
News
of
the
World
.

Dian’s funeral took place two days after her death. The clear English sun came out to encourage the mourners as they stared at the coffin. Mr. Rowbottom was dreaming of Midsummer Eve, and his wife registered distaste as she allowed her eyes to wander from coffin to church spire. She scowled behind her veil as Pastor White signalled the coffin to be lowered into the freshly dug grave. Opposite her Squire Fenn, poverty stricken, now living in a cottage near the sea, hummed quietly, ‘Ring a ring a roses’. He was in his fifty-fifth year, and very interested in early English music and other things.

Lawrence Cready, retired actor, caught his eye and blew him a sticky smile. Cready was on his way to death, heart trouble, knew it and was experimenting with pleasure before the scythe came.

He was very satisfied with life which was hardly surprising as he had bought the Squire’s Manor from the Squire. Unperturbed by this, the Squire began to hum a falsetto version of ‘The Last Post’. After all, it was a funeral.

Mr. Spark was closed in behind his eye lashes. Won’t it ever be over? We’re only doing the ceremony for us. Dian doesn’t care. She would have liked the dolls I bought. Six bob each. With squeaky joints. After all, I have to make a living, don’t I?

A flake of clay dropped into the grave. Without any warning he found himself throwing a handful of earth onto the coffin. Then everyone seemed to be hurling earth onto the coffin. The sun was impassive as ever.

Mrs. Spark focused her two liquid emeralds on Pastor White and hated. Then on Mr. Cready and hated. Then on Squire Fenn and hated.

Leaning against a yew tree, Jeremiah, the grave-digger, carefully pulled slivers of old wood from the haft of his spade. He wanted his lunch although it was only eleven in the morning. He had to admit funerals no longer had the attraction they had in his youth. The pageantry was gone. No one had dug up a new grave on a midnight to steal a corpse for years now. The churchyard had deteriorated. Each year the children grew less afraid of him in his battered cottage in Hangland’s Wood. Now they called him names or ignored his power. As he stood there that Tuesday morning, he felt he would dearly love to go berserk with his spade, split open a few greasy heads, rape the odd lady, and conduct a mass burial with the priest on the top. Only for a second, though. He wanted his dinner even more. And he was not a violent man.

James, William, and the other labourer moved into the churchyard. William carried a tattered bunch of primroses which he threw into the grave. Squire Fenn acknowledged William’s gesture with two bars of the Trumpet Voluntary. William tugged his non-existent forelock in deference to the Squire. The routine of the village continued through death. The mourners grew restless, thinking of mid-morning tea or a pint at ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’.

Anna Spark had not come.

One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! heads appeared over the churchyard wall, unobserved by the mourners. Children! The Gang! First James and John, the six year old twins, followed by Susan and Joan, not twins or even sisters, eight years a piece. Then little freckled Bert, the five year old menace, and with him Gilly Rowbottom, and last of all their feared leader, ten year old Fat Billy, and metaphorically ten yards wide. The children giggled. It was two days since their friend had died. And already she was gone from their minds. Only Gilly remembered flute notes, a monkey’s head, and a blood trickle. But even Gilly was unsure what she remembered or why. Except Dian owed her three rainbow marbles and a skipping rope.

*

Whilst the funeral was taking place, a London train streaked through the Cornish landscape. A man wearing dark sunglasses sat in one of the compartments alone. With a sharp penknife he was whittling a piece of white wood. He paused for a moment and checked his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Nearly there. Once more he carefully applied the penknife to the wood he was holding. Expertly he winkled out a perfect circular shaving. A minute dragon’s head was taking shape. He was carving a paperknife. Minute by minute he chipped with precision, stopping occasionally to adjust his sunglasses. Perspiration bubbled down the bridge of his nose. He looked about forty, and he was hungry for something other than food.

Outside the carriage windows, Cornwall shimmered in the sun. White rocks and the sea.

Soon be there, the man thought to himself. Then we’ll see.

*

The mourners left the dead, and the dead continued decomposing six feet under.

The children, led by Fat Billy, performed a balancing act round the perimeter of the church wall. Suddenly Pastor White appeared and told them to return home and not to desecrate religious property. Fat Billy screamed his tubby defiance.

‘What you on about? God only lives in the church! Ghosts and spooks own the graveyard! If God was in this rotten graveyard, he’d stop the ghosts coming to get us at night!’

‘Look, Billy...’

‘My Dad says priests are crooks!’

Followed by his gang, Billy vaulted over the church wall and disappeared down the main street. Pastor White found himself shouting at the tomb stones. The children had gone. The priest shook his head in the direction of Dian’s grave. He was tired and wished he could afford a glass of port, well, two glasses. He trundled towards ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’.

Tuesday dragged its way to midday. The sun searched its white splinters into the narrow streets. The streets were empty. No, not quite. A yellow butterfly danced in the hot light. It danced its fire against the white cottages and drifted into the ice shadows of the alleyways. The butterfly owned Thorn Village.

Mr. Spark pulled himself into his shop doorway. As he stared into the street, the butterfly brushed its honey wings against his chin. He didn’t notice. He moved away from the shop door and began arranging pink dolls in rows around the sweet jars. A heavy lorry bumped over the cobble stones. He looked up and noticed it was carrying Liquid Chemicals.

*

The train from London drew into Thorn Station. The man looked for the third time at the photograph in his right hand. He was playing beach ball on a summer lawn with a little girl. The little girl with her pale hair looked not unlike Dian Spark. In the photograph she was laughing and he was grinning. But, in reality, he was crying behind his sunglasses. Slowly, unhurriedly, he was crying.

The train had been stationary for two minutes now. With a shunt, it started to move again. The man read the words ‘Thorn Station’ through the window, grabbed his belongings, and even though the train was gathering speed, swung himself with a jolt through the door onto the asphalt. He bruised his knee. The train noticed nothing as it hurried to the sky line. The station master appeared, impressive in his excess blubber, and helped the man to his feet.

‘Dangerous, that, sir! Inviting a funeral, that!’

The man smiled a thank you for the warning and assistance, handed the station master his ticket, checked he was carrying his large briefcase, his wallet and the photograph and moved towards the exit barrier. The station master chugged up behind him. ‘You, er... dropped your paper, sir...’

‘Thank you,’ said the man, taking the newspaper and folding it deliberately in two so the photograph of the body of Dian Spark caught the station master’s eye.

‘Oh, beg pardon, sir, it can’t have been your paper, can it? I mean, it’s yesterday’s. Someone else must have dropped it.’

‘No, it’s mine all right! Do you know where this little girl was buried!’

‘Do you know her, then, sir?’

‘Sort of,’ nodded the man. ‘In a way I did. Do you...?’

‘St. Peter’s Church, sir. Nice and quiet, I understand it was going to be. The funeral. Nice people, her folks. Well, her Mum, Mrs. Spark, well, she’s a bit, erm... well... you know, different... but you probably know all that. Perhaps I’m talking out of turn.’

‘Oh, no, you’re not. I’m only her brother,’ said the man, beaming.

‘Oh, blimey! Really?’

‘No, not really. Just my little joke. Thank you for your help. Would you accept this for your trouble?’

He handed the station master a half-crown. The station master handed the half-crown back.

‘Sorry, sir, I can’t accept it for information concerning the dead. The dead can get a bit uppity about that kind of thing. Even hysterical, sometimes.’

Without taking his glasses off, the man fiercely rubbed his eyes and moved towards the village.

*

Dian’s grave was surrounded by the Gang, who were studiously going through the motions of a funeral. Billy was conducting the service.

‘Well, I hope the ghosts don’t get you. We’ll bring you flowers on Sunday—if we can remember. And we’ll go on with our Nature Rambles with your sister—and we’ll do all the things—you know what we mean, don’t you, Dian?’ With his chubby chin pointing towards the church spire, he addressed the Gang. ‘Right, men, we’re all going to sing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching As to War’, in memory of our friend. One! Two! Three!’

He conducted the children as they sang ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. And the children meant everything they sang. After the hymn they threw various articles onto the grave which they’d collected during the morning. A petal-less rose, two toffee papers, three aniseed balls and a rainbow marble. Then they pretended to lower an imaginary coffin on top. Billy and Susan made various abortive attempts to sing ‘The Last Post’. Susan, a pretty green-eyed child, had a clear voice but sang all the wrong notes. Billy sang all the right notes but in the wrong order. Obviously Pastor White was well entrenched in the pub, otherwise he would have swooped on them like Moses with the Ten Commandments. The children completed the funeral by heaping fresh soil over the wild rose and the toffee papers. James and John, the twins, retrieved the aniseed balls and gobbled them down without bothering to wipe the graveyard off them. And Billy pocketed the rainbow marble, which of course was Gilly’s. She sensibly said nothing. There was no doubt at all the funeral was a complete success.

With a swing of his arm, copied from various films concerning the United States Cavalry, Billy summoned his troops to follow him out of Dead Canyon. Then the Cavalry wheeled round at the churchyard gate. Each soldier picked up a pebble from an adjacent grave and hurled it in the direction of the church. The pebbles ricocheted from the buttresses. Billy’s stone lanced off a stained-glass Jesus.

Without warning, Gilly ran towards the church. She lugged open the Saxon door and zig-zagged into the ice light. The door clanged behind her.

The children did not wait for her return but left the churchyard. They began a game of hop-scotch down the centre of the street as the stranger, briefcase in hand, approached them. As soon as they saw him, their good humour edged into aggression. Billy winged a pebble at the stranger’s feet.

‘This is our street! Get off it!’

The stranger ignored the pebble and moved toward the graveyard. Another stone twinked the lock of the gate as he was about to open it. The stranger turned.

‘Come here, boy.’

‘No!’

‘I said, come here! And I meant it!’

Warily Billy approached, prepared to dodge the deserved clip on the ear, which did not come. The stranger looked down at the boy, then reached in his trouser pocket and handed him a sweet.

‘Beads for the Indians.’

‘You what, mister?’

As he said this, Billy snatched the sweet from the stranger and stuffed it in his mouth without even removing the wrapper. He chewed it over twice, then mumbled through it.

‘My Dad says never take sweets from strangers. You never know where they’ve been.’

Billy then spat the wrapper out, followed by the sweet, in the direction of the stranger, and ran off.

Fortunately for the stranger, unlike James the labourer, Billy was a very inaccurate spitter, so his trousers were preserved. The Gang followed their brave leader. So, the Indians were proving troublesome. Whatever were the settlers going to be like?

The man brushed a thin streak of hair over the balding spot in the centre of his scalp, and walked into the graveyard. He decided on a circular tour. It took a good five minutes before he sighted Dian’s grave some three hundred yards away.

Suddenly he saw a small figure helter-skelter between the grave stones. Running after her, he was lashed across the eye by a yew tree. His sunglasses flipped onto the grass. The sun’s prongs jabbed at his eyes. Blinded by the light, he crunched his head against the tree. Gums grazed, the tang of bark in his mouth, and temporarily blinded, he crouched to his knees. Then, using his hands as feelers, he probed for his glasses. It took over a minute to locate them. He carefully fitted them onto his nose and adjusted the plastic behind his ears. He looked round the graveyard. The grave dancer had gone. Blood tasted pleasantly salty on his lower gums. Picking up his brief case, he moved to Dian’s grave.