The Shift Key (13 page)

Leaving a window ajar so he could get out again, they shut the door carefully behind them and rejoined their friends. By then, other volunteers had built a bonfire. It so happened that Friday was the day for rubbish collection, so there was plenty of fuel. Mr Jacksett’s shop in particular supplied many wooden fruit-boxes and cardboard cartons.

After breakfast, which was basically porage, Chris the Pilgrim suggested that they check out the time of morning service at the church, and sit in on the deal just in case. The proposal met with general approval. On the way, the visiting congregation encountered sundry friends and strangers who had hitchhiked from London and therefore taken longer to get here. All of them said that there were many more on the way; some were dripping wet because of the rain blowing eastward and preferred to head for the fire and dry out and maybe share the last of the porage; a few were far past caring about food and wanted only to find the pagan temple site at which enlightenment would come to them …

That handful among the visitors (and later Chris the Pilgrim admitted it was a mistake) were turned away and told to find their own salvation. But what the hell could you expect
when nobody in charge had had any sleep worth mentioning?

Besides, Chris was expecting to meet Stick and Cedric, and neither had as yet shown up.

The person who did was Constable Joe Book, furious at having to turn out before breakfast. But he’d met Chris and Rhoda before, last summer, and remembered them as being among the least troublesome of the visitors. He took a tight grip on himself as he addressed them before the churchyard’s lychgate.

‘All right, what brings you lot back?’ he said at last. ‘It isn’t the solstice, it isn’t the equinox – not according to my diary, anyway – so what’s the excuse this time?’

‘Your vicar thinks the Devil is at work here,’ Chris said, keeping an absolutely straight face. ‘We know better. We’ve come to tell him so.’

‘Really?’ Joe sighed. And then, in a different tone: ‘Really! Going to kick up a fuss in church, are you? Don’t try it, or I’ll have you for breach of the peace.’

Rhoda butted in. ‘Of course not! We may not believe in the vicar’s religion, but we’re not intolerant, you know. If that’s the creed he wants to follow, we’re not going to try and stop him.’

By this time a dozen or more young men and women had assembled, some – of both sexes – wearing papoose-carriers with babies in. Under their combined gaze Joe felt more than a little nervous. He was still in mild shock as a result of what had happened to poor Mrs Ellerford. He’d never seen anything like the way she’d just frozen in her chair, with her eyes tight shut. The doctor said he hadn’t either, but then he was, for a doctor, very young. Worse still, though, the ambulance men had said the same. They hadn’t even been able to get her to lie down on the stretcher; they’d had to carry her out of the door chair and all, and lift her into the ambulance sitting up.

Weird!

And now this lot had come to plague him …

But he couldn’t very well prevent them from going into the church, and the bell for morning service was chiming from the tower. He stood back and let them mingle with the local folk who now were also approaching the gate, dismayed to see who would be joining in their act of worship.

Most appalled of all was Mrs Judger, who confronted the policeman with a glare.

‘Joe, you’re not going to let this lot plague Mr Phibson, are you? You know how he feels about these – these ruffians!’

There’s no way I can stop them,’ Joe said helplessly. ‘But I’m on my way to phone the station. There’ll be a couple of cars here before the service is over.’

‘You make sure of that!’ she snapped. They’ve started making a nuisance of themselves already, you know, what with the smoke of that fire they’ve lighted, and banging on people’s doors and begging –’

Chris had paused to eavesdrop on the exchange. He called out, ‘We’ve only been asking for water!’

‘You can help yourselves from the river!’

‘We would if it was safe. But we’ve seen the way the farmers spray their fields with poison all round here. The streams are full of chemicals, you know!’

Mrs Judger had no answer to that charge. She herself had doubts about modern farming. Instead, sniffing, she clutched her umbrella as though prepared to wield it like a club and pushed past him up the path to the church door.

At some time during the night Mr Phibson had become convinced that among his congregation this morning there would be a spy sent on the orders of his bishop to report whether he uttered any further heretical statements. Accordingly, while the worshippers settled into their pews – to judge by the noise, they were far more numerous than at any time since Easter Sunday – he peeked through the vestry door to see whether he recognized any of the diocesan staff.

He didn’t. But the sight that met his eyes horrified him. He was prepared to welcome a lot of local folk whom he hadn’t seen in church for months – Harry Vikes was here, for instance, dragged along by Joyce. Indeed, over breakfast he had mapped in his mind a short address, reminding them of what could happen to a community when its citizens neglected their religious obligations and hoping that they wouldn’t stay away until there was another example of Satan’s meddling to frighten them back.

His carefully thought-out words evaporated like frost in sunlight. What were these disgusting strangers doing here? He’d tried talking with people like them, last summer and the summer before, wanting not to be prejudiced, and found out that they were shameless pagans – amoral, drug-using, promiscuous to the point that some of the mothers couldn’t say for certain who their children’s fathers were …

Rage claimed him. He slammed wide the vestry door and, as the startled congregation rose to their feet, strode out before the altar, shouting.

‘What are you doing in a Christian church? You’re not Christians! You’re not even heretics! You’re servants of Satan, and you have no business in a temple of the One True God! Leave us in peace!’

One of the babies, startled by his outcry, began to wail. In a moment, the three others joined in. But the ‘pilgrims’ made no move to depart.

Spotting Chris, whom he remembered as a kind of spokesman for last summer’s visitors, the parson advanced on him. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Tell these – these cronies of yours to go away! If you don’t, I’m sure the decent God-fearing people of Weyharrow will drive you out, as Jesus did the moneychangers!’

Chris glanced around. Several men were nodding grimly.

‘It’s always struck us as peculiar,’ he said in a loud clear tone, ‘that nowadays your Church finds plenty of room for
money-changers – bankers and financiers, leeches and parasites on our society. And professional murderers, as well. You can always find a blessing for a soldier! Yet you hate people like us, who lead our lives and hold our goods in common like the early Church. That’s why we aren’t Christians –
because Jesus and the disciples weren’t!
Come on, you lot. Next thing you know, they’ll be blaming us for all the people here who went crazy yesterday, even if we were a hundred miles away.’

‘The power of evil knows no limits!’ Mr Phibson roared.

Chris looked him deliberately in the face. ‘So I see,’ he answered calmly. ‘It’s got a grip on you all right, hasn’t it?’

A hand seized his arm and swung him around. A fist smashed into his face, jolting his head back and cutting his lower lip against his teeth. Rhoda screamed in terror.

Panting, a man with a sort of tent of sticking-plaster on his nose confronted him. ‘You got no call to say that to Parson!’ he rasped.

Chris touched his mouth gingerly and looked at the blood on his finger. He said after a moment, ‘Why not? Wasn’t he saying the same himself last night? Wasn’t he saying in so many words that he’d fallen into the power of the Devil?’

Mr Phibson snatched at Harry’s arm before he could launch another blow. Alarm at the violence that had exploded in his church had driven away his rage.

‘God forgive me,’ he said in a broken voice, ‘but he is right. I was possessed of the Devil at this time yesterday. Wasn’t I, Mrs Judger?’ – rounding on her.

She licked her thin grey lips, glancing around for advice. None was forthcoming; she had to make up her own mind. Eventually she admitted, That was what you
said.’

And turned to Chris with an accusing glare.

‘How come you knew that? You weren’t here. You said you were a hundred miles away.’

‘I was. Thanks’ – to Rhoda who had passed him a hand-kerchief.
kerchief. Pressing it against his lip, he went on, ‘But you don’t think that sort of thing can be kept secret, do you? We heard about it from a friend, a journalist. Have any of you seen the morning papers?’

A unison gasp of horror went up from the local folk. Mr Phibson groaned aloud.

‘Probably not,’ called another of the newcomers. ‘I remember from last summer. The papers get here late.’

‘Well, there may be a nasty shock in them for some of you. May even be some reporters dropping by in a few hours’ time. Of course, that means some of you may have the chance to make a bit of money on the side, selling your account of how a fight broke out in the church whose parson claims to be a victim of the Devil … Please be honest enough to say, at least, I didn’t try to hit back! Come on, let’s get out of here.’

He took Rhoda’s hand and led the way. The congregation parted to let them by.

Outside, Rhoda flung her arms around him. ‘Chris, you were wonderful!’ she exclaimed. Two or three other voices joined in, saying things like, Terrific, man! Outasight!’

But Chris’s expression was lugubrious.

‘I don’t like the vibes around here. Not at all. If they’re wound up enough to act like that in church, what are they going to do tonight, after dark? Weyharrow never felt so bad before. Did it, Rho?’

She shook her head. ‘We’d better try and track down Stick,’ she suggested.

‘Right. And Cedric, soon as possible. We just been following a lot of rumours up to now. We need to get some solid facts. Anyone remember how to find Stick’s place?’

‘Isn’t his,’ someone pointed out. ‘It’s hers.’

‘Anyone recall the name of his old lady?’

‘Sheila,’ Rhoda said at once.

‘Right, let’s see if anyone’s around that we can ask.’

*

Moira was distraught this morning. She hadn’t really meant to carry out her threat about finding a man for the night, because there were damned few men in Weyharrow that she fancied. She’d just wanted to rub Phyllis Knabbe’s nose in the mess she’d created. Then, of course, it had dawned on her that if she went back to sharing the cottage with her, after doing such a grand job of noising her complaints abroad, people were bound to start imagining that they did have an unnatural relationship after all. Having had only a sandwich by way of supper, but accepted drink after drink from men at the Marriage – all of whom seemed eager to help her prove that she was normal, married ones as well as single – she had finally gone home with Bill Blocket’s unmarried younger brother, Jerry.

It had been pretty much of a disaster. By the time they quit the pub he was lined up for a bad case of brewer’s droop, and she’d been grateful enough when the same happened to her late husband Declan never to have learned any ways of curing that sort of trouble. If it hadn’t been pouring with rain she’d have left his bed in the small hours and walked back across the bridge and past the green to the cottage.

Well, she was doing it now, by daylight, because she had no option. All her belongings were there, and she had to get changed and eat some breakfast, because on Fridays and Saturdays she had a part-time job in Mr Jacksett’s general store, re-stocking the shelves and the frozen meat cabinet, maybe lending a hand with unloading the wholesaler’s van.

She saw few people until she had crossed the bridge, and then she noticed the tents that had sprung up on the green. She halted in mid-stride, then hastened onward.

But as she passed the church a group of untidy strangers accosted her, and she was obliged to stand and answer them, clutching her bag tightly in both hands.

All they wanted, as it happened, was to know where ‘Sheila’ lived. The only person of that name Moira knew in
Weyharrow was Sheila Surrean, and the two were far from friendly. In her heart of hearts Moira was a trifle jealous; Stick had the reputation of being a very nice person, and Sheila wasn’t even married to him, and Declan had been such a brute …

She gave the best directions she could, though, and they thanked her quite politely.

When she regained the cottage, she let herself in by the back door, hoping she was unobserved. Fortunately there was no sign of Phyllis – or Rufus either, save an empty saucer and an open window. Moving hastily and quietly, Moira went up to her bedroom, finding the door of the other one shut, changed, washed, cleaned her teeth, made up and brushed her hair. That left just enough time to brew a cup of tea and gobble down some cereal, by which time Phyllis had still not appeared.

Much relieved, she locked and bolted the back door – something neither of them usually did, but with all these strangers in the village it seemed wisest – and left the front way. The school bus was picking up its passengers as she passed; it was Fred Fidger’s turn to drive it today. She forced a smile in response to his call of greeting.

Were people going to spend today commiserating about what Phyllis had tried to do?

She hoped and prayed not. At least Roy and Judy Jacksett seemed to have other things on their minds; they set her to work at once restoring to their places goods that had been sent out in error yesterday. By the time they opened the door and the first customers came in at nine o’clock, Moira felt almost normal.

Until she, and they, realized that those first customers were shabby, unkempt, bearded and/or long-haired strangers. Once they’d left, in came the regulars, all of whom seemed to have been told already that news of Mr Phibson’s claims about the Devil had reached the papers, and all of
whom were poised between relief and disappointment because they couldn’t find any mention of it.