The Loney (23 page)

A screeching noise came from outside.

Hanny gripped my hand under the table. Everyone turned to look at the window. But there was nothing to see, only the rain beating down.

‘Owls,’ said Mr Belderboss, picking up the cake slice and handing it to Mummer. ‘I’ll just have a small piece.’

‘No, no, it’s not,’ said Miss Bunce.

‘It was owls,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Barn owls, if I know anything.’

The noise came again, closer this time. The shriek of something in agony.

‘You might be right, Reg,’ said Farther. ‘It certainly sounded like a barn owl.’

Everyone apart from Clement got up and crowded at the window as we heard the sound of barking. In the field beyond the yard, a small white dog was edging backwards, dragging something in its mouth.

‘Isn’t that your friend’s dog, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Which friend is that?’

‘Your pal who helped fix the minibus.’

‘I wouldn’t call him a pal, Mrs Belderboss.’

‘Heavens. What is it doing?’ Mummer said.

‘Has it caught a bird, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘It’s certainly got its teeth into something,’ said Father Bernard.

‘I told you. It’ll have got a barn owl,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘They screech like stink when there are dogs about.’

‘Don’t be silly, Reg,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘How on earth could a dog catch an owl?’

‘It’s not an owl,’ said Miss Bunce indignantly. ‘It’s much bigger than that.’

‘What
is
it?’ Mummer said again.

Far away someone whistled and the dog looked up and after a moment shot off across the grass, leaving whatever it had been chewing to die in the middle of the field.

Monro was pining to be let out, lifting himself up and pawing at the door.

‘Hey, hey,’ Father Bernard went over and tried to calm him down.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

Father Bernard struggled to get hold of Monro’s collar.

‘It’ll be the dog outside,’ he said. ‘He’s not good with other dogs.’

‘Oh, get him to stop that awful noise, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

Clement was looking anxiously from one person to another.

‘Come on, you silly wee beggar,’ Father Bernard said gently and put his arms around Monro’s neck.

But Monro was still as white-eyed as Clement and jumped out of his grasp and knocked over the small table next to the door on which Mr Belderboss had left the earthenware jar.

It smashed on the floor and its contents spilled everywhere. A few small bones. A piece of leather cut into a crude heart shape. Iron nails pickled with rust. And there was the missing Christ from the nativity set stained the colour of malt whisky.

‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Mrs Belderboss as her feet were soaked. ‘What on earth have you done, you great lump?’

‘That smell,’ said Mummer, covering her nose with her hand. ‘I think your dog’s been.’

‘It’s not Monro,’ said Father Bernard. ‘It’s what was inside.’

A dark yellow fluid was leaking from the jar onto the stone floor.

‘What’s that?’ said Miss Bunce, backing away.

In the puddle of urine there floated what looked like strands of human hair and nail clippings.

Through the commotion, Clement started to call out. Everyone turned back to the table and stared at him. He had left his dinner half finished and had, in the custom of the place, left his knife and fork crossed on the plate. He had his hands flat on the table and was staring at the remains of the jar on the floor.

‘I’d like to go home now,’ he said.

***

Clement went out to fetch his jacket. Everyone watched him go and then Mummer swept up the pieces of the jar while Farther laid down some newspaper to soak up the spillage.

‘I hope you’re going to lock that room up for good,’ said Mummer.

‘Of course I will,’ said Farther. ‘I’m sorry everyone.’

‘It was hidden for a reason.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘You can’t leave things alone, can you?’

‘Oh, Esther, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘I’ve apologised. What more do you want me to do?’

‘Alright,’ said Father Bernard. ‘Let’s not dwell on it. What’s done is done.’

‘Well I’m still none the wiser,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘What that jar was for.’

‘I don’t know, Reg,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Perhaps it was a litter bin. Now give it a rest. There are more important things to worry about.’ She eyed the door through which Clement had just gone.

‘I was only saying.’

‘And I was only thinking of poor Clement,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘How do you mean, poor Clement?’ said Mummer.

‘Well it’s obvious isn’t it?’ replied Mrs Belderboss.

‘What is?’

Mrs Belderboss lowered her voice, aware that Clement might be able to hear them from the hall.

‘They’ve had to sell the farm to pay for his mother’s operation, haven’t they?’

‘They do have the NHS up here, you know,’ said Mummer.

‘Oh, they’ll not have got that done on the National Health so quickly,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Will they, Father?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘No, it’ll have been some private place,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Very expensive.’

‘What a wonderful thing to do for someone though,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Give everything up like that.’

‘Aye,’ said Father Bernard.

‘I wonder what he’s going to do now, though?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Leave us alone to salvage what we can of the day, I hope,’ said Mummer.

‘Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Don’t be unkind. It’s Easter Sunday after all.’

Well,’ said Mummer. ‘A grown man going all strange at the dinner table like that just over a broken old pot. It was so awkward.’

‘He didn’t make as much fuss as you,’ said Farther scrunching up the newspaper and feeding it to the fire.

Mummer gave him a look and went back to the conversation around the table.

‘His nerves are probably bad,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘He has had to sell his farm.’

‘So he says,’ Mummer replied. ‘But you know what he’s like.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Aye, what is he
like
exactly?’ said Father Bernard.

Mr Belderboss leant in towards him and Father Bernard listened, still with his eyes fixed on Mummer.

‘He’s one of these that tends to exaggerate things sometimes, Father. Doesn’t quite live in the same world as you and I, if you know what I mean.’

‘But I don’t think he’s making it up this time,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘I mean his mother can see again. There’s no disputing that. They must have got the money from somewhere.’

‘I must say, I’m inclined to agree with you, Mrs Belderboss,’ said Father Bernard. ‘I think we ought to make allowances for the poor man, and if he has had to sell everything then we should perhaps consider what we can do to help. Isn’t that the reason we’re here?’

‘Well, if you think, Father,’ Mr Belderboss replied, with a hint of defensiveness.

Father Bernard lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to get on my high horse about it, but can you think of anything worse than losing your home? When I was in The Bone I saw people left with nothing. Good families who had their houses burned down in front of their eyes for no other reason than being Catholic or Protestant. Can you imagine what that does to people?’

‘It’s hardly the same thing,’ said Mummer.

‘You must admit it was their choice to sell, Father,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Clement and his mother’s. No one forced them.’

‘What do you think Wilfred would have done, Reg?’ asked Father Bernard. ‘He wouldn’t have just ignored it, would he?’

‘Of course he wouldn’t have ignored it, Father. But all the same, I don’t think he would have liked us to have got involved. It’s nothing to do with us.’

‘Isn’t it?’

Miss Bunce hadn’t said a word throughout, but now she put down her cup and said, ‘I think Father Bernard’s right. Think of the Samaritan.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Farther from the fireplace.

Mr Belderboss smiled at him sympathetically and then at Miss Bunce.

‘The thing is, Joan, what you have to understand about these country folk is that they don’t want help, and certainly not help from outsiders like us. They’re a proud people. It’d be an insult to them. There are times, like Esther says, when the greatest kindness is to leave people be. Isn’t that right David?’

David put his arm around Miss Bunce.

‘I think Mr Belderboss is right,’ he said.

Miss Bunce looked at him and then down at her teacup. Mummer took up the reins and steered the conversation back to Father Bernard again.

‘You see when Father Wilfred brought us here it felt as though he was able to draw a circle around us. To keep us focused on our own relationship with God, and allow him to guide us through the days with an attention that he wasn’t always able to give us back at Saint Jude’s. That was the whole point of being here. It wasn’t just a pilgrimage, Father. It was a sanctuary too. It might be worth bearing that in mind.’

Everyone was looking at Father Bernard. He stood up.

‘I’ll be taking Clement home now,’ he said.

‘Yes, alright, Father,’ said Mr Belderboss.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ said Farther. ‘Make sure you don’t get lost.’

‘No, no, Mr Smith,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I’ll be alright.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’d rather you got that fire going for when I get back. The weather looks fair brutal out there.’

‘I will, Father,’ he said and began untying the bundles of firewood Clement’s mother had brought.

‘Mind how you go, Father,’ Mrs Belderboss called after him as he went out to get his coat. ‘Oh dear,’ she said once the door was closed. ‘I hope we haven’t upset him.’

‘I think we did,’ said Miss Bunce.

‘I was right, though, wasn’t I?’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘I mean no one’s persecuting Clement are they? It’s not our fault.’

Mrs Belderboss patted his hand.

‘No, it’s not,’ she said and then shook her head. ‘What a mess,’ she continued. ‘I don’t remember it being so—difficult—when we came with Wilfred.’

‘He kept everything simple, that’s why,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘And he didn’t go prying into other people’s affairs.’

‘Still,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Everything will be better tomorrow, when we go to the shrine.’

‘Yes,’ said Mummer and managed a smile.

‘What’s that bit from Isaiah?’ About not worrying about the days that have gone?’

‘“Forget the former things; do not dwell in the past,”’ said Miss Bunce and finished off her piece of cake.

‘That’s the one,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’

***

Clement was still waiting patiently on the little chair in the hallway, his walking stick balanced on his knees.

‘Can I go home now?’ he said.

‘I think Father Bernard’s just getting his coat,’ I replied.

He looked down at the floor.

‘I told them not to ring that bell,’ he said.

When I didn’t respond, he looked up again.

‘The bell on Coldbarrow. You know the one up in the old tower next to the house?’

‘Yes.’

‘It were boarded up for years. But they went out to it.’

‘Who did?’

Clement was about to answer but stopped short when a door opened along the hallway. Father Bernard appeared and frowned as he zipped up his coat.

‘What’s going on?’ he said and Clement waved him over and made him sit on the stairs.

‘Parkinson and Collier, Father. They went out to Coldbarrow on New Year’s Eve just gone and took the boards off the tower and started ringing that bloody bell. And not a day or two later there were lights on at Thessaly, and then all this business started.’

Father Bernard looked at me and then back at Clement. ‘What business?’

‘They told me not to come here anymore,’ he said. ‘They said they’d get me sent back to Haverigg, like they did last time. But I had to come and warn you about what they’ve done. And now that your dog’s broke that bottle, it might be the only opportunity I get.’

‘That old jar in the dining room? What’s that to do with anything?’

‘Don’t you know what it is?’

‘No.’

‘They’re meant to keep witches away from the house,’ he said. ‘But you have to keep them sealed. And now it’s been opened …’

‘Clement,’ said Father Bernard. ‘Is there someone you want us to call? A doctor maybe. Will your mother be in when we get back? Maybe I ought to speak with her. See if we can get you some help with whatever it is that’s bothering you.’

Clement lowered his eyes.

‘You don’t understand, Father,’ he said. ‘You must keep away from Parkinson and Collier.’

‘Why? What is that you think they’ve done?’

But Clement didn’t have time to answer before someone knocked at the front door with a heavy, rhythmic thud.

Hanny came out of the dining room and grabbed my arm, wanting me to open the door. Gradually everyone was gathered in the hallway and we all listened to the singing coming from outside.

‘Who on earth is it?’ said Mummer and she sidled through the throng to see.

T
he Pace Eggers had always frightened me as a child, looking as they did like things that had crawled out of a nightmare. Each one a mish-mash of fairy tale characters, grotesque as Punch and Judy puppets. Natives of some savage tribe as painted by the children of missionaries.

When we’d come here in the past we’d sometimes see them performing on the green at Little Hagby—half a dozen local men, blacked up like chimney sweeps with only their eyes showing and armed with swords and staffs.

The stink of booze drifted from them as they sang old songs in bass voices; songs that didn’t have the predictable, homely rise and fall of the hymns we’d been singing all week but which tumbled through strange minor keys and moved across intervals that sounded like they might have once charmed the Devil to the surface of the world.

At the front of the pack was Saint George, dressed in a crusader’s tabard and banging his wooden staff in time to the song. When it ended he removed his cardboard crown and bowed. Even under all the makeup I could see that it was Parkinson. Collier stood behind him dressed as the character called Brownbags, his dog chained to the gate post outside, straining and yelping.