The Loney (24 page)

‘We’ve come as agreed,’ said Parkinson to Father Bernard and smiled. Father Bernard glanced at Mummer, who frowned at him.

‘And is that Clement you’ve been entertaining?’ Parkinson looked towards the back of the crowd and everyone turned to see the colour drain from Clement’s face. ‘Well well. Tha gets about, dunt tha, Clement?’

Mummer still had her hand on the door.

‘I’m afraid you must have the wrong house,’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

Parkinson looked at Father Bernard and smiled.

‘We like to get around all the big houses on Easter Sunday,’ he said. ‘And we thought tha might appreciate some entertainment what with the weather being so foul.’

‘Well, perhaps we could come down to the village and watch you some other time?’ said Mummer.

‘Oh, we won’t stop long,’ Parkinson replied.

He seemed to have somehow crossed the threshold without Mummer noticing and she had no choice but to step back and allow the men to enter. Each of them nodded their thanks and wiped their feet on the mat—Saint George, Brownbags, the Turkish Knight and the others, one of which swept quickly past completely swaddled in a black cloak, leaving Old Ball, the horse, to come in last, wearing a brown smock and holding a real horse’s skull on the end of a pole, a set of glass eyes clacking inside. It rolled about, grinning, like the thing we’d found in the woods.

Whoever was under the cloak stooped the nag’s head so that it would fit through the doorway to the sitting room.

As it swung down, Miss Bunce stepped back and grabbed at Father Bernard’s sleeve.

‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ she whispered to him when the men had all filed past. ‘I mean they could be anyone. Is it some pagan thing?’

‘Oh, Joan, it’s tradition,’ Mummer said. ‘We’ve always watched the Pace Egging.’

‘What here?’

‘Well no not here. But, look, it’s just a bit of fun.’

‘Fun?’

‘Yes,’ said Mummer, not quite convinced herself, as she followed the men and started to organise a space for them to perform.

***

She might have been doubtful about letting them in, or embarrassed that she had been doorstepped so easily, but now that the Pace Eggers were here Mummer quickly took charge. She would have them in and out quick sharp.

The room was cleared and Mrs Belderboss was dispatched with Miss Bunce to make sandwiches and tea, while Farther and David gathered up as many of the vulnerable ornaments as they could and took them out into the hall.

I helped Father Bernard shift a table out of the way, carrying it into the bay of the window. He kept his eye on the Pace Eggers as they waited for us to get the room ready. Parkinson waved Clement over and handed him an old curtain, which he strung between two lampstands to form a makeshift wing from which they could enter and exit.

‘I didn’t think they’d really come,’ said Father Bernard.

‘What do you mean, Father?’

‘I didn’t say anything to Clement the other day, but Mr Parkinson had already promised to bring the Pace Eggers up to Moorings. I thought it was just the ale talking. He’d had a fair few, like.’

‘Do you think we should have let them in, Father?’

He looked over to where the men were getting ready.

‘What? Because of what Clement said about them?’

‘And what we saw in the woods.’

‘Look, we don’t know that that had anything to do with them, Tonto. Not really.’

He glanced at them again and laughed quietly at their costumes.

‘I think they’re harmless enough. And in any case how would it look if we asked them to leave now? I think it’s best if we just let them get on with it. What are they going to do here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Exactly. Don’t worry about what Clement said just now. That’s between him and them. It’s nothing to do with us. Alright?’

‘Yes, Father,’ I said, though I was less convinced than he was.

He smiled at Mummer who came over with an expensive looking floorlamp and set it on the table out of harm’s way. She looked at him and went away to help David shift a delicate crystal vase off the mantelpiece.

‘What would Father Wilfred have made of these fellers, Tonto?’ said Father Bernard.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t really talk about him all that much. Did you get along with him alright?’ he said, dusting his hands.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Only suppose so?’

‘He did a lot for the poor,’ I said, and Father Bernard looked at me and smiled.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I know he did, Tonto.’

At Mummer’s request, he started to close the curtains.

‘I’m only asking, because I know nothing much about the man,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know he was well respected but was he happy in his work, would you say?’

‘I think so.’

‘I mean, how did he seem before he died?’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Aye.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you say there was something on his mind?’

The sound of a bell came from behind the curtain and Mummer turned off the main light.

‘I don’t know, Father.’

He knew I was being obtuse, but he smiled and turned his attention to the Pace Eggers instead, storing away what I’d said or hadn’t said for later.

‘Who’s your man in the purple there?’ he asked in a whisper, pointing to the player pressing his Zapata moustache back into place.

‘That’s the Turkish Knight,’ I said.

‘Is he the villain? He looks like a villain.’

‘Yes.’

First out of the shadows was Collier, dressed in a frayed kilt, a harlequin shirt and a top hat like a broken chimneypot. He carried a wicker basket under his arm.

‘Who’s this?’ Father Bernard said behind his hand.

‘That’s Brownbags,’ I said. ‘He collects the money.’

‘Money?’

‘You’re supposed to give them some money before they perform.’

Brownbags walked from person to person, as they dug into their pockets for any loose change and threw it into the basket. At each clink of metal, he touched the brim of his hat with his finger and when he had passed along the row he began.

‘Give as much as you can spare, we only come but once a year. Build up the fire and let the flames burn. Here are some jolly boys to give you a turn.’

Mummer started clapping and gradually everyone else tentatively joined in.

Brownbags went off and was replaced by Saint George and his daughter, Mary.

‘Isn’t that your man from Little Hagby?’ Father Bernard whispered.

I looked again. He was right. Mary was the gangly altar boy from the Tenebrae service, got up in a blonde wig and a white dress that was filthy with mud at the bottom.

Saint George drew his sword from its scabbard and clasped Mary to his side.

‘In I come, old Saint George. The champion of Ingyland. My sword was made in God’s own forge. A flash of lightning in my hand.’

There was loud cackling from the dark and the Turkish Knight stepped into the circle and drew his sword. Into the spirit of the thing now, everyone booed and hissed on cue, even David who had let go of Miss Bunce’s hand and was watching the play with a face like a child at a pantomime.

The Turkish Knight twirled the end of his long moustache and stepped closer to us.

‘I am Sullyman from Turkey Land. I seek to find Saint George the brave. I’ll take his life and his daughter’s hand. And toss his body in a cave.’

Saint George pulled Mary behind him, shielding her from the Turkish Knight. Mary cowered on her knees, the back of her hand on her brow.

‘I am George of Ingyland,’ he said. ‘My sword is sharp and keen as wind. I will fight you Sillyman. And God will judge you for your sins.’

‘Now, Saint George, I will have your life.’

‘No, sir, I will strike you dead.’

‘I’ll take your Mary for my wife.’

‘And marry her without your head?’

The two men circled each other, then leapt forward and clashed their swords. Mary screamed, and everyone began to cheer for Saint George, who at last ran the Turkish Knight through, knocking him to the ground where he lay with the sword sticking upright, clamped in his armpit. Mary rushed to the dead knight’s side and lay her head upon his chest, weeping.

‘Oh, father, you have killed my one true love.’

Saint George knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Oh, my poor little turtle dove.’

He turned to us and pleaded, ‘Is there a doctor in this town? One that can be quickly found?’

There was a knock at the door. All faces turned to where a small figure appeared, wearing a bowler hat and a coat that trailed on the floor. Everyone was a little startled that he had slipped out unnoticed during the performance.

‘Here comes little Doctor Dog,’ he said, stopping on the way to pat the top of Hanny’s head. ‘Best doctor in the county, sir.’

‘Can you cure this knight of Turkeyshire?’ Saint George said, taking off the doctor’s hat and speaking into it.

‘Of what affliction?’ said the doctor, removing Saint George’s crown and doing likewise. ‘Tell me, sir. Confess.’

‘Of death, sir doctor, darkest death.’

‘Not for five pounds, sir,’ the doctor said.

‘For ten pounds, sir?’

‘For fifteen, sir.’

‘Twelve, sir.’

‘Yes, for twelve whole pounds and Spanish wine, it shall be done.’

The doctor felt around in the pockets of his huge coat, making Father Bernard laugh louder with each scrap of junk he turned out and dropped onto the floor—toy cars, plastic animals, golf balls, seashells. Eventually, he found a small bottle and knelt down by the dead knight.

‘Now, my sleeping Turkey knight, drink this brew of holy breath. Old Doctor Dog will cure you, sir, and call you back from blissful death.’

The dead knight began to cough and then sat upright and clasped Mary to his chest. Saint George embraced the doctor and then flung out his arms to us.

‘Rise up, rise up and sing and sing, a song of warm and merry things.’

The knight stood up, touching the wound in his side.

‘Once I was dead and now I am alive. God bless Doctor, George and wife. Bring me flesh and oranges and beer. A happy Easter to all our friends here.’

They were about to go off, when a banging sound came from the far end of the room. All their smiles dropped as they sloped away one by one, leaving Saint George who said:

‘Yet, there is one who will not sing, or dance about.’

I felt Hanny grip my hand. He had obviously remembered who was coming next.

Another player, the one who had arrived completely swathed in a black cloak, came into the circle holding a single candle at chest height so that it lit up his face. Once he was in the middle of the circle, he reached up and took down the hood. Unlike the others, his face was a post-box red and he had a pair of horns growing out of his bald head. Real buck antlers fastened by some device that was undetectable.

‘Ah, now I know this feller,’ Father Bernard whispered and nudged me gently in the shoulder.

‘In I come to say farewell. Devil Doubt shall take his bow. Come to take your souls to Hell. Where is God the Father now?’

And as he smiled and pinched out the candle I felt Hanny’s hand slip out of mine.

***

I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t in the bedroom. Nor was he out in the yard, for it had gone dark now and he wouldn’t have gone out on his own. I looked around, checking all the places Hanny liked to hide: behind the ancient upright piano, in the wide bay window on the other side of the curtains, under the tiger skin rug.

Looking in the kitchen, thinking that he might have gone searching for food, I found Parkinson talking to one of the other Pace Eggers who was at the sink stripped to the waist and scrubbing his face vigorously with a flannel. The water in the bowl had turned to ink. His robes were on the table along with his false moustache and his sword. I put the tray on the table as he patted his face dry with a towel and went to put his shirt back on. I saw that it was the elderly companion of Parkinson and Collier who we had first seen wheezing across the field the day we came to Moorings. Yet now his face was a healthy pink and he radiated the vitality of a much younger man.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he said, holding me briefly by the shoulders, as he went off to join the others. ‘Wonderful,’ he said to Parkinson, who smiled and nodded and watched him go.

‘Dying from the drink, he was, Mr Hale.’

Hale. I remembered the name from the list in the envelope Hanny had brought back from Thessaly.

I turned to go, but Parkinson spoke again.

‘I didn’t think a good Catholic boy like thee would dismiss a miracle so readily.’

He walked past me and closed the kitchen door on the laughter coming from the sitting room.

‘I hear tha’s been over to Thessaly quite a bit,’ he said. ‘You and your retard.’

I looked at him.

‘Oh, I know all about your retard,’ he said. ‘Your padre’s quite a gasbag when he’s had a drink.’

‘He’s not a retard. Father wouldn’t have called him that.’

Parkinson smiled.

‘How much did he give you?’

‘Who?’

‘My friend at Thessaly.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What was it? Five, ten quid?’

‘I told you, I don’t know anything about any money.’

He looked at me.

‘Twenty,’ I said.

‘And is that going to be enough?’

‘For what?’

‘Come on, tha knows what he gave thee that money for.’

I said nothing and Parkinson shook his head and sighed.

‘I told him it wouldn’t be enough. You see, my friend at Thessaly hasn’t quite got the head for business I have. I know people much better than he does. I don’t believe people always want money. Not when there’s something more important to them. Money you can piss away like ale. What people really want is something that’s going to last.’

He put his hands in his pockets and went on.

‘I said to him there were a better way of making sure that tha didn’t misunderstand what were going on. I said to him that we ought to invite you and your retard to Thessaly, see if there’s something we can do to help.’

‘Help?’

‘Aye, make him better, I mean. Like Mr Hale.’