Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist (2 page)

Good,
he thought.

Best to concentrate on them as opposed to the distracted few.
Even one candle in the darkness is a victory for illumination
, he thought.

He took a few steps, the amorphous crowd moving with him.

“And here at perhaps the most sacred spot in the whole church …” Will turned from his charges to look at the marble wall before him, immediately moved as he always was.

Will said nothing for a moment — his own personal “moment of silence”.

Above him, carved into marble, were the names and ages of all the local Cherringham lads who had gone off to Flanders fields to meet their fate, and in a matching marble piece to the right, those who a mere two decades later, joined them in yet another world war.

Many of the names were of families who still lived in the village; others had long since moved on.

Or perhaps, between two wars, the families were simply eliminated from history.

Such is what war can do … and does
.

“The village's war dead,” Will said solemnly. “To your left, from the Great War but,” he paused to turn and look back at his group, “how dare we call any war ‘great’?”

Finally he seemed to have the attention of the full body.

Some things transcend even the idle racing of our modern, overstimulated brains!
he thought.

“You will note, that over there, to the left, there is also a roster of those who died at sea. Those ships, those sailors, victims of the unrestricted submarine warfare that transpired. Such young men, all perishing in the chilly waters of the North Sea and off the coast of France. No remains here, of course.”

He paused.

Another few moments before continuing:

“This church, by the way, also has history in terms of the Civil War. After the Battle of Cherringham, captured soldiers were kept here, while their fate was being decided. Just imagine this church filled to the rafters with Royalists!”

As people looked around, he slipped out his pocket watch.

Needed to move things along.

One last glance around the church to make sure the group was still together, then he led them out to the graveyard.

The winding pathway was merely a shortcut — or a place where teenagers slipped away to do what teenagers did, well out of sight of adults.

Everybody loved gravestones!

*

Will watched the tourists stroll around the small graveyard, peering down at stones that had fallen flat, attempting to read carvings with names and dates long since weathered away.

He himself had been instrumental in setting up the St. James database so — to the extent possible — the burial sites and the remains they held could be identified.

But there were still many 800-year-old gravestones with occupants lying below them that no one would ever know about, not unless the remains were exhumed and examined.

Will always thought that if he had unlimited resources — money to donate — that’s how he would spend it.
Wouldn’t that be something?

“Alright, everybody, time to make our way through the alleyway ahead, single file I’d recommend …”

He looked at the woman who still seemed to be waiting with baited breath for tea and biscuits.

“And, as scheduled, we’ll end at Huffington's before you re-board your coach.”

The woman smiled.

So much for all this amazing history.

He turned and led the way to the back of the graveyard which, just down a few steps and past an iron gate, brought them to the flat, stone walls of the alley that ran from the old marketplace to what had been an open area, to herd and finally lead the animals to be sold.

Will turned to his group.

“Do take care not to lean against these dry stone walls. Nothing holding them up save their own weight. We will be walking in the steps of those who used this lane to lead their unsuspecting beasts to market.”

He cleared his throat;
a hint of irony there
, he thought, as he looked at the ten-foot tall walls on each side.

“I'm sure more than a few Royalists attempted to escape running down this way. Probably unsuccessfully.”

Then he turned, the people behind him now truly seeming like a row of geese, as they followed, one by one.

No longer a floating mob but a meandering line.

*

The driver came over to Will, standing just outside the front door of Huffington's.

“No problems, professor?”

There was something about the way this portly man with his open necktie and ridiculously small hat said “professor” that bothered Will. As if calling him “prof” wasn’t bad enough.

Ah well, at least the company paid on time.

Tour protocol called for Will to wait until the tea break was over and then wish his charges a good onward journey.

Which meant engaging in chit-chat with this man.

“You’ll have two more lots next week, by the by. Season’s picking up. Though it looks like we got some nasty weather ahead …”

Then Will looked at the nameplate, tilted at an angle, pinned to the man's shirt.

Babcock.

Same name as the man who owned the tour bus company.

Or …

“Mr. Babcock?”

The man looked at Will as though that was obvious.

“Yeah?”

Will felt genuinely befuddled.

“You’re the owner?”

“Lucky me. Yes. My regular driver for this trip got ill. So I get the pleasure of driving to and from London. Tell ya something though professor. I can’t stand that bloody trek on the M4. But with all these punters, better than cancelling.”

Will was about to remind Babcock that he would be emailing his invoice for the coming month’s tours, but people started streaming out of Huffington's. The coffee shop’s tea and baked goods having worked their magic, there were smiles all around.

Will was happy enough to avoid the conversation — he didn't really like discussing money, at least not in person.

Seemed somehow … indecorous.

Much better handled with a quick email.

Babcock adjusted his cap so it fitted less comically on his head.

“Alright, everyone. We’re good to go.”

The driver went to the open coach door, and stood by it as people streamed in.

“Same seats?” a woman asked.

“Sit where you like, my darling,” he said with a toothy smile. “The view’s the same front or back.”

The woman turned to her husband. “You see, Milton — I
told
you!”

Will kept his smile on as they streamed by him, duties nearly over. A few people just nodding, others saying quiet ‘thank yous’.

When one man proffered him a few coins — God, a tip! — Will shook his head, smile still plastered on.

“Totally unnecessary,” he said. “But thank you.”

He had decided that, while he might not love trying to make history come alive for what was generally a disinterested crowd, accepting tips was definitely something that he would
not
do.

“Well then,” Babcock said, laughing, “doesn't look like you lost any, hmm?”

Will had to wonder …
doesn't Babcock have to do a head count?

But instead, the owner/driver went up the three steps so he could peer into the coach.

“Yup, looks like they’re all here. Room on top only!”

Babcock raised two fingers to his cap and climbed into the driving seat.

“On with the show, eh professor? You be good now. And if you can’t be good … don’t get caught!”

Will nodded, keeping the polite smile on his face as the driver roared with laughter before pressing the button that pulled the pneumatic door shut.

Then Will watched the lumbering bus manoeuvre out of its parking spot, attempt a three-point turn that took several more attempts, and finally head down the road that led past the Ploughman's and onto the rolling hills just outside of Cherringham.

When the bus faded from view, Will thought … afternoon free, maybe a spot of research in the library?

Sounded good.

Just talking about this historic village always made him want to know more.

And with that — for now — he completely forgot about Babcock, and his bus full of tourists …

Jack began to reel in his line.

The sun directly overhead, warm, and feeling so good after what he had been told was a tougher than usual Cherringham winter.

Not much by NYC standards,
he thought.

“You know, Riley, I'm beginning to lose faith that there are any fish in this river at all.”

Riley lay at Jack’s feet. Upon hearing his name, the Springer Spaniel raised his head, and looked up almost — Jack thought — as if asking for more explanation.

“Same bait as always. Hooks, lures, and still nothing. Strange, hmm boy?”

Truth is, Jack didn't mind that he had no bites.

More often than not, if he did catch something — and he wasn't looking for a fish dinner — he’d throw the reprieved fish — usually roach — back into the river.

Though once he did catch a trout.
That
he knew he would never throw back.

No, for him, fishing was more about sitting somewhere quiet, concentrating on something simple.

My form of meditation,
he thought.

Pretty much perfect as it is — fish or no fish.

He looked at the hook and noted that the lugworm he had used as bait was gone.

“Hmm, now there’s a bit of evidence,” he said. “Somebody swam by and got a free lunch.”

Or — quite possibly — the bait had slipped off the hook in the current of the river.

“Let's give it one more go, hmm?”

Riley had since lost interest in the conversation and put his head back down on his paws, pondering whatever things Springers did. A time-honoured pairing of fisherman and dog, Jack guessed.

He reached down to grab another worm when he saw a car pull off the road by the bridge that led to this side of the river.

A small silver Ford, what they called a Fiesta here.

Then he saw someone get out.

A woman dressed as though she was going to church in a plain brown dress, light spring jacket, hat, and shoes not at all suited for the still mucky ground on the path that led past the river boats.

But she started walking down that path.

Heading right here,
Jack thought.

He put back the worm back into the can of bait.

His instincts told him that something was up.

Even Riley raised his head, now aware that the total quiet was about to change.

Jack waited, and watched, as the woman made her way to him.

*

She came abreast of the Grey Goose’s prow, where Jack had propped a chair.

“Jack Brennan?” the woman said.

Her voice thin, the accent American. She sounded tired, as if she had come here after a lot of other stops.

“Yes, can I help you?”

The woman looked down at the path then over to the ramp that led up to the Goose.

She looks lost,
thought Jack.

And then …

She's come to see me.

Why?

“Um, I—” her eyes back to him, “I don’t …”

Whatever was going on, this woman was upset, confused, and a long way from home.

“Would you like to come aboard?”

Finally a small smile, a nod. “Yes, very much.”

Jack stood up and walked to the plank, and watched as the woman navigated the mud then the sloping ramp, as Jack reached down to offer her a hand up.

A near symbolic gesture, he thought.

What kind of help is she seeking?

He could only guess.

*

In the saloon of his boat, Jack got the electric kettle going while the woman — who said her name was Mary O'Connor — sat on a chair, still with her coat on, purse in her lap.

“Take your coat?” he asked. “I can get the little stove going if you're cold?”

Another small smile, a shake of her head,

“No. I’m fine. Thank you for talking to me.”

Jack poured water into his teapot — a pair of Earl Grey tea bags waiting.

Then he brought the pot, two cups, sweetener, and milk over to the small table next the woman.

“Fish weren't cooperating anyway,” he said. “You know, I don’t think there's been a better way to waste time than fishing ever …”

She smiled but her eyes showed that she was preoccupied — even haunted by something.

And he guessed that he was about to find out what.

Jack poured tea for both of them.

One thing he had certainly adopted was the near-magical affect a
cuppa
could have in easing into a conversation.

“You're from the States …?”

She nodded. “Brooklyn, like you Mr.—”

“Jack,” he offered quickly.

She accepted that with a nod. She had clearly done her homework on him.

But why?

“Long way to find me,” Jack said.

He took a sip, trying to give Mary the time she obviously needed to organise her words.

“I—I came over days ago. I’m still so tired. First time crossing the Atlantic. The jetlag really hit me, I guess. But—, I had to …”

Jack nodded, keeping quiet for now, questions at bay.

Finally Mary leaned forward.

“I'm afraid something has happened to my brother, Patrick. He came to England over a week ago, just a vacation — and vanished.”

Jack nodded. Thinking:
Why did she come here? To Cherringham?

“You’ve gone to the police?” Jack said, keeping his voice steady. He knew the number of missing people, the tens of thousands who vanished, most of whom reappear.

We all have our reasons to disappear for a while.

Even Jack related to that. After all, what was this — living in a Cotswold village on a riverboat — if not a big escape from his old life?

And all those memories.

“Yes. They were — well, they weren’t much help. Posted his name. Said he could have done anything, gone anywhere. But I told them …”

Jack noted that she had taken the serviette he’d put beside her cup and had wound it around her fingers, tight.