Hungry Moon (7 page)

^{The gate must have been oiled recently, for there was no sound. Perhaps her straining to read the stone at the edge of the shadow of the oak was blanking out her other senses; as she stepped onto the moonlit gravel path, she wasn't aware of her footsteps. The light that seemed to have congealed into a stony stillness made her begin to shiver. She left the path and advanced between the mossy stones, her feet slipping on mounds that reminded her of beds. She was close enough to read the inscription now, the little there was of it, and her legs were shaking. She had to support herself on stones that crumbled under her fingers. When she fell to her knees in front of the glowing stone, far brighter than the stones on either side of it, it was to stop herself from trembling as much as anything. But she was shivering as if she might never stop. The only date on the unblemished headstone was eight years ago, and the only name was Jonathan.}

^TEN

^{'I hope I'll see you at the pub tonight, Mrs Wainwright -Phoebe.' If he called her Mrs Wainwright, Eustace thought, she might tell him to call her Phoebe; that would help. He'd known exactly what to say to her until he'd turned the corner into Church Row, tugging so hard at his collar that the button flew into the road to be pulverized under the wheels of a delivery van. Mrs Wainwright, he decided, and now all he had to do was walk along Roman Row, press down the latch of her bright green wooden gate, walk under the trellis of flowering vines and up the gravel path that was as good as a watchdog for letting her know someone was approaching, lift his leaden hand to the doorbell, take a deep breath that he meant to hold until they came face to face, so that he would have to let it out and ask her at once. He'd already sucked in his breath when he realized that he hadn't taken out the magazine he was supposed to be delivering. He pulled it out so hastily that he spilled half the contents of the postbag on the cottage doorstep just as she opened the door.}

^{As he fell to his knees he thought of how he looked, a swain kneeling before his lady love who didn't even know she was. When she squatted to help him, her dress rode up her plump thighs, and he almost fell over backward. He was intensely aware of her perfume that smelled wild as heather, her lightly freckled bare arms, the bare upper curves of her large breasts, her deep brown eyes, small nose, very pink full lips, her blond hair in a ponytail that trailed down her back. Her soft, warm hand touched his as she handed him letters. 'Thanks very much,' he mumbled, and lurched to his feet as soon as he could, only to realize that now he looked as if he were staring down the front of her dress.}

^{She stood up with a gracefulness that both surprised and moved him. 'You can sort your letters on my table if you like.'}

^{The front room was neat as his own, a solitary person's room. Fossils were outlined in some of the stones of the fireplace that she had built herself. Eustace dropped the letters on the embroidered tablecloth and glanced away from a photograph of her late husband - long face divided by a moustache - to a photograph of Phoebe dwarfed by last year's cave-dressing, a floral picture of a man dressed in gold and brandishing a sword, a halo like the sun around his head. 'You'll still be dressing, will you?' Eustace said, suddenly picturing her naked and not knowing where to look.}

^{'Don't worry, I know what you meant.' She giggled, then grew sober.}

^{'Some of the people who usually help have started making excuses. I hope there'll still be enough. I wouldn't like to think our town would let itself be told what to do by someone who's never even seen the ceremony.'}

^{'Exactly.' Ask her now, his voice was clamouring, so loudly that he felt as if he were wearing headphones again. But his mouth felt as if he'd swallowed superglue, and his expert hands had sorted the letters before he could say anything. He took a deep breath and heard himself say the only thing he was capable of. 'Thank you.'}

^{He was heading clumsily for the door, wanting only to be out and by himself, when she said, 'Did you have any reason for calling except to unload yourself on my doorstep?'}

^{'Sorry, I've been nursing this all along.' He handed her the magazine and remembered that her husband had been a male nurse, killed two years ago as he drove off the road in the midst of an instant Peak District fog. 'I don't suppose you were dying to read it,' he said and wished he could bury his head in the postbag. She was both smiling and frowning when the door bell rang.}

^{He followed her as she opened the door to two women with bright open faces, shoulder bags stuffed with pamphlets and books. 'Will you let God into your house?' one said.}

^{Eustace slipped past them. 'I'm going now so there'll be room for Him.'}

^{'You'll have to excuse me too, I'm afraid,' Phoebe said to the women. As she closed the door she called after Eustace, 'I'll see you later. I'm looking forward to your show at the pub.'}

^{He was so delighted that he almost went straight home without finishing his walk. He delivered the rest of the mail, then he strolled home to his cottage between the High Street and a steep slope to the moor. He lay on the couch and watched Stan Laurel burn down Hardy's house while trying to help him clear up after a party. For once he didn't even need to feel that someone was clumsier than himself.}

^{Later he brought home fish and chips from the shop on the High Street; then he walked through the darkening town to the One-Armed Soldier. The pub was crowded, the faces under the low oak beams were mostly unfamiliar; they often were on folk nights like tonight or when Eric, the landlord, showed a film on the video screen. In a corner full of horse brasses Eustace saw the producers from Radio Sheffield; Anthony, who'd thought he wasn't worth the tape, was shaking his head on its wiry neck to fling back his graying hair. Eustace hadn't time to talk to them now, even if he'd felt like doing so - he always arrived with just a few minutes to spare so as not to lose his confidence. But when Eric bought him a pint of ale and called 'Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen, for Moonwell's own comedian Eustace Gift,' there was still no sign of Phoebe.}

^{Eustace squeezed between the tables, sipping from his tankard so that it wouldn't slop over, and climbed the steps to the makeshift stage. He'd show Anthony from Radio Sheffield that he was a comedian after all. He'd found out he was the night he'd chatted to Eric about his usual pratfall-ridden week so enthusiastically that he hadn't noticed everyone was listening until they'd cheered him at the end and bought him drinks. He couldn't wait for Phoebe; the show had to go on. 'That's me,' he said, settling himself on the straight chair in the middle of the bare stage. 'Eustace by name and Eustace by nature.'}

^{A small woman at a table by the window laughed raucously. 'That's Eustace, love, meaning rich in corn,' he said, and got a more general laugh, if rather a polite one. He was glancing about for someone else to chat to -make one laugh, he believed, and you've won yourself a friend who'll spread the laughter - when the door opened and Phoebe came in.}

^{She looked breathless. Perhaps she'd been running for him. She gave him a quick apologetic smile, and at once he felt inches taller. 'I deliver the letters in Moon-well, while Phoebe Wainwright there delivers the babies. Lucky it isn't the other way round or I might be delivering second-class citizens.'}

^{That brought another polite laugh, but all it earned him from the radio producers was a faint shift of the lips. It was time to give them something sharper. 'Things may change now that Mission Moonwell's come to town. I believe soon we're going to have to call letter boxes epistle boxes. Don't tell me you thought epistle was what you are when you come out of a pub.'}

^{Father O'Connell, who was sitting with Diana Kramer, laughed at that, and so did the radio producers. 'I hear Godwin Mann's been resting in his room at the hotel since he introduced himself to Moonwell,' Eustace said with an innocent look, 'but don't tell anyone, will you? Probably gives him a headache, listening to God's voice all the time. Good job that never happens to me. The way I am I'd get a crossed line, hear a voice saying "Fasten your seatbelts" or "What colour underwear are you wearing?" . . .'}

^{He reached for his tankard but let his hand dangle. The laughter he was leaving space for hadn't come; a few late laughs sounded encouraging rather than spontaneous. As he took a quick swallow of ale, he saw the butcher leaning against the bar, gazing at Eustace as if he wished he'd try a different style of humour. That couldn't be right, the butcher had been sceptical enough at the rally. 'Now, it looks as if it's getting too crowded in Mr Mann's room,' Eustace said, 'because he's sending people round the town to ask if someone will let God into their house.'}

^{When Steve, the other man from Radio Sheffield, laughed at that, heads turned to stare at him. Otherwise there was silence, though surely it couldn't be as pained as Eustace felt it was. He was in danger of losing control, both of himself and the audience. Gloom & Despondency to the rescue, he thought desperately. 'Hey up, Mr Gloom, they want us to let God into our house.'}

^{'Tell them we don't take lodgers, Mr Despondency.'}

^{'They say we can't keep Him out, He's too big.'}

^{'Great balls of fire, you know what this means, don't you? Every night loaves and fishes for tea. . .'}

^{Nobody was laughing. Eustace found he was staring at a woman he'd never seen before, willing her even to smile. She stared blankly at him as if she wondered how much longer she had to wait for the next act, and the answer to that felt like a last-minute rescue. 'Anyway, that's enough from me and the firm of Gloom & Despondency for now,' he said, almost stammering. 'Time for some music from - from our own Billy Bell.'}

^{So many people stared at him as if he'd meant that as a joke that he thought for a moment he'd transposed the vowels. No, he could hear what he'd said, echoing in his invisible headphones. He climbed down from the stage, his legs hindering each other, and made for a dark corner to let his face cool down. Bearded Billy, the postmistress's son, was raising his guitar above his head on the way to the stage when a young woman stood up, blocking his way. 'May I tell a good joke?'}

^{Billy hesitated. 'Go on,' voices cried.}

^{She was tall and fresh-faced, with pigtails and a smile that said she couldn't wait to tell the joke. People were laughing eagerly before she sat down on the edge of the stage. "There was this Irishman called Simon O'Cyrene,' she said and giggled. 'And he suddenly finds he's out of work. So he says to himself, I feel lucky, I'll spend my savings on a holiday abroad instead of sitting around doing nothing. So he goes off to Israel for his summer holidays, and one day he goes to Jerusalem because he's heard there's going to be a parade. So he's standing in the crowd waiting for the parade to come along and a pickpocket steals all his money while he isn't looking. And Simon says to himself, O dare me, what's this now. I could have sworn this was my lucky day.'}

^{Eustace was bewildered. He not only didn't see anything to laugh at, especially not her phony Irish accent, but she was killing her joke by giggling in advance. Yet around him everyone was smiling, some were laughing outright as she said, 'So he's looking round for a policeman when he hears the parade coming. And he says to himself he's come to see it, he may as well get his money's worth. So here's the procession coming along and Simon sees sixpence lying in the middle of the road. So he goes in the road and he's just bending down to pick up this sixpence when the procession comes along and they put something on his back. So he says what's this now, all I did was bend down to pick up this sixpence because I was feeling lucky and someone puts a cross on my back. But Jesus says to him, want to hear some good news? This really
is
your lucky day.'}

^{Eustace gaped, not just at her but at the laughter and applause that greeted the punch line. Now he noticed how many of the people in the pub were drinking soft drinks; he began to realize that he'd seen many of the faces at Mann's rally, in the choir. He must point that out to the producers from Radio Sheffield - but before he could struggle over to them, they'd sidled out of the pub.}

^{He slumped back into the corner. They hadn't even given him a chance to redeem himself. The young woman told jokes about Doubting Thomas and Pentecost to redoubled applause, and then she said, 'Would you like to hear a story now?'}

^{'I think we'd better have some music,' the landlord said, obviously unhappy with the way the evening was developing. Billy Bell had picked up his guitar when a voice beside the bar said, 'There's an old song I'd like to remind you folk of before Midsummer Eve.'}

^{It was Nathaniel Needham, Moonwell's old man, who lived in a cottage on the moors. Though people claimed he was over a hundred years old, he still had most of his faculties. He raised his long wizened face toward the oak beams, his white hair trailing over his collar, and began to sing in a strong, clear nasal voice:}

^{Three brave lads went walking when the sun it was high, Swore they'd find Harry Moony and poke in his eye.}

^{'Here's the chorus now, join in if you like:}

^{Go down Harry Moony, harry us no more, We've flowers to please you, to leave at your door. Three brave lads went walking, went into the wood. They found Harry Moony while the light it was good}

^{Go down Harry Moony. . .}

^{He sang, but only the landlord joined in. The old man went on, smiling oddly to himself:}

^{Three brave lads they chopped him up, limb from
limb.}

^{They rolled him down where the light it was dim . . .}

^{Three brave lads went walking when the moon it was
new.}

^{They went back to see if their victory was true. . .}

^{They heard Harry Moony laugh to wake the dead,}

^{"Tha boys have my eyes but tha'll give me tha heads'}

^{One brave lad put his head down the hole.}

^{Harry Moony he's got it, his head and his soul. . .}

^{Two brave lads bolt their doors and locks,}

^{But bolt and lock open to the dead man's knock. . .}

^{'Who's that knocking? Let me hear tha hollo!'}

^{'Tis tha friend come a-calling with nowt in his collar}

^{Jump out the window and run like a hare.}

^{There's nowhere to hide but Harry Moony hears where}

^{Two brave lads leave their heads down below}

^{Two bodies walking and one more to go. . .}

^{Old moon's a-laughing and showing his teeth.}

^{Harry Moony he's coming from his grave beneath. . .}

^{The priest's in the well and the night's in the sun.}

^{And nobody leaves till Harry Moony is done.}

^{Go down Harry Moony, harry us no more,}

^{We've flowers to please you, to leave at your door.}

^{Eustace came back to himself with a start. He couldn't have said how the song affected him, but it had made him forget where he was. There was a little applause, but few people seemed to have cared for the song; some looked offended. As Billy Bell reached the stage at last, Diana came over to Eustace. 'Father O'Connell and I want you to know we enjoyed your act so far. We could see the problems you were facing.'}

^{'Thanks,' he mumbled, and was suddenly shyer than ever. Whatever instinct let him pretend in front of an audience that he wasn't shy had deserted him. He'd no chance of winning back this audience, and what would they think of him for trying? There were too many people in the pub whom he'd have to meet in the course of his work. The idea of having to face them after he'd made even more of a fool of himself was unbearable. He shoved himself out of the corner, looking anywhere but at Phoebe, and struggled to the door.}