The Grace in Older Women (17 page)

'That's so, Mahleen,' Jox said smoothly, grabbing her and whisking
her to the front. 'The ancient lordships hereabouts . . .'His sales pitch. I
followed on with Wilmore.

'Our countryside is reverting to the wild,' I joked ruefully.
'Some villages . . . Well, young folk want a town, chance to dance, jobs other
than ploughman, milkmaid.'

'Same all over, Lovejoy.' Wilmore still had his speculator's brain
in. 'But buy a few farms, set up a Grand Prix course. County championships, a
real possibility.'

Something clicked. Hadn't Jox said something about. . . ?'Somebody
set up a wildlife scheme. Ancient deeds scuppered it. But give it a go. I'd
rather see anything except a wilderness.'

'We'll talk about it, Lovejoy.'

A bloke was standing by a field gate. Jox introduced him all
round. I stood back, eyeing him. Twenty-sevenish, thinning hair, sparse frame,
a born smoker doomed to cough his life in bedsits eating baked beans. Jox was
making an announcement.

'Ladies and gentlemen.' He spoke in hushed tones. 'This is Mr.
Hugo Hopestone, countryman born and bred. A churchgoer, he has something of
serious consequence to report. First I'll give a little background to Mr.
Hopestone's story. I think you'll agree it is epoch-shattering.'

Jox avoided my gaze. Hugo was as much a countryman as me, which is
nil, nought, big oh. This was another Jox-type plunge to zilch profit, no
royalties and no repeat fees.

'Let me first say that our fabled East Anglia of historic renown
has a lurid past. Sinister stories abound. Eyewitness accounts, guaranteed
reports, made in all good faith, prove these significant events.'

He waxed eloquent, enlarging on local fables. It's sort of true.
East Anglia has everything from headless cavaliers to grey nuns spooking the
local boozer. I tried not to listen, but Jox's pathetic delivery drew me in.
I'm not superstitious, oh no. Not me. I mean, who'd believe junk about ghosts,
spirits, poltergeists? It's for kiddies and Hollywood, when real stories have
dried up.

'Now Hugo will tell you his tale.' Jox raised a hand, on oath.
'Hugo Hopestone, is your story made up?'

Jox sounded truculent, glaring accusingly at Hopestone there in
the gateway of a fallow field.

'Every word is true, sir,' Hugo said. 'Absolutely.'

Our crowd exhaled together, thrilled.

'Go ahead, then.' Jox glared at us - still not me, though - in
turn, then with gravity at his stooge.

'I was walking through this field, ladies and gentlemen, in late
autumn. I heard a humming noise. A great ball of light passed by. It settled in
the field's centre.' He pointed. 'There.'

'There? Right there?' some cried.

'How big was it?' Wilmore demanded.

'I was blinded. It must have been six feet wide.'

They began firing questions: was there wind, was it pitch dark, a
moon, was he frightened, drunk?

'I'd been at a friend's house in Dragonsdale. I left at nine
thirty. When I woke, it was gone eleven. I was the other side of that wood, in
afield.'

'What had happened between those times?' Hilda asked, agog. ‘I was
abducted by creatures I had never seen before, lady.' 'Abducted!' several
shrilled. Mahleen turned, awed. 'You see, Lovejoy? This is for real.'

'Nordic or a Grey?' I spoke up. 'Which were they, Hugo?"

He looked at Jox, who cried, 'Let Hugo speak!'

'The recollections came to me after a day or two.' Hugo gamely
stuck to his phoney script. 'They were small, big dark eyes, a slit for a
mouth. Pearly skins. So little I'd almost say dwarfs.'

'Little People!' Vernon sighed. 'That phrase is so telling!'

'Greys! They were Greys, then!' Mahleen exclaimed breathless.
Wilmore caught my eye. He didn't believe any of this either. He judged the
distance along some imagined fairway.

'The question is,' Jox took over smoothly, with one foot on the
gate for height, 'what these creatures were. I have the testimony of the local
doctor, who examined Hugo the day after the abduction. Hugo had burns along his
chest, exactly where the pads of some electrocardiograph would go!'

'They stripped and examined me,' Hugo said. 'They took a sample of
blood. Then I just woke.'

'You hear them speak at all?' an intense man asked. He was our one
stuffed shirt, forever taking notes and clicking a stop watch. He talked
lovingly into a dictaphone.

'Yes. Like a distant twittering. It was non-stop.'

'Hugo,' I said. 'Did you read of the UFO conference at Sheffield?
The Nordic extraterrestrials being gentle wizards, and the Greys being evil
little trolls.' I tried not to sound cynical. 'Abducting humans for genetic
experiments.'

'I haven't heard.'

Jox started up angrily, 'This is a genuine straightforward -'

Then we were interrupted by a portly man in country tweeds. I'd
last seen him lighting candles at St Edmund's in Fenstone. He limped forward,
one leg trailing.

'This gathering is illegal,' he pronounced in a deep baritone.
'William Geake, parish churchwarden.'

That caused a stir. Americans are all lawyers, being born with law
like we get Original Sin.

'Nonsense!' Jox agitatedly tried to hold us.

'Church demesne extends over this land,' the stout boomer said.
'Material use conflicts with religious aims.' But Yanks also know how to
complain.

'Outrageous!' Hilda said in a band saw voice. 'We've
paid!
’

'Please, folks,' from Jox, knowing failure.

That can't be,' I piped up. 'I have a friend in business here. He
has a mobile, a Sex Museum, but the principle's the same.'

He fixed me, unyielding. 'There are ancient charters that restrict
. . .' et legal cetera.

'Mr. Geake. You're in the wrong parish. Dragonsdale.'

He smiled bleakly. That gate's the Fenstone-Dragonsdale line.'

Rubbish, of course, but he carried it off, giving his spiel in
portentous tones that would have scared a bishop. Another Jox loser. We
dispersed, making for the coach. The one-sided argument, Jox versus pomp and
circumstance, became heated. I caught up with Wilmore. I needed a sane ally,
but a golfer would have to do.

'You using those peripherally weighted golf clubs yet, what, Big
Emma? Made a fortune for that Long Island schoolteacher, eh?'

He grinned, pleased. 'Nearly right, Lovejoy. Sure. Great
discovery. I never did like graphite heads. Perimeter weighting in metal-wood's
all the rage now. Inner septums, o' course.'

'Course,' I said airly, as if I knew what he was on about. I'd
heard two golfers talking on the village bus. I've nothing against discoveries,
though I'd rather they be rediscoveries, like Hector Berlioz's Solemn Mass
lately. It gives human life a better sense of fitness. 'Need finance, Wilmore?'

His grin slid into wariness. 'I got most. I just don't know the
rules here, Lovejoy.'

Who did? Talk again, Wilmore,' I said quietly. 'I know somebody
who'll advise you, as a favour to me.'

'What's in it for you?'

I like Yanks. No inhibitions about gelt. If Wilmore'd been local,
reaching here would have taken a year.

'A woman friend,' I said, trying to look shamefaced.

'I understand, Lovejoy. Talk again. We're at the George.'

We ended with Jox wringing his hands, desperate not to give
refunds. He appealed to me, God, the universe.

'Look,' he said, anguished, 'please explain to Miss Priscilla. It
wasn't my fault.'

'Miss Priscilla who?' from me, suddenly alert.

'Dewhurst. Arranges these astrology tours. They run a - '

The driver closed the door on Jox. I ahemed as the disappointed group
started chatting and grumbling. Complaints, refunds, rebellion was in the air.

'Look, mate,' I told him quietly, 'you'll have a riot on your
hands. How about taking them to, like, Whychwe Priory, down the estuary? I'll
do the commentary . . .'

With relief, he set off down the coast road. I made a shy
announcement, got a round of applause when I told of the ghost who walks there.

'Can't promise she'll show,' I told everybody blithely. 'But I
hear she's gorgeous. Give me first chance, right?'

That set them whooping. We bowled eastwards. Whychwe Priory was
where Whistlejack's portrait was. I couldn't help glancing round the merry
little group. So these were the Misses Dewhursts', and I the twindles' partner?
I learn something new every day, especially about myself. And my mistakes.

As we went, I told a few merry tales of this 'supernatural coast',
as some writers call these sealands. There's nothing like East Anglia for
phantoms. They do odd things.

On the 'strood', the sea-track to Mersea Island, Roman legionaries
stand guard, knee-deep in the North Sea's flowing tides. At Walberswick, the
famous Whisperers sigh of an evening on the sea breeze, and the ghosts of the
old man and little boy wait for the ferry but never get on, vanishing as the
boat approaches the hard. At Cromer, it's the Hell Hound that puts the wind up
you. You get enticed into the Wash's murky waters, near Snettisham, by their
renowned Sirens, and you may never be seen again, for you'll be shown round
their enthralling ocean caves for ever. But you'll never escape the terrible
Sea Serpent of Kessingland, near Lowstoft, so don't go strolling their lovely
beaches on your own.

To scattered applause, I subsided and sat to watch us approach the
low sealands. It's everywhere in East Anglia. The ghost of Cymbeline,
Shakespeare's hero, mourns his lost kingdom in my very own village, where his
earthwork ramparts loom in the loneliest wood in the world. And the Shining
Boy, ten years old, stares ceaselessly of an evening at a house in my lane (not
mine thank God; I don't believe in ghosts, and I mean that fervently). And the
ghosts of two men fight with scythes, unceasing and murderous, by our old church
-

'Aaargh!' I yelped, striking out.

'Lovejoy, honey! Wake up! We're here!'

Hilda, grabbing my arm. I must have nodded off from all the
excitement. I blotted my damp forehead and tried a smile.

'Good. I'll take you round.' I came to. 'A lovely Old Master wants
to see us . . .' I played it from there, getting them laughing as we alighted
and herded through the arch.

But something occurred. If East Anglia was riddled with
supernatural phenomena, wasn't it odd that one particular patch was spared
anything like that? Very peculiar, to say the least, that the parish of St
Edmund's in Fenstone was blessed with yawnsome anonymity. More striking still,
no matter whatever tried to happen there, nothing -
nothing at all
- ever did.

The suspicion intrigued me, as we went between beautiful lawns
where peacocks strolled. Whatever wanted to happen got stymied, stifled, closed
down. Even the most innocent occurrence was kiboshed - like Hugo Hopestone's
phoney tale of extraterrestrials, for instance, the UFO tales told all over the
world, to entertain tourists for a few pence.

Before, I'd only guessed, and not cared much. Now, I began to
worry, and I mean really worry. Should I have mentioned the sex display trailer,
implicated Tryer and Chemise? There was the celibate priest in St Edmund's, and
the pretty Juliana's unshakable convictions -

'Money, please,' the chap in the booth said. 'How many?'

Action time, and not a second to think. 'Listen, mate.' I sprang
to the fore. k Let us all in for half price, and my partners - they're big
business ladies locally - promise to bring in ten more coachloads tomorrow.
Okay?'

He eyed me with suspicion. 'How can I be sure?'

'Look.' I beamed, exuding honesty. ‘Let me explain . . .'

15

We had a whale of a time. I laughed like a drain during that
visit. The Americans own the world, but they had me almost falling down at
their joshing, leg-pulling, outright onslaughts. It took my breath away when
Mahleen, golden she-god of our cavalcade, said with affability when Wilmore
made a remark, 'Yeah, well, you can ignore Wilmore, Lovejoy. He's a
slave-owning Republican, Sow-therrrrn States, honey chile,' which set everybody
arguing heatedly. But it was all over in a trice, and they were back to their
exclamations, admiring, pointing out features of Whychwe Priory, trying to get
the peacocks to fan tails, doing battle over camera lenses, making us all pose
by the roof tower.

We had tea laid on - me the big organizer, the man in the booth my
lifelong pal, owing to the backhander I'd promised him tomorrow. Incidentally,
I'd agreed on thirty per cent, would you believe, which rankled. I should have
beat him down to fifteen. It still narks. Okay, so it was all falsehood, but
you have to keep faith, right? I sometimes forget what's made up and what's
not.

Maybe this caused me misgiving. But I put the feeling away and
went round the priory's great rooms, the chapel (lovely ancient windows, but
nicking them honestly never crossed my mind). And we ogled Whistlejack. Lovely
great oil painting, beautifully lit. Animal paintings are the pits, but this
almost made me like horses. It rears, profile view, colours alive and shining.
Over the fireplace is a portrait of Stubbs himself, by his pal Ozias Humphrey.
The room, sure enough, was lowered to take the massive oil, so two levels, with
four gorgeous chairs by 'King' Chippendale. I had to sit down, while my friends
worried and sent people for glasses of water and argued -God, Yanks argue. In
the same few square feet, a Chippendale display cabinet. The William Vile (no
kinder man, despite his name) chest of drawers proved enough to bring me round.
I was off explaining, loving every minute.