There had been something familiar about her voice. He said slowly, ‘You know who I am. May I know who you are?’
‘My name’s Jenny Severance. I work for the
Chapminster Chronicle.
Actually we spoke on the phone on Monday, do you remember? I put a bit about your standing in for Dr Tripkin in this week’s issue. It’ll be out tomorrow.’ She was talking much too fast, and her hands kept folding and unfolding
round those keys.
Suddenly Steven felt reckless.
‘Miss Severance, how long have you been imagining that you might be losing your mind?’
‘Well’ – a pass of a delectable pink tongue over equally pink lips – ‘only since this morning, to be honest. I did something stupid that I scarcely remember. Now, it’s as vague as though I’d dreamed the whole thing. But I didn’t! It’s left too many traces in reality!’
‘And what, as a doctor, would you expect me to do for you if I did have a surgery this evening? Send you to hospital? Listen to you for a while, pretending not to yawn, and pack you off home with a bottle of tranquillizers? Or what?’
His tone was sharper than he had intended. She turned away with a sigh.
‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance. Like I said, I just need to talk to somebody. I don’t know many people here – I’m in lodgings – and I blotted my copybook at work, so I wasn’t inclined to discuss my trouble with anybody in the office. I suppose I might try Mr Phibson. Excuse me.’
Steven called after her, ‘He’s in church! And in any case you wouldn’t get much sense out of him – Damn. I had no business saying that.’
Hand on the door of her car, she turned back with a puzzled expression. She said at length, ‘We had a lot of very weird phone-calls at the paper today.’
‘Were any of them about me?’ Steven grated.
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ Straightening, she gazed at him defiantly. ‘And others were about Mr Phibson!’
‘I see.’ Steven felt suddenly calmer. ‘Yet you decided to appeal to me anyway, or him instead. Why?’
‘In the hope that I might turn out not to be the only person living in Weyharrow who lost their marbles today. I mean, I don’t see how I can be. Not after what happened to Basil Goodsir. Did you hear about that? I was there!’
‘Mr Phibson said something … But no. Not in detail.’
She recounted the story of her day in crisp terms, concluding, ‘And my editor had the gall to tick me off!’
A sense of certainty grew in Steven’s mind. He said, ‘Miss Severance, I can’t believe there’s anything worse wrong with you than there is with me, or the parson, or this magistrate you just told me about. I need to talk to someone, too. I prescribe a long chat over a few stiff drinks. At the hotel? Or the Marriage?’
‘Isn’t it a bit irregular for a doctor to –?’
‘Nonsense! You’re not a patient of mine, or even Dr Tripkin’s. And I know even fewer people in the area than you do. What about it?’
A haunted look came and went on her face. At last she said, half-inaudibly, ‘All right … But what did you mean about my not getting much sense out of Mr Phibson?’
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Forget it.’
‘No. Wait.’ Light was dawning in her face. ‘I’ve met him plenty of times since I moved here. And if what that person said who phoned the paper is to be believed …’
She drew a deep breath.
‘Never tell me he thinks the Devil is at work in Weyharrow!’
Steven started. ‘How on earth did you guess? This very moment that’s what he’s telling his congregation! At least, that’s what he was threatening to tell them.’
‘You’re right. A drink
is
called for. Jump in.’
‘Do you mind if we walk? I need the fresh air.’
‘Okay. Just let me lock the car.’
No one any longer called the Marriage at Cana by its full name, though it was still to be read on the sign fixed to the wall facing the road, and that sign still depicted a jovial rustic wedding-party spilling gallons of purple wine over a long trestle table. Countless attempts had been made, especially in Victorian times, to change its name back to the Slaking House, or to anything else, but the villagers had resisted on stubborn principle. An unspoken compromise had eventually been reached: the sign had been repainted, and repainted and repainted, with no attempt to portray Jesus among the company, and ‘Marriage’ had been made larger and the other words smaller.
Nowadays, anyway, not one customer in ten would have recognized the reference.
Tonight there was an air of gloom in the pub, totally out of keeping with the jollity portrayed on the sign. On a high shelf a colour television played a quiz game against itself, unheeded. Among a bunch of cronies at one end of the room sat swollen-lipped Ken Pecklow, recounting to everybody who would listen how Harry Vikes had turned cattle into his field of turnips, and how he was going to have the law on him. At the other end sat Harry, a triangular mask of plaster supporting the bridge of his broken nose, with two or three companions who had as much reason as he did to dislike the Pecklows. The feud between the families went back so far, not even they themselves had any clear idea of how it had arisen.
In between, on stools at the bar, were people with no axe to grind one way or another, but problems of their own to brood
about. They included Tom Fidger, trying to live down the fact that he had driven his bus on the wrong side of the road; Roy Jacksett, who had sent people items they hadn’t ordered; Phil Flaken, whose wife Mary – so he said – was crying non-stop and making their home unlivable; and his old friend and neighbour Bill Blocket and Bill’s brother Jerry whom he’d asked along to show there were no hard feelings; and Moira O’Pheale, who was still extracting a succession of free drinks from men who wanted to find out
exactly
what Miss Knabbe had tried to do when she got into bed with her … not that they were learning much.
Behind the bar, alert for trouble, hovered Colin Jeggs, the landlord, and his fat wife Rosie, who was long past the stage where one could call her merely plump. Now and then they conferred in quiet tones. So long, though, as they could keep the rate of drinking down, and the Vikes and Pecklow factions separated by a neutral zone … If only a few more uninvolved customers would show up!
Colin brightened as the door swung wide and just the kind of folk he had been hoping for came in: Jenny, the young reporter, and the temporary doctor. He positively beamed as they sat down at the one remaining empty table in the dead centre of the room and lapsed into deep and private conversation.
He’d taken the precaution of phoning Yvonne Book, to warn her that Joe might have his evening’s telly-watching interrupted, but with luck it wouldn’t happen after all.
Pleasantly tired after his day’s work, Stick headed for the entrance to the Marriage. He was coming to like his job more and more, even though he got precious little money for it and still less thanks. People didn’t seem to realize what a chore it was on a windy afternoon to gather leaves into neat heaps around the green, then wheel them off by barrowloads to rot for compost. Someone had even asked him – yesterday? the
day before? – why he didn’t pile them on a bonfire, and he’d had to spend half an hour explaining why the slow fire of nature was better for the land.
It had done no good. Around here they still burned their stubble in the autumn, regardless of how many hedges caught alight, how many cars collided when their drivers were blinded by the drifting smoke …
Time, though, for a jar in here, his usual evening pint of local cider. And he could afford to take a flagon home to Sheila, too, which they would share when the kids were safe in bed. He didn’t hold with giving children alcohol.
Thinking of children: how
could
he have imagined that Hilary and Sam were boys? He must have dreamed it!
‘Evening all!’ he called as he walked in.
And checked in mid-stride.
Everybody seemed to have stopped talking simultaneously save for two people at a table in the middle of the room. He knew one by sight – the fair and pretty girl who worked for the local paper – but the man with her …? Oh, of course. The locum standing in for Dr Tripkin.
Stick had his own opinions about modern medicine, but he believed in everybody doing their own thing. He wouldn’t hold that against the guy.
‘Usual, please, Colin!’ he said breezily.
When the golden pint was handed to him, he looked around for somebody to chat with. But the ranks had closed. Backs were turned whichever way he looked, except at the doctor and reporter’s table, where there was the one remaining vacant chair.
‘Mind if I join you?’ he said.
‘Ah …!’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to play gooseberry! I just want a chance to rest my legs while I sink this lot.’ He kicked the chair around and settled on it with a sigh of gratitude, adding as he gulped his drink, ‘Cheers …! I’m Stick, by the way. I
try to keep the village clean. You wouldn’t believe how much junk people can generate in a small place like this. It makes me glad we haven’t got a fish-and-chipper. Greasy wrapping-paper blowing down the road – Excuse me, I didn’t mean to drive you away!’
Blinking, as the young doctor rose.
‘It’s all right,’ he muttered. ‘It was your mentioning fish and chips. I need to make a phone-call. Won’t be a second, Jenny.’
And he headed for the phone at the end of the room.
Stick sank a third of his pint, glug-glug. And looked at Jenny.
‘What’s wrong with everyone tonight? Any idea?’
She shook her head, looking troubled.
‘You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Keeping your finger on the pulse of the neighbourhood … Oh!’ Inspiration dawned. ‘Is it anything to do with Ken and Harry?’
He looked warily to left and right.
‘Well, things seem to be calm enough right now, though of course it does take a while for that sort of thing to blow over. Is that what’s making you so worried?’
‘If you must know’ – coldly – ‘no, it’s not. It’s something that I’d rather not discuss.’
Stick shrugged. ‘As you like. Never let it be said I meddle in people’s private affairs … Excuse me, squire!’ – tilting back his chair as Steven returned.
‘Anything important?’ Jenny ventured.
Steven shook his head. ‘Not unless you consider Mrs Weaper’s plastic food important. I rang to say I won’t be back for supper.’
‘Oh, I’m keeping you –’
‘Not at all, not at all! I’m enjoying myself! Insofar as one can enjoy talking about this sort of thing … Shall we step across the road and have a bite at the hotel?’
‘I’m driving you out!’ Stick exclaimed, raising his half-empty
empty glass. ‘Didn’t mean to! Sorry! I’ll be on my way soon as I’ve got rid of this lot!’
But, when the cider was still poised in front of his mouth, there was a grand commotion.
The door was flung wide and in marched a ruddy-faced, sturdily-built woman in a drab grey coat, clutching a black leather handbag. She looked around in search of a particular target, at first failing to spot him. Everybody fell silent anew.
‘Who’s that?’ Steven whispered.
Stick was prompt to answer. ‘It’s Joyce Vikes – Harry’s wife. Come to fetch him home, is my guess. Bit early, though. She isn’t usually around till after nine.’
On the table, Jenny’s hand sought Steven’s and clasped it tight. The pressure communicated without words:
this doesn’t look like an ordinary case of wife-drags-husband-home-from-pub!
His answering squeeze implied:
You’re right!
‘So there you are! I knew it, I knew it! Boozing with your mates again, you vial of wickedness, you vessel of the Antichrist!’
Stick’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Just listen to her!’ he whispered. ‘When she hits her stride it’s what they call “a proper education!”’
Joyce was advancing down the room, slapping aside with her bag hands that tried to delay her.
‘What made me fool enough to marry you, with the brand of Babylon upon you? And now you’ve lured the Evil One to Weyharrow! Yes, you!’
On the final word she swept her bag across the table her husband was sitting at, knocking over two half-full glasses whose owners were not quick enough to snatch them out of the way.
‘Been at the gin again,’ Stick said with a shrug. ‘It’s always the same! Whenever she and Harry have a row, she heads for the good old bottle. Then of course she comes over all pious.
Used to go to a pentecostal church in Hatterbridge, I hear, before she kicked up so much fuss they threw her out. See, her and Harry got no kids. He says it’s her fault and she –’
The rest of his words were drowned out. Joyce had begun to belabour her husband with her bag, while Ken Pecklow and his chums at the other end of the room burst out laughing. One of them was heard to say clearly, ‘Sometimes I think I’d trade hell-fire for life with Joyce, you know!’
But she caught the words and swung around with eyes aflame.
‘Who said that?’
Colin, raising the bar-flap to intervene, paused in mid-movement as Rosie touched his arm.
‘Who said that?’ Joyce repeated, advancing the way she’d come. ‘Whichever of you fools it was, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Don’t you realize this village is in the grip of the Evil One?’
‘Oh Lord,’ Steven whispered. ‘She must have been in church and heard old Phibson’s rantings …’
Stick gave him a curious glance, but had no time to say anything before Joyce blasted on.
‘That’s what made Parson talk so odd at meeting! That’s what made my Harry act the way he did – and you may stuff
that
down your busted gob, Ken Pecklow! Best farmer in the county, is my Harry! ’Spite of all!’
‘Joyce!’ – from landlord Colin.
‘You be quiet! You’re a vessel of evil yourself! This place is curst! You and your drink corrupt even those who seek the godly Light! You’re a limb of Satan!’
Colin’s plump-jowled face grew red. He said, ‘If that’s so, why did you beg me for a bottle of gin today?
And
on tick!’
Harry had been rising slowly from his chair. Now he ran forward, but too late. Joyce’s temper had reached fever pitch.
She screamed: ‘The Evil One is loose in Weyharrow! It
must be true! The parson told us so! Get thee behind me, all thou forces of Babylon! Put on sackcloth and ashes and beg forgivement –
ness
… Haraharcha wumble cloturanid orgle-fopsy premble prow!’