Off with His Head, Page 2

  Ralph said: ‘I honestly think it would be better if you forgot all about it. Honestly.’

  ‘But you don’t deny?’

  He hesitated, began to speak and checked himself.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I certainly don’t deny that a very short, very simple and not, I’m sure, at all important sort of dance-play is kept up once a year in Mardian. It is. We just happen to have gone on doing it.’

  ‘Ach, blessed Saint Use and Wont.’

  ‘Er—yes. But we have been rather careful not to sort of let it be known because everyone agrees it’d be too ghastly if the artsy-craftsy boys—I’m sure,’ Ralph said, turning scarlet, ‘I don’t mean to be offensive but you know what can happen. Ye olde goings-on all over the village. Charabancs even. My family have all felt awfully strongly about it and so does the Old Guiser.’

  Mrs Bünz pressed her gloved hands to her lips. ‘Did you, did you say “Old Guiser”?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s a sort of nickname. He’s William Andersen, really. The local smith. A perfectly marvellous old boy,’ Ralph said and inexplicably again turned scarlet. ‘They’ve been at the Copse Smithy for centuries, the Andersens,’ he added. ‘As long as we’ve been at Mardian if it comes to that. He feels jolly strongly about it.’

  ‘The Old Man? The Guiser?’ Mrs Bünz murmured. ‘And he’s a smith? And his forefathers perhaps made the hobby horse?’

  Ralph was uncomfortable.

  ‘Well—’ he said and stopped.

  ‘Ach! Then there is a hobby!’

  ‘Look, Mrs Burns, I—I do ask you as a great favour not to talk about this to anyone, or—or write about it. And for the love of Mike not to bring people here. I don’t mind telling you I’m in pretty bad odour with my aunt and old William and, really, if they thought—look, I think I can hear Dulcie coming. Look, may I really beg you—’

  ‘Do not trouble yourself. I am very discreet,’ said Mrs Bünz with a reassuring leer. ‘Tell me, there is a pub in the district, of course? You see I use the word pub. Not inn or tavern. I am not,’ said Mrs Bünz, drawing her hand-woven cloak about her, ‘what you describe as artsy-craftsy.’

  ‘There’s a pub about a mile away. Up the lane to Yowford. The Green Man.’

  ‘The Green Man. A-a-ach! Excellent.’

  ‘You’re not going to stay there!’ Ralph ejaculated involuntarily.

  ‘You will agree that I cannot immediately drive to Bapple-under-Baccomb. It is 300 miles away: I shall not even start. I shall put up at the pub.’

  Ralph, stammering a good deal, said: ‘It sounds the most awful cheek, I know, but I suppose you wouldn’t be terribly kind and—if you are going there—take a note from me to someone who’s staying there. I—I—my car’s broken down and I’m on foot.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘It’s most frightfully sweet of you.’

  ‘Or I can drive you.’

  ‘Thank you most terribly but if you’d just take the note. I’ve got it on me. I was going to post it.’ Still blushing he took an envelope from his breast-pocket and gave it to her. She stowed it away in a business-like manner.

  ‘And in return,’ she said, ‘you shall tell me one more thing. What do you do in the Dance of the Five Sons? For you are a performer. I feel it.’

  ‘I’m the Betty,’ he muttered.

  ‘A-a-a-ch! The fertility symbol, or in modern parlance—’ She tapped the pocket where she had stowed the letter. ‘The love interest. Isn’t it?’

  Ralph continued to look exquisitely uncomfortable. ‘Here comes Dulcie,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind I really think it would be better—’

  ‘If I made away with myself. I agree. I thank you, Mr Stayne. Good evening.’

  Ralph saw her to the door, drove off the geese, advised her to pay no attention to the bulls as only one of them ever cut up rough, and watched her churn away through the snow. When he turned back to the house Miss Mardian was waiting for him.

  ‘You’re to go up,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing? She’s furious.’

  II

  Mrs Bünz negotiated the gateway without further molestation from livestock and drove through what was left of the village. In all, it consisted only of a double row of nondescript cottages, a tiny shop, a church of little architectural distinction and a Victorian parsonage: Ralph Stayne’s home, no doubt. Even in its fancy dress of snow it was not a picturesque village. It would, Mrs Bünz reflected, need a lot of pepping-up before it attracted the kind of people Ralph Stayne had talked about. She was glad of this because in her own way, she too was a purist.

  At the far end of the village itself and a little removed from it she came upon a signpost for East Mardian and Yowford and a lane leading off in that direction.

  But where, she asked herself distractedly, was the smithy? She was seething with the zeal of the explorer and with an itching curiosity that Ralph’s unwilling information had exacerbated rather than assuaged. She pulled up and looked about her. No sign of a smithy. She was certain she had not passed one on her way in. Though her interest was academic rather than romantic, she fastened on smithies with the fervour of a runaway bride. But no. All was twilight and desolation. A mixed group of evergreen and deciduous trees, the signpost, the hills and a great blankness of snow. Well, she would inquire at the pub. She was about to move on when she saw simultaneously a column of smoke rise above the trees and a short man, followed by a dismal dog, come round the lane from behind them.

  She leaned out and in a cloud of her own breath shouted: ‘Good evening. Can you be so good as to direct me to the Corpse?’

  The man stared at her. After a long pause he said: ‘Ar?’ The dog sat down and whimpered.

  Mrs Bünz suddenly realized she was dead-tired. She thought: ‘This frustrating day! So! I must now embroil myself with the village natural.’ She repeated her question. ‘Vere,’ she said, speaking very slowly and distinctly, ‘is der corpse?’

  ‘Oo’s corpse?’

  ‘Mr William Andersen’s?’

  ‘Ee’s not a corpse. Not likely. Ee’s my dad.’ Weary though she was she noted the rich local dialect. Aloud, she said: ‘You misunderstand me. I asked you where is the smithy. His smithy. My pronunciation was at fault.’

  ‘Copse Smithy be my dad’s smithy.’

  ‘Precisely. Where is it?’

  ‘My dad don’t rightly fancy wummen.’

  ‘Is that where the smoke is coming from?’

  ‘Ar.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As she drove away she thought she heard him loudly repeat that his dad didn’t fancy women.

  ‘He’s going to fancy me if I die for it,’ thought Mrs Bünz.

  The lane wound round the copse and there, on the far side, she found that classic, that almost archaic picture—a country blacksmith’s shop in the evening.

  The bellows were in use. A red glow from the forge pulsed on the walls. A horse waited, half in shadow. Gusts of hot iron and seared horn and the sweetish reek of horse-sweat drifted out to mingle with the tang of frost. Somewhere in a dark corner beyond the forge a man with a lantern seemed to be bent over some task. Mrs Bünz’s interest in folklore, for all its odd manifestations, was perceptive and lively. Though now she was punctually visited by the, as it were, off-stage strains of the Harmonious Blacksmith, she also experienced a most welcome quietude of spirit. It was as if all her enthusiasms had become articulate. This was the thing itself, alive and luminous.

  The smith and his mate moved into view. The horseshoe, lunar symbol, floated incandescent in the glowing jaws of the pincers. It was lowered and held on the anvil. Then the hammer swung, the sparks showered, and the harsh bell rang. Three most potent of all charms were at work—fire, iron and the horseshoe.

  Mrs Bünz saw that while his assistant was a sort of vivid enlargement of the man she had met in the lane and so like him that they must be brothers, the smith himself was a surprisingly small man: small and old. This discovery heartened her. With renew
ed spirit she got out of her car and went to the door of the smithy. The third man, in the background, opened his lantern and blew out the flame. Then, with a quick movement he picked up some piece of old sacking and threw it over his work.

  The smith’s mate glanced up but said nothing. The smith, apparently, did not see her. His branch-like arms, ugly and graphic, continued their thrifty gestures. He glittered with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead in a white fringe. After perhaps half a dozen blows the young man held up his hand and the other stopped, his chest heaving. They exchanged rôles. The young giant struck easily and with a noble movement that enraptured Mrs Bünz.

  She waited. The shoe was laid to the hoof and the smith in his classic pose crouched over the final task. The man in the background was motionless.

  ‘Dad, you’re wanted,’ the smith’s mate said. The smith glanced at her and made a movement of his head. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ asked the son.

  ‘I come with a message,’ Mrs Bünz began gaily. ‘From Dame Alice Mardian. The boiler at the castle has burst.’

  They were silent. ‘Thank you, then, ma’am,’ the son said at last. He had come towards her but she felt that the movement was designed to keep her out of the smithy. It was as if he used his great torso as a screen for something behind it.

  She beamed into his face. ‘May I come in?’ she asked. ‘What a wonderful smithy.’

  ‘Nobbut old scarecrow of a place. Nothing to see.’

  ‘Ach!’ she cried jocularly, ‘but that’s just what I like. Old things are by way of being my business, you see. You’d be’—she made a gesture that included the old smith and the motionless figure in the background—‘you’d all be surprised to hear how much I know about blackschmidts.’

  ‘Ar, yes, ma’am?’

  ‘For example,’ Mrs Bünz continued, growing quite desperately arch, ‘I know all about those spiral irons on your lovely old walls there. They’re fire charms, are they not? And, of course, there’s a horseshoe above your door. And I see by your beautifully printed little notice that you are Andersen, not Anderson, and that tells me so exactly just what I want to know. Everywhere, there are evidences for me to read. Inside, I dare say—’ She stood on tiptoe and coyly dodged her large head from side to side, peeping round him and making a mocking face as she did so. ‘I dare say there are all sorts of things—’

  ‘No, there bean’t then.’

  The old smith had spoken. Out of his little body had issued a great roaring voice. His son half turned and Mrs Bünz, with a merry laugh, nipped past him into the shop.

  ‘It’s Mr Andersen, senior,’ she cried, ‘is it not? It is—dare I?—the Old Guiser himself? Now I know you don’t mean what you’ve just said. You are much too modest about your beautiful schmiddy. And so handsome a horse! Is he a hunter?’

  ‘Keep off. ’Er be a mortal savage kicker. See that naow,’ he shouted as the mare made a plunging movement with the near hind leg which he held cradled in his lap. ‘She’s fair moidered already. Keep off of it. Keep aout. There’s nobbut men’s business yur.’

  ‘And I had heard so much,’ Mrs Bünz said gently, ‘of the spirit of hospitality in this part of England. Zo! I was misinformed, it seems. I have driven over two hundred—’

  ‘Blow up, there, you, Chris. Blow up! Whole passel’s gone cold while she’ve been nattering. Blow up, boy.’

  The man in the background applied himself to the bellows. A vivid glow pulsed up from the furnace and illuminated the forge. Farm implements, bits of harness, awards won at fairs flashed up. The man stepped a little aside and in doing so, he dislodged the piece of sacking he had thrown over his work. Mrs Bünz cried out in German. The smith swore vividly in English. Grinning out of the shadows was an iron face, half-bird, half-monster, brilliantly painted, sardonic, disturbing and, in that light, strangely alive.

  Mrs Bünz gave a scream of ecstasy.

  ‘The Horse!’ she cried, clapping her hands like a mad woman. ‘The Old Hoss. The Hooden Horse. I have found it. Gott sie danke, what joy is mine!’

  The third man had covered it again. She looked at their unsmiling faces.

  ‘Well, that was a treat,’ said Mrs Bünz in a deflated voice. She laughed uncertainly and returned quickly to her car.

  CHAPTER 2

  Camilla

  Up in her room at the Green Man, Camilla Campion arranged herself in the correct relaxed position for voice exercise. Her diaphragm was gently retracted and the backs of her fingers lightly touched her ribs. She took a long, careful deep breath and as she expelled it, said in an impressive voice:

  ‘Nine Men’s Morris is filled up with mud.’ This she did several times, muttering to herself, in imitation of her speechcraft instructor whom she greatly admired, ‘On the breath dear child: on the breath.’

  She glanced at herself in the looking-glass on the nice old dressing-table and burst out laughing. She laughed partly because her reflection looked so solemn and was also slightly distorted and partly because she suddenly felt madly happy and in love with almost everyone in the world. It was glorious to be eighteen, a student at the West London School of Drama and possibly in love, not only with the whole world, but with one young man as well. It was heaven to have come alone to Mardian and put up at the Green Man like a seasoned traveller. ‘I’m as free as a lark,’ thought Camilla Campion. She tried saying the line about Nine Men’s Morris with varying inflexions. It was filled up with mud. Then it was filled up with mud, which sounded surprised and primly shocked and made her laugh again. She decided to give up her practice for the moment, and feeling rather magnificent helped herself to a cigarette. In doing so she unearthed a crumpled letter from her bag. Not for the first time she re-read it.

  Dear Niece,

  Dad asked me to say he got your letter and far as he’s concerned you’ll be welcome up to Mardian. There’s accommodation at the Green Man. No use bringing up the past I reckon and us all will be glad to see you. He’s still terrible bitter against your mother’s marriage on account of it was to a R.C. So kindly do not refer to same although rightly speaking her dying ought to make all things equal in the sight of her Maker and us creatures here below.

  Your affec. uncle

  Daniel Andersen

  Camilla sighed, tucked away the letter and looked along the lane towards Copse Forge.

  ‘I’ve got to be glad I came,’ she said.

  For all the cold she had opened her window. Down below a man with a lanthorn was crossing the lane to the pub. He was followed by a dog. He heard her and looked up. The light from the bar windows caught his face.

  ‘Hallo, Uncle Ernest,’ called Camilla. ‘You are Ernest, aren’t you? Do you know who I am? Did they tell you I was coming?’

  ‘Ar?’

  ‘I’m Camilla. I’ve come to stay for a week.’

  ‘Our Bessie’s Camilla?’

  ‘That’s me. Now, do you remember?’

  He peered up at her with the slow recognition of the mentally retarded. ‘I did yur tell you was coming. Does Guiser know?’

  ‘Yes. I only got here an hour ago. I’ll come and see him tomorrow.’

  ‘He doan’t rightly fancy wummen.’

  ‘He will me,’ she said gaily. ‘After all he’s my grandfather! He asked me to come.’

  ‘Noa!’

  ‘Yes, he did. Well—almost. I’m going down to the parlour. See you later.’

  It had begun to snow again. As she shut her window she saw the headlights of a dogged little car turn into the yard.

  A roundabout lady got out. Her head was encased in a scarf, her body in a mauve handicraft cape and her hands in flowery woollen gloves.

  ‘Darling, what a make-up!’ Camilla apostrophized under her breath. She ran downstairs.

  The bar-parlour at the Green Man was in the oldest part of the pub. It lay at right angles to the Public which was partly visible and could be reached from it by means of a flap in the bar counter. It was a singularly unpretentious affair, lacking any display of
horse-brasses, warming-pans or sporting prints. Indeed the only item of anything but utilitarian interest was a picture in a dark corner behind the door; a faded and discoloured photograph of a group of solemn-faced men with walrus moustaches. They had blackened faces and hands and were holding up, as if to display it, a kind of openwork frame built up from short swords. Through this frame a man in clownish dress stuck his head. In the background were three figures that might have been respectively a hobby-horse, a man in a voluminous petticoat and somebody with a fiddle.

  Serving in the private bar was the publican’s daughter, Trixie Plowman, a fine ruddy young woman with a magnificent figure and bearing. When Camilla arrived there was nobody else in the Private, but in the Public beyond she again saw her uncle, Ernest Andersen. He grinned and shuffled his feet.

  Camilla leant over the bar and looked into the Public. ‘Why don’t you come over here, Uncle Ernie?’ she called.

  He muttered something about the Public being good enough for him. His dog, invisible to Camilla, whined.

  ‘Well, fancy!’ Trixie exclaimed. ‘When it’s your own niece after so long and speaking so nice.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Camilla said cheerfully. ‘I expect he’s forgotten he ever had a niece.’

  Ernie could be heard to say that no doubt she was too upperty for the likes of them-all, anyhow.

  ‘No I’m not,’ Camilla ejaculated indignantly. ‘That’s just what I’m not. Oh dear!’

  ‘Never mind,’ Trixie said, and made the kind of face that alluded to weakness of intellect. Ernie smiled and mysteriously raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Though of course,’ Trixie conceded, ‘I must say it is a long time since we seen you,’ and she added with a countrywoman’s directness: ‘Not since your poor mum was brought back and laid to rest.’

  ‘Five years,’ said Camilla nodding.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ar,’ Ernie interjected loudly, ‘and no call for that if she’d bided homealong and wed one of her own. Too mighty our Bessie was, and brought so low’s dust as a consequence.’