Towards Sunset (third edition), Page 2

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  THE COMPETITION

  I never wanted to run the parish magazine. Indeed, I never imagined doing it until Mike Evans, who had dealt with it for years, was made redundant and thought himself lucky to land a job at the other end of the country. He tackled me one Sunday after the morning service, much to my astonishment. “Why me? It’s not my line at all.”

  “You’ve done the odd piece from time to time, so I know you’re literate. You don’t disappear for weeks on end. You know most of the people who put in the regular entries - and what’s more, you seem to get on with them fairly easily.”

  “There are plenty of others who can do that.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve been through all the possibilities, and none of them will do. What I’ve seen of their writing would either shock the old stagers or bore the pants off a marble effigy.”

  “Does that really matter? Surely the editor’s job is to assemble the material, not to write it.”

  “Don’t you believe it. There are always gaps to fill, and you haven’t seen half the stuff in anything like the form I get it. And don’t tell me you haven’t time; you’ve only just retired, so you can’t have picked up the usual load of voluntary jobs yet. If it’s any help, I don’t move for a couple of months, so I can hold your hand for those two issues.”

  So I was talked into it; always a soft touch, as my wife complained (she takes after her mother, but we needn’t go into that). “I can’t do with having you under my feet all day.”

  “Well, your feet don’t have to be in that particular room all day, do they?”

  “It’s got to be cleaned.”

  “Once a week is quite enough.”

  And that piece of heresy left her, for once, speechless. If I got in her way, as she put it later, it was better than having me cause mayhem by driving for Meals on Wheels.

  As it turned out, the job wasn’t as difficult as I’d feared, and most people seemed fairly happy with the result. They probably glanced through the bits that directly concerned them and skipped the rest. However, after about a year, one of the bright young teenagers happened to comment that it was all a bit tame and predictable, and couldn’t we liven it up a bit? Looking back over the past half-dozen issues I had to admit that she had a point.

  The question was, what to do about it? She had nothing particular to suggest, but after discussions with various friends someone proposed a short story competition, and it seemed as good an idea as any. So we set it up, with fairly relaxed rules: original work, a thousand words give or take a hundred or so, the winning entry to be published in a special issue of the magazine. The parish funds wouldn’t run to much in the way of a prize, but there would be the option of sherry or a box of Belgian chocolates. As there weren’t all that many likely entrants, they could put in as many pieces as they wished. I persuaded a literary friend from my student days to judge the entries, and he wasn’t likely to know any of the authors, so we didn’t need to bother with pseudonyms.

  The deadline was getting uncomfortably close with no sign of any response when Bob Jones came along rather tentatively with a couple of pieces. He wasn’t sure if they were suitable and wanted my opinion before formally submitting them. I knew something of his daytime work; he produced accurate, clear, concise, strictly grammatical and dry-as-dust technical reports, exactly as required but hardly the stuff of fiction, so on the quiet I was not too hopeful but relieved that he had saved the competition from being a total flop. One of the stories, he explained with a touch of embarrassment, came from a particularly vivid dream, the other from an actual episode in fact.

  That week we had visitors with young children who needed constant entertaining, and by their bed-time I was too tired to face Bob’s efforts as I imagined them, so a few days passed before I could go through them. They both proved a surprise. The first I read was an uncharacteristically sentimental childhood reminiscence of a white stoat, found apparently starving, that had more or less adopted the family and become something of a pet before disappearing back into the wild.

  If that seemed out of character, the second story was far more so; quite fantastic, in fact, but then dreams often are. It started off ordinarily enough describing a simple if puzzling incident. He had been unable one Christmas morning to find his watch, normally left overnight on the dressing table. He lived alone, no one else had been in, and the watch was nowhere else he might inadvertently have put it. As with most habitual actions he had no positive recollection of having taken it off the previous night; he knew the strap was badly worn, and he feared it must have fallen off without his noticing, possibly at the midnight service or on the way back. Nevertheless he searched again and more thoroughly that evening, pulling the table further away from the wall but finding only dust behind it. Then he saw that the watch had reappeared, not against the wall where it might conceivably have fallen but in a clear space where he couldn’t possibly have missed it earlier.

  He could think of no plausible explanation, and was almost tempted to blame gremlins, especially when the pattern was repeated. Other items disappeared for varying intervals, to be found in places already searched. Sometimes they seemed to work a little better than he remembered. The oddest incident, superficially trivial but disturbing, concerned a Pilot drafting pencil. Or rather, he thought that was the make, but he happened to notice some days later that it was marked “Navigator.”

  He had never previously doubted his own sanity, but as the incidents piled up, he became more and more worried about them and began to think along those lines. Half-jocularly he commented on one or two of the less bizarre examples to some of his closer friends, and was greatly relieved - at any rate in one sense - to find that they too were having similar experiences and putting them down to absent-mindedness or the mischief of children. Thus reassured, he concocted a theory that some invisible alien intelligence was at work, with no sign of malice (that at least was comforting), but inquisitive enough to borrow artefacts, take them apart to see how they operated, and return them reassembled once it was satisfied. He supposed that to check its conclusions it made copies, sometimes with functionally insignificant errors of detail, and on occasion it made the more serious mistake of returning the copy instead of the original.

  Then his secretary was off one day without explanation or any subsequent recollection of the absence. And the single earring that she always wore on her left side was now on the other.

  When I next bumped into Bob he was gratified that I quite genuinely considered both his entries eminently suitable, and especially that I thought either of them could stand a good chance of winning, depending on what mood the adjudicator was in. (I saw no need to mention the lack so far of other competitors.) He had some queries about the format required for the final draft, and I assured him that so long as it was neat and legible, nothing about the actual arrangement really mattered. I also commented how lucky he was to have seen a stoat in its winter colouring, as I never had.

  “Neither have I.”

  “So the one in your story was really just the normal brown, was it?”

  “Oh, none of that ever happened at all.”

  “But you said it did!”

  “Not that one. I said one of the stories was based on fact. It was the stoat that I dreamed.”

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  CULTURE SHOCK

  You can get dreadfully blasé about travel: going half-way round the world is nothing these days. And if you’re on a long business trip, staying in the usual international hotels that all look much alike, you can sometimes be hard put to tell one country from another. “It’s Tuesday, this must be Taiwan” and all that. It’s the big jets that have done it, of course, rushing people around the globe by the hundred - not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’d certainly have been glad if everything had been laid on half so conveniently when I first went abroad for the firm.

  That was back in the late 1940s, but I still remember it well. Things were a lot less organised t
hen, particularly with the war being so recently over and some of the scars still showing. Old Perkin called me into his office one day and explained that there was a big installation job coming up overseas, and the reputation of Perkin and Warbeck depended on it (actually there wasn’t a Warbeck, and never had been, but he thought that a double-barrelled company name sounded more impressive than his own by itself, and anyway he had a penchant for historical allusion). I’d heard about that particular contract, but didn’t know much about it, so Perkin gave me a quick briefing. I’ll say this for him, he knew a damn sight more about what was going on in his business than a lot of directors do now. He was especially emphatic about the importance of time.

  “We’ve estimated ten weeks to finish. There’s a bit of leeway, but it’s vital to take no more than three months,” he insisted. “A day longer and the penalty clauses really start to bite, and bang goes our chance of the follow-up contracts. Any trouble could put the job back by weeks, and everything depends on good relations with the local people. Pendennis and his men will do the actual engineering work, of course, or at least our share of it. You’ll be in charge of liaison. I need hardly warn you not to tread on their toes. Oh yes, and you’re to go out three weeks on Tuesday to see that everything’s ready before they get there.”

  “Why me, of all people?”

  “Well, you know the lingo, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’ve studied it, but ...”

  “That’s settled, then. My secretary will see to the travel arrangements. Good luck!”

  At least that was something. The secretary was a bit of a dragon, but efficient in a cold-blooded sort of way, and any arrangements she made would work, whatever they cost in lost sleep and frayed nerves: my nerves, of course, not hers. I was more concerned about coping once I got to the other end, not so much on the technical side - after all, engineers are engineers, wherever they are - but with the simple problems of living in a strange country for a substantial spell. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted advice.

  The question was, where to get it? There were plenty of ex-servicemen around who had been abroad, but along with so many thousands of others that it was more like taking a bit of England away with them, and the relations with civilians that they described (usually after the third pint) were not quite what I supposed Perkin had in mind. An uncomfortably large part of the three weeks had passed before the obvious answer struck me: my Uncle Edward, a retired missionary, who had been pretty well everywhere in his time, although by then he seldom went much further than the next county. He said he’d done quite enough wandering already, and had earned a rest. After decades of putting up with primitive conditions, he also thought he’d earned the right to indulge himself a little, particularly with a favoured guest.

  As it happened, a spinster aunt had left him a bundle of half-forgotten shares that had appreciated enough for him to buy a small property in a neighbouring village, stock the cellar remarkably well for those days, and still convert the residue into a comfortable annuity. He was looked after by a middle-aged cook-housekeeper whom he always called Dame Margery, but didn’t get much other company, and was glad of any excuse to lay on the nearest thing she could manage to a slap-up dinner with all the trimmings.

  On the evening we arranged, Dame Margery had produced one of her better efforts, so that by the second or third glass of port, we were both pleasantly relaxed and conversation was flowing easily. He’d given me some useful tips about easily-overlooked bits of personal kit that would be handy to have with me, such as a good selection of buttons and thread, and others that seemed important but would probably be more trouble than they were worth. Naturally, he also wanted to know where precisely I was going, what the job involved, and in particular how well I was prepared for social mixing during several months in a basically unfamiliar culture. “You can’t talk engineering all the time, after all.”

  “That’s not what Perkin thinks.”

  I had actually given some thought to that point since Perkin’s bombshell. The local librarian relished a challenge and had done me proud with a selection of relevant literature, which I’d studied carefully besides revising the language, so that I was more than a shade too glib about expecting no serious problems in that line at least.

  “Very dangerous attitude,” Edward muttered darkly, glancing at the skull-like object that formed an incongruously macabre centre-piece on the mantel. I’d always thought it an odd place for a memento mori. “You can easily drop the most frightful bricks. Angels fear to tread, you know.”

  Then he clammed up completely, which really intrigued me. No one had ever suggested dark secrets in Edward’s past, and he wasn’t usually reticent about it. In fact, given his head, he could be a bore of county if not international class, so this must have been something right out of the ordinary. Remembering the “third pint” effect, I made a point of seeing that the decanter always came to rest by his hand, and eventually the story emerged.

  It happened early in his missionary life. A much older member of his society, call him Gregory for the present, had been working in a fresh area of New Guinea, at that time nowhere near as civilised as it is now and a notoriously dodgy place to go. He had just started to establish himself when he fell ill with one of the nastier tropical diseases. At least he survived, more than could be said of his colleague, but had to be invalided home for treatment, promising his flock to go back as soon as possible. His recovery, although disappointingly slow, now seemed to be complete, and Edward was considered just experienced enough to replace the dead colleague - not a very encouraging prospect.

  Edward was seldom given to strong likes or dislikes, but Gregory proved an exception. He was a man of vast and distinguished experience, who had abandoned a brilliant academic career twenty years earlier to serve in the missions, and many of the young ordinands would have given their eye teeth for the chance to understudy him. Edward detested him on sight. The feeling was evidently mutual, and deepened with closer acquaintance to the extent that Edward tentatively asked whether another assignment might be more appropriate. He got short shrift from the Superior, one of the old no-nonsense type, who sharply reminded him that he was there to do the will of the Lord, not to serve his own inclinations; there was no one else available anyway, Gregory hadn’t complained, and if he could put up with an uncongenial companion, so much more easily should a younger man. Edward thought better of raising the obvious objection to that argument, and just resigned himself to a disagreeable tour of duty.

  At least on the ship it was possible by careful management to keep out of each others’ way except at meal times. Edward tried his best at first to make conversation on these painful occasions, but eventually they agreed tacitly to minimise friction by rigid politeness within a rule of near-silence. Then, half-way across the Indian Ocean, they ran into a storm that pretty well confined them to their cabin. Gregory’s illness flared up again in the heat, the ship’s doctor was himself laid up after losing his balance during a particularly violent twisting roll and cracking his head on a bulkhead, and so Edward had to nurse Gregory as best he could.

  The basic medical training he had received was hardly up to dealing with anything serious, and by the time they reached Darwin it was quite obvious that Gregory was not going anywhere just then - if ever - but into hospital. Edward was almost frantic with qualms of conscience over his antagonism, and hovered around wondering whether his duty lay in staying with the sick man or pressing on, until eventually the nurses made it none too tactfully clear that he was more hindrance than help. Accordingly he got what directions he could and carried on towards the destination.

  That was itself a long enough journey, first by tramp steamer to Port Moresby, then by coaster, river launch and finally a series of dug-out canoes to a long-house in the jungle, well up a narrow valley in the mountains. All the way Edward was wondering what sort of reception he could expect, but he needn’t have worried on that score. The inhabitants had scrupu
lously reserved the area that Gregory had adapted as a little chapel and sleeping quarters, and were delighted to have them in use again.

  Of an evening they would happily sit for hours listening to tales of the outside world, even if they took them with a large pinch of salt, and Edward, ever talkative, was equally glad to oblige. In return the villagers taught him how to eke out the supplies he had brought with him (he didn’t want to rely entirely on the generosity of people poorer than himself, however willing they might be to support him) by catching fish, gathering wild fruits and generally following their way of subsistence.

  Eventually it dawned on him that he was doing fine socially, but making very little impression on the people’s tolerant scepticism about an alien religion. Their culture was animistic, seeing every natural feature as the home of a controlling spirit that had to be placated for any interference - understandable, where the caprice of nature could make all the difference between relative prosperity and starvation, but providing scarcely a toe-hold for Christian teaching. The villagers were mostly content with the beliefs of their ancestors: the white man might deal with whatever powers he liked, but what could his god know about their crops and the spirits of the forest, their fish traps and the river demons, and so on?

  There were a few exceptions, however, generally youngsters simply rebelling against the traditions of their elders, but the odd one or two with genuinely inquiring minds. Edward decided to concentrate his efforts on them. For a while he feared that the older people might resent any influence he gained with their offspring, and he therefore made a special point of stressing respect for them, but they generally seemed to think his ideas a curiously irrelevant folly rather than any kind of threat. In any case it gave them some relief from coping with the more irritating antics of adolescents.

  He picked the least unpromising of his little group, a lively teenager whom he called Joseph, to train as an assistant, despite a strong suspicion that the lad regarded Christianity as the coming thing and was more concerned about his status in the present world than in the next. Occasionally he showed alarming tendencies to order the others around more than was necessary. Still, he was a likable and resourceful rogue, who in time became a good friend.

  Edward’s next concern was about the mode of address that tribal etiquette demanded he should choose for use at their instruction sessions: “My Father” (an accepted title of respect) seemed too Romish, “Reverend” too colloquial, “Padre” too military, “Teacher belong big chief in sky,” suggested by one of the lads, tolerably accurate but altogether too cumbersome. Joseph had his own solution to that problem. Edward was simply “The Boss,” and despite his reservations, the term stuck.

  He kept plugging away, but putting across the basic ideas of Christianity even to his chosen few was an uphill task. One God, well, yes, every village had a head man, so why not a supreme being over everything, while the distinction between angels and minor deities could be put aside for the time being. “Take not the name of the Lord in vain,” again, you didn’t insult the chief with impunity. “Honour thy father and mother,” they did that anyway, more or less. But some of the later Commandments were trickier, especially what they did or did not prohibit.

  “Thou shalt not kill” gave him particular difficulty. No, it didn’t cover killing animals for food. No, it didn’t invariably cover killing people either, although that was to be avoided if at all possible. “Then where does it apply, Boss?”

  “Look at it this way. If someone’s going for you with a hatchet on the crossing above the waterfall, you might at a pinch tip him in the river. But not if he’s doing you no harm and you just want a clear run at his wife.”

  So that of course led him on to the next one. He tried lightening his explanations with a rendering of the old jingle “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, his ox thou shalt not slaughter, but thank the Lord it is not a sin to covet thy neighbour’s daughter.” It was a mistake: the verse translated clumsily into the local dialect, and merely confused everyone. He didn’t risk any further attempts at humour in his teaching.

  After six months with very little headway, Edward needed a break. There was no chance of home leave, of course, or even a week in Port Moresby, but perhaps he might usefully visit a neighbouring tribe that had aroused his curiosity, along the one overgrown track through the jungle and over the ridge. At least he could spy out the land and the prospects for work there. Joseph, however, was far from keen. His father had come across some of the Deeka: they were a strange people, their ways were not his ways, and he didn’t relish meddling with them. Admittedly they weren’t usually hostile or even unfriendly, but they certainly were unpredictably touchy about some things and formidable if roused, so that it was wise to give them a respectfully wide berth.

  As it happened, during his training Edward had read an anthropological study of a group that had migrated to the coast but claimed descent from the Deeka and to have kept faithfully the traditions of their ancestors. What he could remember of it was encouraging, particularly their rule of meticulous courtesy to strangers who might be the incarnation of powerful spirits, as he carefully explained to Joseph.

  “All very well for you, Boss. You look like a what-do-you-call-it spirit. I don’t.”

  “But yours is a very great spirit, Joseph.”

  “The Deeka don’t know that. To them I’ll be just an ordinary lad from the next village - and from the wrong valley, what’s more.”

  By now Edward was confident of handling anything short of overwhelming physical violence, which seemed an unlikely prospect, so Joseph’s objections were overruled. It said a lot for the lad’s loyalty that despite his grave misgivings, reinforced by his mother’s alarm, he nevertheless went along with the plan and was a great help in organising supplies for the expedition. He even insisted on carrying most of them.

  In the event the Deeka were even more hospitable than Edward had expected. After the initial surprise at the arrival of unaccustomed visitors from beyond the ridge, they were taken to the chief, who welcomed them with a traditional exchange of courtesies. He received their gifts graciously, asked their business and seemed satisfied by Edward’s carefully diplomatic answer that he had heard much of the Deeka’s lore and wished to study it at first hand. The chief for his part had heard rumours about the strange ways of Europeans, but never met one before, and was mildly curious, enough to order that they should be given the best available lodging and shown every consideration.

  Edward and Joseph were thus free to go about talking to anyone they wished. However, it wouldn’t do to push the privilege too far by interrupting important work, so they generally started by taking a morning stroll, finding someone not particularly busy, and asking the sort of questions that might be expected of any friendly stranger. Then, when the opportunity offered, they gradually worked round to matters of religion. For instance, Edward might ask about the local belief in this or that, perhaps express respectful surprise at some aspect of it, and so invite questions about his own ideas. People generally heard him politely if without great enthusiasm, and he was tolerably satisfied with progress.

  One of the most interesting characters in the village was Jinato, a sort of shaman or witch-doctor to the tribe. He was a wizened but bright-eyed old man, totally pagan yet blessed with a natural wisdom and quick intelligence that Edward found deeply impressive. Indeed, some of the points he raised were very hard to answer within the context of the tribe’s experience and Edward’s knowledge of it; on the other hand, he was open-minded enough to recognise limitations in that experience. The two men had many long and animated discussions, never conclusive but always interesting.

  Edward was a little puzzled at the attitude of Joseph, who after the first two of these sessions suddenly developed an eagerness for more of them that contrasted sharply with his initial scarcely-concealed impatience. “Isn’t it time for another talk with Jinato?” he would say, or “How about trying such-and-such a line on tha
t argument?” The curious thing was that he never stayed to hear the outcome of his suggestions, but always excused himself as soon as courtesy permitted. The mystery was solved when Edward caught sight of him engaged in light-hearted banter with one of Jinato’s grand-daughters, a comely girl approaching marriageable age.

  About a week after their arrival, the village celebrated a festival that was to culminate in a grand supper. One kind of dried fish among the supplies that Joseph had brought was apparently a rare delicacy among the Deeka, so he asked if he might contribute it to the menu. Edward didn’t particularly care for it and agreed readily. Perhaps partly as a result, perhaps because of the friendship he had struck up with Jinato, he was treated as a guest of honour, seated next to the chief. He was more than a little embarrassed by the privilege, especially as it was not extended to Joseph, who nevertheless urged him not to worry; Edward realised why when he saw that Jinato’s grand-daughter was among the serving maids and giving Joseph far more than his fair share of attention, which he obviously didn’t mind at all. Relieved on that score, he relaxed and started looking around him.

  There was one other girl who caught Edward’s attention; indeed, he could hardly miss her. Becoming a missionary hadn’t dimmed his eye for the ladies, and this one had an attractive figure, features more to European than to local taste, and a particularly graceful manner. Edward had seen her about the village, and understood that she was an orphan, stranded years before when her parents had wandered in from no-one knew where, suffering from some unidentified and eventually fatal illness. One of the chief’s junior wives had taken pity on the child, but the circumstances of her arrival seemed an ill omen and she was still something of a Cinderella.

  Her position in the chief’s household however gave her some status, and she was serving at what Edward couldn’t help thinking of as the “high table,” even though with everyone alike sitting on the ground the term was a little inapt. Towards the end, after she had gently pressed him to take yet another helping and smilingly accepted that he had had quite enough, he casually complimented the chief on his charming attendant. “You like her? Good, you shall have her. The wedding will be in three days’ time.”

  Edward was flabbergasted. Thoughts tumbled through his mind about trying to explain that to admire a girl’s appearance and deportment was one thing, but to marry her, practically unknown, was another. No, in this culture it wouldn’t cut any ice at all. And while he had no objections in principle to a married clergy and neither had his society, its views on miscegenation as a source of envy, friction and scandal were hardly likely to go down well - particularly as they might justifiably be thought a mere rationalisation of prejudice. With suitable expressions of regret and appreciation, he therefore said simply that overwhelmed as he was by the chief’s generosity, such a match would be strictly taboo.

  The merriment of the evening came to an abrupt halt. Joseph, whose attention had been caught by the sudden hush that descended at the chief’s words, looked horror-struck, Jinato scowled and the chief frowned like thunder. Edward wasn’t sure what was wrong, still less how to put it right, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He therefore apologised in general terms and withdrew with what grace he could, leaving the chief and witch-doctor in agitated discussion amid a general clamour of consternation.

  Joseph followed, asking how all this had come about. Edward told him. “That wasn’t very clever, Boss.”

  “I know, but how would you have got out of it?”

  “I shouldn’t have got into it.”

  “True, I dare say, but not very helpful. What do I do now?”

  They agreed that he should stay mostly in the hut for the next few days, communing with the spirits if anyone asked, while Joseph tested the social atmosphere. It was decidedly chilly as far as Edward was concerned. Some of the disgrace inevitably rubbed off on to Joseph, but he didn’t let it daunt his spirits, and his natural friendliness was more than the villagers could resist for long. Then for a time he was very busy coming and going, and decidedly uncommunicative about it. “I’m working on it, Boss,” he would say when asked about progress, and that was about as much as could be got out of him. Edward was dubious, noticing that Joseph’s steps usually led towards the spot where Jinato’s grand-daughter - Eve, as Edward came for some reason to think of her - was usually to be found preparing food or doing other household chores. He was half right; that was indeed the place, but after a few words with Eve, Joseph would concentrate his attention on her father, Jinato’s favourite son. It did no harm to his chances with the girl anyway, and why not kill two birds with one stone? Even so, his main efforts were devoted to restoring Edward’s position.

  Everything he said about it was passed on, subtly re-phrased where necessary, to Jinato himself, who after his initial anger was very willing to be persuaded that the whole business was a terrible misunderstanding. He had no wish to prolong a quarrel that could bring nothing but harm to anyone. Neither had the chief, once his offended dignity had been assuaged. So, without any embarrassing contact between the principals to the dispute, Joseph was eventually able to announce his triumph.

  “Done it, Boss.”

  “Done what?”

  “Sorted out your problem.”

  “That’s marvellous, Joseph! However did you manage it?”

  “No time for details, Boss. There’ll be a message coming from the chief any minute now, and it’s important you give the right reply.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, you’ll be invited to a ceremony of reconciliation . . .”

  “I’ll obviously accept - what’s the difficulty?”

  “Please, Boss, don’t interrupt. There isn’t time. You have to reply in a particular form of words - ‘I deeply regret having given offence to the mighty Chief, I thank him for his gracious forbearance, I gratefully accept his offer of reconciliation, and I wish the whole village to share in it.”

  “Why that?”

  “Because the girl has no parents, she belongs to the whole village, therefore the whole village was offended by your refusing her, so it must be included in the reconciliation. Now come along, Boss, practise your speech before the messengers arrive, for goodness’ sake.” So they did, and he got it near enough right to satisfy everyone, except perhaps Joseph.

  The ceremony was to take place during another banquet the following Saturday - any excuse, thought Edward in a moment of cynicism. After that, he felt, it might be wise to leave before he put his foot in it again. On the other hand, going away so suddenly might cause yet more offence, but judicious enquiries by Joseph confirmed that none would be taken.

  Once arrangements were made, tension in the village promptly relaxed amid a bustle of activity. There was much gathering of fruit, pounding of roots, snaring of pigeons and hunting of jungle pig. Edward felt able to move around freely again, and even if the missionary message was no more welcome than before, he was satisfied for the present to be back personally in favour. Besides, he had to rehearse his part in the ceremony; also to prepare a speech, so Joseph had told him, to be given at the end of the banquet. Fortunately Eve’s father was willing to act as a critical audience and point out any infelicities, of which there were plenty in the early drafts.

  Come Saturday, the ceremony was a splendid occasion with songs, dances and athletic displays before the formal banquet. Edward had to be seated next to the chief again as the rubrics required them to join hands, declare to each other the intention that any animosity should be as dead as the garnished joint of meat placed between them, that the two men and the whole village should be united in spirit by sharing it, and that all misunderstandings should vanish like the smoke of the fire over which it had been roasted. Edward was highly relieved to get it over, and then began to enjoy the meal.

  It was in fact excellent as jungle fare went, particularly since he and the chief received the choicest portions, and he did them full justice. He couldn’t help n
oticing that Joseph, aided and abetted by Eve, wasn’t letting the side down in that respect, either; a few thoughts on the deadly sin of gluttony crossed his mind, but he dismissed them as ungracious in view of Joseph’s part in retrieving the situation; and for his own part, he had to keep up a good appearance on this of all occasions, didn’t he?

  After privately complimenting the chief on the opulence of the feast, he ended by delivering his carefully prepared and highly flattering speech of thanks and farewell, praising the greatness and magnanimity of the Chief, the wisdom of Jinato, the skill of the cooks, the assiduity of the serving maids, the prowess of the young men . . . he was tempted to go beyond his script by adding the beauty of the village maidens, but decided at the last minute that in the first place it wasn’t strictly true, and in the second it might lead to more difficulties of the kind from which he had so narrowly been rescued. So he concluded by presenting his parting gifts - a more propitious occasion than before their departure early the next morning - and professing the hope that friendship between the Deeka and his base tribe would thrive and endure. These sentiments the chief heartily endorsed, to thunderous applause for both of them from the whole assembly.

  The journey home the next day was uneventful, and Edward was happier than he could have believed possible to stumble down the last few yards of the track, clean himself up with a quick splash in the river, and relax in the section of the longhouse that he had come to regard as his own. The villagers were glad to have him back, too; he was a popular figure, whatever they might think of his teaching, and they had been anxiously recalling the evidently well-founded worries about dealing with the Deeka. Joseph’s family, of course, made a great fuss of their son, all the more after Edward had praised the lad’s part in saving him from goodness knew what disaster.

  The tribe rarely knew much variety in the routine of survival, and the expedition was naturally the main topic of conversation for weeks. Joseph was a born story-teller, and his account lost nothing with repetition. But he was practical, too: the way in which his “luxury” goods had been received in the Deeka village was not lost on him, neither was the quality of the arrowheads and utensils he had seen there, items for which there was a demand in his village and probably elsewhere in the valley. Before long he was back over the ridge to do some trading, not to mention a visit to Eve, and these visits became more and more frequent.

  For some reason there was now quite a flood of people suddenly wanting religious instruction. Edward needed his assistant, and found Joseph’s absences a definite hindrance. “I’m sorry, Boss,” he said when Edward tackled him about it, “I’ve done my best, but I’m not really cut out for the job, and I do have a business to look after now. Look, there’s Benjamin, he’s picked up everything I’ve learned and more, and he hasn’t my - er - distractions. Why not get him to help here? I don’t mind doing what I can among the Deeka on my visits there.”

  “I think I know who’ll get the main benefit of that!”

  Whatever the motives, Edward had to agree that there was a lot of sense in the suggestion: Benjamin (Joseph’s younger brother) was keen if not quite so intelligent, and after a day or two of reflection was duly appointed. Now Edward was able to make some real progress, concentrating on the more advanced pupils while Benjamin prepared the starters. Within a year half the village was involved, so far that for many of them Edward was able to arrange a mass baptism; and of the other half, a good proportion were showing signs of interest while hardly any were totally implacable.

  Meanwhile traffic on the path over the ridge was steadily increasing. Edward himself seldom returned that way, although he scrupulously sent greetings and occasional gifts by way of the traders. One occasion when he did go, during the second summer after his first visit, was to act more or less as Joseph’s best man though also as officiating pastor, escorting Eve (now so christened) back for the wedding.

  Another, some months later, was to attend Jinato’s funeral after he had succumbed to a mercifully brief illness. Edward travelled with Joseph and Eve. The path had been improved beyond recognition, with steps in the steeper parts reinforced by logs to prevent erosion, so that it was possible to talk almost normally on the way. Since one of Edward’s pet phrases was “No salvation without belief,” Eve was desperately anxious to know what he thought of her grandfather’s fate. The official line on virtuous pagans wouldn’t be much comfort to her, Edward realised, and he was reduced to platitudes about God’s justice being no less generous than man’s. Later, as he stood before the old, lined face, so completely different without its animating sparkle, the utter inadequacy of his words overwhelmed him and he had to turn away to hide tears. They were noticed. That a man from outside the tribe - indeed, from far beyond the most distant horizon that any of them could imagine - that such a man should share their grief at the loss of a dearly respected elder did more to win over the Deeka than could any amount of words and gifts.

  Time inexorably passed. For various reasons, missionaries of Edward’s society were generally moved around every few years. By the time his tour of duty drew to an end, the contrast with what he had found on arrival was striking. A new church was going up to replace the ramshackle structure that he had built when the tiny “chapel” could no longer hold his congregation, and which was now itself hopelessly inadequate. The villagers, realising that the longhouse partitions were anything but sound-proof and that some of the noises passing through them might be disturbing to a celibate, had also built him a separate hut for himself, after delicate enquiries through Joseph on whether he might misunderstand it as an exclusion from the community. Three-quarters of them were committed to Christianity, if not yet actually baptised, with half the rest hovering; and besides Eve, who was a special case, there had actually been some tentative approaches from the Deeka to suggest that they would like to hear more of what he had touched on during his original stay with them. If certain regrettable superstitions still lingered on - well, that could equally be said about plenty of communities with more centuries of Christian tradition than his village had years. All in all, Edward couldn’t help congratulating himself on the situation he was leaving for his successor. He would almost have been glad to show it off to Gregory, who had however been shipped back permanently to England on health grounds.

  As the day of departure approached, Edward sensed an air of furtive excitement among his flock. Whenever he joined any group of people talking, there would be an obviously contrived change of subject, but odd phrases came to his ears. In time, Benjamin let slip what Edward had already guessed, that a special gift was being prepared for him. What it might be was another matter; obviously all would be revealed at the presentation, but it occurred to him that he really ought to check, before there was any public embarrassment, whether it was something he could legitimately accept. The people were still poor, if less so than previously, and Edward was very anxious not to take anything of undue value. Perhaps he could worm some hint out of Joseph, who was sure to be involved.

  It was a moonlit evening when Edward walked from his own hut towards the part of the longhouse occupied by Joseph’s family, but none of the villagers seemed to be about. However, as he approached, he noticed someone scurrying away, glancing over his shoulder and trying with comic lack of success to hide what looked like a pale globe on a carved wooden plinth. That was probably the gift, Edward thought with some relief: he’d never seen anything quite like it, but it was presumably a piece of local craft-work. To accept it wouldn’t deprive the village of precious resources, it would be a pleasant memento, and it looked reasonably transportable too.

  Joseph greeted him warmly, and Eve fussed around making him comfortable and offering refreshments - was she? Yes, almost certainly she was pregnant, after so long that Joseph’s mother had been seen sadly shaking her head over the prospects of grandchildren from that quarter. Congratulations were evidently in order, and Joseph thanked him absently but seemed oddly depressed.

  “W
hat’s up?” Edward asked. “I’d have thought you’d be rejoicing.”

  “Look, Boss, how long have we known each other?”

  “Must be about five years - yes, easily that.”

  “And we’ve been good friends?”

  “The best.”

  “Yet you’re going away next week and we probably shan’t see you again.”

  Edward was silent for a moment. “But Joseph, life’s like that. I have to obey orders. And there’ll be someone to take my place, don’t forget.”

  “We can’t change our friends as easily as you change your shirt, Boss.”

  “Now you know I wasn’t suggesting that. Look, however far apart we may be, we can pray for each other.”

  It didn’t seem to help Joseph much. “We could pray for Jinato when he was ill - and we did - but it wasn’t the same as crossing the ridge to see him. And we can’t do that now.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the way of things, Joseph. All human friendships must come to an end sooner or later in any case. None of us lives for ever. But eventually we’ll meet again in the next world.”

  “All very well, Boss, but my problem’s in this one.”

  Edward sighed, but could think of no way out of this impasse. He had a strong suspicion that Joseph’s attitude to the hereafter was rather like a bank manager’s to an unsecured loan, and the best he could do was to try changing the subject. As it happened there was one thing that had been puzzling him for long enough: why the sudden spate of interest in Christianity after the first visit to the Deeka?

  “That’s simple. The people thought that to make such a display of courage, you must have protection from some really powerful spirits, and they wanted a share.”

  “Well, that’s true in a sense. But what display of courage?”

  “Why, refusing the chief’s offer of a wife, of course. You knew the ways of the Deeka, you must have known you were as good as asking for death. Isn’t that right?”

  Edward was stunned. “Good Lord, I’d no idea.”

  “Come off it, Boss. You told me you’d read all about them.”

  “Not all, Joseph. You can’t learn everything just by reading. You have to live with people for years to know them properly - and even then they can surprise you. A book couldn’t cover all the details, even if the author knew them.”

  “I wouldn’t call this a detail, Boss.”

  “No, you’re right. And that particular point wasn’t mentioned in the account I read. Are you sure about it?”

  “Absolutely. Eve’s father explained it to me. You know that if you’re visiting someone, and admire something he has, then he has to offer it to you?”

  “That’s true in a lot of places. I hadn’t thought of it just then, though - silly of me. But surely, once the offer was made, honour was satisfied even if I declined it? After all, I’d have thought I was fulsome enough in thanking the chief.”

  “That’s not the point, Boss. In Deeka custom a gift can’t be refused. It’s now your property, so the chief can’t keep it without becoming a thief. It’s taboo. And if you don’t accept it, he’s stuck with it.”

  “He could give it to someone else.”

  “No good, Boss. You can’t give away someone else’s property. Or if you do, it makes things worse.”

  “All right, I see that. But where does the bit about ‘asking for death’ come in?”

  “Well, it seems that this sort of problem had cropped up before. Not in quite the same way, but close enough. Then someone pointed out that if the man who’d refused the gift were no longer alive, the difficulty would disappear - the dead have no right to property. So there was a very unfortunate fatal accident. And ever since, that’s been the standard way to deal with that kind of situation.”

  “But there was no suggestion of any such thing.”

  “How do you know, Boss? If you’re planning an accident, you don’t warn the victim. But you were lucky: the chief respected your taboo as much as his own, and Jinato thought of another way out.”

  “The reconciliation ceremony?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why wasn’t it used on the earlier occasions?”

  “Well, for one thing, because it didn’t exist then.”

  “But I thought it was traditional. Do you mean to say it was something new?”

  “Yes, Boss, Jinato and I planned it between us.”

  Again Edward was astonished. “You?”

  “Why yes. Jinato wanted it to be binding on both you and the chief, so he asked what sort of ritual would fit your customs as well as the Deeka’s. The best I could think of - not too far from either side - was the Old Testament communion sacrifice, so we worked it up from that.”

  “A brilliant inspiration, Joseph; I really must hand it to you. No wonder I kept feeling there was something a bit familiar about the ceremony. But just a moment, there’s something missing. To make the reconciliation complete, the girl I’d admired should have taken a main part, too. After all, she had more cause than anyone to be offended. I’m afraid I was too selfishly preoccupied to think of it at the time, but looking back, I don’t remember her even being there.”

  “Boss, that was the whole point of the meal. Didn’t you realise? She was the main course.”

  Return to Contents

  FANTASY

  My nephew Tybalt (don’t ask!) has a penchant for avant-garde theatre. Lacking a venue wherein his wonders to perform, not to mention the little matter of a production company, he develops his ideas as animations on a computer, rather like Peter Jackson’s pre-visualisations for “The Lord of the Rings.” When Lucy and I called on him one day, he was in the midst of working on one of his creations and said we could see it if we wished, rudimentary though it still was. It would have been churlish to decline, despite my misgivings about being asked to comment afterwards.

  The “stage” set was an almost barren rocky landscape in dull browns, arranged to give a perspective of some distance. On a ledge down left was a large round blob of a faintly bluish white. Roughly centre stage was another, up right a third, smaller than the others even allowing for the perspective. Call them A, B and C. Up centre was a sort of glowing brazier.

  Suddenly blob A unfolded as a tall tubular creature crowned with waving tentacles, and at brief intervals B and C followed suit. C started wandering about and B called out to it that getting too close to the brazier would be dangerous, but to no effect: C did get too close and exploded.

  The set cleared and a crude cut-out drawing of an airliner was drawn across the proscenium, stage right to left, buckling somewhat as it moved. The implication was apparently that A and B were aboard. As it vanished into the wings, a sign of the “Keep off the grass” kind appeared down left, actually labelled “ALGERIA”.

  That was as far as it went. “What the hell was all that about?” I asked. “Those sea anemones or whatever they were - what are they supposed to represent?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. It was a dream I had the other night, and thought I might be able to make something of it.” Tybalt, I should say, rather prides himself on his weird dreams, and this was just about par for the course.

  “And have you?”

  “Not yet. I’m still working on it.”

  “Something about airport security and keeping children under control, perhaps?”

  “Hmm. I suppose that might have possibilities. I’ll think about it.”

  Months later, at a loose end after the first session of a two-day meeting in a distant city, I passed a cinema and wondered if it might have anything worth seeing. There were apparently half a dozen different auditoriums (or should that be auditoria?) but nothing currently on offer appealed to me; however, in the “Coming Shortly” window was an image just like Tybalt’s stage set, complete with sea anemones, though with the addition of a practically naked and decidedly over-developed young woman sprawled across one of the rocks. I suppose the effect was intended t
o be erotic, but to me it was simply grotesque; perhaps I’m getting too old to appreciate such things. There must have been a title of some sort superimposed upon it, but I don’t remember, so maybe the figure distracted me more than I admitted to myself.

  Back home, I phoned Tybalt and asked if his fantasy had actually come to fruition. “No such luck,” he said. “I worked it up a bit from what I showed you, but it never looked promising enough to be worth continuing. Why do you ask?”

  I told him of the cinema poster and he laughed. “Oh, that. A friend in the production business called a while back and I let him see it. He knew someone who was looking for ideas and might be interested, but all that came of it was a licence to use some of the artwork in a science-fiction epic - probably less to do with science than porridge has with haute cuisine, but that’s what they call it.”

  “Have you seen what they’ve done with it?”

  “The bit of crumpet on the rocks, you mean? It’s within their rights. They’ve paid for it; not much, but ...”

  There was no need to go on. I commiserated and left it at that.

  I thought of his porridge when a film came out purportedly blowing the whistle on an industrial topic about which I actually knew something. I was pretty sure of what it would be like but of course had to see it, especially after a correspondent in the local paper praised it to the heavens for exposing concealed dangers.

  It turned out worse than I feared, and I wrote to the paper pointing out that the risks were minute compared with those everyone took with scarcely a thought, and that a lot of the claims were essentially guesswork. The letter was published, but in the next week’s issue was a rebuttal that in the context of the writer’s not entirely accurate information did make sense. It referred to a web site, again reasonable in its own terms, with a contact address. Given the unusual tone of the material I thought it worth suggesting a meeting to discuss it.

  The response, though wary, was positive, and a few evenings later I duly turned up at 38 Dorchester Gardens. “Gardens” was a bit optimistic, but the property along the road generally looked neat and well-maintained; when a middle-aged man opened the door I honestly complimented him on what he had done with the limited space in front of the building. He seemed pleased, confirmed his name as Carter and when I identified myself cheerfully invited me in. Rather diffidently he explained that while it was his teenage son I wanted to see, he hoped I would not object if he himself sat in on the meeting - a very wise precaution, I agreed.

  Mrs. Carter was anxious to watch a TV programme just about to start, so the conference took place in young Ronnie’s lair upstairs. The walls were almost covered with posters of various kinds, and among them I was astonished to see the one with the sea anemone figures, but let it pass for the time being. The discussion with the lad was very interesting and he impressed me as remarkably logical. Afterwards Fred Carter said he hadn’t understood a word of what we’d been saying but gathered that it had made sense to Ronnie, and he was grateful for my coming. The missus was probably about to put the kettle on; would I care to join them? Of course I was glad to. After he had gone, Ronnie apologised with some embarrassment for his insisting on being present. “He’s a bit old-fashioned, you see.”

  “And a very good thing, too. You can’t be too careful with someone coming out of the blue. But there’s something else: I couldn’t help noticing that poster over the bed. Did you see the film?”

  “Yes, worse luck. Utter rubbish,” he said disgustedly.

  “Then why keep the poster?”

  “It fascinated me.”

  “The woman?”

  He grimaced but choked off a response he seemed about to make. “No, those weird figures. I keep imagining different things that might be going on.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, perhaps the scene being underwater, the brazier a volcanic eruption, the adults drifting away on the floating wreck of an airliner and being warned off about an epidemic of algeria mycofulgens.”

  “Of what?”

  “Oh, just a bit of nonsense.”

  At that point there was a call “Tea’s up!” from below and we went to join his parents. Even more appreciative than her husband, Amy Carter practically gushed that while she and Fred knew nothing of the matter discussed with Ronnie, they were really grateful for my taking the trouble to talk with him.

  “It was a pleasure. He has some good points that I’ll have to think about. And then we got talking about other things, and I was particularly interested in some of his ideas. I think they might be useful to someone I know. May I introduce them?”

  Fred and Amy looked at each other doubtfully. “Well, if he’s respectable ...”

  “He’s my nephew, and I think I can vouch for his behaviour.”

  “I’m sorry, I ...”

  “No, no, don’t be. You’re absolutely right to be cautious.”

  At the next opportunity I phoned Tybalt and explained the situation. He was sceptical, but agreed to meet Ronnie the following week. Afterwards he called me, quite excited and full of enthusiasm. “That lad’s a real find. He’s given me enough ideas to finish the piece completely.”

  “You’re giving him due credit, I hope?”

  “Of course. I’m seeing his father next week and we’ll have a proper legal contract.”

  In effect they formed a partnership, although being still a student Ronnie was only part-time and a pretty small part of the time at that. It didn’t matter: his ideas were what Tybalt really needed. The arrangement continued for years even after Ronnie got a day job with an engineering firm, and their films gained quite a reputation in their niche. They actually made money, too.

  One evening the two of them were puzzling over an episode that simply would not work logically. Ronnie was far from his usual ingenious self and seemed out of sorts generally. Tybalt asked if he were sickening for something.

  “No, it’s my mother. It looks pretty bad for her.”

  It was indeed bad, and within a month Amy Carter died. I’d met her only the once but thought that enough justification for attending the funeral. Fred was obviously distressed, and I offered condolences as best I could - “She’ll be sadly missed,” and all that.

  “Aye,” said Fred, “she will. But there’s just one thing I’m glad about.”

  “Oh? What’s that.”

  “That she never found out about what Ronnie was doing with your nephew.”

  “Why’s that? It was harmless enough, surely.”

  “Oh yes, I’m not saying anything against it, though from what he said it seemed a bit silly. But Amy couldn’t stand that sort of thing. She said there were enough problems in the world as it was, without imagining things that could never happen. The trouble I had keeping from her what Ronnie was up to!”

  His sister had arranged for refreshments to be served in the church hall after the interment. I hadn’t thought my connection warranted butting any further into a family affair, but Ronnie came up and insisted I should join them, so I could hardly refuse. He seemed particularly downcast, and at one point when we chanced to come together I offered the conventional platitudes that however great the sorrow, death is inevitable and for those left behind life must go on. He nodded absent-mindedly as though that wasn’t really the problem, then confided that he had something difficult to tell Tybalt and would like me to be present.

  “Why, what can I do?”

  “I don’t really know, but I’d be grateful if you’d come.”

  Still puzzled, but anxious to help in any way I could, I followed him over to where Tybalt was talking to someone I didn’t recognise. Ronnie evidently didn’t want to interrupt, but hung about until the stranger shook hands and departed.

  “Tybalt, I’ve got something important to tell you.”

  “Now?”

  “It can’t wait much longer. I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t go on working with you.”

  “Why on earth not? Extra family responsibilities
or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. I really should have told you years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me. What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Well, when I said I couldn’t continue, I didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I mean it’s impossible.”

  “What the ...?”

  “You see, I never had an original idea in my life. I could take one that already existed, like your sea-anemone scene, and work out all kinds of possible consequences, but I had to have something to start with.”

  “Oh?”

  “And she’d never admit it, but it was always Mum who had the basic notion.”

  Return to Contents

  ALPINE ASSIGNMENT

  Martin cursed the storm clouds gathering ahead. Already the summit of the pass was blotted out, and the murk was spreading. At this time of year that would inevitably mean a heavy snowfall, and although the road would be cleared as soon as humanly possible afterwards, it would almost certainly be blocked tonight, at least as far down as the Kaiserkrone and probably a great deal further. He must get there before that happened, as there was no other shelter on this side. Almost unconsciously he increased speed as much as the road and the car would allow.

  The summons had come two days earlier. “Kaiserkrone, evening 18th. Vital. Confirm.” In more clement seasons they had often stayed at the inn (despite the grandiose title, he would hardly call it a hotel), but he wondered what had happened to make Weston call a meeting there so urgently at the start of winter. However, he was given to sudden impulses and cryptic commands that had to be obeyed instantly, so Martin had swallowed his annoyance and hastily cancelled his own arrangements for that day plus a couple afterwards, hoping that whatever Weston wanted would take no longer. He wondered who else might be involved, as such an out-of-the-way rendezvous suggested that someone would be coming from the opposite direction. No chance of that tonight, thought Martin, unless the contact had already arrived or at least crossed the pass.

  The sky darkened overhead and a few flakes of snow began to fall. For some reason Martin thought of “Excelsior!”, or rather the parody of the original Longfellow piece in which the idiot youth bore, ’mid snow and ice, not the banner with a strange device but a cage full of performing mice. The voice in his head with a habit of making disconcerting comments startled him now with an uncomfortable notion: was he himself one of Weston’s mice? The man was undoubtedly a control freak, and Martin by no means the only performer dancing to his often nefarious tune.

  He wondered how many others had come to be in this situation, four that he knew and probably several more. One, he believed, a senior cleric, had been saved from what threatened to become a particularly damaging scandal by Weston’s pressure on the cuckolded husband. Another, the chief accountant of a company in Weston’s portfolio, had been caught with his hand in the till, and the decision not to prosecute had aroused much speculation; evidently he had talents that were too valuable to lose, or more likely information too dangerous to be let loose.

  For Martin himself it was straightforward and perfectly respectable. Years before, Weston had saved his father from a more than usually distressing bankruptcy and thereafter played rather heavily on their gratitude, although in his case for no obviously discreditable purpose. It suddenly occurred to him that since his father’s death, the debt must have been just about paid off by his own services, and perhaps it was time to start standing up rather more for himself. He was pondering this when having to correct a slide on a sharp bend brought his mind sharply back to the task immediately in hand: staying on the road until he reached the inn.

  The snowfall continued but remained light, and the wind was blowing it off the road surface. There would obviously be serious drifting later on, but for the time being there was no real problem. Nevertheless Martin was greatly relieved when the lights of the inn came in sight. One other car was already there, not one he recognised but then Weston would probably have flown in and hired it at the airport.

  The cold hit him as he emerged from the car and he paused only to grab his overnight bag before heading for the door. Inside, the open fire was a welcome sight with a well-filled basket of logs beside it, the light of the flames glinting on the gilt of the imperial crowned figure that gave the place its name. There was no one in sight, but a few seconds after he rang the bell at the reception desk Lisl Gertner appeared. “Ah, guten Abend, Herr Barratt. It is good to see you again; I was afraid you might have difficulty getting here.”

  “Thank you, Lisl. No, I was a bit worried myself, but I’ve made it. It’s a good thing I was no later, though; the storm looks serious.”

  “Yes, I fear it will be. Have you any luggage to bring in?”

  “Not just now, thank you, all I need is here. Is that Mr. Weston’s car outside?”

  Lisl seemed surprised. “No. You were expecting him?”

  The question came as a shock. “Why yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  “That is very strange.” She went through the motions of checking her reservation list. “No, there is nothing about him for tonight or any other time.”

  “It’s possible he might be using another name. He does, sometimes – for legitimate reasons, of course.”

  “Hmm. We have only one other reservation for tonight, and I do not think there could be any mistake there.”

  “He sometimes sends a deputy ...”

  At that moment a tall, rather attractive blonde came from the stairs and approached the desk.

  “Has my luggage been brought in yet?”

  “I am sorry, Miss Vishinskaya, Karl is still busy; he had to fix a window before the storm gets here, but I will make sure he brings your case as soon as possible.”

  The blonde looked displeased, and Martin saw a chance. “Can I be any help?”

  Lisl demurred, but clearly would welcome it. “I’m afraid Karl may be some time ...”

  “Is your car locked, Miss Vishnu ...

  “Yes, but ...”

  Lisl had already produced the key from the desk drawer. “Thank you, Lisl. There are two cases but I need only one of them tonight; it’s on the back seat.” Martin evidently looked surprised, and the woman smiled ruefully. “I once slid backwards into a snowdrift, so now I make sure that everything essential is to hand.”

  “I see. But are you sure you wouldn’t like the other as well, in case it’s more difficult later on?”

  “It’s very kind of you, but no, thank you. I may be leaving in the morning.”

  Lisl pointed out that it was very unlikely to be possible; by mid day, perhaps, but almost certainly not earlier. The woman was clearly not troubled by that. “Mid day will be early enough, if necessary.”

  Outside, Martin found that the snow was falling more heavily and already building up against obstructions to the wind. Sometimes, for security reasons, Weston would arrive for a meeting at the last minute and without booking ahead, but if he was planning anything of the sort this time he had better be quick about it. Martin peered down towards the valley, without much hope as visibility was already dwindling, and indeed he saw nothing.

  He retrieved the case from the back seat, quite a small one, and he wondered if despite the owner’s disavowal she might like to have the other as well, then decided that she might have positive reasons for leaving it where it was and abandoned the idea, making sure to lock the car. As an afterthought he took the case from his own. A sudden gust of wind caught him off balance and he staggered a bit, then had something of a struggle against it back to the door. Lisl was standing ready to open it quickly and close it behind him, then excused herself and returned to her duties behind the scenes.

  The blonde seemed duly grateful. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you, Mr. ...?

  “Barratt – Martin Barratt.” He couldn’t quite give it the right intonation as for Bond, James Bond, but at least it didn’t come out in a squeak as on one occasion in his adolescence when he had tried to impress.
r />   “Olga Vishinskaya,” the girl responded, and they shook hands. Martin apologised for his own’s being chilled and they moved to seats by the fire where he warmed them. Girl? he thought; no, probably mid-thirties. “Still much too young for you,” came the voice in his head. “Get lost,” he told it.

  “Vishinskaya,” he mused aloud. “Not by any chance related to – what was his name? – Andrei Vishinsky?”

  Olga beamed. “You remember him still?”

  “Not personally. But my grandfather used to work in the diplomatic service, back in the 1940s and’50s. I don’t suppose he was ever in a position to meet your Foreign Minister, but he heard a lot about him. As he told it, I’m afraid it mostly concerned his always saying no.”

  “Yes, he did have that reputation, I believe. He was a cousin of my grandfather – or was it great-grandfather? I get tangled up in the generations.”

  “Well, I’m certainly pleased to have met his great-niece or whatever the relationship may be. It’s more of a distinction than I’m ever likely to achieve in any other way.”

  Olga looked at him quizzically. “So you like to flatter? I must remember that. And just in case you are getting any ideas – ” (at least she smiled at this) – “I should tell you that I too have a reputation for always saying no.”

  At that point Lisl returned with an apology for interrupting. “We generally serve dinner at seven. Would that suit you? If you like I could bring you the menu with some coffee and torte now.”

  Olga was quite happy with that, and Martin agreed. Lisl went off to make arrangements. Martin thought about his next move.

  “Where were we? Oh, yes. I must be careful, then. But you don’t seem unsociable yourself; you wouldn’t want me to eat alone, would you?”

  Olga laughed. “I see. Well, to be consistent, I have to say no, don’t I?”

  She proved a congenial dining companion and Martin felt cautiously optimistic, despite her declared reputation, as they returned to the fireside for coffee afterwards. While they were talking, Lisl approached in some agitation. “Excuse me, Herr Barratt, but I have just heard part of a news item about a serious accident apparently involving an English businessman, Charles Weston. Could that be your friend?”

  “It’s possible. Was there anything else about it?”

  “No, that was all I caught. Maybe there will be something in a later bulletin.”

  At that, Olga finished topping up Martin’s coffee and excused herself to make a telephone call, and on returning said that she must speak to Martin in private. “Where?”

  “It will be best in your room.”

  That suited him well enough, although he had some difficulty with the key and wondered if perhaps he had taken too much of the wine with the meal. He felt surprisingly drowsy and had to apologise for yawning, hoping that the rest of the evening was not going to be a dreadful anticlimax. “Now, what’s this about?”

  “Not what you may think, I’m afraid. You’d better sit down. I’ve just been speaking to friends who might know something about this accident.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is your Charles Weston who was involved.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He had enemies, you know. He’s dead, with all his known associates, except one.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You, Martin.”

  “Well, that lets me off the hook. I can’t say I’m particularly sorry.”

  “Oh. So perhaps our meeting might not have been necessary.”

  “You mean it was arranged?

  “Yes. I am sorry; I have enjoyed your company. But don’t worry about it.”

  He yawned again. “Sorry. What are you talking about?”

  She gently stroked his forehead. “Relax, Martin. You are feeling sleepy. Relax ... relax ... That’s better. Are you comfortable now?”

  “Yes, very, thank you.” He was rapidly drifting off.

  “Good. Sleep, now. In the morning you will not awake – something in your coffee, but it will look like natural causes. So ‘Sweet dreams’, isn’t that the wish? Good night, Martin.”

  Return to Contents

  ON WINGS OF SONG

  It isn’t quite true that I can’t sing a note. I can, but never the right one, nor any remotely compatible with it. I was probably the only boy in the school’s history asked to withdraw from the house choir in the annual music competition into which everyone with any sort of voice would be dragooned. Age hasn’t improved matters, either, but then it rarely does. However, much more recently, the disability once again turned out to my advantage.

  The occasion followed a suggestion from a bright spark in local radio that organising a music festival “would put the town on the map”, a task in which, as some pedant pointed out in a letter to the press, no one had previously suggested any negligence by the Ordnance Survey. It started a correspondence about the general lack of cultural opportunities in the area. In the course of it, a clergyman pointed out that before the advent of the motorway network allowing those who could afford it fairly easy access to theatres and concert-halls in the big cities, there had been quite a vigorous circle of music and dramatic societies, now alas mostly defunct or moribund; might it be possible to revive some of them for the benefit of people with more limited resources? The churches were supposed to be concerned with the welfare of the poor, and had already been making noises about the lack of innocent activities for youngsters, so perhaps they might make a start.

  The chairman of the district Churches Together group took up the idea, proposing to set up a committee, consider the possibilities and follow up any that looked promising. Despite the groans of “Not another committee!”, the motion was passed comfortably. So was another to co-opt the originator of the Festival idea. Objections that the man had a history of appearing hostile towards organised religion were overruled - “Does it really matter in this instance?” - and he proved surprisingly agreeable. The result, a month or two later, was a circular to all the churches promoting a competition for church choirs.

  Inevitably, once Barbara Maxwell heard that St. Cyprian’s was going to enter it, she determined that St. Cyril’s also had to take part. Since her own school days, she and her opposite number in the other church had been fiercely jealous rivals in every field of activity they shared. In fact, if ever either of them was known to have taken up a new interest, the other felt compelled to follow suit, so that by the time in question the area of conflict had stretched to cover practically everything they did in public.

  Barbara was a great organiser. During the war her father had appointed himself commander of a Home Guard unit somewhere on the south coast, and she had evidently inherited much of his spirit. How poor old Fred Maxwell had attracted her matrimonial attentions, goodness only knew, but as he would say over many a commiseratory jar in the local pub, it took more pluck than he possessed to refuse or question anything that she had set her mind on doing. With her customary vigour she set about knocking the church choir into the sort of shape she thought suitable, regardless of anyone else’s ideas.

  The challenge facing her was that St. Cyprian’s choir was highly regarded, to the extent of being considered a year or so earlier to feature in ‘Songs of Praise’ although nothing came of it; apparently there was a clash of dates. St. Cyril’s was, to put it kindly, less so, but we weren’t sure how far behind at that time. Barbara wouldn’t risk giving the game away by investigating the opposition herself, but sent one of her least conspicuous minions to their Harvest Festival. Unfortunately, for about the first time in her fifty-odd years, Mabel did attract some attention; the vicar buttonholed her, asked kindly if she was new to the district and hoped she might be seen there regularly. She was possibly the world’s least convincing fibber, and I don’t know how she got out of that one, but she apparently managed to escape without betraying herself. She duly reported that we should have a hard struggle to get anywhere near their standard and I thought for a moment that she was about to sug
gest dropping the idea, but if that was indeed in her mind the expression on Barbara’s face quickly banished it.

  Quality wasn’t the only deficiency at St. Cyril’s; quantity was also lacking for the kind of repertoire to be performed, so Barbara launched an intensive recruiting drive. Excuses about “too many other commitments” were peremptorily overridden. Mercifully she was well aware of my vocal deficiencies, but they didn’t get me quite off the hook; a proper organisation must be set up, someone had to do the admin, and despite all protests that my brain switched off at the first whiff of any financial matter, the job of secretary cum treasurer landed in my lap. As a bank manager’s daughter she probably couldn’t imagine the blind panic induced by a column of figures under a pound sign.

  Somehow she got together a fair number of sopranos, altos, tenors and what might just about pass as baritones or basses, and started a period of intensive training. It was uphill work, and a wag among the tenors once claimed to have seen a posse of the local tom-cats practising boot-throwing in the moonlight on his way home after the previous rehearsal. However, the results gradually became less painful, especially after a couple of the elderly ladies were tactfully advised that their most helpful contribution would be in preparing the refreshments. It wasn’t Barbara herself with the tact, of course; she had the sense to delegate.

  For the actual competition, a coach was to be booked to transport everyone concerned, despite the plentiful private cars available and grumbles about the hire fee from some people who had expected to be given a free ride. As Barbara put it in dismissing objections, all were being treated alike, and in any case she wasn’t going to risk anyone’s getting lost or breaking down on the way. Quotations to provide the transport made my eyes water, but that from Johnnie’s Jaunts was the least exorbitant and we plumped for that. I didn’t know the firm and the frivolous trade name rather worried me, but no one I consulted had substantial criticisms while various people said it was “all right”, although with a dubious intonation that reinforced my doubts.

  I was therefore surprised when the vehicle that turned up had a recent registration, looked remarkably smart and bore a completely different name, but the driver explained that the bosses were friends and often helped each other out when one was stretched. Even so, I asked if he was sure of having come to the right place, and he indignantly waved a barely-legible note in which the name at least seemed to begin with a C. Unconvinced, I mentioned my doubts to Barbara, who was anxious to be off and too impatient to take much notice. “Stop fussing, Gerald. You’re getting to be a proper old woman these days.”

  That stung, as similar comments had recently come from much closer to home, so I didn’t press the point but saw the party off and returned to mending a broken window in the church hall. Twenty minutes later there was a hammering at the door, where a scruffy-looking character apologised for being late but the bus had had a little problem with the brakes binding. Outside was a vehicle that looked as though it had been commandeered on the way to the scrap-yard; “Johnnie’s Jaunts” was emblazoned in the only paint that might have seen less than twenty or thirty summers, and I strongly suspected that the brakes would be the least of its weaknesses. Nevertheless this was clearly the coach that we’d ordered, and the best I could do was to send the driver looking for a crowd of people waiting at St. Cyprian’s, with an assurance that we’d see the bill was paid.

  I have to confess that I was rather looking forward to rubbing Barbara’s nose in the mistake, until I remembered that “I told you so” is the surest possible way into anyone’s black books, especially when it’s true. Afterwards I was glad to have held my tongue, as on her return Barbara was anything but contrite, and in fact quite jubilant. St. Cyprian’s hadn’t turned up to the festival at all; half way through the proceedings Cynthia Graham had telephoned to say their bus had broken down decisively in the midst of nowhere and they were still waiting to be rescued. Another choir had also failed to appear, owing to illness apparently, but among the half-dozen or so that did compete, ours didn’t disgrace itself. Reports in the host town’s paper were encouraging, and we were moderately pleased with the outcome.

  Cynthia was of course furious that we’d used her coach, but despite some muttering about “dirty work at the crossroads” she stopped short of suggesting that we’d somehow engineered the situation. To anyone else it was perfectly obvious that the mistake wasn’t ours, and that there was no more we could possibly have done to correct it. When her hire invoice came in, she did try to pass it on to us, but it was for nearly twice the quotation we’d accepted and we weren’t having that. In any case we’d already paid Johnnie’s bill and Barbara told her, none too diplomatically, to sort it out with the coach firms. Cynthia said something about legal action, but it wasn’t clear who she thought of suing, and according to the grapevine her husband pointed out that if she did try it on, the only people likely to gain anything from it would be the lawyers. Her best course would be simply to ignore her invoice and let the owners make an issue of it if they wanted to publicise their blunder. Naturally, her relations with Barbara were frostier than ever and there was no further communication between them about it, but as we heard no more of the matter it seemed she must have taken that advice.

  Meanwhile, Barbara’s ambitions had expanded. Despite murmuring behind her back about delusions of grandeur, she now talked of opera, no less. Fortunately she didn’t aspire to Verdi or Puccini, still less to Wagner (“Too pagan” was the reason given for disregarding a tongue-in-cheek suggestion of the ‘Ring’ cycle), but she thought that as ‘Dido and Aeneas’ had been written for a school it shouldn’t be too demanding. Fred surprised everyone by daring to point out the fallacy in that argument: so was most of Vivaldi, and it was far from easy. Typically, Barbara brushed that aside. At least, to general relief, she wasn’t going to risk a fully-staged version, so no one had to memorise a part completely.

  Accordingly auditions were held, in some secrecy since no one wanted St. Cyprian’s to get wind of what was planned before we were ready. The first session went tolerably well, but quite clearly no one there was of anything like the calibre needed for the crucial role of Dido herself. Nothing daunted, Barbara canvassed people for another session the following week and had a special appeal, in more general terms, put in the parish notices.

  It evidently had some effect, and spirits rose as several fresh hopefuls turned up, only to sink again as one by one they were put through their paces. Then Joan Price arrived, apologised for being late and proved herself the only possible choice with her rendering of ‘When I am laid in earth’ despite a few catty remarks about its being about the only place she hadn’t been. Actually I believe she was rather fastidious in such matters, but that’s beside the point. Afterwards Audrey Gibbs asked for a private word and objected on moral grounds, but for once I almost applauded Barbara for telling her first to mind her own business, and then when she persisted producing a quotation that people who were hardest on the more generous sins tended to go in for the meaner ones. It must have struck home as we never saw Audrey again; she was no great loss and had caused trouble before, so if anything that was a relief.

  There wasn’t much option for Aeneas, either. Herbert Smallman’s stature matched his name, while a diffident manner and a pale toothbrush moustache added nothing to his dignity, but he had undoubtedly the best of our tenor voices and could use it well. His looking anything but a hero hardly mattered, Barbara insisted. She produced an old record sleeve with a sardonic note that Aeneas was a hero simply by profession; he didn’t in fact have to do anything at all heroic in the plot, quite the reverse. The idea of so unimpressive a figure in a passionate love scene with the voluptuous Joan still boggled a few minds, but didn’t Samuel Johnson define opera as “an irrational entertainment”? Anyway, it was the best we could do. For the rest, we had quite a decent Sorceress, a tolerable Belinda, and a more or less adequate chorus of witches and sailors.

  Half-way through rehearsals, Mabe
l Goodwin brought some disturbing news. The daughter of an old school friend had asked her to stand as godmother to her child, something she was delighted to do, but she was told only later that the christening was to be at St. Cyprian’s. She could hardly escape notice on such an occasion, and the vicar did indeed remember her previous visit on reconnaissance, but his attention was of course mainly elsewhere.

  After the service, tea and biscuits were offered in the church hall, with something stronger for those who preferred it. Mabel clearly had to appear reasonably sociable but needed to keep her wits about her and steered clear of the alcohol. In the course of conversation, one of the parishioners asked where she came from and commented that someone had transferred from St. Cyril’s quite recently, a Miss Audrey Gibbs; did Mabel know her? Of course she did, but disclaimed familiarity, and wondered what was coming. It seemed that Audrey had made a point of cultivating Cynthia Graham’s acquaintance and become quite thick with her, causing a certain amount of resentment in the process; it was apparently on her suggestion that a public recital by their choir was to be given on a particular date, which as Mabel realised just happened to be the same as had long been planned for our production.

  The town might just about provide a decent audience for one such event, but not for two on the same night or even in the same month, so this was evidently a bit of deliberate sabotage on Audrey’s part. We couldn’t change our date, and there was obviously no point in Barbara’s asking Cynthia to change theirs, so we were flummoxed until someone suggested that even if the principals to the dispute could never be brought to deal directly with each other, secondary figures might make some headway. After all, that was the way international business usually worked. But was there anyone with enough influence on Cynthia? And if we did find someone, who could make contact without immediately arousing suspicions?

  As it happened, Joan Price overheard this and came up with an idea: she worked in the same department as Cynthia’s brother and had a slightly better than nodding acquaintance with him. He had been widowed a few months earlier after a reputedly happy marriage, still seemed down in the dumps, had noticeably lost weight, and she had occasionally passed him looking dismally through café menus; why shouldn’t she invite him to come for a bit of decent home cooking, try to cheer him up and see if she could get anywhere that way?

  This seemed as good a scheme as any, especially (although no one actually said it) since Joan’s figure suggested at least competence in the culinary art. However, after she had left, Mavis Bannister was doubtful about the ethics of the scheme. Barbara had had a frustrating day and was in no mood for scruples. “For goodness sake! We’re not asking her to seduce him.”

  “That isn’t quite what I had in mind, but since you mention it, supposing she does? Wouldn’t we be responsible, at least partly?”

  “Look, I may be my brother’s keeper, but certainly not Cynthia’s brother’s. He’s old enough to look after himself, and it’s a kindly approach even if there is an ulterior motive. In any case, whatever she meant by trying to cheer him up, we don’t actually know that Joan’s such a man-eater; it’s only rumour - wishful thinking more than anything, I dare say.”

  Nevertheless there was a good deal of speculation on how things might turn out, and we waited eagerly for a report at the next rehearsal. Barbara tried to damp down expectations, especially among the more prurient (“We aren’t likely to get a blow-by-blow account, whatever may or may not have happened”) but that didn’t stop a fair amount of increasingly elaborate fantasising until she came down like a ton of bricks on speculating openly; indiscretions outside the circle might endanger the whole plan, so far as any sort of plan existed.

  The intention had been to take Joan’s report, supposing there was to be one, after the main business of the evening, but people’s minds were clearly not on it so that after three or four fluffed openings, Barbara accepted the inevitable and asked Joan how her idea had worked out. Fairly well, it seemed: Gordon had shown some surprise at her invitation, but after a moment’s hesitation accepted rather more readily than expected. He proved very much the gentleman, turning up on the dot with an acceptable bottle of wine, did full justice to the meal, complimented her on her cuisine and when the time came to depart said with every sign of sincerity how much he had enjoyed the evening.

  In fact he had invited her to dine with him less than a week later at a restaurant, but Joan pointed out that none of those she knew was likely to produce a meal half as good as she could make at a fraction of the cost; not bragging, but realism. Gordon took the point, but was embarrassed by the arrangement’s being so one-sided with Joan doing all the work. He himself had never learned to cook beyond boiling an egg or at a pinch frying sausages and bacon, but that gave Joan the perfect opening for an offer of tuition: “Just in cookery!” she emphasised to us with a twinkle when some eyebrows were raised. She was well aware of her reputation and rather enjoyed it, I thought; that was one reason why I doubted it.

  Nevertheless this development naturally gave rise to a good deal of banter, which Joan typically took in good part and handled deftly without giving very much away. “That’s all very well,” Barbara told her a couple of weeks later, “but we still don’t know whether Gordon actually has any influence over Cynthia. And we haven’t all that much time left.”

  “He doesn’t say a great deal about her, though there’s no suggestion of anything less than normal family affection. But in any case you can’t expect her to change her arrangements without a convincing reason, however close they may be.”

  “Well, has anything come up that might suggest such a reason?”

  “Short of the hall’s burning down there’s nothing obvious.” Even Barbara stopped short of contemplating arson, so it began to seem that successful as Joan’s enterprise might have been socially, it hadn’t taken us much further with our problem.

  However, while Joan was giving Gordon the next lesson, Cynthia happened to call and Joan was duly introduced as the tutor. “So you’re getting him to look after himself a bit better? I hope it’s healthy eating.”

  “Well, reasonably. A fair amount of fruit or veg. and not too much in the way of chips and fried stuff.”

  “Good.” Then she turned to the reason for her visit. “Gordon, you’ll have to do something about the parish council.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “They’re turning stroppy about our rehearsal times in the hall.”

  “I’d have thought they’d be glad to have the rent.”

  “That’s the point. We’re actually paying only for our usual two sessions a week. We had an informal arrangement that so long as no one else needed the hall and we didn’t have the heating on, the hall committee would look the other way, but Donald Ferguson heard about it and put his foot down. He’s very sorry but the parish can’t afford to be so generous.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to pay up, then.”

  “But we can’t afford it, either. The scores cost far more than we’d expected, and you know there’s been a crack-down on copying. Can’t you tackle Donald and get him to change his mind?”

  “Well, I’ll have a word, but don’t build up any hopes.”

  After she had gone, Joan wondered why the church choir needed to pay rent at all to the church, but Gordon explained that it had been formally reconstituted as a choral society a few years back to qualify for some funds on offer at the time, and the parish church council had insisted reasonably enough that they couldn’t have it both ways, at least when putting on a secular event. They would normally rehearse in the church, but a long-overdue programme of structural repairs had at last been started now that the builder found a slot to fit it in, and the place was constantly smothered in dust; hence the need to use the hall.

  Joan duly reported this interesting intelligence the next time we met, and it struck me that if we were worried about the prospect of a competing event, St. Cyprian’s had at least as much cause
for alarm about the loss of revenue due to a clash, and there would be mutual benefit in avoiding it. Obviously Barbara could never raise the question with them, and it would be best not to risk blowing Joan’s cover such as it was, so it was settled that I should approach Cynthia and put the situation to her. A discreet enquiry showed that their hall rental was significantly higher than ours, so I suggested that as an olive branch after the business with the coach hire, we should offer the use of our hall when it wasn’t otherwise occupied. Barbara of course demurred, but Fred told her not to be so silly - the worm really was showing signs of turning - and with much less trouble than I’d expected, it was agreed.

  I’d never actually met Cynthia in person and wondered what to expect. She turned out to be a small, wiry and clearly very determined lady with whom it would be unwise to trifle, and would have been sure to see through any flannel, so I came straight out with our anxiety about the coincidence of dates and she took the point immediately. Which of us should move was the question, and I thought it best to haggle over that for a little while before playing what I hoped would be our trump card.

  That was followed by a full twenty seconds of complete silence. I could almost hear the cogs whirring. She then asked whether the offer depended on a postponement of her concert, as I confirmed, and she nodded quietly. After a shorter interval she said “Right. To be honest, we could do with another month’s preparation. We’ve had a lot of trouble with illness, and trying to catch up with extra rehearsals in the same week doesn’t suit everyone. It’s a bit awkward in some ways, but on the whole I think putting it back will be best all round.” We shook hands and parted quite amicably.

  After this, Barbara expected Joan to be relieved that the purpose of her ruse had been achieved and she could drop it, but instead the reaction was of shocked indignation. “What sort of woman do you take me for? To go back on a promise because I don’t need to make use of him any more? I shouldn’t dream of it!”

  I’d never seen her so angry, nor Barbara so taken aback. “W-well, if that’s the way you look at it ...”

  “Yes, it damn well is. Now can we get on with the rehearsal?”

  Interesting, I thought. Joan certainly went up a notch or two in my estimation, and the expressions on a few other faces seemed to register approval. Barbara was still a bit wobbly by the time for a break, and actually asked me whether she’d put her foot in something.

  “Maybe, but don’t worry. Joan’s got it off her chest -” (a rather unfortunate anatomical reference, it later struck me) “- and I don’t think she’s one for grudges. That’s probably the end of it.” Even so, I wondered whether more was going on than we realised.

  Evidently there was. Joan actually brought Gordon along to the next rehearsal and introduced him. He seemed, as she had said, very much the gentleman, paying close attention and sitting quietly, apart from a little gentle applause now and then. At the break he came up and commented that he understood I’d had dealings with his sister; how had I got on with her? “Pretty well, I think. She wasn’t giving anything away unnecessarily, of course, but she struck me as quite straightforward.”

  “Good. She said something of the sort about you, too. But I believe there’s a long-standing feud of some sort with Barbara; do you know what that’s all about?”

  “Only that it’s something hanging over from their school days. I don’t suppose you know any more?”

  “No, I’ve always thought it best not to ask. Discretion the better part of valour, and all that. But I do wish it could be cleared up.” I wondered what his interest might be, and he explained that he’d heard a great deal about Cynthia’s choir from her, and latterly a fair amount about ours from Joan; it seemed a pity that two organisations doing much the same kind of thing in the same town should be at loggerheads when they might do much better by co-operating. “I’m sure you realise that your lot aren’t as good as Cynthia’s, but you’re not bad, and you’ve got ambitions which is more than I could say of hers. Think of what you might do together.”

  Actually, I couldn’t, and pointed out that in any case the chances of getting Barbara and Cynthia into the same team were negligible; there’d be constant bickering over who was to be in charge.

  Gordon nodded understanding and paused for a moment. I wondered what was coming. “Of course,” he said, “there is one person trusted and respected by both parties.”

  I wondered who that might be. “Why, you, of course.”

  I was flabbergasted. “You’re not suggesting that I should run this ... this ...”

  “That’s precisely what I am suggesting.” But the break was over. “Think about it,” he urged, as we went back to our places. We had no further opportunity to talk that evening.

  The more I thought the less I liked it, so when he phoned a couple of days later I explained that Barbara might trust me as a fairly reliable dogsbody, but would never contemplate me as a manager. “Don’t call it management, then. How about ‘liaison’?”

  “I don’t see that that would help all that much. In any case, why are you so keen on the idea?”

  “Better not explain over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or intrigued by this suggestion of plotting, but after a moment’s thought suggested a pub likely to be noisy enough to prevent casual eavesdropping. Gordon insisted on buying the drinks and found a place in a relatively quiet corner by the outer wall. “Why all the mystery?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s rather silly really, but I’ve been particularly enjoined not to let cats out of bags too early. The point is that our firm has linked up with another in the States, and the boss is in a tizzy of keeping up with the transatlantic Joneses - not that anyone involved is called that, so far as I know. When he went across to clinch the deal, their big man treated him to a concert given by a chamber orchestra that they support, and seemed to take it for granted that we’d have some similar arrangement. Of course, he couldn’t bear to lose face by simply admitting that we haven’t, and he seems to have dug himself into a hole too deep to get out of, so now we’re scratching around looking for something that might serve. And we haven’t found it.”

  I wondered where all this was leading. “I’m coming to that, please let me do it in my own way. Now, I was quite impressed by what I saw of your ‘Dido’ the other night, but it’s a bit amateurish - no offence, I hope.”

  “None taken. That’s an understatement.”

  “Right. Cynthia’s bunch is much more polished, but unadventurous. Put them together, and we might really have something. Something that Watsons could be proud to sponsor.”

  That really was food for thought, but we needed specifics. “Just what would that involve?”

  “It would have to be worked out by agreement, of course. On your part, a certain number of appearances per year - not more than half a dozen, I should think, maybe less. On ours, the obvious things are to provide matching costumes - some professional coaching perhaps - subsidised travel ...”

  “Travel?”

  “Oh, yes, you’d have to go about a bit. Get yourselves noticed more widely. Otherwise there’d be no point.”

  “Don’t forget we have other responsibilities - jobs to do, families to look after ...”

  “Yes, yes, of course all that would have to be taken into consideration. But there’s no sense in getting ahead of ourselves; what do you think of the general idea?”

  “Hmm. Well, I can certainly see it appealing to Barbara; I’m not sure of the others. Probably mixed feelings. How does Cynthia react?”

  “I haven’t mentioned it to her - wanted your reaction first. Can I take it that you don’t completely rule out the idea?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s fair enough, but my influence really doesn’t amount to much; hardly anything, in fact, so for goodness sake don’t exaggerate it. This is just a possibility that we’ll have to consider.”

  “That’s fine.” He finished his glass and a
sked if I fancied another, but I was driving and declined. He produced his card, scribbled a private number on the back, and asked me to get in touch when I had something to report. “Discreetly, of course,” he emphasised.

  All this obviously had to be discussed straight away with Barbara herself, in confidence; there’d be ructions if she found out that anything of this sort had been going on behind her back. As expected, her first thought was of who would be in charge of combined operations, and it seemed unwise to mention Gordon’s proposed solution, at least at this stage. Instead I suggested that she and Cynthia could alternate, which might work as a provisional arrangement until we saw how things went. That was where we left it. Meanwhile we had our own production to get up to scratch, and we concentrated on that for the next few weeks.

  The St. Cyprian’s people turned up as arranged and were grateful to find that I’d negotiated on their behalf a serial booking at a slight discount on the normal rate for casuals. As a further touch I suggested that our two tea-ladies might do the honours for them; at one time or another they had both commented on having rather limited social opportunities, so as expected they agreed readily and seemed to enjoy mixing with a new crowd. One week when the schedule had to be rearranged, by some oversight a few of St. Cyprian’s were not notified, arrived on our evening and stayed as guests, making themselves quite agreeable. All in all, the prospects for joint activities were beginning to look rather promising.

  In the event, ‘Dido’ went off pretty well despite an outbreak of first-night nerves that put a few fluffs, and perhaps a bit of extra zing, into that performance. We had good support from St. Cyprian’s, greatly appreciated. I’d sent a complimentary ticket to Cynthia, not expecting her to use it but it seemed a worthwhile gesture; she could always give it away. In fact she turned up in person, although very slyly at the last minute and slipping into a back seat with a signal to keep mum about it. She even sent a note of thanks afterwards with more generous comments than I thought really deserved, again just for my own attention.

  It was therefore no great surprise when a ticket to her concert came for Barbara. I’m afraid she was rather nasty about it in private, but I persuaded her to be at least civil and she deputed the long-suffering Fred to represent her. It wasn’t his line at all, but he endured it with at least a pretence of interest; enthusiasm was too much to expect. I went under my own steam and was pleased to see Joan and Gordon arrive together.

  After all this, the idea of joining forces on occasion seemed much less far-fetched than I had first thought possible, and discussions started in earnest. When proposed by Gordon I reluctantly accepted, purely for procedural purposes, the post as chairman of the managing committee. Watsons asked for ideas on the kind of uniform to be used for appearances under their sponsorship, causing a flurry of interest among the ladies and impatience in the men. Because of other commitments, the line-up was likely to vary substantially from time to time, so it would be wasteful to have fitted costumes for all, and we settled on a simple tabard to be worn over the ladies’ own white blouse and dark skirt, or the equivalent for men.

  The choice of blazon for the tabard posed some difficulty; “Watson Tonight?”, suggested I believe by Harry Roberts who had reported the boot-throwing cats, was quickly dismissed as frivolous, but more constructive thoughts were sparse. Eventually we plumped for a simple “WATSONIA” as both design and name for the combined group. Especially for Harry’s benefit I emphasised that the stress should be on the second syllable, not to make it sound like “What’s on ‘ere?”

  Eventually we got round to more substantial matters, such as ideas for an inaugural concert. To save arguments it was agreed that it should be in two parts, respectively conducted, and the content chosen, by Barbara and Cynthia. The crucial question, of course, was who should come first. There was a certain amount of indecisive manoeuvring around it until someone suggested alphabetical order, but that would depend on whether based on Christian or surname. After about ten minutes of this nonsense Fred lost patience and told them for goodness sake to stop messing about and toss a coin for it, and so it was done.

  Afterwards I couldn’t resist commenting quietly that this was the third time I’d noticed him getting involved in Barbara’s arguments, to increasing effect it seemed. He rather sheepishly said that he’d read somewhere (best not to ask where, I thought) that women really liked to be dominated, and while he couldn’t hope to do that it was worth trying to be less of a doormat. “And does she like it?” I wondered.

  “Well, she hasn’t complained yet.”

  Bill Watson himself naturally wanted to see what his sponsorship was achieving, and Barbara belatedly realised that it might be a good idea to inquire about his tastes. According to Gordon, he was practically tone deaf and wouldn’t know Billy Budd from Buddy Holly, but his wife was fairly knowledgeable and it would be diplomatic to involve her. Accordingly a programme committee was set up (groans all round), naturally including Barbara and Cynthia, and Elizabeth was invited to join it. Barbara was a bit prickly at first, but in time grudgingly admitted that her contributions were quite helpful.

  The next question was where to hold the concert. Obviously it had to be on neutral territory, but of the immediately local possibilities, the town hall was far too large and expensive, while the others were inconveniently small. I started to look into the likelihood of being able to get a reduced rate for a special occasion from whoever might be responsible for managing town properties, but felt I was being passed around like a Chinese parcel and was thoroughly fed up with it when the answer came out of the blue.

  A Russian businessman, finding things a shade too hot for him back home, had bought a dilapidated Georgian house a few miles away and spent what to us would be a substantial fortune, but to him was probably peanuts or whatever the Russian equivalent might be, on restoring it to its original glory augmented by a full complement of mod cons. He was anxious to ingratiate himself with the local community, or at least its more prominent members, and had cultivated acquaintance with all those he thought particularly influential, including Bill and Elizabeth Watson. To help matters along he had thought it advisable to change his rather jaw-wrenching name by deed poll to Stephen Norris, which bore some faint resemblance to the original.

  His particular pride among the renovations was in the music room, and he had thought of having a house-warming party on midsummer’s eve for his new-found cronies in the form of a concert. The idea at first was to get some well-known ensemble such as the King’s Singers or the Northern Sinfonia, but of course they were all booked up for years ahead and he had to lower his sights. On some convivial occasion he was bemoaning the difficulty to Bill, who promptly offered the services of Watsonia, without mentioning that it hadn’t yet actually performed publicly. Norris, naturally, jumped at it.

  This news was received with mixed feelings. At least we had a venue, and practically everyone was eager to see what had been done with the Manor. On the other hand, it was a very different kind of occasion from what had been contemplated, so that families could hardly expect to be invited. Moreover, it meant a late night further away from home than some of the members relished. Then Mavis Bannister pointed out that Norris’s past business practices were strongly rumoured to have left rather a lot to be desired, and should a church group really be associated with such a person? Barbara would have referred her to a biblical text but couldn’t for the moment think of the right one, so simply told her not to be so finicky. In any case, like it or not, we were committed.

  Norris had arranged a coach to take us out to the Manor, and when it turned up something about it struck me as familiar. It took a few minutes to dawn on me: of course, it was the same one as we had inadvertently taken over from St. Cyprian’s, and the same driver, too. While we were waiting for one or two stragglers I wondered if there had been any repercussions. He had been called in to explain the mistake (more likely to get a rocket, I thought), but in view of my query had fortunately still k
ept his instructions which all concerned eventually had to agree were practically illegible and he had been right to follow the verbal directions he had been given. There was a great deal of amusement about it at the depot, but the boss had been furious and insisted on stricter procedures however great the haste; as it was his writing that had caused the confusion in the first place there was little more he could do about it.

  We wondered on the way on whether the musicians would be consigned in traditional fashion to the servants’ hall or allowed to mix with the nobs. We needn’t have worried; the supper was a buffet and all were invited to tuck in. Then there was a short break before the concert, and after that Barbara came up to me in an agitated state to ask if I’d seen Joan, whom she had left talking to Norris. He was not visible either, but Mabel thought she had seen them heading for the garden.

  Despite bright moonlight, I could see no one out there apart from a bear-like security guard who appeared apparently from nowhere and simply grunted when questioned, probably not understanding. However, a sort of gazebo a hundred yards or so from the house looked a likely spot, confirmed as I approached by a murmur of conversation followed by a very definite “No!” from Joan. It seemed best not to notice the slight disarray of her costume but simply to apologise for the intrusion and say she was needed for the performance; nor was there any obvious need to mention the circumstances to anyone else.

  Our show went down pretty well, but Norris had not returned after the interval and even by the end had not reappeared. His wife tried to apologise for him, but her English was not up to it. Very soon a smooth young man relieved her of the task, explaining that his master was unavoidably detained but would want him to thank them for coming and wish them a good journey home. He was just coming to the end of this when the guard rushed in, obviously distraught, and jabbered something in Russian. The young secretary questioned him about it, then apologised to the gathering for some bad news: Norris had been found dead in suspicious circumstances, the police would obviously have to be brought in, and until they gave permission he was very sorry but no one could be allowed to leave.

  The police duly appeared, in fact with a good deal more than their usual alacrity, quickly established that practically everyone had multiple alibis from people with no evident reason to lie, and allowed them to go home. The exceptions, of course, were the guard, Joan and myself. Rodney Cartwright, the secretary, vouched for the guard’s being loyal to the point of self-sacrifice if necessary, but that was no help to us; the officer in charge apologised but we would have to stay until a more senior colleague arrived in the morning. Cartwright quickly arranged rooms for us (to my amusement he asked discreetly whether one or two; someone later joked that I’d missed a trick there) and promised to have us driven home the next day unless the police made other arrangements. I didn’t like the sound of that but of course he simply meant on transport.

  It was rather pleasant to spend a night in utter luxury, although on the whole I should have preferred my own bed, but at breakfast Joan said she had hardly slept. She had been worried in case events in the gazebo should cast suspicion on her, and presumably on me as a possible accomplice, so would it be best to keep quiet about them? I assured her that that would be the worst possible thing to do, as the guard was almost certain to have heard as much as I had and drawn the same obvious conclusion. It was far better to tell the truth, that Norris had made a pass at her, been rebuffed but accepted the refusal with a tolerably good grace. We both knew that he seemed perfectly fit when we left him, although he could easily have had a sudden heart attack or something of the sort afterwards. The idea of anything more sinister seemed at the time too far-fetched to contemplate seriously.

  When Inspector Williams arrived, with more apologies for having to keep us overnight, I therefore asked what were the suspicious circumstances that required it. “The little matter of a knife in his back,” was the rather convincing answer that promptly took the wind out of our sails. We gave our accounts in a more subdued mood. Both were compatible with each other, and although that was only to be expected given the ample opportunity for collusion, the guard had seen us leave the gazebo to return directly to the house. As the body had been found some distance away, and the time of death was most probably later, Williams said we seemed to be in the clear but should leave our contact details in case of need.

  The local paper naturally splashed “MIDSUMMER MURDER” as a banner headline on the front page of its next issue, while some of the nationals did the same less prominently and not always with the correct spelling, but the excitement quickly faded. The crime was never solved, so far as I know; the general assumption was that Norris’s past had caught up with him. Natasha Norris reverted to her patronymic, sold up to a merchant banker and returned to her family in St. Petersburg. After another three months the whole business had faded into the background.

  There was however a postscript: spring-cleaning at the Manor turned up some evidently valuable property very personal to Natasha, presumably overlooked in the move. The banker took it to have been included with the house and would have sold it, had his wife not insisted that it ought to be restored to its original owner. How that might be done was the problem, but the maid who had come across the stuff happened to know Rodney Cartwright’s address and suggested that he might have ideas. He had indeed been in correspondence with Natasha’s family over outstanding business and duly reported the find. The property was considered too precious to be entrusted to a commercial carrier, so he was asked to deliver it in person. He never returned. Two and two could be put together in various ways, but one widely accepted implied that the connections between the individuals concerned were a good deal less coincidental than had appeared at first sight.

  The business at the Manor had brought Watsonia very much to public attention and it received several requests to perform at various events, although Cynthia as a good businesswoman was at pains to point out that we couldn’t guarantee the violent death of the organiser, neatly turning any superstitious anxiety on that score. To one of these occasions Bill Watson brought along his American counterpart, Cyrus B. Wallace III, who turned out to be much less pompous than his dynastic moniker and was clearly impressed.

  A few weeks later he mentioned to Bill that his silver wedding anniversary was coming up in that year, his wife was an opera fan, and he would like to put on for her sake a performance in which Watsonia would join forces with his chamber orchestra. Barbara thought the idea decidedly over-ambitious, but Cynthia pointed out that ‘Dido’ had come off quite well with only limited resources and piano accompaniment, so with their combined forces and Wallace’s band they should be able to do something quite elaborate. She had in mind a reduced form of ‘Un ballo in maschera’, naturally in translation, and in the version adapted to escape censorship. She was obviously thinking of its being set in America as a compliment to our host, but I’m sure that at the back of her mind if not more prominently was a sense of familiarity in the story of a cuckolded husband killed by the wife’s paramour who happens to be his secretary. So it was that we came to do Verdi after all.

  The great advantage of singers over most other musicians when travelling is that the carrier can’t lose their instruments. It can however lose their material luggage, and of course it had to be Barbara’s that went missing. Fortunately we had a couple of days for rehearsals with the band; exchanging recordings over the preceding weeks had been useful and necessary, but no substitute for physical presence in the final stages. Thus Barbara, with much help from the Wallaces, was able between sessions to shop around for replacements to fill the immediate need. She couldn’t however find a dress that satisfied her, until Gwyneth Wallace pointed out that they were of very similar size and build, and Barbara would be more than welcome to borrow one of hers.

  Gwyneth’s wardrobe was substantial and the choice was obviously going to take some time. The two women started chatting about other things, and Barbara commented that Gwyneth didn’t real
ly sound American. Quite right; it seemed she had been born in Britain, but brought to America by her foster-mother when in her teens. Foster mother? Yes, she was one of twins born to a mother who had emotional difficulties and could only cope with one, as had somehow slipped out despite instructions that she was never to be told anything of her origins.

  Barbara of course wanted to know what Gwyneth intended to wear for the occasion, and was duly shown. Don’t ask me the details; to me a dress is simply a dress, and I’m usually more interested in the wearer. Barbara however thought it very special, but needing a little something in the way of extra adornment. Gwyneth agreed, producing a curiously designed brooch that she always wore with it and provided exactly the right additional touch.

  Barbara nevertheless detected, or imagined, a certain sheepishness in Gwyneth’s manner at this point and wondered why, then apologised if she had put her foot in something delicate. “Ah, well,” Gwyneth said, “confession is supposed to be good for the soul, isn’t it?”

  “Confession?”

  “Yes. It isn’t really mine at all.”

  “Come on, you can’t leave it at that! Not now you’ve aroused my curiosity.”

  It seemed that the foster-mother had not entirely lost touch with the real parent, and heard that the other twin was at a boarding school near a resort that they visited occasionally. During one such break, Gwyneth was left for a few hours to her own devices and wandered over to have a look at the place. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and a door had been left open. The temptation to investigate was too great to resist, especially as the area seemed deserted, and she was particularly interested to see what the bedrooms were like. In one of them she noticed a newly-opened box and in it a most unusual brooch. She was engrossed in examining it when a girl of about her own age came in, so without thinking she pocketed the brooch and jumped out of the window. Only later did she find the object in her pocket, knew that she ought to return it but couldn’t think how. Barbara wondered that she could bring herself to wear it. “Two reasons. It’s beautiful, and it reminds me that I’ve done something dreadful when I’m tempted to criticise anyone else.”

  The two women eventually agreed on a dress for Barbara, who then had to dash off for the next rehearsal. All went smoothly after that, and I have to admit that at the party after the show, Gwyneth looked stunning. I was telling her so when Cynthia came up with her own compliments, but then noticed the brooch and asked if she might have a closer look. That surprised me, as she didn’t usually take much interest in such things, and she explained that she had once had one very similar, supposedly of unique design. “What happened to it?”

  “I lost it long ago. But excuse me, I must go and have a word with Barbara.”

  At least they were now on speaking terms, but then I saw that their conversation appeared quite uncharacteristically friendly, and the look of astonishment on Barbara’s face was one I’d never seen before and haven’t since. I couldn’t resist commenting, and she explained that a puzzle of ancient history had just been resolved. She and Cynthia had once been friends; their feud stemmed from an occasion when a particularly valuable piece of jewellery had been stolen and Cynthia claimed to have seen her escaping after taking it. Barbara couldn’t understand how such an accusation could be made, while Cynthia couldn’t forgive the apparent betrayal of friendship, still less tolerate the denial of what seemed plain fact.

  It took a little while for the implications to sink in, and then of course Cyrus had to be told. I must say that once over his initial shock, he handled the situation beautifully. At a suitable point in the proceedings he banged a spoon on the table for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not one for long speeches as you know, so I shan’t take much of your time. On behalf of Gwyneth as well as myself, thank you all for coming here and making our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary such a memorable occasion. Thanks particularly to Watsonia for coming over the pond to entertain us, and to our own band of musicians for joining up with them. Of course you expected me to say all that, but now there’s something else completely unexpected. It turned up only a few minutes ago. I shan’t go into the ins and outs of the story, at least not this evening, but we have just now found out that Barbara Maxwell of Watsonia and my wife are almost certainly sisters, separated since early childhood. Yes, we’re as staggered as you are. So now, please get on with enjoying yourselves while we try to get used to the new situation.”

  Gwyneth was naturally anxious to return the brooch at last to Cynthia, who wouldn’t however hear of it. “No, no, my dear, it’s just right on you, and on me it would be very much de trop. Keep it with my good wishes.”

  “But you must have something to make amends!”

  “Well, all right, if you insist.”

  “I surely do. Let’s go out tomorrow and find it; there should be time before your flight.”

  So after that, as the prisoner said to the judge, everything was hunky-dory. Even Barbara’s missing luggage turned up just as we were about to leave. There obviously wasn’t time for a proper family reunion on that visit, but Barbara arranged with the Wallaces to make plans for a real slap-up occasion later.

  Back home, this familial revelation was the talk of the town, with the paper eager to publish some of the party snaps, and it probably boosted Watsonia’s audience for the next performance quite a bit. That was last autumn. Now we have another piece of excitement, more conventional though none the less happy for that, coming up next month. Joan and Gordon are getting married and have asked me to give the bride away. Cynthia is to be Matron of Honour. I’m rather looking forward to it - so long as no one expects me to sing.

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  SKIDDLETHORPE

  I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Skiddlethorpe. It isn’t much of a place, especially since the decline in the wool industry: just a cluster of cottages, a few outlying farms, a pub, and a tiny church alongside the River Skiddle at a point where a rough path from nowhere in particular to somewhere even less distinguished crosses the stream by an ancient hump-backed bridge. It was supposedly built in the fourteenth century by monks from St. Cyrus’s abbey on instructions given in an apparition of the Virgin Mary to one Hannah Goodenough, much to the amusement of neighbours familiar with her way of seeing things that weren’t there, especially on nights of celebration. However, they kept quiet about that; they weren’t going to spoil the chance of being saved from wet feet in the winter spates, and neither were the folks from Nip and Seld who passed that way on their monthly sessions of competitive games in their alternating hostelries.

  What those games might have been in the distant past is unknown, although according to a document of 1520 in the British Library a wandering preacher complained bitterly of a devotion to the sport of “tapgroat” that kept men away from Sabbath worship. Its nature is uncertain, although the recent discovery of a polished board ruled with parallel lines and of about that age suggests an obvious possibility. Latterly the contest has been a straightforward darts match between teams of three on the second Sunday, in the afternoon to avoid the hazards of walking in the dark during the winter.

  That preacher was a rarity. For most of history, Skiddledale has been almost completely isolated from the outside world. Visitors were practically unknown, although it was rumoured that once in 1804 William Wordsworth wandered in and out again without leaving much impression on either himself or the locality. The Domesday Book makes no mention of it, while the Ordnance Survey got the name of the settlement wrong and the river does not appear at all on most maps. Again, until quite recently it was rare for inhabitants to venture far outside the valley except in times of particular hardship, and those who left for more than a visit to market never returned. A general ignorance of worldly affairs thus remained undisturbed and unlamented.

  In the mid-nineteenth century, however, a metalled road was built, ostensibly to bring the benefits of modern civilisation but suspected to be in reality more to do with taxation. That, accordi
ng to valley opinion, was when the rot set in.

  The rot, I regret to say, took the bodily form of my great-great- ... -grandfather Nathaniel, fleeing north after a scandalous affair with the wife of a Nonconformist minister who had a considerable following among the rougher labourers as well as the manufacturing classes. For a time he stayed at the inn of a nearby town, but when the fuss failed to die down as he had hoped, he looked around for somewhere to settle more or less permanently. The isolation of Skiddledale suited him very well; he found an unclaimed plot of rocky land above the flood line beside the river, cleared the bracken and built a house, unremarkable by urban standards but palatial to the locals. Conveniently, a tributary stream fed by a never-failing spring gave a reliable supply of water, soon piped directly from the spring itself. In later years it also powered a succession of electric generators as more and more aids to contemporary living were installed.

  Nathaniel brought in his own servants, but few of them could stand the isolation for long and he tried to hire local staff. Unfortunately for him the internal economy of the valley ran largely on a barter system and he had nothing to offer but money, in amounts too great to be accommodated on the slate in the pub that for generations had served as an accounting system for the community. That was a problem he had never met before nor even imagined. Realising however that people did go outside to market, he hit upon the idea of making residence slightly more attractive to his own people by bringing the market, enhanced with a greater variety of stock, to the valley itself.

  The Skiddledalers, though deeply reserved with strangers (“’E keeps hisself to hisself” was high praise), were not ill-disposed towards off-comers who had occasionally arrived for reasons into which no one ever inquired, however peculiar their ways might be so long as they caused no trouble and put on no airs. Nathaniel and his small remaining menage seemed to fit in quite well. Simon Rumbold, an elderly and rather morose widowed groom who liked a modest tipple, had made a habit of visiting the pub and over the first six months earned acceptance by confining his greetings to a simple nod and saying hardly anything to anyone apart from his orders and a general gruff “G’night” on leaving. It was his task to visit the market for supplies, and Nathaniel commissioned him to observe discretely what other people from the valley were buying.

  Then there was the matter of premises. In the valley’s climate the idea of a regular open-air market for anything but farm produce would have been ludicrous, and while Nathaniel could well afford to build from scratch, there was no suitable site available. However, Ezekiel Farley had a large dilapidated barn, housing odd bits of broken equipment that he had never got round to fixing but might come in useful some time, close to where the metalled road ran out; to say it terminated would give an altogether too positive impression. It was not a picturesque ruin, just a mess, and Nathaniel had often thought his view down the valley would be greatly improved if it were to collapse altogether. Another possibility now presented itself. He visited Farley with a proposal to put the building into good order in return for permission to maintain and use it as he wished for as long as he wished, with no further obligation on either side afterwards. In a less innocent community Farley might have had doubts, but he could see no objection and the two shook hands on the deal; that was as close to a legal contract as the Skiddledalers ever came. Nathaniel nevertheless made a note of the terms for his own records.

  The building work went slowly and occupied the best part of a year, with a break during the winter, and Farley came in for a good deal of muttered criticism for the disturbance. It didn’t bother him. At the end of it there was a capacious structure still in keeping with other buildings around though a great deal better finished, fitted internally with store rooms and sales counters, and outside over the door a board inscribed “SKIDDLEDALE EMPORIUM” in clear but tastefully subdued lettering. Being at best barely literate, most of the villagers had no idea what it meant but agreed that it looked very fine.

  In the following days they were at first puzzled and then worried by a succession of wagons bringing large packing cases that were carried inside with considerable effort and shortly afterwards brought out evidently empty to be taken away. Then there were alarming stories of Nathaniel’s having been closeted in long private conversations with Harry Birtwhistle, the innkeeper. A rumour started about supposed plans to transform the pub beyond recognition, an idea so horrifying as to prompt a delegation of protest. Harry hastily assured them that nothing of the sort was in the wind; plans were being made, to be sure, but the character of the pub was sacrosanct (I paraphrase, of course).

  The scheme eventually turned out to be for a grand opening of the new store with the monthly contest between Nip and Seld forming the principal event. Since at that time different games were played in the two regular locations, and choosing either one for this occasion would obviously favour its usual host community, something different was needed, and a committee comprising Nathaniel himself, Ezekiel Farley and Harry Birtwhistle as chairman was set up to consider what it might be. In order to provide a real challenge for the contestants as well as entertainment for spectators, the decision was to have a competition in story-telling: teams of three as usual, with each member to have up to five minutes – there was little fear of over-running. Scoring was to be by the committee with Harry having the final say in case of disagreement. As a prize Nathaniel donated a bottle of his best cognac; despite comments that it would be wasted on Skiddledalers, he insisted that anything less would be an insult to a community that had provided him with a refuge when he most needed it.

  Come the day, so many people turned up that the pub could not accommodate them all, so a makeshift stage was set up in the store, which fortunately had been arranged with the counters around the edge of the main hall leaving a large clear area for the gossiping that was an essential feature of any market. As it was a Sunday there could be no question of actual trading, but the range of goods was set out and Nathaniel had arranged for a small promotional gift to everyone who turned up. Local unfamiliarity with cash trading was the cause of the venture, so prices were set out in terms of commodities, and if anyone noticed that a stone of potatoes cost ten pounds of carrots while a stone of carrots cost two of potatoes, he didn’t mention it. Nathaniel considered the margin very reasonable.

  Someone had pointed out that half an hour of actual story-telling was not really quite enough, so it was arranged that a local team, not actually competing, would provide a “friendly” supplement. Each team was given a store room for final rehearsals before the presentation. There would be three rounds with Skiddlethorpe last in each, and a pause for refreshments between them. I shouldn’t attempt to reproduce most of the actual stories even if they had all been recorded, as the Skiddledale dialect is fairly impenetrable and a translation into standard colloquial English would probably fall flat as a pancake, but the last one from the local team is an exception. “Well, we’ve heard the others, and I’m sure we’ve all enjoyed them. Mine is very short, but the funniest of the lot. While all that was going on, we have drunk the brandy.”

  And it was true; no one had noticed before, but the bottle had disappeared. There was uproar, threatening to develop into a nasty scrimmage until Nathaniel calmed it by bellowing “Quiet, please,” and explaining that he had sent Simon to fetch a replacement. Remaining resentments were side-tracked when young Jennie Hardcastle suddenly went into labour and was rushed into a side room while various matrons scurried around doing what was necessary.

  Nathaniel’s asking whether the father was there produced an embarrassed silence. All anyone knew was that it was someone outside the valley, and Jennie wouldn’t give his name; she might not know it herself. Harry said that they were anxious to find one as Jennie’s father would not have his own attached to the bastard, and a sudden idea occurred to him: would Nathaniel, familiar with the outside world, suggest one that might be suitable?

  While Nathaniel was pondering another diversion arose. A shepherd
from the valley head shoved his way through the crowd and complained that all the price lists were in terms of arable produce: how much was a bale of wool worth? “Wool worth?” muttered Nathaniel, sotto voce in irritation with the distraction, but it was picked up.

  Young Johnny thrived, eventually emigrating to America where his own son became a successful businessman. And that, according to our family, is how the name Woolworth later became so familiar.

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  THE LEGEND OF THE HURDY-GURDY

  Harold Watkins was addicted to ferreting around in antique shops; real ones, not the fancy purveyors of meretricious tat that you find in any town with a holiday trade. To the intense irritation of his rather formidable wife he would spend hours searching to little if any effect through piles of what she would call rubbish. As often as not, to judge by the dust, they had been undisturbed for decades if not generations, usually for very obvious reasons, but just occasionally he found something worth his attention; once in a blue moon it would serve as a peace offering to Angela, of whom he was actually fonder than he would admit. Perhaps realising this she restrained the urge to nag him into a better occupation for his time, biting her tongue except when he became lost in his enthusiasm and missed an important engagement - important, at least, in her eyes. It was better than chasing other women, although on reflection she thought the idea of his summoning either the energy or the enthusiasm to chase anyone a shade grotesque.

  One day however she lost patience. She had heard of a sale in a town a couple of dozen miles away, and with some difficulty persuaded Harold to drive her there. Directions given at the car park were fortunately precise: “Left at the roundabout, left again after a couple of hundred yards opposite Star Antiques, then first right and it’s straight ahead” - to Harold’s relief without the usual over-optimistic “You can’t miss it.” The mention of Star Antiques raised his spirits, until the first sight of it suggested that at best it was in the red dwarf category. Even so, browsing there was obviously preferable to serving as a beast of burden, and with some annoyance at not having the expected porter for her purchases, Angela agreed to meet him there when she had finished her shopping.

  It went badly. She didn’t get what she really wanted, and spent more than she intended on poor substitutes, so her temper was decidedly ragged as she strode into the back room of the shop to haul him out. There she found him staring up at a scrimshaw ship model on a high shelf, shuffling around to get different perspectives, in a familiar state of indecision. “For goodness’ sake - still dithering? What’s the matter with you?”

  “I rather like the look of that ship, but I can’t see what condition the other side is in.”

  “Of course you can’t. You’ll have to get it down.”

  “I can’t reach it - at least, not without most likely damaging something.”

  Gritting her teeth, Angela silently counted three; she would have burst before reaching ten. “Then get the shopkeeper to do it for you. He must have a stepladder or something.”

  “I haven’t seen one. And he’s gone off for a few minutes. I’d have asked earlier only he was busy.”

  Angela was slightly taller and could probably reach the model, but Harold stopped her. “For goodness sake be careful. Those things can be very valuable.”

  “Then what on earth is it doing in the back room of a junk shop?” With some difficulty she took it down, and found it to be badly damaged on the far side. “Well, there you are; what did you expect?”

  She was about to replace it but caught a glimpse of a curious object in the shadow behind and her manner suddenly changed. “Hang on to it a moment, Harold. There’s something else here.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell. It looks interesting, but there are other things in the way. Is what’s-his-name back yet?”

  Harold took the ship, lodged it in a temporary berth and went in search, returning with an elderly man who looked as though he too might have been stuck on a shelf and forgotten for the past ten years. “Found something, have you?”

  “Maybe. For the moment I just want to see what it is.”

  “I’ll get the steps.” He did so, and after shifting a few other things took down an oddly-shaped casing a couple of feet long, with a fairly elaborate sort of keyboard, an extension with a group of holes and a single remaining peg at one end, and a crank handle sticking out of a wheel housing towards the other.

  Harold wondered what it was. The dealer too was puzzled. “That’s funny. I’ve no idea. In fact I don’t remember seeing it before. And the ship hasn’t been there all that long.”

  Only half a century, Angela nearly suggested. Instead she asked if it might be on a stock list. “I used to have one. But I got behindhand with it and never caught up, so it hardly seemed worth keeping.” Particularly with things you can’t identify, thought Harold. He had a momentary day-dream of what the book might be like, with entries on the lines of “odd-looking gubbins that might be some sort of mechanical gadget” - not a great deal of help.

  He was startled by Angela’s asking “How much?”

  “Eh?”

  “What do you want for it?”

  “Oh - er - say twenty quid.”

  “That’s a bit steep when you don’t know what it is. And didn’t even know you had it.” She tried turning the handle, which moved freely enough but without apparently doing anything in particular. “And whatever it’s supposed to be, it obviously isn’t complete. Most of these pegs are missing, and goodness knows what else besides.”

  “All right, fifteen?”

  “Ten?”

  “Done.”

  “Harold, have you ...?”

  Harold, relieved to avoid a longer haggle, dutifully produced his wallet.

  Outside he had more to say about it. “What on earth did you do that for? After all you’ve said about collecting worthless junk.”

  For once Angela was defensive and at a loss for a good answer. “It’s peculiar - I just knew I had to have it. Don’t worry, you’ll get your ten pounds back.”

  “That isn’t it. If it pleases you, that’s good enough for me. I just wondered why.”

  “Put it down to feminine intuition, if you like.”

  “Intuition of what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Can’t you simply say I wanted it and leave it there?”

  Harold knew well enough not to dig further. He did however mention the incident to a friend when they next met. Andrew was only mildly interested in it as behaviour, since he maintained that there was no accounting for women’s ways in general, but he was thoroughly intrigued by the description of the object. He suggested it might be some kind of hurdy-gurdy - an ancient and respectable instrument, he stressed, not to be confused with the Victorian street piano - and jumped at the chance when Harold asked if he would like to see it.

  “Ah, yes, I thought so. It looks as though it would have one stopped string and four drones that could be selected by these buttons. They’d be anchored to the ring here, then passed over this bridge to be stroked by the wheel, and the pegs at the other end would adjust the tension.”

  And so on with a technical discussion of what strings could be used and how they might be set up. Harold found himself quite keen to do that and to hear what it would sound like. “Probably not brilliant. But with mechanical bowing and stopping, it should at least be less painful than you can get from a violin if you’re not too good at it. And it might improve with use; they say a decent violin does, though I’ve never heard an explanation that made sense.”

  Soon afterwards Angela returned from an errand and Andrew explained the nature of her find over coffee. He too wondered casually what had induced her to buy it, and she had no better idea than before, especially since the urge to possess it had faded as suddenly as it had seized her. In fact ... “You seem particularly interested, Andrew.”

  “Yes, I’ve never come across one of these before, not to examine it. T
he odd one at a distance, or pictured in a book. Never close to.”

  “Would you like to have it, then?”

  “What! Are you serious?”

  “Yes, perfectly.”

  Harold was astonished. “What’s come over you? After you were so keen to buy it.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve changed my mind, that’s all.”

  There was clearly no point in arguing, especially in view of her evident embarrassment; after all, it was traditionally a woman’s prerogative, however puzzling it might be. Angela came back to the point. “Anyway, Andrew, how about it? It’s yours if you’d like it.”

  “Well, if you’re really sure ... I’d love to. It’s a real treasure trove. How much ...?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You’re welcome to it.”

  “I hardly know what to say - but thank you very much indeed!”

  They arranged that Harold would get his nephew to make replacements for the missing pegs, then deliver it to Andrew who would meanwhile get such strings as his violinist daughter-in-law might recommend. She happened to be visiting with her own teenage daughter on the day, and young Julia was immediately fascinated by the instrument, watching the fitting of the strings like a cat at a mouse hole. Several times Andrew had to tell her to get her nose out of the way. Deciding a suitable tuning for the strings took much discussion and experiment, but then of course Julia had to try playing it. Although a length of binding tape served for the time being as a sling, she still took a little while to get the hang of holding the case steady while cranking the wheel, but once she did and found her way round the keyboard, she produced some tunes that sounded promising if a little strange. In time she gradually became fairly proficient.

  A few months later, Andrew mentioned a second-hand bookshop that had opened recently near his home, so of course Harold had to investigate. Most of the stock could be passed over with scarcely a glance: the inevitable pound-apiece box of shabby paperbacks, sheaves of old prints, a display of remaindered coffee-table blockbusters handsome enough but far from his interests, outdated technical manuals (“Modern Photography” with a torn dust-jacket depicting an early Leica) and rack after rack of novels and memoirs that probably hadn’t been read for half a lifetime but lacked the attraction of greater age.

  The shopkeeper, who had been occupied with a customer, approached and asked if he could help. Harold doubted it, but feeling it would be churlish to leave it at that, commented on the recent opening. Had he been in the trade elsewhere? “Yes, I was in a partnership, but it was going rather sour. The lease of this place came up, so we split the stock and here I am. What do you think of it?”

  This put Harold on the spot, and the most diplomatic verdict he could give off the cuff, without a lie that would be betrayed by failing to purchase, was “Well - rather disappointing, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

  “I was hoping you might have some older stuff.”

  “Oh, sorry. My partner was more interested in that sort of thing. But now I come to think of it, there’s a box in the store from a house that was being cleared a few weeks ago, and I haven’t got round to sorting it yet. To be honest I’d forgotten about it. It was really only dumped here and I’m not too hopeful, but you’re welcome to rummage through it if you like.”

  Harold took up the offer, chiefly out of courtesy. Unpromising as it was at first, he persisted and rather to his surprise found at the bottom a little volume on mediaeval and renaissance musical instruments that in view of recent events he thought might interest Andrew, even if he himself found little of value in it.

  “Any good?” asked Angela when he returned home.

  “Not much. But I did get this. More Andrew’s line than mine, but it eased my conscience a bit.”

  “It’s about time you learned to harden your heart when there’s really nothing you want.”

  “I usually do, but ... well, he’s newly set up and was helpful ... I’ll just have a quick dip into it.”

  “Hmm. I know your quick dips. Remember, lunch will be ready in half an hour.”

  He had barely started when the telephone rang, a sales call that he dismissed more abruptly than usual. On returning he found that the book had fallen, fortunately without damage, but open at a different page where something caught his attention. “Hey! This is interesting!”

  “What is?” came slightly muffled from the kitchen.

  “It says here that Antonio Stradivari - “

  “The violin-maker?”

  “That’s him - it says he used to tell a family legend about some mad ancestor who also made musical instruments and actually had quite a good reputation for them. But his particular pride was in his symphonies - “

  “I thought you said he was an instrument-maker, not a composer.”

  “Yes, ‘symphony’ at that time was a posh name for the hurdy-gurdy. Anyway, it seems he claimed they were better than rebecs, fiddles and the like. Utter nonsense, of course - they couldn’t possibly match a bowed instrument.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can get a better variety of tone and more expression with a separate bow.”

  “Perhaps they weren’t up to such subtleties in his day.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. There’s no indication how far back the story went. At any rate he didn’t think much of the musicians who came to him for instruments, and eventually said he was going to put his whole soul into a symphony so good that it would itself search out performers worthy of it. At that point the family decided that this whiff of sorcery was liable to get them all into serious trouble and told him to clear off - go away to England or somewhere - “

  “Why England?”

  “Because (it says) they’re all mad there.”

  “Charming! What happened to him after that?”

  “No one was quite sure, though there’s a cock and bull tale about his making a bargain with the devil to put the extra powers into his masterpiece, and ending up being carried off to hell - you know the sort of thing. Probably all invented by the folks back home after he’d gone. The kind of story to tell at Halloween. Anyway, they used it as an awful warning to any of the clan who seemed to be getting a bit too big for his boots.”

  Angela thought the ancestor sounded an interesting character, and it was a pity not to know more about him. “Yes - supposing he really existed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, maybe old Antonio just made up the tale to amuse his friends. Or one of his forebears cooked it up to put down a cocky youngster.”

  “There must have been something behind it. After all, there was even a real Faust. The same man, perhaps?”

  “Faust was German. And there’s nothing in the legends about his having anything much to do with music, is there?”

  “Not that I know. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

  “That way you could argue anything. And there’s no need. There were all sorts of weird beliefs and practices about that time, and all sorts of people dabbling in them. It isn’t like a provincial theatre - you don’t have to economise on actors.”

  “That reminds me, did you remember to pick up the theatre programme?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “I haven’t looked at it yet. I put it somewhere - ah, yes, got it. Good lord!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Guess what they’re doing next month.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Doctor Faustus!”

  “A bit ambitious, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have said the company was big enough.”

  “If they’re doing it in full. But you can double some of the parts, and a lot of the buffoonery with minor characters is often cut. Do you fancy seeing it?”

  “Might be interesting. What else is there?”

  “Nothing very exciting. Take a look.”

  “Not no
w - I’m just serving up. So come and get your lunch.”

  With Andrew and his wife they decided to make the theatre visit a foursome. Afterwards Harold mentioned to Andrew the story of Stradivari’s ancestor and his supposed Faustian bargain for a super-symphony, which he thought seemed a very one-sided deal just for one instrument. “Well, it should at least have made his reputation.”

  “He had that already.”

  “Yes, as a good run-of-the-mill craftsman. He probably wanted more. And maybe there was more to it than that - supernaturally heightened skill in everything he did, perhaps. And probably a few choice perks on the side. These legends usually involve some more down-to-earth benefits, don’t they? Like fabulous wealth, or being irresistible to any woman he fancied.”

  “I suppose so, if there was anything in it at all, which I very much doubt.”

  “You’re just an old cynic, Harold.”

  “A sceptic, yes, where that sort of thing’s concerned.”

  “I wonder - if you were offered that sort of bargain, what would you go for?”

  “What’s the point? It’s never likely to happen.”

  “Something of the sort can these days with a lottery win.”

  “It can provide the wealth, yes. But that seems a very mixed blessing - positively ruinous, sometimes.”

  “Fair enough. But what else would you ask for?”

  “I need notice of that question. One thing’s certain - nothing on earth would make me irresistible to women!”

  “Just as well,” commented Angela, re-joining the conversation.

  She had soon become impatient with all this fanciful speculation, and asked how Julia was getting on with her studies. “Quite well. But Ruth says she spends too much time on the hurdy-gurdy since Andrew lent it to her a while back, and the music teacher is afraid her piano-playing may suffer.”

  “Plenty of people do play two completely different instruments, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but the teacher thinks that Julia has just about enough practice time for one, quite apart from the little matter of ability. And if she ever did take up another, it ought to be something still in general use, with wider possibilities and a standard repertoire. One of the woodwinds, perhaps.”

  “What does Julia say to that?”

  “It’s rather worrying. She gets unreasonably cross whenever it’s put to her.”

  “The awkward age?”

  “A year or two ago I’d have put it down to that. She was difficult over all sorts of things. But she seemed to be getting more amenable lately - until this came along.”

  “I didn’t know you’d lent the hurdy-gurdy to Julia,” Angela commented to Andrew.

  “Yes, it seemed sensible, though I’m sorry if it’s caused trouble. I’d had a good look at it and satisfied my immediate curiosity. And it was more convenient for Julia than having to come round to my place when she wanted to play it. It’s easier for me to go there if I want. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all. It was a gift, with no strings attached.”

  “True,” remarked Harold. “We fitted those later. Sorry -” as Angela threw a cushion at him; “You did rather walk into that one. I couldn’t resist it.”

  “You wouldn’t try!”

  Andrew was startled. “Angela! What’s bitten you? I do believe you’re getting positively kittenish.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d have thought the idea of your going in for anything like pillow-fighting was too bizarre for words.”

  He was right, Harold realised; Angela was habitually as staid a matron as could be imagined. But now he thought of it, she did seem to have become more relaxed recently. With a jolt he remembered her sharing a joke with the postman the day before, and his thinking it rather odd in a way that he couldn’t quite pin down. That was it; it would have been unthinkably out of character a year or even six months earlier. “Well, we can’t stand on our dignity all the time, can we?” she said.

  “Is that the royal we?”

  “No, it applies to all of us.”

  A bit sweeping, Harold thought. He tried to remember an occasion when he had stood on his dignity, but failed miserably. It wasn’t in his nature, and besides, with Angela around he never felt he had enough dignity to stand on; it wouldn’t bear his weight. Still, if it meant she was going to be less prickly in future, that was all to the good and there was no point in spoiling it by quibbling.

  Julia meanwhile was at a party and not enjoying it. She had always been serious-minded, if anything a bit of a loner, not to say a prude. The invitation to a neighbour’s eighteenth birthday celebration at a large hotel nearby had been sent only as a formal courtesy, as she knew perfectly well, and an excuse would neither have surprised nor offended anyone; quite the reverse. Indeed, she would not have accepted but for the urging of her mother. Much as Ruth pushed her to succeed in her studies, she worried about the lack of social contact, so although Julia would have greatly preferred a quiet evening with a book, she was persuaded to go for the sake of peace at home.

  She delayed as long as she could so that the party was in full swing when she arrived, and came fully down to her expectations. The noise was barely tolerable, conversation impossible even if she had seen anyone who might want it, she drank at most in moderation and had no time at all for the other stimulants that she supposed were to blame for much of what she was disgusted to see going on. After fending off several clumsy approaches by lads who would never have given her a second glance when sober or if their original partners were still upright, she escaped into the garden for a breath of fresh air. Given a break in the racket she would try to thank Sylvia and leave. Otherwise, she would leave anyway after a decent interval. No one would miss her.

  The night was clear but rather chilly so she wandered over to a summerhouse that promised some shelter from a light breeze. On the threshold she stumbled and fell against someone already there, a man she guessed to be about twenty, who caught her and hushed her apologies. He introduced himself as Sylvia’s brother Martin, down from university for the occasion but no more impressed than Julia by the proceedings, although that was not his only reason for being out there: the view of the stars was better than he would normally get. “Are you interested in those things, then?”

  “Well, the night sky is beautiful. I don’t often get a chance to see it so well - too much artificial light near my digs.”

  “Can you recognise all the constellations?”

  “A few. You know the Plough, I suppose, over there, with the Pole Star in line with the two stars opposite the handle. On the other side of the pole the big W is Cassiopeia. That way the V on its side is Taurus and the rather faint little group to the right is the Pleiades. Then behind Taurus, Orion is just coming up, with the particularly bright reddish star in the top left corner. That’s really spectacular in winter. And there I run out!”

  Julia was impressed. “Is that what you’re studying?”

  “No, I’m reading maths. Star-gazing is just a bit of light relaxation.”

  “Do you have any other? When it’s cloudy, for instance.”

  “As it happens, yes. I’m in a small early music group.”

  “Not quite the sort of thing Sylvia’s brought in!”

  Martin shuddered. “No indeed. We go mostly for Tudor and Stuart stuff.”

  “Very civilised. Period instruments, I suppose?”

  “Not originals, of course, but copies or imitations for the most part. A modern fiddle fits in fairly well, luckily.”

  The wind was rising and Julia shivered. He asked if she would like to go inside. “I think I’d better go. The noise seems to be getting worse.”

  “May I see you home, then?”

  “Thank you - I’d like that.”

  Under a clear sky the wind grew cooler as they walked, and after a moment’s hesitation she invited Martin in for a coffee to warm him up. “That’s all I’m
offering, by the way. Apart perhaps from a biscuit or two.”

  He remembered how a particularly strait-laced friend had been embarrassed to find on one occasion that very much more than coffee was expected, to huge amusement when the tale got out. Not that Martin had thought Julia at all likely to be a man-eater, but on the whole he was glad to avoid any risk of misunderstanding. “Thanks. That would be very welcome.”

  When she went to prepare the coffee, he noticed the hurdy-gurdy where she had left it before going out. He was still examining it when she returned with a tray. “Oh, you’ve found that old thing.”

  “Yes, it’s quite remarkable. There aren’t many about. Where on earth did you get it?”

  “It isn’t mine. Grandad was given it by a friend, and lent it to me because I was interested.”

  “Do you mind if I try it?”

  “Not at all - but have your coffee first.”

  From his first touch he seemed to have a natural affinity with the instrument, but after a few minutes he stopped and looked doubtful. “What’s the matter, Martin?”

  “Something’s not quite right. I think it might be better with different tuning. May I alter it?”

  “Go ahead. We had no idea what it should be - that’s just the first we found that seemed to work tolerably well.”

  Martin adjusted the tensions a few times, then found a set-up that pleased him and played a few simple tunes. “That’s marvellous - how did you do it?”

  “I went for what would naturally suit some of the music we have from that age. I’d love to be able to play it with the rest of the group.”

  By this time Julia’s parents had returned from an evening engagement but waited for an opportune moment before coming in and being introduced. “That last bit sounded a good deal better than Julia’s efforts. What have you done to it?”

  Martin explained, and then wondered, very tentatively, if there could be any possible chance of borrowing the instrument occasionally. Ruth looked questioningly at Julia, who swallowed a few times before suggesting that in fact Andrew might well be willing to give it to him. “But surely ...”

  “I think he’d want it to go to whoever played it best. And that seems to be you.”

  Martin eventually agreed that Julia should ask her grandfather about it, and then it was time for him to go. The good-nights at the door seemed to take rather a long while, and Ruth looked quizzically across at her husband. Cyril responded with a wink. “Seems a nice lad,” he simply said.

  At his celestial window, Alessandro Stradivari chuckled happily. An incurable romantic, he had been an inveterate match-maker in his later years, sometimes with disastrous results. It was as well that only a part of the wizardry invested in his favourite symphony had been remembered, and at that the less important part. But this one looked promising. Yes, he thought as the friendship developed, very promising indeed. Or so the legend goes.