Betty’s day clearly hadn’t been too great either. You could tell not so much from her face as from her manner: no bustle.
‘You don’t tell me yours, and I won’t tell you mine.’ Robin didn’t even lift his head from the kitchen table where he’d fallen into a sleep of dismay and frustration. ‘We’ll call it a shit amnesty.’
Ten-fifteen on this cold, misty, moonless night. Betty had been out since mid-afternoon. She’d been to see the widow Wilshire in New Radnor again, taking with her an arthritis potion involving ‘burdock and honeysuckle, garlic and nettle and a little healing magic’. Betty was good with healing plants; after pissing off her parents by walking out of teacher training, she’d worked at a herb garden and studied with a herbalist at nights for two and a half years. She’d gone to a whole lot of trouble with this potion, driving over to a place the other side of Hereford yesterday to pick up the ingredients.
‘How is she now?’
‘Oh… more comfortable. And happier, I think.’
Around six she’d phoned him to say she was hanging on there a while. Seemed Mrs Wilshire’s home help had not made it this week and she was distressed about the state of her house and her inability to clean it up. So Betty would clean up, sure she would. Wherever she went, Betty added to her collection of aunts.
‘OK,’ Robin said, ‘if she’s so much better, I give up. Where’s the bad stuff come in?’
‘It isn’t necessarily bad — just odd.’ Betty took off her coat, hung it behind the back door, went to get warm by the stuttering Rayburn. ‘So you first. It’s Ellis, isn’t it?’
‘No, haven’t heard a word from Ellis. This is Blackmore. He faxed. He doesn’t like the artwork.’
‘Oh.’ Betty pushed her hands through her hair, letting it tumble. ‘I did say it was a mistake, dealing with him directly. You should have carried on communicating through the publishers. If he can get hold of you any time he wants, he’ll just keep on quibbling.’
‘It was what he wanted. And he is Kirk Blackmore. And, frankly, quibbling doesn’t quite reach it.’
‘Not something you can alter easily?’
Robin laughed bleakly. ‘What the asshole doesn’t like is… everything. He doesn’t like my concept of Lord Madoc — his face is wrong, his hair is wrong, his clothes are wrong, his freaking boots are wrong. Oh, and he walks in the wrong colour of mist.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Betty came round the back of his chair, put her hands on his shoulders, began to knead. ‘All that work. What does it mean? What happens now?’
‘Means I grovel. Or I take the one-off money and someone else’s artwork goes on the book.’
‘There’s no way-’
‘Betty… OK. I am a well-regarded illustrator. Any ordinary, midlist fantasy writer, they’d have to go with it. Blackmore, however, is now into a one-and-a-half-million-pound three-book deal. He walks with the gods. Different rules apply.’
Betty scowled. ‘Doesn’t change the fact that he writes moronic crap. Tell him to sod off. It’s just one book.’
He sat up. ‘It’s not moronic. The guy knows his stuff. And it’s not just one book. His whole backlist’s gonna be rejacketed in the Sword of Twilight format, whoever’s artwork that should be. Which is seven books — a lot of work. Face it, I need Blackmore. I need to have my images under his big name. Also, we need the money if we’re gonna make a start on getting this place into any kind of good condition. We were counting on that money, were we not?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Right, end of story. Back to the airbrush.’
She bent and kissed his hair. ‘You’ve gone pale.’
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t expect it. It was a kick in the mouth. Do me good — getting too sure of myself. All right, go ahead. Regale me with the unglad tidings you bring back from the big metropolis.’
They’d taken to calling New Radnor the big metropolis, on account of it having three shops.
‘Well…’ Betty sat down next to him. ‘Mrs Wilshire was all worked up because she remembered she’d promised to get the home help to hunt out some of the Major’s papers relating to… this place. He kept them in a wooden summer house in the garden. And of course, the home help didn’t show up. Anyway, she gave me the key. That’s why I’m so late. I was in there for over an hour. Quite a little field HQ the Major had there: lighting, electric heater, kettle, steel filing cabinet.’
‘And she let you loose in there? Almost a stranger?’
‘She needs somebody to trust.’
‘Yeah.’ People trusted Betty on sight; it was a rare quality.
‘And she wanted it sorting out, but quite clearly couldn’t face going down there, because of the extra responsibility it might heap on her, which she’s never been good at. And also because there’s a lot of him still there. You can feel him — a clean, precise sort of mind; and frustration because he couldn’t find enough to do with it. So when he was buying a house, he was determined to know everything, get the very best deal.’
‘Not like me, huh?’
Betty smiled. ‘You’re the worst kind of impulse buyer. You even hide things from yourself. You and the Major wouldn’t have got on at all.’
‘So what did you find?’
‘Mrs Wilshire said I could bring anything home that might be useful. I’ve got a cardboard box full of stuff in the car.’
‘But you didn’t bring it in?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Betty leaned her head back. ‘I’ve read enough for one night. No wonder he kept it in the shed.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I mean, in one respect, Major Wilshire was like you — once he’d seen this place, he had to have it. But it also had to be at the right price. And of course he wasn’t remotely superstitious. An old soldier, he wasn’t afraid of anything that couldn’t shoot him. But I suppose that if he happened to come up with certain information that might upset any other potential buyers…’ Betty stopped and rolled her head around to ease tension. ‘It’s funny… the first time I ever went in those ruins, I thought, this is really not a happy place.’
‘This is something the agent should’ve told us? We get to sue the agent?’
‘How very American of you. No, I rather doubt it. All too long ago. Anyway, they told us about Major Wilshire’s death, which was the main drawback, presumably, as far as they were concerned.’
‘So what is this? The ruins are haunted?’
‘We jumped to conclusions. We assumed the church was abandoned because of flooding or no access for cars. Or at least you did.’
‘I assumed. Yeah, assuming is what I do. All the time. OK.’ Robin stood up. ‘I can’t stand it. Gimme the car keys, I’ll go fetch your box of goodies.’
When he arrived back with the stuff, she had cocoa coming up. He slammed and barred the door. He was tingling with cold and damp.
‘Whooo, it’s turned into fog! Was it like that when you were driving home?’
‘Some of the way.’
Just as well he’d fallen asleep earlier and hadn’t known about the fog; he’d have been worried sick about her, with the ice on the roads and all.
He dumped the cardboard wine box on the table. ‘Best not to go out at night this time of year, living in a place like this. Suppose it was so thick you drove into the creek?’
‘Brook,’ Betty said.
‘Whatever.’ Robin unpacked the box. Mostly, it seemed to be photocopies, the top one evidently from some official list of historic buildings.
CHURCH OF ST MICHAEL, OLD HINDWELL.
Ruins of former parish church. Mainly C13 and C14, with later south porch and chancel. Embattled three-stage tower of late C14, rubble-construction with diagonal buttresses to north-west and south-west…
And so on. There were a couple more pages of this stuff, which Robin put aside for further study.
‘Like you said, looks like the Major built up a fairly comprehensive background file.’
He turned up some sale particulars similar to the one he and Betty had received. Same agent — and same wording, give or take.
‘A characterful, historic farmhouse with outbuildings and the picturesque ruins of a parish church, in a most unusual location…’
All true enough, as far as it went. Next, Robin found several pages ripped out of a spiral-bound notebook and bunched together with a bulldog clip. There was handwriting on them, not too intelligible, and a string of phone numbers.
‘What’s this?’
‘Don’t know. Couldn’t make it out. There’s all kinds of junk in there. Mrs Wilshire told me to take it anyway. I think she just wanted to get rid of as much as she could. Right, there you are… that’s the start of it.’
He lifted out a news cutting pasted to a piece of A4. The item was small and faded. ‘Rector Resigns due to Ill Health.’
It said little more than that the Reverend Terence Penney had given up the living of Old Hindwell and had left the area. A replacement was being sought.
‘When was this?’ A date had been scrawled across the newsprint but he couldn’t make it out.
‘Nineteen seventy-seven.’
‘That late? You mean the Old Hindwell church was still operational until seventy-seven?’
‘’seventy-eight, actually.’
‘Why did I have it in mind it must have been abandoned back in the thirties or forties?’
‘Because you were sold on the idea that it was due to motor vehicles and the brook. Read the letter underneath. It’s from the same woman who wrote the piece in the newspaper.’
It had been typewritten, on an old machine with an old ribbon.
Lower Lodge
Monkshall
Leominster
Herefordshire
18 May
Dear Major Wilshire,
Thank you for your letter. Yes, you are quite right, I did have the dubious honour of being appointed Radnor Valley correspondent of the Brecon and Radnor Express for a few years in the 1970s, receiving, if I recall correctly, something like one halfpenny a line for my jottings about local events of note!
My reports on the departure of the Reverend Penney were not, I must say, the ones of which I am most proud, amounting, as they did, to what I suppose would be termed these days a ‘cover up’. But my late husband and I were comparatively recent incomers to the area and I was ‘walking on eggshells’ and determined not to cause offence to anyone!
However, I suppose after all this time there is no reason to conceal anything any more, especially as there was considerable local gossip about it at the time.
Yes, the Reverend Penney was indeed rather a strange young man, although I am still inclined to discount the rumours that he ‘took drugs’. There were some hippy types living in the area at the time with whom he was quite friendly, so I suppose this is how the rumour originated.
In retrospect, I think Mr Penney was not the most appropriate person to be put in charge of St Michael’s. He was a young man and very enthusiastic, full of ideas, but the local people were somewhat set in their ways and resistant to any kind of change. The church itself was not in very good condition (even before Mr Penney’s arrival!), and the parish was having difficulty raising money for repairs — there were not the grants available in those days — and it was a big responsibility for such a young and inexperienced minister.
Yes, I am afraid that what you have been told is broadly correct, though I must say that I never found any signs of mental imbalance in Mr Penney, in his first year at least. He was always friendly, if a little remote.
My memories of THAT day remain confused. Perhaps we should have suspected something after the small fire, the slippage of tiles from the roof and the repeated acts of apparent vandalism (I realize no charges ever resulted from these continued occurrences, so I hope I can trust you, as a soldier, to treat this correspondence as strictly confidential), but no one could really have predicted the events of that particular October morning. It would not have seemed so bad had it not been raining so hard and the brook in such spate. Naturally, quite a crowd — for Hindwell — gathered and there was much weeping and wailing, although this was quickly suppressed and after that day I do not remember anyone speaking of it — quite extraordinary. It was as if the whole village somehow shared the shame.
No, as you note, the big newspapers never ‘got on’ to the story. Small communities have always been very good at smothering sensational events almost at birth. And what was I, the village correspondent, supposed to write? I was not a journalist, merely a recorder of names at funerals and prize-winners at the local show. Furthermore, later that day, I received a visit from Mr Gareth Prosser Snr, together with Mr Weal, his and our solicitor, who stressed to me that it would ‘not be in the best interests of the local people’ for this to be publicized in any way. Mr Prosser was the county councillor for the area and served on the police committee and was a personage of considerable gravitas. It was not for me, a newcomer, to cross him over an issue of such sensitivity!
The Church of England (the village is in Wales, but the parish is in the Diocese of Hereford) chose not to take any proceedings against Mr Penney. After his departure, another minister was appointed but did not stay long and thereafter the parish became part of a ‘cluster’ which is not so uncommon these days! I suppose one could say Old Hindwell ‘lost heart’ after the extraordinary behaviour of Mr Penney.
I do hope I have been able to help you, but I am rather ‘out of touch’ with events in Old Hindwell. Although I live no more than half an hour’s drive away.
I seem never once to have revisited the village since we moved house in 1983. Old Hindwell is one of those places which it is easy to forget exists, except as a rather surreal memory!
With very best regards,
Juliet Pottinger (Mrs)
‘The Local People,’ Robin said. ‘Whoooeee! Those local people sure like to wield power.’
‘No more than in any small community.’ Betty brought over cocoa for them both. She knew he’d go for the cover-up aspect first, rather than the significance of the event that had been covered up. She almost wished she could have censored the papers before letting him see them.
The idea of this panicked her. It was like the Wilshires in reverse. Until they came here, she’d never even thought of keeping secrets from Robin.
‘And who is this Weal?’ he said. ‘Was the plan that they might have to lean on this old broad legally?’
‘She wouldn’t have been an old broad then. She was probably quite a young broad.’
‘Whatever, this smells of real redneck intrigue. Prosser Senior — that would be Gareth Prosser’s old man?’
‘Sounds like it,’ Betty said. And then came to the point. ‘But the main issue is, what happened to the Reverend Penney? What did he do that day that scandalized the community so much that he had to resign on so-called health grounds?’
‘Didn’t the widow Wilshire know any of this?’
‘She’d never even seen the letter. Bryan would not have wanted to worry the little woman.’
‘Well,’ Robin said, ‘it’s clear that the Reverend Penney was under a lot of pressure and it drove him a little crazy. She talks about him feeling isolated. Maybe he came from some English city, couldn’t cut it in the sticks. And the Local People resented him, gave him a hard time.’
‘To the extent of vandalizing his church? Starting a fire? You don’t think that sounds a little inner-city for a place like this?’
‘Sounds like he was getting some hassle. Sounds like there could be something the Local People are a tad ashamed about, wouldn’t you say?’
He looked pleased about this. He would make a point now of finding out precisely what had happened and what, if anything, the community had to hide. Betty, on the other hand, could sympathize with Juliet Pottinger’s low-profile approach. Yes, it would be necessary to find out what had happened on what was now their property — but not to go about this in a conspicuous way. They were incomers and foreigners. And had a different religion, which may somehow have become known to certain people. Unspoken opinion might already be stacked against them; they must not be seen to be too nosy or too clever. They must move quietly.
‘After Penney left,’ she said, ‘the church appeared to “lose heart”. It was in full use until nineteen seventy-eight and now it’s a ruin. In just over thirty years. Not exactly a slow decay.’
‘Aw, buildings go to pieces in no time at all when they’re left derelict. She implies in the letter that it was already falling apart. And maybe in those days the authorities weren’t so hot on preserving old buildings. I’m more curious about what the Local People did to this Penney. Where’s he now?’
‘I don’t know. And we’re the last people to know anyone in the clergy who might be able to find out. We-’
‘Look, I’ll go find out the truth tomorrow. I’ll go see Prosser. We’re gonna need more logs — real logs. I’ll go find out if Prosser knows a reputable log dealer and at the same time I’ll ask him about Reverend Penney. See if he tries to lean on me, do the rural menace stuff.’
‘I’ll go, if you like,’ Betty said, without thinking.
Robin put down his cocoa mug. ‘Because I will rub him up the wrong way? Because I will be gauche and loud and unsubtle? Because I will say, you can’t touch me, pal, I got the Old Gods on my side?’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry. You’re right. You should go. Men around here prefer to deal with other men.’
‘What I thought.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘This is nothing to worry about.’
‘No,’ Betty said.
Far from representing her and Robin’s destiny and the beautiful future of the pagan movement in this country, she was now convinced that the old church of Michael was a tainted and revolting place that should indeed be left to rot. But how could she lay all this on him now, after his crushing disappointment over the Blackmore illustrations?
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she said.