Before All Else Page 21
How can he convey a sense of the place to his audience tonight? How can he instil in them the sense of awe that this small and undoubtedly sacred space conjures in him? To describe it literally only diminishes it. Or is he just being far too pretentious? Would they just think he was being a pompous twit and fidget and squirm until they could get to the bar and their free pint?
Amelia
Since she’d been home, Enzo had left twenty-seven text messages and eight voicemail messages. His tone had varied between angry and conciliatory; blaming her and then blaming himself and covering his own head in ashes. He loved her. He hated her. How dare she humiliate him like this in front of everyone? No one knew; he’d keep it their little secret, just say she had to fly home on family business. Hadn’t he shown her nothing but love and consideration? Come back, cara, nobody loves him like she loves him. Who does she think she is? He understands completely where she is coming from.
If only Cecily would stop looking at her with that wide-eyed, expectant tilt to her head. Not asking her outright but tactfully giving her space to open up, if she needs to. It fucking does her head in.
Just leave me alone.
Marcus
“And so for the big reveal!” No, possibly he wouldn’t say that. Makes him sound like one of those awful prize-givers on TV who preface each announcement with a carefully calibrated thirty seconds of silence.
Besides, this place has far too much mystery and dignity to be messed about with. Wouldn’t it be better, anyway, to just block it up again? For all he knows, come back in a few months’ time and there’d be graffiti on the wall and litter and other detritus in the corners. In which case, it would have been better never discovered.
“The way I look at it is this…” That’s better; tone more suited to his status as an amateur sleuthing historian. Not as if he is Tony Robinson, ha ha! But, whichever way you look at it, the facts seem to suggest that “…what we have here is, indeed, a sunken chapel, as it’s been described. But my guess is that it’s an extremely primitive space, possibly on a site of specific sacred or pagan significance, one that has subsequently been taken over and appropriated as a Christian site.”
Nod here to operator to move to next slide, showing a square indent in the floor, an uneven notch about two inches in diameter. Torch holder? Altar? Post hole for some internal feature?
Who will he be talking to tonight anyway? Could be mouthing off into an empty room for all he knows.
“The reason I believe this to be an early, primitive site is in the clues around. Look at the floor. What do you see? It’s not earth, it’s not tiled, it’s bare rock. Not rock that’s been hewed and hefted here, but bedrock. Bed-rock.”
Another slide. “This time taken from inside the chapel. Ladies and gentlemen, look at where the step is in relation to ground level. A good two feet of earth and rubble and pebbles are clearly visible, forcing you to step up when leaving. Such has been the build-up of loam and hummus over centuries, millennia even.”
For goodness’ sake. Listen to yourself. Do you even imagine anyone would be interested? Velda’s voice is mild yet mocking. Even she, the imaginary Velda, seems to be demonstrating some small pity for his fruitless efforts to get across the sheer awesomeness of stepping into this ancient arena.
That day, several weeks ago, when Chris Eveans had brought him to the site, had been one of the most memorable of his life. He knew, he just knew, that this was an ancient primitive site, invested with so much mystery. It was almost like an antechamber between two worlds. This stone had absorbed miasmas of breath exhaled in worship, fear, exhaustion. It had held fast against flood, tectonic movement, collapse. Like the sleeping princess, time had smudged away all markers, stopped up its opening, covered and softened its shape so it became just another overlooked, unexplained mound. Even the workmen who had dug the gully a mere yard in front of its entrance had failed to discover it. It had taken a peculiar combination of erosion, clearance, Ben’s zealous application to a single task and a pregnant feline to release this particular jewel from the clasp of time.
Smugglers’ den. Hermit’s cave. Shrine. Refuge. It had been all of these. It had sheltered people, inspired people, imprisoned people, implicated people. A tiny, tiny space; of huge significance to possibly legions of people, its simple beauty earthed up for generations, its rare beauty now opened up for all to see.
“Looking at the floor, in this slide, you can see that it is bone dry. Yet there is a marked fissure in the floor. This is another clue to it being a primitive site of worship. We are not far from a tributary of the Orrell, a tidal river. Water would have risen and fallen between this fissure, before being taken away out to sea beyond whatever that wall conceals. Water was extremely important, a symbol and supporter of life. Nowadays, due to intensive agriculture and modern housing, the water table is so much lower and water is channelled more, so we no longer have the rise and flush and ebb, the magic of water appearing up through the floor, the symbolism of water as a gift, a cleansing agent. Water as a carrier.
“Moving forward to Roman times, if we look at this map [nod], we can see how our village is directly on the route the Roman army would have taken from Colchester, now their principle city in Britannia, to quell the Iceni tribe in the North. It is quite feasible, in my mind, that a small shrine, previously dedicated to the goddess Freyja would now undergo a conversion to Minerva to bring good fortune to the fighting army.
“In the six hundreds, St Felix comes to Dunwich in East Anglia. As his influence spreads, so over the centuries can we see that the expression of Christian worship flows back the other way as Dunwich becomes an important embarkation point for Saint James de Compostela. Pilgrims would have marched this route, possibly stopping off here to rest, give thanks, pray at the now defunct abbey.
“Evidence points to the abbey being virtually by this spot. So it’s reasonable to assume that the monks will have appropriated this site, rebuilt the stone structure we see today and operated it as some kind of place of worship, place of safety, a place of alms, or, for the wealthier, a place for extracting tolls.
“And, allowing myself a small point of reflection here, this is what I find absolutely fascinating. Twelve hundred years ago, an early Christian religious house stood in these fields. It is now completely gone. Invading forces, starting with the Danes, have destroyed and dismantled it piece by piece. This small shelter is all that remains. By a quirk of fate, it has been allowed to descend further and further into the earth, almost as if the earth has thrown itself as a mantle over it. As the axes of modern life change, we have turned our gaze elsewhere. This corner of a domestic field has remained forever ancient.”
Gwyddno
Where are they? If they don’t hurry up, he’ll go plum crazy in this place. Hicksville. But quaint for all that. Ten minutes, tops. That’s how long it takes to walk from end to end. Probably a bit longer for the old ones. Strange sort of place. The old bint in the post office was a piece of work although she had given him a pork pie, which he had eaten with all the speed of guilt and fear of discovery. What Tanya didn’t know, Tanya needn’t fret about. He breathes into his hands. Would she smell the meat on his breath? His stomach turns flipside and a greasy, sulphurous bubble rises in his mouth. Kate in the bookshop was alright though. They’d had a good old chat about stuff. She’d been at Greenham. He wondered if she had met his mum at all.
His bum is getting numb sitting on the kerb. His back aches too with leaning forward away from the spiny hawthorn hedge. Two dog walkers are the only people he’s seen. Neither had offered much help or reassurance. One of the dogs had growled at him. Wylff, when he’d finally got through on the phone, had told him to wait by the van, “AND DO NOT BUDGE.” It remains to be seen what Wylff’s reaction is going to be when he sees his precious van stuck in a hedge. Odds on, it isn’t going to be a good one.
God his head is itchy. A corona of flies buzzes
round him. Finally, absorbed in the challenge of balancing more than four pieces of gravel on top of each other, he hears a familiar throaty mechanical roar. “Where’ve you been? Been waiting effin’ ages.” Wylff and Tanya tip out of the front of the bright orange, suped-up Discovery. “Where’s Alice?”
“Asleep in there.” Wylff nods to the caravan. Tanya comes and stands close to him. Smoke from her rollie wreathes up his nose. She is holding a plastic stemmed glass in the other hand, its contents sloshing onto his shoes as she shucks up to him, “Alright, hun?” There seems to be dried vomit on the lapel of her waxed jacket.
“Mmm, suppose so.”
“Jesus, Gwy, how have you done that?” Wylff stands looking at the campervan astride the ditch, breasting the hedge.
“Well, this guy in a big white van just came out of nowhere…”
“OK. Listen, I don’t really want to know. If you’ve scratched the paintwork, you’ll bloody pay for it.”
The look of exhaustion on Wylff’s face stops Gwyddno from voicing his observation that none of the assembled vehicles are in particularly mint condition. The suspension springs on the Discovery are rusted to buggery, the passenger door is green, and the oil-choked fumes from the vertical exhaust are enough to wipe out an entire sub-species, let alone any unwitting occupant of the caravan behind that, in turn, looks like it would fold like a wet cardboard box at any moment. Jesus, this travelling lark is hard work. Roll on the autumn and he can get back to Cardiff and student life again. He can feel the eczema in the creases around his eyes flare again. He can’t scratch it because it might look like he is crying.
“Give us a hand unhitching the caravan and we’ll winch you back on the road. Did nobody offer to help?” He points to the groups of people standing around in the field in the distance. “What about them?”
Gwyddno shrugged. “Setting up for a fair tomorrow, I heard. Nobody else has been down here all day. Except for a couple of dog walkers.”
“You’re such an arse.”
Gwyddno shrugs again, noncommittally.
“Shall I get Alice out the caravan?” Wylff gives him a look that suggests that not only is he an arse, but he is a total, complete and utter arse. Trouble is, that doesn’t really answer the question for him. He is none the wiser what Wylff expects him to do, still in a state of pant-wetting quandary. In fact, he’d already decided. Balance four bits of gravel on top of each other and he’ll stay with the gang. Balance five bits and he’ll go. It was cast. He has now officially gone as far as he wants, ever, to go again in search of himself. Life on the road as an indigent holds no glamour, no purpose for him whatsoever now. All he wants to go in search of is a hot shower, a roast dinner and the comfort and certainty of timetables and obligations and routines.
The atmosphere in the caravan is gloomy and fusty. From the thin light filtering through the ethic prints strung across the windows, he can just make out Alice under a pile of coats and unsheathed, stained duvets. She is wearing a woolly hat with knitted strings, harem pants and odd boots. “Come on, old girl.” He drapes her arm over his shoulder and half drags, half escorts her towards the door. Turning sideways to negotiate the narrow exit and the step down, she falls on top of him, laughing hysterically. Christ, this woman is nearly three times his age. Shouldn’t she get a grip or something?
Hitched together, Wylff reverses slowly down the track. Gwyddno stands close by. Wylff told him to ‘supervise’. So why is he now shouting, “Get out the way. You’ll have it on top of you.” He jumps back as the front of the van slides out of the hedge and jerks down into the shallow grassy ditch. He hopes Wylff can’t hear the banshee-like shriek as the hawthorn spines graffiti a farewell message on the front mudguard, but he seems intent on his manoeuvrings. Spit and a rub with his cuff should sort that out.
In a billow of noxious smoke and the smell of hot engine parts, they reverse down to the lay-by where the caravan is parked, listing, Alice and Tanya sitting waiting for them.
Marcus
It is approaching four o’clock when Marcus walks into the Garden Room of the pub. Chris Eveans is already setting up the presentation equipment. He watches as Eveans struggles to unfurl a six-foot rolling projector screen. “Couldn’t give us a hand here, mate, could you? The spring on this thing is savage.” Before Marcus can cross the room, the screen snaps itself back into its case with a loud and extended kerfuffle. Eveans curses, placing both feet on the casing and, with a yawl, extends the screen upwards as far as his arms can go. “Oi, mate! Over here!”
“Oh, yes, sorry.” Marcus hurries to the overstretched Eveans and lifts the screen the last few inches to hook it in place. Eveans backs out from under Marcus’s arms, his hair awry and a look of discomfort on his face.
“Got the memory stick, then?”
As Eveans loads Marcus’s images on to a laptop, Marcus asks if Major Welding will be coming. “Don’t think so, mate. In fact, I know so. Important dinner in tahn. He’ll be back later tonight.”
Marcus is somewhat relieved that the Major will not be attending tonight. Hard enough to undertake the task in hand, to hopefully convey a little bit of his enthusiasm at the find to the villagers before it disappears, possibly, into obscurity again without having images of the handcuffed Major being escorted to the border flashing in front of his eyes.
He sets to and puts a printed timeline of the chapel out on the tables.
Village
Daniel Holland and Martyn Harris have finished setting up the beer tent. Twenty wooden casks are supported on frames at the back of the tent; the beers are each draped with damp tea towels and ice packs to keep them cool overnight. There are soft drinks, plastic glasses, bungs, hammers, straws, scratchings, wine coolers, bottles and cans, bottle openers, plastic bags, all arranged on trestles. The generator is out back, ready to be charged up tomorrow. The marquee sides are tied down. All is quiet except for an occasional crow call and a gentle, rhythmic knock knock knock as Holland and Harris persuade themselves that it would really not do much harm to tap a keg and sample some unsettled beer. As they move about, a disc of light from the torch dances a mazurka across the stretched white walls of the marquee.
The beer is black. A thick line of carbonated bubbles rings the inside of the plastic glass. It tastes of Dandelion and Burdock and grass cuttings and is delicious. Too delicious.
Marcus
Well. That didn’t go too badly. One couldn’t possibly hope for too big a turnout on the night before the fair but seven plus the three friends of the dreadlocked young man he’d got into conversation with, who knew a surprising amount about Napoleonic British Light Dragoons, wasn’t a bad number. He’d done his bit. One could only hope that the chapel would be allowed to continue unmolested, a pinpoint in an ever-changing world, a signpost pointing back through the centuries. It would just remain to be seen.
Gwyddno
There is a smattering of polite applause. A small group of people exit the Garden Room with empty glasses in their hand and make for the bar. Gwyddno, Wylff, Alice and Tanya weave their way back into the room with their free drinks. Alice sits at a separate table, one by the open window, and lights up a cigarette. For nine days more, only nine days, does he have to swallow down his law-abiding instincts. Definitely those five pieces of gravel hovered in place long enough to indicate that he should be gone, before they came tumbling down into the road again, like runes. He’ll see the festival through and then tell them he’s off. He picks up Marcus’s printed sheet of A4 paper from one of the tables and reads it, ignoring the acrid smoke from Alice’s dubious cigarette making its way into the room.
Village
By closing time, both boys are fast asleep, unwary of the perils of drinking lively beer.
The torch light that once danced inside the canvas is now a fixed, unblinking eye on the night.
Lights go out, one by one, throughout the town.
&nbs
p; From inside the chapel come the sound of drumming and the smell of burning sage.
15
Chris Eveans
Crying shame the Major wanted the Bentley back. This poxy little hire car is barely one-up from a Robin Reliant. Hadn’t been cleaned too well either since the last occupant chose to decorate the underside of the driver’s seat with some nose art. He’ll have to have a word with Rebekkah or whoever the MD’s latest dolly intern is when he gets back to London tonight.
Glory be! Today’s the last day being the Major’s major-domo. This has got to be one of the craziest projects he’s been on. To be frank, finding that freakin’ hole in the ground had been the best stroke of luck when it came to restyling the Major as an all-round good egg, smiling benevolently down on the labouring serfs. Still, mission accomplished. Or at least nearly accomplished, after today’s little shindig. He can shine with all the glory reflected from the family pewter and silver, even if it has made its way here in a container over the China Seas. And, more to the good, he can put his dodgy financial dealings behind him. Bye bye, Bernard Gorman, and the whiff of tainted money and the Italian clink. All hail Major Welding, paternalistic squire and benefactor.
Eveans slides the bolt on the high mesh gates installed to keep the hoi polloi from tampering with the goods and drags them open, stepping tentatively over some emerging nettles. The weather is great too. Really, it couldn’t have turned out better.
Village
By eight o’clock, the sun is already high in a clear blue sky. Those on early detail are making their way to the Town Field. Cars and vans are arriving, scouts, volunteers, kids, tipping out to set up stalls, tables, amusements, entertainments.