Before All Else Read online

  Chris Eveans is spotted parked up under a long-limbed beech tree, steam from a large corrugated cup of coffee misting up a patch on the windscreen. “Don’t think his remit actually includes getting out and helping, do you?” someone observes tersely. Eveans’ head does not rise from whatever is occupying his attention below sight level.

  Chris Eveans

  Email to Major, reminding him of Grand Opening at 2pm today. Copy of report sent to MD, proposing MW might like to think about presenting the field and the chapel to the good people of Bullenden and endowing a kiddies’ play area. Get the chapel listed on one of those 150 Best Kept Secrets websites. Stick a plaque up somewhere. Get Rebekkah to organise the celebratory drinks party and Press because it is time he got himself out of this time warp.

  Ned

  “Ben. Why are you painted like a tiger?”

  “Me mum’s doing the face painting. Rooo-aaa-rrr.”

  “Don’t, Ben. Don’t do that.”

  “Scared ya?”

  “Not exactly. Just don’t do it again. OK?”

  “Say so.”

  “Right. Get in the van. We need to go and fence off that den you found so nobody wanders in today and hurts themselves.”

  Ned drives the short distance from Ben’s house to the Town Field through the village, Ben roaring at passers-by. He’d been told to get there for ten o’clock as the vicar wants to do a short service in the chapel before it is closed up. Ben bumps exaggeratedly over every hummock, roaring and snarling with each uplift. God, he would swing for the boy one day.

  A knot of people are standing around at the bottom corner. They must be the bucolic worshippers. He’ll wait for the valediction, scoot them all out and then fence off the area good and proper. With any luck, by the time they’ve finished, Ben’s mum will be here with her face-painting kit and can take Ben off his hands.

  Typically, Mandy hasn’t told him yet whether she is coming to the fair or not. Last thing he wants is a major blow-out.

  Gwyddno

  He had woken to find Alice’s outflung arm cutting off his windpipe. He wriggled out from under her and went to look out, one foot raised up on the step. The space between the opening and the hedgerow is still dark, a fresh herby smell rising from the dew-speckled, trampled grass. Between the hawthorn stems he can see the flat farmland stretched out, dipping smoothly away.

  He could really go for a cigarette right now. Not one of Wylff’s that skyrocket you onto Planet Numbskull in twenty seconds. No, a proper cigarette, a working man’s cigarette, like his dad used to smoke. He fills his lungs with the scent of lush grass and fertiliser instead. It feels good to be here. Well, almost. Perhaps he should do some kind of obeisance to the something god in thankfulness for something. But he really can’t be arsed. More Tanya’s sort of thing.

  More than anything, he wants food. How can the others drink in lieu of eating? They’d had a few at the pub last night, taking it in turns to visit the toilets to have a wash. Alice must have washed her hair from the soap dispenser; she had come out of the ladies smelling of chemically loaded cranberries. She didn’t look so scary with fluffy hair. His stomach rumbles with hunger.

  Jumping down into the gully, he looks for a spot to pee. Almost seems a shame to offload when he is so ravenous. When they’re not drinking, the others just seem to live off air. Maybe Wylff would reward him with breakfast for having found them this cave. “Look, why don’t we crash here tonight?” he’d offered, showing them one of the leaflets scudding around the Garden Room in the pub the night before.

  “Cool,” Tanya had said. “Too hot in the ’van.” Might just have a bit more leg room, had been Gwyddno’s thought. Also, he’d heard the speaker enthuse about it being an ancient space, a monument to the ages. He’d agreed with Tanya; it would be cool to sleep there. Anarchic enough to earn him some brownie points, safe and warm and dry enough to keep Wylff from banging on about the scratches on his precious van.

  It had been a bit surreal wandering through the field after closing time. Somebody had erected massive gates at the entrance, chained and padlocked. No match for Tanya: “They called me mum Breaker Beryl. Nowhere she couldn’t get into or out of.” Giggling and shushing, they’d let themselves into the field and locked up again behind them. They’d made their procession past the dark trapezoid tents in the field, stepping over guy ropes, hurdles and wires in an exaggerated cameo of robbers in the night.

  “Look!” Tanya whispered theatrically as she gripped his arm. “Look!” She dragged him towards the beam of light issuing through the canvas wall of a marquee. Someone had left a torch on. He had no option but to go along with her. “Hello, ickle ickle spi-dah.” A small spider crossed the lit circle which she tried unsuccessfully to track with her finger, her arm flailing wildly under the effects of six pints of ale.

  “Come on, Tans.” He gently pulled her away to follow the others across the field. This was the closest he’d come to her all summer without her snarling at him or asking him what the feck he was looking at. He hoped the anaesthetic of the alcohol wouldn’t wear off too quickly. “Guys! Guys! Wait for us.” This had been way more responsibility than he was comfortable with. Being in charge of Tanya felt as scary as when he’d taken the school pet home and his mates convinced him that the tarantula could unscrew the lid from inside the jar and would crawl over his bedclothes in the middle of the night.

  He aims his stream of piss onto a few blackberry leaves, making the tendril bob and sway. Doh. Fah. So. Doh. Each leaf a different note. For once, this small act of urinating outdoors seems a glorious, musical joy. He is happy. “Doh. Doh. Laaaah.” Funny how when you pee outdoors, it smells of apple sauce. His stomach growls again as he briefly catches sight in his mind’s eye of a sugar-coated pastry case, flowing golden chunks of steaming apple punctuated by swollen cloves, a big jug of thick custard. “Oh, God, don’t.” Torture.

  He has no idea what time it is. Possibly the sun shines only rarely in this sheltered place although, looking down the dark and dank gully, it is definitely daylight elsewhere. He’ll risk peering round the side of the mound.

  “Guys. Guys. Think you’d better wake up. Guys. Need to get up. Now!” The field they had made their way through last night now looks like a film set for Wonder Land. Tables are placed randomly about; some dressed in white cloths, others bare. Fairground rides cluster in one corner, coloured bulbs winking silently. A tousled head emerges from the spider’s tent and then withdraws, groaning. People are walking in through the field gate, which now stands wide open, with arms full of boxes. A white van slaloms its way across the field and appears to be heading straight towards them.

  Besides, he is staring right up into the eyes of a vicar.

  Chris Eveans

  Christ, he’d forgotten about the vicar. She’d messaged him and asked if it would be OK to have a little service in the chapel before the fair. Would have been impolite to say no. For pity’s sake, how long is this shenanigans going to take? Is he ever going to get out of here?

  Gwyddno

  “I’ll go and get…get somebody,” he offers in a manner that he hopes is friendly and co-operative, before scuttling back into the chapel. “Er. Guys. You have to wake up.”

  Tanya stirs at his feet. “Who says?”

  “Somebody’s here. We need to clear out.”

  Wylff jumps to his feet. “I’ll take care of this.” He walks over to the woman but the sight of her collar arrests even his swagger. “Oh. Right.”

  She peers down into the chapel, taking in the djembes, the sleeping bags, the two prone girls and all the debris that accompanies them wherever they go, before signalling Wylff and Gwyddno to the side of the grassy dome. She twists coils of her long, golden hair round her finger. Individual strands shine like celestial harp strings. Gwyddno guiltily lowers his gaze to make sure she isn’t standing in his puddle. Maybe she takes this for contrition bec
ause when he looks up again, she is smiling, albeit in a steely sort of a way.

  “I’ll just go and tidy up.” Gwyddno makes to hurriedly scoop up their belongings and wake the others. Wylff stays his arm.

  Wylff speaks, jutting out his chin: “Who says we can’t be here?”

  Gwyddno doesn’t like his tone, feeling that he might be called upon at any moment to make a choice between Wylff and a higher authority. It could be an uncomfortably close call; his guts twist in panic.

  “Let me introduce myself.” Pulling a Bible closer to her pink blouse, she extends her right hand. “Reverend Bethel. Sue Bethel.” Wylff doesn’t extend his. Oh crumbs, swallows Gwyddno, this is high mutiny indeed. He is relieved that Tanya and Alice both emerge from the doorway, yawning and scratching their heads. They seem disinclined to observe the formalities too. In an access of sheer bravery, Gwyddno reaches forward and gives the vicar’s arm a hearty shake.

  “Gwyddno. Well, that’s my Celtic name. I’m really James Timms, student, not of this parish.” He twists his lips at this little ecclesiastical joke which seems lost on those around him. “I’m from South Wales, actually. Student. Environmental Sciences. Third year. Been travelling this summer. Visiting historical sites, well, Glastonbury, Stonehenge, that sort of thing.” He is aware that he is babbling but something drives him to prove he is more of the conventional world than of one he has been subsumed into for the past few months. It feels like he is one of those kidnap victims who have three seconds to prove their hostage status or risk being shot as a terrorist. His throat goes rather dry.

  “Pleased to meet you, James.” She turns to the others but they remain steadfast in their anonymity. “Well, as you can see, we are getting ready for our summer fair, and we are holding a little service in thanksgiving for the rediscovery of our medieval chapel and to pray for God’s blessing today. You are welcome to join us but I would ask you to clear up your belongings first.”

  Gwyddno watches in wonder as the six legs of a fairground ride stretch themselves out behind her, gold light bulbs winking silently, turning her into a kind of English Goddess Durga. At the same time, a feeling of enormous gratitude overtakes him. Simple, bite size instructions. Put the milk bottles out. Give little Jacob his cornflakes. Express y as the coefficient of x. Pack up your belongings. He can understand all that. This whole business of letting free his inhibitions, aligning his chakras, inviting in his spirit guides just freaks him. At last, he has been rescued. He isn’t sure if vicars exactly constitute God’s representatives on earth but they are close enough. Fate has seen fit to intervene on his behalf. Fate has sent Reverend Bethel who, alone and unintimidated by the force of their personalities, gives instructions to Wylff, Tanya and, less crucially, Alice. The bonds of slavery have been broken. His shackles burst open. By her intercession, he is now free. Hallelujah! He’ll phone Mum and tell her he’ll be home by dinner time.

  “Hang on a minute.” Alice grabs a sheet of paper. “It says on here that this place of worship predates any Christian site.”

  He recognises the notes left from the meeting in the pub last night. Oh dear. If Alice is about to kick off, then it is definitely time to leave. But he can’t. He is rooted to the spot.

  “So, by rights, seeing as we are pagans, we have first dibs.”

  “But, if I may remind you of John chapter one verses one to five, ‘Before anything else existed, there was Christ, with God. He has always been alive, and is himself God.’”

  Gwyddno looks at her as she speaks these words. This is just like Sunday School. Words spoken simply and in faith.

  “He created everything there is,” she continues. “Nothing exists that he didn’t make.”

  A feeling of surety comes over him. What he’d been looking for wasn’t out on the road with this raggle-taggle trio. What beauty there was yet to find, and certainty and quiet kind, dah dah dah-daaaah, something something something where the church clock stands at ten to three and there was honey still for tea. That’s where it is at for him. The universe is far too random and unpredictable. Give him, any day, the eagle-back pulpit, the mouse-damaged hassock, the hand-worn sallies. A church peopled with types like the guy who had spoken about the chapel last night. He’d have liked to have listened to that but Tanya told him to stop being a twat.

  A voice interrupts his reverie. “So, what the vicar is saying is, we got here first, basically,” comes a voice from behind Reverend Bethel’s shoulder.

  “I don’t think we can quite look at it like that, but thank you, Mr Gallagher for your input.”

  That is it. He’ll tell Wylff that he’ll send money to get the van resprayed. One of the girls can drive it down to the festival in Dorset. They don’t need him. He never fitted in anyway. They just kept him on as a mildly entertaining pet. Taking bets amongst themselves how long it would be before he spewed his guts up, lost the plot or went crying back home to Mummy. Nonetheless, and his initial euphoria abates slightly at this thought, he still has the problem of how to get out of this bind – stuck in a ditch between three crazies and an implacable vicar.

  Ned

  “Look, Vicar, do you think we could wrap this up? I’ve got to get this area fenced off before the fair starts.” Ned points to the trailer at the back of the van loaded with stakes and livestock wiring. “Besides, Ben’s getting bored,” and that never did bode well.

  Thankfully she seems to understand. “Right.” She speaks with quiet authority. “Ben. If you would be kind enough to come with me back to the vicarage,” she looks to Ned who nods his agreement, “we can have a quick game on the XBox for half an hour. I’m sure that will give everyone time to pack up their belongings and leave the space nice and tidy for our worship.”

  Gwyddno, or is it James?

  Somehow the vicar electrifies everyone into action. Wylff, Alice and Tanya obediently return to the space and begin to gather their belongings. As he stuffs his Spice into his sleeping bag, words from Sunday school pop into his head: “There’s nothing unseen that shall not be seen.” Oops. He kind of envies that young lad with the tiger painted face. He wouldn’t have minded a quick game of Minecraft with the vicar.

  Never mind. Time for his farewells. Time to go back to being James. He might even call into Grantchester on the way home.

  Chris Eveans

  Brain wave. Text the Major. Get him to attend little service of thanksgiving. Half an hour. Picture in the papers. Community spirited and godly! A media triumph.

  Madge

  She follows the caterer’s van onto the field. What are they going to do that she can’t do? Slap a few burgers on a hot plate and charge a fortune for the favour. She can fry onions as well as the next person. That Chris Eveans bloke. Probably gave the contract to one of his cronies. How much is she going to make today selling a few jelly beans and wine gums? Hardly worth her time.

  What is going on at the bottom corner of the field? Sounds like the bleeding Zulus are coming. She’d already seen the vicar stomp off up the field with that Bernadette’s boy in tow. Looked to be in high dudgeon. There was that hobo hippy chap who came into the shop yesterday looking sorry for himself. And more of them! At least eight! All drumming. Drumming! What are they trying to do? Make it rain? Summon up more of their kind?

  Time for pre-emptive action. Time for honest shopkeepers to strike back! Before all the flapjacks and pork pies disappear. Place is overrun with them. She has a phone call to make.

  Ned

  One left first, carrying his sleeping bag over his shoulder like a swag bag. He’d turned to shake hands with each of the others and they all ignored him in turn. He just grinned slightly and picked up his kit and strode out across the field. Oh, the freedom of the young.

  The other three might be more of a problem, looking quite disinclined to pick up their belongings and go. Instead, they sit cross-legged on the mound beating out a rhythm on their drums. One of the
girls, her head back, is singing a clear-throated chant. Her voice lifts to the skies, powered by the quiet, insistent rhythm, carrying with it, it seems, all his hopes and fears.

  Chris Eveans

  Great. Welding’s replied. He’s on his way. Let’s get this pikey scum shifted. Enough of this Kum Ba Yah nonsense.

  “Right, everyone. Let’s get a move on. Busy day. Lots to do. I’m sure we’ve all got things we need to attend to.”

  Village

  The atmosphere changes abruptly. The song ends midstream. Eveans tries to grab one of the girls to force her to stand up. A scrum develops, a tight knot of people shouting and shoving. Ned catches one of the girls in his arms as she comes skittering down the slope, out of control, flung out by some centrifugal force. She curses him.

  Out of the blue, there is a police car driving across the field, lights flashing. Two police officers get out, adjusting their hats. The brouhaha stops as suddenly as it started. Within a few moments it is all sorted.

  The three travellers are put in the back of the squad car and driven to where they left their vehicles. They wave to the vicar who is returning to the field with Ben.

  The Major, red-faced and livid, storms back across the field towards his car with his little PR chappie running behind.

  Madge is leaning against a lurid sweet cart, arms crossed, a smug expression on her face, snapping away on her phone.

  The vicar and attendants step into the chapel. Along the east wall, at least twenty candles burn brightly, their flames dancing and guttering in the movement of air. Accompanying each candle is a tiny posy of field poppy and feverfew tied together with barley stalks.

  The Cat

  It would seem that Fate has given this cat a wandering, nomadic, gypsy star under which to be born. She finds herself and her three offspring, by now several weeks old and nearly weaned, lifted gently and placed within a rucksack, its cotton soft black lining absorbing the few rays of sunlight that penetrate its eyeholes. She curls herself around the kittens who are calmed by her presence. Motion. Smooth. Then bumpy. Then smooth again as the bag is lowered gently to the floor and the opening held wide. For now she will stay where she is, despite the encouragement to ‘Come out, Kitty.’ Later she’ll explore her new surroundings, the rags and debris and litter that cover the floor of this strange new vehicle.