‘Indeed. But has it not occurred to you, Vicar, to wonder where Harvey actually is?’
‘The undertakers must surely have…’
‘Found alternative accommodation? Maybe. But I should tell you, Vicar, that I believe what we buried yesterday was replaced during the night. I watched from the other side of the hedge. Very discreet they were about it.’
‘Palin there?’
‘I believe I saw him, yes. With two others.’
‘So you think he’s under there after all, your uncle Harvey?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then doesn’t that deserve a prayer, Anthony, by the graveside?’
‘A short one then, Vicar. And this evening perhaps a little refreshment at the vicarage?’ He patted his pockets where the two golden chalices were concealed.
‘You’ll be most welcome.’
Lucas felt that a burden had been lifter from his shoulders. He spent the rest of the day in the vicarage garden, tending the roses. In the afternoon, in an unprecedented act of cordiality, he invited Mrs Webley to take tea with him. They mused upon many things: the incompetence of the new churchwardens, the cost of flowers to beautify the church – and then the unexplained thefts from the minster church, at which point he sent her home. As evening approached he fetched two bottles of his finest claret from the extensive cellars under the building and in the dying light opened them to allow the wine to breathe. Tony appeared just as he was setting glasses upon the table on the veranda.
‘I think we can dispense with those, don’t you, Vicar?’ Tony said, producing from his pockets the two golden chalices.
Lucas poured wine into each chalice. The light was fading now and he switched on the veranda lamp that, coincidently, was across from where he was sitting. They toasted each other’s good fortune. But as Lucas raised the near-drained chalice to his lips the translucent disc at its bottom caught the light. And there, etched in the glass, was an image of Harvey’s grinning face.
INTERCITY TRAINS
Every morning the clatter of the postman’s bicycle as it sped up the drive to Partridge Farm was Gabriel Broadacre’s cue to stand behind the ancient oak door and wait for the letters to fall. But today he was disappointed: there were no new subsidy payments for land left fallow, no fat cheques from the sugar beet factory; instead, just a simple envelope in the palest shade of mauve, addressed to his daughter Claire. Without even having to stoop he was able to make out the florid imprint that read Dreamtime Model Agency and knew what that portended. He picked up the envelope and flapped it noisily against the fingers of his other hand while he watched the ducks on the pond outside and sensed a threat to a way of life that had been sustained for generations. For one brief moment he grasped the envelope roughly in his two hands as if to tear it apart, then relented in the realisation that this might just be the first in a flood which he would be powerless to stem. Hearing a sound in the hall, he turned to see Claire standing behind him, her eyes sparkling within a pale oval face framed by long golden hair. Meekly he handed her the letter. ‘I think it’s what you’ve been waiting for, love,’ he said, and turned away so that she could not see his apprehension.
Claire was not to blame, of course, just as she had not been to blame for the nights on the tiles, the wild parties in her parents’ absence and, earlier in the summer, certain wilful extravagances in Ibiza. They were all the influences of others. And if that boyfriend of hers, Scott Richards, had not sent off those photographs – he shuddered at the memory of seeing certain details of her scantily clad body for the first time – she might still be what he had always intended for her, the future wife of a local beet farmer.
‘My appointment’s on Tuesday,’ she said. ‘At ten in the morning, in Colchester.’
‘Then I suppose I’ll have to take you,’ Gabriel replied. ‘That’s no place for a seventeen-year-old to be on her own.’
‘Daddy, Daddy, that will give us the whole weekend to go out and buy new clothes.’
And that’s why, on the Tuesday morning, the pair found themselves on the ‘up’ platform of the local station waiting for the 7.49 intercity train to Liverpool Street, via Colchester, toeing the yellow line like the hordes of London commuters around them.
Gabriel, in spite of the black suit that he kept for funerals and the spotted blue tie he had stolen from the wardrobe of his son Tom, felt himself as conspicuous as a lighthouse in a storm. Nor was this feeling lessened by Claire’s presence beside him. He had the distinct impression that several of his fellow travellers were marching up and down the platform for the sole purpose of ogling her. He reflected upon the milk churns that had once stood waiting on this same platform and wondered how it was possible that these foreigners could so comprehensively have invaded the county of Norfolk. After the train pulled in they all stood aside to let Claire step into the carriage, but then closed around her before he could follow. A hatred for this modern world into which he had been thrust welled up inside him.
The carriage was not quite full, even after their companions had jostled amongst themselves to be seated. There were only two unoccupied seats together and on one of these lay a large dark blue travelling bag, apparently belonging to a young man of Middle Eastern appearance sitting across the table. Gabriel fixed him with an expressionless stare designed to offer an opportunity to remove the offending article. He took in the dark blue suit – for which the bag seemed a deliberate match – the creamy silk shirt and the spotted tie that outclassed his own. He noted the trimmed and parted black hair, and the neatly sculpted black fur between the mouth and the chin that was a mockery of a beard. There was a laptop computer on the table in front of him and his thoughts seemed remote from the world that Gabriel and his daughter inhabited.
‘My daughter and I would like to sit here, if you please,’ Gabriel said, in a voice that was neither his own, not that of the culture he was trying to imitate.
Suddenly the man seemed to realise he was being addressed. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, without changing his expression, or looking up.
‘Please remove your bag, Sir, so that we can sit down.’
‘Oh, of course, of course. Not a problem.’ The man was with them now, and apologetic.
He began to rise but Gabriel motioned him to remain seated. ‘Let me do it for you,’ he said, grasping the handles of the bag and swinging it up upwards onto the luggage rack. There was a look of acute alarm on the man’s face as he rose to a half-standing position with his mouth open. ‘Please be very…,’ he began and then stopped as Gabriel punched the bag twice with his fist to force it into the limited space.
‘There,’ Gabriel said, ‘that wasn’t too difficult, now was it?’
‘Thank you,’ the man replied, sitting down gingerly. ‘I am grateful.’
The tapping into the laptop resumed with a nonchalance that Gabriel found offensive. Remembering that he had brought a newspaper with him, he removed it from his pocket. With as much noise as he could manage, he unfolded it and placed it on the table beside the laptop, part of which became obscured by the rustling sheets. After a few seconds he judged that enough time had elapsed for the point to be made. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said, flapping the paper over with much gusto before folding it flat on the table.
‘It’s not a problem,’ their companion replied, in a manner that seemed to negate Gabriel’s easily-won advantage.