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Avalon Out, Says Candidate A bitter attack on the 'New Age subculture' of Glastonbury has been made by the man chosen by South Mendip Tories as their next Parliamentary candidate. The Hon. Archer Ffitch, son of local landowner Viscount Pennard, says the town will become a national joke unless it 'stops encouraging cranks'.
Mr Ffitch won a standing ovation from constituency party members when he told them, 'We must seize the future and stop mooning about our mythical past.' He said the town had become saturated with pseudo mystics, many of whom were blatantly pagan, and had become a Mecca for New Age travellers. As a result, local house prices had dropped and businesses were reluctant to invest in the town. Even the boundary signs identified Glastonbury as The Ancient Isle of Avalon in acknowledgement of 'a probably bogus legend'. Mr Ffitch said, 'If the local authority wants a new slogan, I'll give them one: Glastonbury FIRST, Avalon OUT.' Mr Ffitch's remarks followed his formal acceptance of…
'You bastard,' Jim Battle muttered, as dusk settled like mud around the red roofs.
His first thought was to screw the Evening Post into a ball and ram it into the nearest litter bin. Instead, he folded it into his saddle bag. He would show it to Juanita. If he could face her.
He'd waited until the end of the day before cycling into town, Nothing to do with not wanting to show his face in daylight for fear of people pointing at him: That's him, that's the bloke who was executed last night, ho ho. Where's your hat, Jim?
Nobody would, of course. Nobody knew and nobody would find out. Even the buggering travellers had spirited themselves away. He wouldn't have to face anyone. Except for Juanita and his own hatless head reflected in shop windows.
Perhaps his humiliation on the Tor had been a small payback for his self-indulgence in fleeing the city to reside amid ancient mystery. How bloody Pat would have enjoyed it: the invasion of Jim's little idyll, a barbarian's blade over his throat.
As it turned out, nobody commented even on the premature departure of the travellers. The report of Archer Ffitch's speech had greater implications.
'This is the kind of chap we need,' said Colin Border in the off-licence, pointing to the Post's picture of Archer looking severe but dynamic. 'What I've been saying for years. How can you hope to attract new industry to a town where half the potential workforce appear to be pot-smoking sun worshippers? Fourteen pounds 49p, please, Jim,' wrapping Jim's bottle of Scotch in brown paper.
'Won't be terribly popular down the street, though.' Jim put his money on the counter. 'Lot of New Age types running quite profitable businesses now.'
'What, vegetarian sandwich bars and poky shops specialising in bloody overpriced gimcrack jewellery that's supposed to have healing powers? Give me a Marks and Spencer any day. Not that Archer'll be losing any support in that direction. Most of these halfwits throw away their votes on the Green Party and the rest are bound to be Labour, the odd one or two Lib-Dems. What's he got to lose? Nailing his colours to the mast from the outset. I like that.'
'Hmm,' Jim said. Because of the way he dressed and his disapproval of thieving travellers, people like Colin assumed he must be as reactionary as they were.
'I like this bit, Jim. Listen to this, "Glastonbury enshrines the idea of a strong English and Christian tradition within an established, solidly prosperous country town. It stands for the Old Values. Whereas Avalon, said Mr Ffitch, is a place which exists only in legends and folklore. It has been adopted by those who choose to turn their backs on the real world, to inhabit a drug-sodden cloud-cuckoo land where no one has to work for a living and traditional family values are laughed at.'"
'Yes,' said Jim. 'Quite.' He picked up his bottle and got out of there before he exploded.
Outside, he looked down the street to where the lights of the New Age shops began. He saw a twinkling display of assorted crystals. He saw tarot cards and dreamy relaxation tapes and a lone twilight candle burning in the window of The Wicked Wax Co.
Well, all right, one or two of the windows were rather lurid; some of the owners a little, erm, eccentric. But that candle, for instance, symbolised something important, something close to the essence of it all. Something Archer Ffitch wouldn't understand and many of his supporters wouldn't realise until it was too late.
Jim folded the evening paper, jammed it under his arm and mooched off towards The George and Pilgrims. He needed a couple of drinks.
'You bastard, Ffitch,' he murmured. 'Why must you murder the Mystery?'
The woman with hair the colour of old gold was drifting around the shop with her hands out – palms down, like a priest vaguely searching for children to bless.
'I don't quite know,' she said. 'I don't quite know what I'm looking for.'
Diane thought that went for an awful lot of people in this town.
The woman was frightfully beautiful, in an ethereal sort of way. Must be wonderful to be ethereal. Being slim and elegant would, of course, be a start.
'Juanita would know.' The woman had a long, slender nose; she looked down it at Diane. 'Juanita would know at once.'
'Well, she'll be back in a short while,' Diane said.
Juanita had tramped wearily off to see her reflexologist, leaving Diane in charge of the shop. Just like old times, really. Except that Juanita's weariness used to be feigned and after a glass of wine she'd be fine again, full of ideas and energy. Last night she and Jim had seemed bowed and burdened and today Jim hadn't been round. Juanita had glossed over how they just happened to be walking up Wellhouse Lane when the Range Rover went past. She said that awful split lip had been caused by a flying log chip when she was chopping wood for the stove.
Whatever really happened, Diane thought, it's all my fault.
She gestured hopelessly at the shelves of books; the arrangements had changed a lot since she was last here.
'Perhaps if you gave me an idea.'
The woman whirled on her. She was about thirty, with a lean, peremptory Home Counties accent that didn't go with her appearance at all.
'Celtic manuscripts.'
'What, sort of Book of Kells?'
The woman looked horrified. 'That's Christian, isn't it? No, no, no no, no… what I need, urgently, are the very earliest images I can find of the Goddess. You haven't been here long, have you?'
What a nerve, Diane thought. You live here all your life and someone who moved in maybe six months ago…
'I'm helping out,' she said tightly.
Which goddess? she wanted to ask. A decision seemed to have been taken that all the goddesses, from Artemis to Kali to Isis, should be combined into a single symbol of woman power. For this woman, perhaps, it wasn't so much about spirituality, as a kind of politics. Just like the Pilgrims, really, wherever they were now.
The woman pirouetted again, hands exploring the air, as if she could somehow divine the book she wanted. Her rich golden hair was a tangle of abandoned styles, rippling waves and ringlets. Did she always behave like this, Diane wondered, or was she on something?
As though she'd picked up Diane's thoughts from the ether, the golden woman leaned across the counter and smiled widely. Her eyes were somewhere else.
'I'm the artist,' she declared.
And then stepped back. As though this was some sort of epiphany, a moment of wondrous self-discovery.
'And you are?'
'I'm Diane.'
'Do you acknowledge the Goddess? You should, you know. She can help you.'
With what? With her weight problem? As though spiritual development was just another aspect of health and beauty