The Chalice

'I'm sorry. What's your plan?'

Juanita went down on her knees by Diane's wooden stool.

'A revamped Avalonian. A totally Glastonbury paper that contains different viewpoints, input from different sides. Professional. Unbiased.'

Diane shook her head. 'The local people will think it's just another hippy rag and they'll ignore it.'

'Not if it tells them important things they didn't know.'

'Like what?'

'You're the editor,' Juanita said. 'You tell me.'

'Oh.' Diane looked apprehensive. 'I was wondering where all this was leading.'

It was dark by the time Jim wheeled his bike down to the bottom end of High Street, where The George and Pilgrims stood in all its late medieval splendour. To convince himself he wasn't vet a total slave to the booze, he'd pedalled around the town a while, down Benedict Street, round the Northload roundabout, weighing up whether or not he should buy a new hat.

On the one hand, a new hat would remind him distressingly, every time he put it on, of what had happened to the old one. On the other hand, not having a hat reminded him all the time.

The George and Pilgrims looked more like an Oxford college than a boozer. Over the doorway were set the heraldic arms of Edward IV. On the hanging pub sign, a fully armoured knight with a red-cross shield brandished a broadsword while a bunch of standard medieval punters – monks and nuns and a kid – hung around in case he needed anybody to defend. In the top right hand comer of the sign was the ubiquitous Tor.

Jim signalled to St George to keep an eye on his bike and went in, slotting himself into a corner of the bar with a double Chivas Regal and looking around.

He listened to two elderly ladies taking tea at a table in the passage outside: 'Oh, he's quite miraculous, Charlotte. Two weeks ago, I could only bend it this far. Now… see? Isn't that wonderful?'

There was only one other customer in the dark, woody bar. Young chap he thought he recognised, at a particularly shadowed table. On the table were a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser. But before Jim had had more than a couple of sips or Chivas, both glasses were dumped, empty, on the bar.

'Same again,' the young chap told the barman grimly. He had thick black hair and a pair of small, square, gold-rimmed glasses, baggy cord trousers and a practical Guernsey sweater.

Jim recognised him now. 'Tony, isn't it?' Tony something double-barrelled with the pottery a few doors up the street and the gorgeous if rather brittle wife.

'I'm sorry?'

Blinking. Voice a trifle slurred. Oh dear, and not yet seven in the evening. Jim knew this road all too well.

'Jim Battle. Came into your shop when you first opened to enquire whether you were interested in displaying examples of local, er, fine art.'

'Oh yes. Sure. The painter.' Tony peered at him without much interest. 'Another one?'

'Civil of you. Thanks.' Jim drained his glass and Tony jerked a thumb at it, for the barman.

'Married, are you, Jim?'

'Not at the moment.' Jim smiled. Not the most original way to open a conversation in a pub. 'Hope you're not going to tell me what a lucky devil I am, Tony. Not with a wife like yours.'

Dorrell-Adams, that was the name. Holy Thorn Ceramics.

Tony sank a staggering quantity of his new pint, still looking like a man who wasn't used to it.

'Bloody bitch,' he said eventually.

'Oh gosh, Juanita, it's ridiculous. I only did a year. And it's not as if I was any good.'

Diane was pacing the tiny parlour, nervously nibbling another carob bar.

'How are you on layout? Subediting.'

'Hopeless. I was just a slightly mature trainee reporter. Sort of. I know how to write stories. Sort of. I know how not to commit libel. Probably. And that's it.'

'Sounds OK,' Juanita said. 'Sam knows about layouts. Sam Daniel. Griff Daniel's son. Estranged, fortunately. Set himself up as a sort of printer, with an enterprise grant. Desktop stuff, computers. But there's also a local offset plant which could turn the thing out.'

'I remember Sam Daniel. Mostly by reputation. We didn't mix in the same circles. He's in business?'

'In a bolshy sort of way. We discussed The Avalonian about a year ago. I was thinking of doing it all by myself.'

'Why?' Diane sat down, looking flustered.

'Because it seemed like a really nice thing to do, Diane.' Juanita rolled her eyes. 'For the town? OK, it wound up on the back-burner, as these things do. But then you coming back like this, it just seemed…'

Jesus God, don't tell her it was a sign.

'It would be quite a costly venture,' Diane said.

'You mean, have I suddenly got money to throw away? Well, the old bank balance stands at about twelve grand. But I could write to Danny. I bought him out of the shop when he… when he needed to leave. Which put me in the red for quite a while, and fortunately he still feels bad about that. Also, I may approach the Pixhill Trust.'

Diane looked blank. 'Colonel Pixhill?'

'You knew him?'

'I sort of remember him. My father claims he conned my grandmother over the sale of Meadwell after the War. Father was abroad with the Army at the time He was furious. They kept trying to buy Meadwell back, but the Colonel wouldn't play.'

'Poor old Pixhill,' said Juanita. 'They say he lived his last few years on fresh air to keep that place together and then, when he died, his family couldn't even sell it because of the Pixhill Trust, this rickety charity seemingly run by the Colonel's old army pals, most of them miles away.'

Diane said. 'Archer was very friendly with Oliver Pixhill the Colonel's son. Same school. Inseparable for a while.'

'Oliver was apparently seriously pissed off at not being able to flog Meadwell. His inheritance was zilch. But now they say he's a member of the Trust.'

'What's it do, this Trust?'

Juanita perched lightly on the arm of Diane's chair. 'Good works, my child. Worthy things, connected with – and I quote – the Spreading of the Light for the Furtherance of Peace and Harmony in a Troubled World. Does that sound like The Avalonian or doesn't it?'

'They'd give you money?'

'For services rendered. Hang on. Stay right there.'

Juanita went through to the shop and unlocked the cabinet where the antiquarian tomes were kept. She returned with a slim, pocket-sized, softbacked book. It had a rather drab, green, cloth cover.

'I may live to regret this, but you're bound to see it sometime.'

You had to hold the book up to the light to make out the wording, in black, on the cover: GEORGE PIXHILL: THE GLASTONBURY DIARIES

'Take it,' Juanita said. 'Won't take you long to read. Gets seriously depressing towards the end, but you might find you and the old guy have a certain amount, er, in common.'

Meaning an unhealthy obsession with certain aspects of Glastonbury. But at least it would show her where this sort of thing could lead.

Diane held the little book gingerly in both hands, like a child with a first prayer book. 'Why've I never heard of this?'

'Probably because it's only been published a couple of months. And because it's never exactly been advertised. You have to ask for it. Oh, and because this is the only shop that sells it.'

'What?'

Juanita lit a cigarette.

"Bout a year ago, an old buffer called Shepherd – "Major Shepherd, good day to you ma'am" – swans in with this dog-eared manuscript. Wants some advice on publishing it. An absolute innocent. Left the manuscript – the only copy, mind you – left it with me to read. I'm expecting some tedious old war memoirs, Rommel and Me sort of thing.'

Diane put her knees together, her elbows on her knees and her chin between cupped hands. Juanita stiffened, her memory superimposing a plump schoolgirl with spots from too much comfort chocolate: Diane a dozen years ago when Juanita had given her Dion Fortune's The Sea Priestess to read.