The Chalice

There was a strange sort of glow in Diane's eyes which Juanita had seen before and found disturbing. Not to say ominous.

'The Cricketer,' Diane said.

'Thought you'd spot that. Bit like your revered nanny, huh? Sits on the edge of the bed with a cool hand on the fevered young brow. Jung would've loved him.'

Diane looked disappointed. 'You're saying this is an archetypal thing. Sort of projected imagination. A child's comfort figure. My ghost, angel, whatever was a good nanny, because all my real nannies were nasty, and Colonel Pixhill's was a cricketer because he was a boy.'

'Something like that. Beats lying awake sucking your thumb, I suppose.'

Diane frowned. 'You've changed. You're ever so cynical now, aren't you?'

'Maybe I've come to my senses. I used to be a mystical snob like the rest, an elitist in a town full of them.'

'What you mean is, you used to be a seeker after some sort of truth,' Diane said primly. 'And now you've stopped searching.'

'If you want to put it like that. All the sects and societies and covens, they all think their particular Path is the True Way and everything else is crap. I've concluded it's safer to start off on the basis that it's all crap.'

'That's just as bigoted, Juanita.'

'Saves a lot of time though, doesn't it?' Juanita pulled her old blue mac from the back of the parlour door. 'Look, I'm off to the pub, see if I can find Jim. You coming?'

'I think I'd rather like to finish reading this.'

'Thought you would. Just remember he died a sad, rather isolated old man, deserted by his wife, stuck in a gloomy farmhouse he couldn't afford to heat and… Oh, remember not to open the door for anyone, cream Range Rover or otherwise.'

'I won't. Juanita…'

'Mmm?'

Diane held up the book, pointed to the tiny writing at the bottom of the spine, where it said Carey and Frayne.

'And yet you published this.'

Juanita shrugged. 'Well… at the Pixhill Trust's expense. A thousand copies, only a few of which have sold since word got round about what was in it. Left to me, there's no way it would have come out looking like that, but the Trust were calling the shots and they wanted dark green, no picture, no blurb, no publicity, no other outlets. It wasn't important if only a few people bought it. It just had to be… available.'

'Did they say why? I mean, he's been dead nearly twenty years.'

'"An obligation'' was all Major Shepherd said. I imagine the Trust thought there ought to be some sort of memorial to Pixhill. Why they sat on the manuscript for so long I've no idea. I only agreed to get it printed because I felt so sorry for old Shepherd, who wasn't in the best of health. Obviously wanted to get the thing off his hands before he passed on.'

Diane held the little green book between her hands and looked thoughtfully at it. Almost as if she was looking into a mirror, Juanita thought. She hoped Diane would continue to find parallels between Pixhill's alleged visionary experiences and her own. And she hoped, as she let herself out of the shop, that by the end of the book the central message would be clear.

Glastonbury buggers you up.

It was a bright night, the crown of St John's tower icy-sharp. On a night like this, this time of year, there ought to be frost. Why wasn't there frost?

All was quiet, save for the clicking of Juanita's heels. Not even the usual semi stoned assembly with guitars and hand-drums around the war-memorial. You could sense tonight the nearness of the Abbey ruins, hidden behind the High Street shops.