The Wine of Angels

having conspired together to display their bodies in his churchyard, thus tormenting the poor bloke beyond the point of human endurance, until he chased them into what is now your orchard, Rod, and—’

‘What I thought.’ Powell’s face had closed right up. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

Taking a stand at last, from which he’d not be swayed. Of course, Merrily realized, he was a magistrate. If it was happening today he’d be in that stern delegation of local bigwigs.

‘And I would have to say, as your elected local government representative, that, in my view, this is a very sick idea. Gonner rake up stuff as shouldn’t be raked up.’

‘Idea being the operative word, Rod,’ Child said. ‘Coffey’s using the Williams story to make a political point. In The Crucible, Arthur Miller employed the Salem witch trials as a parable reflecting McCarfhyism. Coffey’s turning Wil Williams into a gay icon. There’s really no evidence at all that Williams was gay.’

Merrily’s liberal instincts began to nudge her. ‘You’d rather he was a devil-worshipper?’

Dermot Child regarded her with a lopsided smile. ‘I do believe you’re starting to smoulder, Vicar.’

Merrily scowled.

‘What I would rather ...’ Rod Powell was on his feet. He made quite a distinguished figure, the only one of them in a suit and tie. ‘... is that this whole damn business went away.’

‘Well, it won’t,’ Cassidy said. ‘So let’s not get it out of proportion. At the end of the day, we’re being given the opportunity to present a significant work of art by a distinguished writer.’

‘With an axe to grind, Mr Chairman.’ Rod Powell thumped the table. ‘An axe to grind.’

‘Well, perhaps ... But isn’t that what worthwhile art is all about?’

‘Then let him grind it somewhere else, sir. Not in our church.’

‘I rather think that’s up to the Church itself to decide, don’t you?’

They all turned to Merrily.

‘Hey, don’t look at me, I’m only the vicar. I’ll have to consult ... somebody.’

‘And your conscience, Mrs Watkins.’ Rod Powell’s voice was low and quiet but somehow carried all the resonant menace of Dermot’s auld ciderrrrr.

The village hall went ominously quiet after this. Until Terrence Cassidy said gently, ‘Merrily, I rather think you may find, at the end of the day, that this will be your decision.’

Well, thank you, Mr Chairman. How was she supposed to react? Come over all spiritual and lofty, tell them she’d pray for guidance and hope they’d all do the same?

Garrod Powell looked distant, Terrence Cassidy anguished. Dermot Child gave his vicar a sympathetic smile, but his eyes were bright with anarchic glee.

‘Er ...’ Merrily reached for her bag. ‘Anybody mind if I have a cigarette?’

Before Colette pushed her out of the pub door, Jane glanced over her shoulder and saw the slug Dean Wall and his mates frantically gulping down their lagers.

‘Shit,’ Colette said. ‘Move, you silly cow. Listen. When we get outside, we go right. Got that?’

Jane’s legs felt like somebody else’s legs.

‘Jane ... You listening to me? I’m not dragging you up the street, past all the houses. Those low-lifes’ll be trailing after us, making smart remarks, and it’ll be all round the village before breakfast, and you’ll never get out at night again.’

‘Legless.’

‘What?’

‘Leg ...’ All the times she’d heard the term and never once thought about what it really meant, and now she knew.’... less. I’m leglesh!’

It was suddenly the funniest expression she’d ever heard.

‘Jesus wept,’ said Colette.

The spring night air was lovely and warm. Softly lit by a wrought-iron lamp over the pub entrance and overlooked by crooked black and white gable-ends, the cobbled alley was intimate and story-book romantic. Ledwardine by night: wonderful. Jane stood there, gazing up at the stars, feeling suddenly, amazingly, more absolutely at home than she’d felt anywhere they’d ever lived and that was a lot of places. Another lantern hung across the entrance of the alleyway, orangey, alluring, and she glided towards it.

‘Not that way. Right.’ Colette tugging her back across the cobbles. ‘Follow your nose.’

Meaning the horrible, acidy pong from the public toilets at the end of the alleyway. The proximity of the dirty-brick toilet-block spoiled the idyll, and the smell killed the atmosphere stone dead. Obstinately, Jane turned her back on it.

‘Why can’t we go—?’

‘Shut up!’ Colette’s hand came down over Jane’s mouth with a slap. ‘They’re coming out.’

Jane was shocked into silence. She swallowed, feeling unsteady inside. Colette took the hand away from her mouth and used it to haul her past the cracked gents sign, up some steps, on which Jane stumbled, and then it was soft underfoot and suddenly really dark.

‘The old bowling green, all right?’ Colette said. ‘We cut across here, over to the footpath, round by the churchyard, out of the church close and we’re back on the square.’

‘Ingeniush,’ Jane said thickly. She looked up. The sky was brilliant, the stars huge and blotchy like Van Gogh stars. Actually, everything was bigger and blotchier.

‘All right?’ Cocky voice from just a few yards behind them. ‘Need any help, do we, ladies?’

‘Shit.’ Colette pulled Jane across the grass. ‘Duck.’ Branches grazing her head. ‘Not a word.’ Colette tugged her down behind the trees. She fell back into the grass, lovely and soft at first. Closed her eyes and everything turned into a big, waltzing fairground ride, which wasn’t so pleasant, so she opened her eyes and sat up, feeling kind of damp and clammy and wishing she was in bed in the Black Swan.

‘You all right, girls?’

‘Danny Gittoes,’ Colette hissed into her ear. ‘If he knew where we were he wouldn’t keep shouting.’

‘He’s not so bad.’ Jane recalled a lanky, slow-moving character who played the trombone in the school orchestra.

‘Keep your bloody voice down. Not so bad sober. Not so bad on his own. Bunch of them at closing time, you don’t get involved. Bad news. I got caught once, never again.’

‘Thought you were a woman of the world.’

‘You do it on your terms, Jane. Not theirs. Never theirs. Besides, if Gittoes was mine, you’d get Wall. Up against the back of the toilets. Fancy that, do you?’

‘Yuk.’

‘Right. So shut up. Come on, on your feet. There’s a path. We get to the churchyard we’re all right.’

‘You wanner come to a party, girls?’ Danny Gittoes called out, further away now.

Colette sniffed. ‘Very small party, I reckon. Hold on to my arm, Jane, this bit’s muddy.’

Danny Gittoes bawled out, ‘Bring your mother, you wanner.’

The ground was harder underfoot; they’d found the path. Danny Gittoes was lumbering about, a good twenty-five yards behind.

‘Give ‘er some holy communion, I would. Any day o’ the bloody week.’

‘I rest my case,’ Colette murmured. ‘Scumbag?’

‘Scumbag. Least he’s on his own.’

‘Yeah, but that worries me a bit.’

Jane felt cold now. She was glad to see the big, black hulk of the church thrusting through the trees and bushes like a liner on a dark ocean, stars drifting around the steeple. Another hundred yards and they’d be out on the square and the only problem then would be slipping quietly into the Black Swan and looking like she’d just been for a meditative stroll. Best thing, before going up to the suite, would be to pop into the downstairs Ladies’, slap some cold water on her face. Although the chances were Mum would be too stressed up over tomorrow’s sermon to notice much.