goes against us.'
'Is that likely?'
'A sham, that inquiry. They won't admit it, but this is the first stage in linking Somerset into the Euro superhighway. Biggest environmental threat in Britain today. Nightmare. Some of the finest countryside in the world sacrificed to the juggernaut. Once they've started, there'll be no end to it. Be nowhere to walk except from your house to your car, and no garden in between.'
Woolly laughed, embarrassed. 'Sorry. When you get on the council you stop talking to people normally, you just make speeches. What you got here?' He started turning over the pages of Shadow of Angels, a glossy, new book about the St Michael Line, mainly pictures, handsome but superficial.
'Hey, I heard this thing was out. Let's see if I'm in the index.'
Woolly was Glastonbury's biggest expert on leys and earth-forces. Which said quite a lot, as there was no town in Britain with more ley-lines or, indeed, ley line experts per square yard.
'Yeah, Woolaston E. T., pages 171-173. Three pages? Sheesh. I shoulda charged this lady. Specially as she's rubbished it, apparently. They dress it up in a lovely jacket with romantic photos and a little bit of text that ends up saying the Line probably don't exist anyway.'
'We followed it,' Diane said. 'The convoy. We went from church to church all the way from the abbey at Bury St Edmunds, stopping at the Avebury circle and all those places and…'
She stopped, suddenly remembering something Headlice had said last night in his manic, mud-splashed, let's-get-out-of-here state.
'Who? The Pilgrims?' Woolly spread his hands. 'Well, that's good, innit? Travelling the Line, near as you can, it helps keep the energy flowing. Here, listen to this… A resident of Glastonbury, Edward 'Woolly' Woolaston walks the full length of the line from St Michael's Mount to Bury every five years in what has become a personal ritual. 'When I'm too old to walk, I'll find somebody to push me,' says Woolaston, who has been studying linear configurations in the West Country landscape for over twenty-five years'
Woolly closed the book and sighed. 'Picture of me, too. She made me wear the woolly hat and the long scarf. The full sixties throw-back bit. I don't mind. I just wish these clever gits would try and understand that while the line might not work out exactly on the map, it does… in here.'
Woolly patted his chest and Diane thought at once of Headlice looking up the Tor from Don Moulder's meadow and announcing, I can feel it… here, punching his chest through his pitifully torn clothing.
And later, minutes before he was attacked in Moulder's field, he'd said. And no more stopping at churches, goin' in backwards…
They'd made a point, on Gwyn's direction, of stopping at every church on the St Michael route as well as many of the old stones and burial mounds. They'd made Headlice go in backwards?
'Hey, don't worry'. Woolly was wearing one of his huge grins, patting her arm. 'We're not gonner let 'em deport you this time. You got Councillor Woolaston behind you now, kid. Not going back with the Pilgrims, are you?'
'I don't even know where they are. It was just a way of… getting here, I suppose.'
Woolly didn't question it. To Woolly, everything in life was about Getting Here. 'So you're OK, then? I mean, in the shop?'
'Oh, yes.' But Diane wasn't too certain. She couldn't help imagining another unsuitable headline: CANDIDATE'S SISTER WORKS IN OCCULT BOOKSHOP; Not quite so detrimental to Archer's prospects. But Archer didn't like anything at all in his way. Not if it could be removed.
'You know, I think I'm gonner buy this book, after all,' Woolly said. 'How much?' He turned the book over. 'Sheesh, that's a bit steep.'
'I'm sure Juanita would want me to knock a pound or so off,' said Diane, but Woolly looked stem.
'Councillor Woolaston never trades on friendship. I'll pay full whack.' Woolly pulled out a pink and blue canvas wallet, searched through it, looked up, did his grin. 'Er… slight cash flow problem. I can give you a tenner, bring the rest tomorrow?'
Diane smiled and put the book in a paper bag for him.
'Tis good to have you back, my love,' said Woolly sincerely.
Verity loved Dame Wanda Carlisle's house. It was everything Meadwell was not – spacious and airy, with sumptuous sofas and deep Georgian windows letting in lots of glorious light.
It was also surprisingly close to the heart of the town, tucked into a discreet mews behind St John's Church, quiet but convenient for attending talks at the town hall and the Assembly Rooms.
'I'm totally convinced this will help you.' Wanda, large and strong and scented, placed a reassuringly regal hand on Verity's wrist. 'My dear, the man is said to be wonderfully charismatic'
Verity raised a hesitant eyebrow. Most of Wanda's pronouncements were couched in similarly extravagant superlatives. All great actresses, Verity supposed, were long conditioned to project, project and project.
'I suppose, all the same, that I shall have to consult Major Shepherd.'
'Nonsense, darling.' Wanda reached for the gin bottle. 'This Major Shepherd, it's all very well for him, he doesn't have to live in the blessed house. So he has no right to pontificate. Now. I'll tell you what we shall do. Dr Grainger is appearing at the Assembly Rooms on… when? Wednesday. Oh… that's tonight!'
'What a coincidence,' Verity observed, covering her wineglass with a hand. 'No more for me, thank you. I shall be quite tiddly.'
'In Avalon…' Wanda mixed herself a large gin and tonic. '… I have found that coincidence does tend to be the norm.' She had come to Glastonbury last spring for my soul's sake. Retaining the Hampstead villa, naturally, because while London might be unbearable it did remind one of the need for the sanctity of Avalon.
Verity raised her eyes to the sculpted ceiling and the cut-glass chandelier which threw hundreds of beautiful light-splinters into the farthest corners. She thought of the soiled bulbs of Meadwell struggling against the shadows and supposed a similar comparison could be made between her and the incandescent Wanda.
'I don't know,' she said. 'I don't know at all.'
She was still flattered that such a distinguished person, well-known from the theatre and the television, should have so much time for her. Although, she suspected Wanda did prefer to be with people who were rather in awe. In the presence of someone manifestly powerful, like Ceridwen, the feted actress tended to wilt into a sort of compliant vagueness.
Verily fingered the glossy pamphlet on the occasional table. The man in the photograph was shaven-headed, bearded and unsmiling. DR PEL GRAINGER: Fear of the Dark – a misconception. An Introduction to Tenebral Therapy.
Dr Grainger was an American author and academic who had recently moved into a barn conversion at Compton Dundon. just a few miles away. Apparently, his argument was that we only fear the dark because we do not fully understand its role, a natural balance of darkness and light being essential for our health, eyesight and spiritual development.
'They say', Wanda confided, 'that he's had all the sources of artificial light removed from his barn. He has no television, writes and reads only by daylight, while the nights are reserved for thinking, meditation, sex and sleep. Sleep of a sublime quality attainable only by those who are truly at peace with the dark.'
Wanda raised a theatrical eyebrow. 'About the quality of the sex one can only speculate'
'It sounds… quite interesting,' said Verity dubiously.
'In Avalon – and this is part of the magic – there is always someone. Whatever your spiritual problem. Always someone near at hand.'
All too near, in Wanda's case. Her house had become the headquarters of The Cauldron, some of whose Outer Circle gatherings had been attended, a trifle timidly, by Verity. The Outer Circle concerned itself mainly with lectures about the role of the Goddess in the modern world.
Actually, Verity was becoming rather sceptical about The Cauldron. She'd first gone along having been told the group was researching the Marian tradition in Glastonbury. While not herself a Catholic, she had felt an urge to understand the power of the faith which had driven Abbot Whiting.
Now, she rather suspected that references to the Goddess Mary were something of a sop. And while respecting pagan viewpoints, Verity had always avoided any practical involvement in that particular belief- system.
'Is Dr Grainger a pagan?' she asked.
