The passenger door clicked gently open.
The police. The police had been surreptitiously following them for miles. That car going slowly, creeping up… He'd be destroyed.
Shaw reacted instinctively. He flung open his door, threw his weight against it, hurling himself out into the middle of the road, a heavy lorry grinding past less than a couple of feet away.
Across the roof of the Saab he looked not into a police uniform but into Therese's dark, calm eyes.
'I'll be listening out,' she whispered, 'for the sound of breaking glass.'
CHAPTER III
Matt Castle was standing on the pub steps with an arm around the shoulders of Lottie, his wife. Looked a bit awkward, Ernie noticed, on account of Lottie was very nearly as tall as Matt.
Lottie Castle. Long time since he'd seen her. By 'eck, still a stunner, hair strikingly red, although some of that probably came out of a bottle nowadays. Aye, that's it, lad, Ernie encouraged himself. Think about sex, what you can remember. Nowt like it for refocusing the mind after a shock.
How had she known? Was the bogman part of the Bridelow tradition? Was that it? By 'eck, it needed some thinking about, did this.
But not now.
'I'll stand here.' Matt Castle was smiling so hard he could hardly get the words between his teeth. 'So's you can all hear me, inside and out. Can you all hear me?'
'What's he say?' somebody bleated, to merry laughter, from about three yards in front of Matt. Ernie noted, rather disapprovingly, that some of this lot were half-pissed already.
'Yes, we can,' Ernie called helpfully from the edge of the forecourt.
'Thank you, Mr Dawber.'
Ernie smiled. All his ex-pupils, from no matter how far back, insisted on calling him Mr Dawber. When they'd first met, he was a baby-faced twenty-one and Matt Castle was eleven, in the top class. So he'd be fifty-six or seven now. Talk about time flying…
'I just want to say,' said the new licensee, shock-haired and stocky, 'that… well… it's bloody great to be back!'
And of course a huge cheer went up on both sides of the door. Matt Castle, Bridelow-born, had returned in triumph, like the home team bringing back the cup.
Except this was more important to the community than a bit of local glory. 'Looks well, doesn't he?' Ernie whispered to Ma Wagstaff, who didn't reply.
'Always wanted a pub of me own,' Matt told everybody. 'Never dared to dream it'd be this pub.'
The Man I'th Moss hung around him like a great black overcoat many sizes too big. Ernie hoped to God it was all going to work out. Draughty old pile, too many rooms… cellars, attics… take a bit of upkeep, absorb all the contents of your bank account by osmosis.
'To me, like to everybody else, I suppose, this was always Bridelow Brewery's pub.' Matt was dressed up tonight, suit and tie. 'We thought it always would be.'
At which point, quite a few people turned to look for Shaw Horridge, who'd long gone.
'But everything changes,' Matt said. 'Fortunes rise and fall, and this village owes the Horridge family too much not to make the effort to understand why, in the end, they were forced to part with the pub…and, of course, the brewery.'
We've all made the effort, Ernie thought, as others murmured. And we still don't understand why.
'Eeeh,' Matt said, his accent getting broader the more he spoke. 'Eeeh, I wish I were rich. Rich enough to buy the bloody lot. But at least I could put together enough for this place. Couldn't stand seeing it turned into a Berni Inn or summat.'
No, lad, Ernie thought. Left to rot.
'But… we got ourselves a bit of a bank loan. And we managed it.' Lottie Castle's fixed smile never wavering, Ernie noted, when Matt switched from 'I' to 'we' covering the money aspect.
Matt went on about how he didn't know much about running a pub, but what he did know was music. They could expect plenty of that in The Man I'th Moss.
Matt grinned. 'I know there's a few of you out there can sing a bit. And I remember, when I was a lad, there used to be a troupe of morris dancers. Where'd they go to?'
'Orthopaedic hospital,' somebody said.
'Bugger off,' said Matt. There's to be no more cynicism in this pub, all right? Anyroad, this is open house from now on for dancers and singers and instrumentalists. If there aren't enough in Bridelow, we'll ship them in from outside… big names too. And we'll build up a following, a regular audience from the towns… and, brewery or no brewery, we'll make The Man I'th Moss into a going concern again.'
At which point, somebody asked, as somebody was bound to, whether Matt and his old band would get together in Bridelow.
'Good point,' Matt accepted. 'Well, me old mucker Willie's here, Eric's not far off. And I'm working on a bit of a project which might just interest… well, somebody we used to work with… eeeh, must be fifteen years ago. Late 'seventies.'
Everybody listening now, not a chink of bottle on glass or the striking of a match. Outside, the sun was just a rosy memory.
Matt broke off. 'Hey up. For them as can't see, Lottie's giving me a warning look, she thinks I should shut up about this until we know one way or t'other…'
Lottie smiled wryly. Ernie Dawber was thinking, What the 'eck was her name, the girl who used to sing with Matt's band and then went off on her own? Very popular, she used to be, or so he'd heard.
'But, what the hell,' Matt said. 'If I'm going to do this right, I'll need your help. Fact is… it was this business of the bogman got me going. Lottie reckons I've become a bit obsessed. He laughed self-consciously. 'But the thing is… here we are, literally face to face with one of our forefathers. And it's my belief there's a lot he can teach us…'
Ernie Dawber felt Ma Wagstaff go still and watchful by his side.
'I mean about ourselves. About this village. How we relate to it and each other, and how we've progressed. There's summat special about this place, I've always known that.'
Moira Cairns, Ernie remembered. That was her name. Scottish. Very beautiful. Long, black hair.
'Right.' Matt bawled back over his shoulder, into the bar. 'Let's have a few lights on. Like a flamin' mausoleum in there.'
Ma Wagstaff stiffened and plucked at Ernie's jacket. The sun wasn't ever going to get out of that low cloud, he thought. Won't know till tomorrow if it's made it to the hills or if the Moss has got it.
'By 'eck,' he said ruefully, as if his fanciful thoughts were printed on the misting, mackerel sky where Ma Wagstaff could read them, 'I'm…'
'Getting a bit whimsy?'
Ernie laughed through his discomfort. She made it sound like a digestive problem.
'Not before time,' Ma said. 'Never any talking to you when you was headmaster. Jumped-up little devil. Knew it all – what teacher ever don't? Still… better late than not. Now then, Ernest Dawber, I'll try and teach thee summat.'
He let Ma Wagstaff lead him away to the edge of the forecourt, from where terraced stone cottages plodded up to the high-towered church, a noble sentinel over the Moss.
'What do you see?'
'This a trick question, Ma?'
Now, with the sun gone, all the houses had merged. You couldn't tell any more which ones had fresh paintwork, which had climbing roses or new porches. Only a few front steps stood out, the ones which had been recently donkey-stoned so they shone bright as morning.
'To be honest, Ma, I can't see that much. Can't even see colours.'
