dead sheep decomposing by the roadside, tufts of its wool blown into a discarded coil of barbed wire. The sky harsh, blanched, without sympathy.
Unquintessential England. As hard and hostile as it could get. No water-meadows, thatched cottages or bluebell woods.
No reason for Lottie to be jealous. Was there? Well, nothing happened, did it? Matt was always the gentleman.
Was.
Can't get used to this. I need to see him buried.
In front of her, a reservoir, stone sides, a stone tower. Cold slate water. She followed the road across it, along the rim of the dam, slowing for a black flatbed lorry loaded with metal kegs, the only other vehicle she'd seen in three or four miles.
Across the cab, in flowing white letters, it said, BRIDELOW BEERS
The road narrowed, steepened. It was not such a good road, erosion on the edges, holes in the tarmac with coarse grass or stiff reeds shafting through. No houses in sight, no barns, not even many sheep.
And then suddenly she crested the hill, the horizon took a dive and the ground dipped and sagged in front of her, like dirty underfelt when you stripped away a carpet,
'Christ!' Moira hit the brakes.
The road had become a causeway. Either side of it – like a yawning estuary, sprawling mudflats – was something she could recognize: peatbog, hundreds of acres of it.
There was a crossroads and a four-way signpost, and the sign pointing straight ahead, straight at the bog, said BRIDELOW 2, but there was no need, she could see the place.
Dead ahead. 'Hey, Matt,' Moira breathed, a warm pressure behind her eyes. 'You were right. This is something.'
Like a rocky island down there, across the bog. But the rocks were stone cottages and at the high point they sheered up into the walls of a huge, blackened, glowering church with a tower and battlements.
Behind it, against a sky like taut, stretched linen, reared the ramparts of the moor.
Unconscious of what she was doing until it was done, her fingers found the cassette poking out of the mouth of the player.
She held her breath. There was an airbag wheeze, a trembling second of silence, and then the piping filled up the car.
Moira began to shiver uncontrollably, and it shook out all those tears long repressed.
She let the car find its way across the causeway.
On the other side was a shambling grey building with a cobbled forecourt. The pub. She took one look at it and turned away, eyes awash.
So she saw the village through tears. A cliff face resolved into a terraced row, with little front gardens, white doorsteps, houses divided by entries like narrow, miniature railway tunnels. Then there were small dim shops: a hardware kind of store, its window full of unglamorous one-time essentials like buckets and sponges and clothespegs, as if nobody had told the owner most of his customers would now have automatic washing machines; a fish and chip shop with some six-year-old's impression of a happy-looking halibut painted on a wooden screen inside the window; a post office with a stubborn red telephone box in front – British Telecom had now replaced most of them with shoddy, American-looking phone booths, that, thankfully, had forgotten about Bridelow.
The streetlamps were black and iron, old gaslamps. Maybe a man would come around at night with a pole to light them.
Well, it was conceivable. Much was conceivable here.
Moira saw an old woman in a doorway; she wore a fraying grey cardigan and a beret: she was as much a part of that doorway as the grey lintel stones.
Peat preserves, Matt had said.
Peat preserves.
From Dawber's Book of Bridelow: RELIGION (ii) That Bridelow was a place of pre-Christian worship is beyond doubt. As has already been noted in this book, there are a number of small stone circles dating back to Neolithic times on the moor less than a mile from the village. The original purpose of these monuments remains a matter for conjecture, although there have been suggestions that some are astronomically-oriented.
As for the village itself, the siting of the church on a presumed prehistoric burial mound is not the only evidence of earlier forms of worship. Indeed…
CHAPTER II
'Steady Pop, just take it ve… ry steady.'
'No, leave me, please, I'll be fine, if I can just…'
'God, I never realised. How could you let it get to this and say nothing? How could you?'
Hans hissed, 'Shut up!' with a savagery that shocked her. He pulled away and ducked into the church porch, and Cathy was left staring at Our Sheila who was grinning vacuously, both thumbs jammed into her gaping vagina.
Cathy turned away and saw why her father had been so abrupt: a large man was bearing down on them, weaving skilfully between the gravestones like a seasoned skier on a slalom.
'Catherine!' he roared. 'How wonderful!'
'Joel,' Cathy said wanly.
'So. You've come all this way for Matt Castle's burial. And you're looking well. You're looking… terrific. Now.' He stepped back, beamed. 'Did I spot your esteemed father…?'
'In here, Joel.'
He was slumped on the oak bench inside the porch looking, Cathy thought, absolutely awful, the pain now permanently chiselled into his forehead. Joel Beard didn't appear to notice.
'Hans, I've been approached by two young chaps with guitars who apparently were among Matt Castle's many proteges in Manchester. They say they'd like to do an appropriate song during the service, a tribute. I didn't see any problem about that, but how would the relatives feel, do you think?'
Cathy's father looked up at his curate and managed to nod.
'I'll… Yes, we must consult Lottie, obviously. Perhaps, Cathy…'
Cathy said, 'Of course. I'll ring her now. And I'll come and tell you, Joel, OK?' Why couldn't the big jerk just clear off?
But, no, he had to stand around in the porch like some sort of ecclesiastical bouncer, smiling in a useful sort of way, his head almost scraping the door frame.
'Can we expect any Press, do you think? Television?'
Cathy said, 'With all respect to the dead, Joel, I don't think Matt Castle was as famous as all that. Folkies, no matter how distinguished, tend to be little known outside what they call Roots Music circles.'
'Ah.' Joel nodded. 'I see.' With those tight blond curls, Cathy thought, he resembled a kind of macho cherub.
'Staying the night, Catherine?'
'Probably. The roads are going to be quite nasty, I gather. Black ice forecast. In fact,' she added hopefully, 'I wouldn't hang around too long after the funeral if I were you.'
'Not a problem,' Joel said. 'I have accommodation.'
'Oh?' Damn. 'Where?'
'Why…' Joel Beard spread his long arms expansively. 'Here, of course.'
Hans sat up on the oak bench, eyes burning. 'Joel, I do wish you wouldn't. It's disused. It's filthy. It's… it's damp.'
'Won't be by tonight. I've asked the good Mr Beckett to supply me with an electric heater.'
'Hell,' Cathy said. 'Not the wine-cellar.' It was a small, square, stone room below the vestry where they
