The Hall itself, to be honest, wasn't looking too good either. Big holes in the rendering, gardens a mess. Arthur Horridge would have a fit. Ernie was merely saddened at another symptom of the Change.
Gettin' a bit whimsy, Ernie?
Leave me alone, Ma. Give me a break, eh?
Fifty yards below the house, the drive went into a fork, the other road leading to the brewery.
'By 'eck,' Ernie Dawber said, stopping to look.
For suddenly the brewery was more impressive than the Hall.
In the past it had always been discreet, concealed by big old trees. But now some of the biggest had been felled to give the Victorian industrial tower block more prominence.
Gannons's doing? Had they made out a case for the brewery as an historic building and got a Government grant to tart it up?
Bloody ironic, eh? They sack half the workforce, talk about shifting the operation to Matlock, but if there's any money going for restoration they'll have it. Happen turn it into a museum.
They'd even finished off repairing the old pulley system for the malt store, briefly abandoned last… May, was it? How soon we forget… when a rope had snapped and Andy Hodgson had fallen to his death. Accidental death – official coroner's verdict. No blame attached.
Don't want to put a damper on things, Ernest, but summat's not right.
Go away, Ma.
He had to stop this. Snatches of Ma Wagstaff had been bobbing up and down in his brain ever since he'd awakened, like an old tune that'd come from nowhere but you couldn't get rid of it. Reminding him of his commitment. Get him back.
And if I don't? If I fail? What then?
He could only think of one answer to that. One he'd thought of before, and it had made him laugh, and now it didn't.
Well. Nagged from beyond the grave. You wouldn't credit it. Ernie straightened his hat, girded up his gaberdine, turned his back on the brewery, which suddenly offended him, and hurried up to the Hall.
He pressed the bell-push and heard the chimes echo, as if from room to room within the house.
Even as he pressed again, he knew there was nobody inside.
So she doesn't come down to the village any more… Well, she's always been a bit aloof. Not a local woman. Only to be expected with this bad feeling about the brewery. She supposed to subject herself to that when it wasn't her fault?
But you, Ernest… Nowt to stop you going to see her.
Ma…
… She were in a shocking state, banging her fists on Ma's door – 'please, please', like this…
'Please, Liz.' Ernie, sheltering under the overhanging porch as the rain came harder. 'Answer the door, eh?'
He remembered attending her wedding back in… 1957, would it be? This high-born, high-breasted Cheshire beauty, niece of Lord Benfold, on the arm of a grinning Arthur Horridge, boisterous with pride – free ale all round that night in The Man. 'Sturdy lass,' Ma Wagstaff had observed (they were already calling her Ma back in the 'fifties). 'Never pegged her own washing out, I'll bet.'
Ma talking then as if Eliza Horridge were nowt to do with her. As if there was no secret between them.
It was years before Ernie had put two and two together.
… put me hand on her shoulder and she nearly had hysterics, I want Ma, I want Ma…'
Oh, Lord, Liz. Answer the bloody door. Please. Hans said, 'I realised a long time ago where the essence was. That' a real centre of spirituality was what was important – that what kind of spirituality it was was, to a large extent, irrelevant.'
'You say you realised…' Cathy said slowly. 'Did that come in a blinding flash, or were you… tutored, perhaps?'
'Both. They started work on your mother to begin with, through the well-dressing. She was always interested in flowers.' Hans laughed painfully. 'Can you imagine? Doing it through something as utterly innocuous as flower arranging? Millicent Gill it was taught her – only a kid at the time, but she'd been born into it. Flowers. Petal pictures. Pretty.'
'Yes,' Cathy said.
'Then flowers in the church. Nothing strange about that. But in this kind of quantity? Used to look like Kew Gardens in August.'
'I remember.'
'And the candles. Coloured candles. And the statues. I remembered commenting to the bishop – old Tom Warrender in those days, canny old devil – about the unexpected Anglo- Catholic flavour. 'But they still turn up in force on a Sunday, don't they, Hans?' he said. And then he patted me on the shoulder, as if to say, don't knock it when you're winning. Of course, even then I knew we weren't talking about Anglo-Catholicism – not in the normal sense, anyway. And then, when we'd been here a few years, your mother went into hospital to have you and Barney…'
'Which reminds me, Pop, Barney called from Brussels – he'll be over to see you before the end of the week.'
'No need. Tell him…'
'There's no telling him anything, you know that. Go on. When Mum was in hospital…'
'I was approached by Alf Beckett, Frank Manifold and Willie Wagstaff. They said the house was no place to bring families into, far too dismal and shabby. Give them a couple of hours and they and a few of the other lads would redecorate the place top to bottom. Be a nice surprise for your mother – welcome-home present from the village.'
'I didn't know about that.'
'Of course you didn't. Anyway, I said it was very good of them and everything, but the mess… Don't you worry about that, Vicar, they said. You won't even have to see it until it's done. We've arranged accommodation for you.'
'Ah,' said Cathy.
'They'd installed a bed in the little cellar under the church,' said Hans. 'The place had been aired. Chemical toilet in the passage. Washbowl, kettle, all mod cons. Of course, I knew I was being set up, but what could I do?'
Hans paused, 'I spent… two nights down there.'
'And?' Cathy discovered she was leaning forward, gripping the leatherette arms of her chair.
'And what? Don't expect me to tell you what happened. I came out, to put it mildly, a rather more thoughtful sort of chap than when I went in. Can't explain it. I think it was a test. I think I passed. I hope I passed.'
'But you didn't want Joel sleeping down there?'
'God, no. The difference being that I'd been there a few years by then – I was halfway to accepting certain aspects of Bridelow. They knew that. Somebody took a decision. That the vicar should be… presented. To Her. I think… I think if I hadn't been ready, if I hadn't been considered sufficiently… what? Tolerant, I suppose. Open- minded… then probably nothing would have happened. Probably nothing would have happened with Joel. But I didn't want him down there. I don't want to sound superior or anything, but that boy could spend fifty years in Bridelow and still not be ready.'
Cathy said, realising this wasn't going to do much for her father's recovery, 'Suppose… suppose he did spend a night down there. And he was already worked up after that business at the funeral. And he stirred something up. Brought something on. Suppose he was tested – and failed?'
'Well,' Hans said. 'There's an old story Ernie Dawber once told me. About what really happened when that bishop spent a night down there in eighteen whenever. They say he went totally bloody bonkers.'
Hans patted Cathy's hand. 'But then,' he said, 'wouldn't have been much of a story at all if he hadn't, would it?' There was a loud, urgent rapping on Willie's front door, which could only be Milly.
Who knew the door was hardly ever locked – certainly not when Willie was at home – but who'd knock anyway, for emphasis, when it was something important.
Willie had been re-reading Moira's note. It had been a relief at first; didn't think he could really apply himself
