A Crown of Lights

‘So it’s, uh, local, this funeral?’ Boy, how soon you could grow to hate one simple little word.

‘In the village, yes.’

‘So you still have a graveyard – despite no church?’

Mrs Prosser didn’t reply. He heard her pouring coffee. It occurred to him she hadn’t commented on him being American. Maybe ‘from Off’ was all-inclusive; how far ‘Off’ was of no major consequence.

He raised his voice a little. ‘I guess there must’ve been problems with funerals when the old St Michael’s Church was in use. What with the creek and all.’ OK, it might not be in the best of taste to keep on about funerals, but it was his only way into the Reverend Penney, and he wasn’t about to let go.

‘Because of the brook, no one’s been buried there in centuries.’ She came back with two brown cups and saucers on a tray.

‘Thank you, uh, Judith. Hey, I met the vicar. He came round.’

‘Mr Ellis is a good rector.’

‘But not local,’ Robin said.

‘You don’t get local ministers anywhere any more, do you? But he brings people in. Very popular, he is. Quite an attraction.’

‘You like to see new people coming in?’

She laughed: a good-looking woman, in her weathered way. ‘Depends what people they are, isn’t it? Nobody objects to churchgoers. And the collections support the village hall. They’re always very generous.’

‘Just Nick doesn’t seem your regular kind of minister,’ Robin said.

‘He suits our needs,’ said Mrs Prosser. ‘Father Ellis’s style of worship might not be what we’ve been used to in this area, but a breath of something new is no bad thing, we’re always told. Jog us out of our routine, isn’t it?’

‘I guess.’ He tasted the coffee. It was strong and surprisingly good. Judith Prosser put the tray on a small table and came to sit on the sofa opposite. She was turning out to be unexpectedly intelligent, not so insular as he’d figured. He felt ashamed of his smug preconceptions about rural people, local people. So he went for it.

‘From what I hear, this area seems to attract kind of off-the-wall clergy. This guy, uh... Penney?’

‘My,’ she said, ‘you have picked up a lot of gossip in a short time.’

‘Not everybody finds themselves buying a church. You feel you oughta find out the history.’

‘Or the lurid bits, at least.’

‘Uh... I guess.’ He gave her his charming, sheepish smile.

‘Terry Penney.’ Judith sipped her coffee. ‘What’s to say? Quiet sort of man. Scholarly, you know? Had his study floor-to-ceiling with books. Not an unfriendly person, mind, not reclusive particularly. Not at first.’

‘He didn’t live at the farmhouse – our house?’

‘Oh, no, that was always a farm. No, the rectory was just out of the village, on the Walton road. Mr Weal has it now – the solicitor.’

Robin recalled the name from someplace. Juliet Pottinger’s letter?

‘So...’ He put down his coffee on a coaster resting on the high chair arm. ‘The, uh, lurid bit?’

‘Restrain yourself, Mr Thorogood, I’m getting there.’

Robin grinned; she was OK. He guessed the Christ is the Light sticker was just the politically correct thing to do in Old Hindwell.

‘Well, it was my husband, see, who had the first inkling of something amiss – through the county council. Every year Old Hindwell Church would apply for a grant from the Welsh Church Acts Committee, or whatever they called it then, which allotted money to old buildings, for preservation. Although the church was in the Hereford diocese it’s actually in Wales, as you know. However, this particular year, there was no request for money.’

She turned on a wry smile. She was – he hadn’t expected this – enjoying telling this story.

‘The Reverend Penney had been yere... oh, must have been nearly eighteen months by then. Thought he must have forgotten, we did, so Councillor Prosser goes to see him. And Mr Penney, bold as you please, says, oh no, he hasn’t forgotten at all. He doesn’t want a grant. He doesn’t think the church should be preserved!’

Robin widened his eyes.

‘The church is wrong, says Mr Penney. It’s in the wrong place. It should never have been built where it is. The water’s not healthy. The fabric’s rotten. Parking’s difficult. Oh, a whole host of excuses. He says he’s written to the diocese and whoever else, suggesting that they dispense with St Michael’s at the earliest possible opportunity.’

Robin was fazed. ‘He called for them to get rid of his own church? Just like that?’

‘Just like that. No one could believe it.’

‘Wow.’ Robin was thinking furiously. Had Penney realized this was a powerful pagan site? Was it that simple? Had he made some kind of discovery? He tried to hide his excitement. ‘Was he mad?’

‘Perhaps he’d always been a little mad,’ said Mrs Prosser. ‘But we just never saw it until it was too late.’

‘So, like... what did he do?’

Judith Prosser put down her coffee. ‘No one likes to talk about it. But, as the owner now, I suppose you have a right to be told.’

One of the few good things about living here was that the post usually arrived before nine; in some rural areas you couldn’t count on getting it before lunchtime.

Today’s was a catalogue from a mail order supplier of garden ornaments – how quickly these people caught up with you – and a letter addressed to ‘Mrs’ Thoroughgood with a Hereford postmark.

That ‘Mrs’ told her what this was going to be.

She sat down at the table with the letter in front of her. Usual cheap white envelope. They’d received two when they were living in Shrewsbury. They said things like: We Know About Your Dirty Nude Ceremonies Worshipping Heathen Gods. The Lord Will Punish You.

How had they found out? Who’d told them? Had Robin been indiscreet?

Betty felt gutted. The sick irony of this was that she hadn’t practised as a witch since they moved here and, the way she was feeling now, never would again – at least, not in any organized way.

She contemplated tossing the letter in the stove unopened. But if she did that it would dwell in her, would be twice as destructive.

With contempt, Betty slit the envelope.

She read the note three times. Usual capitals, usual poor spelling.

But otherwise not quite what she’d expected.

YOU HAD BETTER TELL THAT LONG HAIRED LOUT THAT IF HE WANTS TO GO HELPING HIMSELF TO THE FAVOURS OF THE BIGGEST HORE IN THE VILLAGE HE OUGHT TO BE MORE DISCREAT ABOUT IT.

17 Revelations

IT WAS INCREDIBLE! So wonderfully bizarre that, walking back to St Michael’s Farm, Robin forgot all about agonizing over that asshole Blackmore who thought bestsellerdom had conferred upon him an art critic’s instincts.

On the footbridge over the Hindwell Brook, he stopped a moment, evoking the incredible scene on that October morning back in the sixties when the brook was in flood. Had anyone photographed it? Could there be pictures still around?

Naw, anyone who’d pulled out a camera would probably have been compelled by some local by-law to hand over the film to Councillor Prosser – whichever Prosser happened to be the councillor at the time.