The Cure of Souls

many breweries importing cheaper hops from Germany and the USA. Most of it was grazed now. A pity, in a way, Sally Boswell had said, because the deep river loam in the valleys of the Frome and the Lugg was so perfect for hops. And yet, in a way, not a pity at all; it was no accident that the third room in the museum was the darkest, a sober coda to the song of the hop.

But not everyone, it seemed, believed it was over. Least of all Adam Lake, son of the Emperor.

Though the storm had passed and the evening fields were left steaming under a bashful sun, the power failed to return, and Prof announced in disgust that he was going to bed.

‘You give me a call when it’s dark, Laurence… if we’ve got the bleeding juice back. I always work better after dark, as you know.’

Lol watched him stumping across the yard to the cottage, then went back and sat for a while in the studio, trying the River Frome song again on the Boswell, and then, because he felt bad about deserting it, on his faithful old Washburn.

But the song still lacked direction, and after a while he gave up and went out into the luminous, storm- washed evening. As the trees dripped and the air glistened with birdsong, Lol made his first real foray into what remained of the community of Knight’s Frome.

A soggy rug of slurry unrolled from a farm entrance towards the edge of what passed for the centre of the hamlet. Big old trees, oak and sycamore and horse chestnut, were still dripping onto the roofs of stone and timber- framed cottages that sprouted like wild mushrooms. A humpback bridge straddled the Frome, and on the other side of it was the church, sunken and settled as an old barn, and next to it the white-painted vicarage where Simon St John lived.

There was no shop here any more, but a pub survived – a pub created sixty years ago, Lol had learned, out of a row of terraced cottages, to cater for the hop-picking hordes. It hadn’t changed much. There were no friendly signs promising food or coffee, no rustic fort for the kids, just a rotting bench beside the porch.

The pub was called the Hop Devil; on its sign, nothing more demonic than a red and smoking brazier. The sign was hanging from a gibbet at the road end of the dirt forecourt.

It was reassuring to see places like this still in business, but that didn’t necessarily mean you had to go inside. Lol, the sometime folk singer, the traditionalist, was actually wary of country pubs – often the haunts of old men in worn tweeds and young men in stained denims, bruising you with their stares until you finished your drink too quickly and slid away.

As he padded cautiously past the pub, its scuffed and rust-studded oak door creaked open, releasing a richly brackish old-beer smell and also a man in a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, moleskin trousers stuffed into high tan boots. He came loping angrily over the puddles in the forecourt, a tall bloke with mutton-chop whiskers, swallowing his scowl when he saw he wasn’t alone, glancing briefly over Lol’s head.

‘Evening.’

Lol took a step back into the slurry to avoid having the guy knock him down and walk over him.

‘Needed that storm, I suppose,’ the man called back over his shoulder. He was about thirty-five, with a lean face and a wide, beer-drinker’s mouth. He gave the sky a dismissive glance. ‘Getting too muggy.’

Lol nodded. ‘Was a bit.’

But the big guy appeared to have finished with him, was climbing into a mud-scabbed Land Rover Defender on the edge of the forecourt, and now another voice was curling lazily out of the pub porch.

‘Lol Robinson.’

Prof’s unwelcome neighbour, Gerard Stock, was leaning against the door frame, a whisky glass in his right hand, a roll-up smouldering in his left.

Lol walked over – like he had a choice. The Defender crunched and clattered away through the trees and into the lane, while Stock stood watching it go.

‘Wanker,’ he said. ‘Arsehole.’

Lol realized he was drunk.

‘Wanker strolls in’ – Stock tossed his cigarette into a puddle. – ‘and here’s Gerard Stock sidding at the bar, minding his own. Wanker barks out cursory greeting, then drifts off to the dark end of the bar, engaging Derek, the landlord, in some trivial chat. And all the time, liddle sidelong glances, corner of an eye, wondering whether this is the day to make his move. And Gerard Stock’s just smiling into his glass and saying nothing. And the wanker knows that Gerard Stock knows he’s a phoney liddle arsehole.’

‘I don’t really know too many people around here,’ Lol said. ‘Who was he?’

Stock swallowed some whisky. There was a powerful fug of mixed fumes around him, like, if you struck a match, the air would flare and sizzle.

‘See, I don’t have to talk to people if I don’t want to. It’s a rare skill and I’m good at it, man. I can be very relaxed, very cool, sidding quietly, saying nothing. Liddle- known trick of the trade – people think PR men talk all the time, talk any old shite, but a good publicist has control. Tells you what he wants you to know, when he wants you to know it. Timing. And Gerard Stock, ’case you were wondering, is still a fucking good operator. You coming in, Lol?’

‘Well, I don’t think—’

‘Come ’n have a drink. I’d offer you some spliff, and we could sit out here, chill out, reminisce, but poor old Derek’s very timid, for a country landlord.’ Stock grinned. ‘See, I’ve made you curious. You thought you were supposed to know who the wanker was, and now you want to. You really want to. Technique: I can turn it on, man.’

They were inside the Hop Devil now, small and square and dark as a chapel. The landlord peered out from the shadows around the bar. ‘Sorry, gents, only bottled and shorts. Power’s off, see.’

‘Put your glasses on, Derek, it’s me again,’ said Stock. ‘With a friend. What are we having, Lol Robinson?’

Lol said a half of shandy would be good and Stock groaned. ‘Jesus Christ, no wonder you got yourself out of music.’

‘Have to pay for a pint shandy, I’m afraid,’ the shadowy Derek said. ‘Got to open a bottle of beer, see, and they don’t come in quarter-pints.’

‘And another Macallan,’ Stock said. ‘How long’ve I been here, Derek?’

‘Since just before lunch.’ Derek sighed. ‘On and off.’

After they collected their drinks, Stock steered Lol to a table by the biggest window. The only other customer appeared to be an elderly man with a bottle of Guinness and a copy of the Worcester Evening News he surely couldn’t see to read. Lol made out an inglenook fireplace with a brazier like the one on the sign outside.

‘What’s a hop devil?’

‘Thing they burned coke in. Hop-pickers used to cook their meals over it. You wanna know all this rustic shite, there’s a dear old couple run a hop museum out on the main road. Sold me a hop-pillow.’

He obviously hadn’t discovered who Al Boswell actually was.

‘Supposed to give you a good night’s sleep. Sleep?’ Stock brayed. ‘Fucking hops work like rhino horn. Fact, man. Me and Steph, we’re living in this old kiln, walls impregnated with as much essence of hop as… as the beer poor old Derek can’t pump. My wife’ – Stock swallowed whisky, shook his head and growled, – ‘leaves scratches a foot long down my back. You wan’ see?’

‘I’ll take your word.’ Lol avoided Stock’s eyes, wondering how he could find out what the guy’s wife looked like.

‘Could use some bloody sleep.’ Stock bawled out, ‘Can I sleep here, Derek?’

‘Thought you always did, Gerry,’ said Derek.

‘Gerard, you fucking peasant!’

The old man looked up from the paper he couldn’t see to read.

‘Language, sir,’ said Derek.

‘Derek goes to church, Lol.’ Stock had lowered his voice but not much. ‘Derek listens to Saint Simon’s sermons. Can’t be so pissed, can I, if I can say that? Shaint… Did I tell you I was briefly head of publicity for TMM? For whom Saint Shimon used to record as a young man? Wasn’t so fucking saintly in those days, by all accounts. Shaint Shimon the shirt-lifter—Jesus, that’s an even better