Remains of an Altar

’un.’

‘Your nanny was a bloke?’

‘Not the nanny, old cock.’

Tim leaned forward, hands on knees, his big face uptilted, summoning memories. Or the ones he’d fabricated earlier?

‘Used to wait for him. Or he’d wait for me. There were some old trees – bit like this. You could stand by the trees and he’d be there. He loved those trees. There was a legend that they were supposed to have been monks who got bewitched. When Blackwood came to visit, he took him to see the trees.’

‘Were they oaks?’

‘Suppose they must’ve been. What do you make of these, young ’un, he’d say. Can you see the monks?’

Lol wondered how much of this Tim had blocked in, years later. It wasn’t unusual for an only child to have a famous imaginary companion. Even one who must, even at the time, have been dead for over forty years.

‘He loved all trees, didn’t he?’ Lol said.

‘I’ll say.’

‘What about the Whiteleafed Oak?’

‘Well, of course. This was his favourite walk. This was where Caractacus was formed. And then Gerontius. Everything leading up to Gerontius. But he kept jolly quiet about Whiteleafed Oak. People do. It’s a place of powerful initiation.’

‘Elgar said that?’

‘Did he?’

‘No, I mean was that Elgar or … Winnie Sparke?’

Tim looked away.

‘That lamp getting fainter, do you think, Dan? Need to bring some new batteries. Should we switch it off?’

‘You keep the lamp here?’

‘Under the hay. With this.’ Tim tugged out a stiff-backed folder covered in brown leather and opened it up on his knees. ‘Don’t always need light here, though, if there’s a moon.’

‘You come here a lot?’

Lol leaned into the light so that he could see what was on the pages. Tim closed the book quickly. It was musical manuscript. A score.

Tim leaned over and switched off the lamp, inflating himself into this hulking shadow against the chalk-dust night.

‘Tim…’ Lol hesitated. ‘Do you think Elgar knew about the idea of the perpetual choirs?’

Tim looked for him.

‘Who did you say you were?’

‘Friend of Dan’s.’

‘Yes, but … were you in my choir once?’

‘Dan talks about you. You made a big impression. He told me about the night you divided them into three and sent some of them to Little Malvern Priory and some to Redmarley D’Abitot.’

‘Hmm, yes.’ Tim seemed to relax. ‘Redmarley – that was terribly significant, you see. Elgar’s mother’s family came from there. His mother carried the strand. A countrywoman. My mother – bit of a townie, didn’t like me to go out without a mac or walk on the wet grass. But Elgar’s mother encouraged her offspring to go out in all weathers, so that they were always at home with nature whatever the conditions. So they were, you know, part of it. Yes, Ann Elgar’s family were actually from Redmarley.’

It was like talking to very old people. Ask them what they had for lunch and their minds went opaque, but talk about the past and the stories came spinning out, green-mouldy tape gliding smoothly past still-keen magnetic heads.

‘What about Little Malvern?’

‘Well, that was important because it’s where Elgar’s buried – at the Catholic church there, St Wulstan’s. Didn’t want to be planted there – didn’t want to be buried at all. They had to talk him into it, and I suppose he agreed for the wife’s sake. Terribly proper, Alice, a traditionalist. What Elgar really wanted was for his ashes to be scattered where the River Severn meets the River Teme.’

Lol gazed out between the uprights supporting the open front of the barn at the secondary oak tree with the white, dead branches.

‘And when you separated the choirs, it was important that the three churches were in the Three Counties.’

‘It was just an idea,’ Tim said. ‘Played around with different permu— permutations. Different churches. Winnie…’

‘It was Winnie’s idea?’

‘It was all Winnie’s idea, at first.’

Tim’s voice down to a whisper.

‘Dan was telling me about Wychehill Church,’ Lol said. ‘St Dunstan’s. He was a patron saint of music, wasn’t he? Was that the quarry guy, Joseph Longworth’s idea? He was paying for it so he got to choose?’

‘St Dunstan was an Abbot of Glastonbury.’

‘Where one of the original perpetual choirs was said to be.’

‘Yes. Winnie … spotted that at once. She always says that once something is put in train, all sorts of wonderful coincidences occur in a pre-ordained sort of way.’

Tim fumbled around in the straw and then looked up, dismayed.

‘Didn’t bring it, did I? I always bring water from the Holy Well. Can’t understand—’

‘Maybe you dropped it somewhere.’

‘No, I—’ Tim was clenching and unclenching his fists like the grab mechanism on a crane. ‘Must’ve left in … in a hurry.’

‘Never mind,’ Lol said. ‘Why did Winnie want you to come to Wychehill?’

I’m the chap who’s come to see God.

‘Well … the church had been built for the performance of choral music. Longworth wrote to Elgar asking what he could do to make amends … having heard that Elgar and Bernard Shaw were jolly miffed about the damage caused by the quarrying. Elgar … not in the best of moods at the time … wrote him a cursory reply saying something like, Oh, go and build a damn cathedral! Winding Longworth up, really. Quite surprised when Longworth wrote back saying, where do you want your cathedral, then?’

‘Where did you find out about this, Tim?’

‘Parish records. It’s all documented. More or less. So when Elgar realized the chap actually had a few quid to spare, he decided that he’d better give it some thought, and he consulted some people. Blackwood and a chap he knew in Hereford. Watson. Ley-line man, you’ve probably heard of him – all you Whiteleaf Oakies, as Winnie used to call them, are into … all that.’

‘You mean Watkins? You mean Alfred Watkins?’

‘I … sure. Yah. Watkins. Friend of Elgar’s when he lived in Hereford. He’d been doing some work around the Beacon, mapping out his lines, and he’d come across the foundations of what appeared to be an ancient chapel or a monk’s cell at Wychehill and told Longworth that if he built his church there it would be a very significant thing to do.’

‘So what you’re saying … Watkins and Elgar advised Longworth to build his church on the ley from Whiteleafed Oak along the Malverns. Was Blackwood involved in this, too?’

‘Winnie was sure he must’ve been. Former member of … something or other…’

‘The Golden Dawn.’

‘That’s the outfit. Studied magic.’

‘Blackwood wrote a novel, The Human Chord, about a man’s attempt to recreate celestial music. Call out the secret names of God.’