too many scones when it would have been rude to say no.
‘I was surprised you requested a priest,’ he puffs and pauses and puffs again. ‘After all that has happened here with the Sisters of the Rose of Jericho. Who was the one? Sister Amelia, was it? Haven’t you had enough of religion?’
His question reminds me that I had not intended to like him. ‘I wanted a visitor,’ I say.
‘Any old visitor?’
‘I am not spoiled for choice. You were one they couldn’t refuse.’
‘No other reason for a priest then?’
I hesitate, deciding to be economical with the truth. ‘I am haunted,’ I say. ‘I thought you’d bring some answers with you.’
‘Who haunts you?’
‘There are any number of ghosts here. It depends on where I am, what I am doing. There are the Sisters, there are . . .’ I stop myself, I will not name the others. ‘There are others, I’m sure you’ve heard all about it.’ We pause at the top of the hill and look out over the fields and onto the yellow ochre hills beyond and I continue, ‘But here, at this spot, I am haunted by the ghost of a farmer. He was our neighbour, Tom. He was an absolute lifeline for us when we moved in. I don’t know how we would have survived without him, ordinary things, everyday stuff. It’s difficult to explain, but it almost came as a shock to us, his kindness, after everything we’d been through. We could hardly believe it was real.’
His old milking parlour is visible from here; the corrugated iron which patched up the roof is catching the afternoon light. Fool’s gold.
‘Sometimes, if I am sitting out here, I see him walking the hedges, checking the lambs. He had a habit of tying baler twine around the gateposts in a clove hitch. They hung around for ages, the bits of orange string, like those gaudy flowers people tie to lampposts after an accident. Then it seems as though he is coming over to chat to me, but he looks straight through me, walks straight through me. My only visitors are ghosts.’
‘Times have been hard for farmers,’ acknowledges the priest, but I am not listening to him. I am both the storyteller and audience.
‘We did try to help. They used to farm the Well land, you know, before we arrived. Eventually, we offered to run pipes from the Wellspring down through his farm and Martin’s, but they were very suspicious of us by then, wanted to know what was in it for us, pointed out we hadn’t got a licence to supply and then Mark wouldn’t apply for one because he’d never wanted to do it in the first place and the whole idea fell flat.’
‘I’m sure you did what you could at the time.’
‘It wasn’t enough, was it? One night, after supper, with his wife in the kitchen doing the washing up and the brown envelopes piling up on the sideboard, he swapped his slippers for boots, his cardigan for his tweed jacket and pulled on his cap that he kept for market days. Then, it seems, he slipped out of the house, across the yard and wedged the barn door closed behind him with two fifty-pound plastic sacks of chicken feed. I expect he wanted to make sure that only a man could find him, do you think that’s why?’
The Revd Casey half raises his arms, empty-handed; he doesn’t offer an opinion, he doesn’t have answers. ‘I think I know where this story is leading, Ruth, you don’t have to do this.’ He reaches out as if to touch me, but I flinch him away. He is wrong. I do have to do this.
‘It was new rope, you know, brand new, slung over the oak beam and secured around the handlebars of the quad bike. They owed a lot of money on that. Imagine him, taking time to steady himself as he climbs onto the old chair, clutching at the fractured ladderback until slowly, like a tightrope walker, he straightens up and catches the end of the rope and ties the knot. He was very good at knots, did I mention that? He still had his cap on when they found him; that would have mattered to him.’
‘The suicide rate among farmers has been something dreadful, may God rest his soul.’
The priest crosses himself and we sit on the grass in silence. I respect people who are good at silence. I’ve been to two funerals at Little Lennisford; Tom’s was the first. It wasn’t as hard as the second, but it wasn’t easy. Both of them – guilt and grief – hand in glove.
Finally there is a question from the audience. ‘Can you say why you are telling me all this? Were you thinking that I might be an exorcist?’
‘It’s far too late for that. Maybe if you – if any of you – had come along earlier. But you weren’t there when it mattered and I fell for it, the whole religious scenario, and now it’s too late.’ I get to my feet. He takes longer to struggle up and I am torn between offering to help him and watching him flounder.
‘Is it our fault then?’ he asks when he is finally standing.
‘Whose?’
‘Those of us who weren’t there when it mattered.’
I kick at a molehill without replying.
He continues. ‘God was there, somewhere. For you. For Tom. It is never too late to face the ghosts, you know.’ Now he is wheezing in his attempt to keep up with me, breathless by the time we get to the gate. ‘Come on, you wouldn’t expect to invite a vicar for tea and to get away without a sermon, would you?’
‘I became rather used to doing the preaching myself,’ I tell him. ‘I was probably as good as the next charlatan. Because that’s what it is in the end, isn’t it? All lights and mirrors. Besides, I’m not interested in the meaning of life any longer. There is only one question to be answered, as far as I am concerned, only one truth to be found. Nothing else matters.’
‘To not know who killed your own grandson is a terrible thing. I can only imagine the pain of not knowing,’ he says.
Three is waiting for us, ostentatiously checking his watch. ‘Your pass expires at 5 p.m.,’ he says.
The Reverend smiles beatifically. ‘The Lord alone knows when our time is up.’
Church: one – army: nil. I hate to say it, but I like his spirit.
‘I don’t want to outstay my welcome, or indeed jeopardise my chances of coming again, so I’ll be off. If my parishioner and I might just have a moment?’ The Reverend holds the silence and under pressure Three retreats. ‘Now, about the Eucharist . . .’
I put my hands in my pockets. ‘You’ve probably gathered by now that it wasn’t . . .’
‘Exactly as I thought.’ Revd Casey goes inside and through the kitchen window I can see him busying himself with the plastic bag, the Bible, the little box, the flask, while Three and I wait at a distance from each other without talking. The priest comes out and smiles benevolently towards the waiting soldier. ‘Ruth and I have shared a very special time here today.’ He raises an eyebrow quizzically as he looks at me.
It seems I have a choice, an unfamiliar feeling, but it doesn’t take me long to make up my mind. Apart from anything else, I think this old priest could be easily manipulated and will have his uses. ‘Thank you, Reverend,’ I say loudly. ‘I look forward to seeing you next week.’
‘If I’m to come again, then you must call me Hugh. I will be here, same time next week. God bless you both.’
The
