Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger Page 6

  John did not move. He knew he was being challenged and there was a very odd feeling travelling round the perimeter of his stomach. It was something very akin to fear. If it was as she said… But it couldn’t be… He had seen McNally in a sheet with a stick in his hand. If he hadn’t seen his face it could have been anybody else trying to take a rise out of him, but it was McNally. Yet the thought suddenly prodded him. Say, for argument’s sake, that it wasn’t McNally and it was somebody else, there would still have to be footprints in the rows between the taties to prove…

  The odd feeling was now in the centre of his stomach, and it told him to take no notice of his mother but to go on upstairs and let her talk.

  He moved, but it was towards the kitchen door. He walked steadily up the garden path knowing that the eyes of his family were watching him from the kitchen window, and when he came opposite the potato patch his steps became slower; and as he looked along each row, the sweat began to break out on him and for a moment he felt sick. The rows were as he had left them last night, as his mother had said, grain on top of grain, weed-free and symmetrical as he liked to have them. He forced himself to walk down the path again and into the kitchen and his legs almost gave way before he reached the chair. Florrie was waiting for him and she eased him down as if he was a sick old man and Arthur, handing him a glass, said, ‘Here, have this drop of whisky, Dad.’ And Linda, who had joined Florrie now in the weeping, kept exclaiming, ‘Oh, Dad; oh, Dad.’ Only Frankie and Gran said nothing. That is until John, dazedly raising his hand, moved a finger slowly round the lump on his head, and then Gran said pertly, ‘Now perhaps you’ll stop being so pig-headed and let her get you the doctor.’

  John made no retort. He was feeling better than he had ever done in his life before, more alive, and yet there was something wrong. He was deeply shaken by the experience, but even so, somewhere inside, a voice was telling him that if he was going out of his mind, there was nothing at all to worry about; it would be a very refreshing experience, for hadn’t he already admitted to himself that he had never felt so good before? But although this voice was glib and confident it brought him no comfort or even strength at the moment, and like a man in a daze he allowed himself to be led upstairs to bed, Florrie on one side of him and Arthur on the other.

  It was a queer Sunday morning; John lay in bed even though the urge in him was strong to get up and go out. Yet he lay on, for the doctor was expected around about eleven. This visit was causing John almost as much concern as the memory of last night. He didn’t like doctors; the only time he had been examined by a doctor, as far as he knew, was when he joined the army. He had a healthy man’s dread of them, and consequently illness. And what was he to tell him anyway when he did come… that he had seen St Christopher running about in his tatie bed? Should he admit as much he felt he would be locked up for sure. But he had seen someone; with his own two eyes he had seen a figure moving across the garden. He turned his head on the pillow, drew in a deep breath, and tried to shut out the memory.

  He became aware of the Sunday morning sounds downstairs. The oven door banging, and Linda’s voice droning on in low tones, stopping only when his mother’s voice pierced the floor, as if she was sending her words riding on pointed darts up through the boards. Then there were the church bells, and lastly there were the usual noises coming from the McNallys. A babble of voices with Katie’s shrill laugh and Broderick’s deep bellow rising above them. How was he going to have the nerve to look that fellow in the face again? He could almost hear Broderick’s greeting: ‘So you took me for a saint? Begod, I knew the good in me would make itself known to you someday.’ Aw, he knew McNally’s quips off by heart.

  There were footsteps on the landing, the door opened and Arthur came in. ‘Mam says you wanted to see me, Dad.’

  John hitched himself up on his pillow and said, ‘Yes… Yes, as I can’t get out, we might as well have our chat up here.’

  Arthur stood by the bedside looking down at his father and his feet and hands moved restlessly for a moment before he said, ‘Mam says I haven’t got to keep you talking.’

  ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake.’ John closed his eyes, then said in desperation, ‘Sit down.’

  When Arthur had brought a chair up to the bedside, John leant towards him and with his voice low and intent he went on, ‘Whatever happened last night, and mind I’m not denying something did happen, I know it only too well, but whatever it was, it hasn’t affected me brain. What I mean to say is, it hasn’t turned it. I may be seeing things but I’m not doolally.’

  ‘No, Dad, no. Of course you’re not. It’s likely due to concussion.’

  John lay back and repeated, ‘Aye, concussion, that’s about it. Well, let’s forget it for the time being and tell me what you wanted to see me about.’

  Arthur looked everywhere but at his father, and John, aiming to be helpful, whispered, ‘Come on, spit it out, afore I do it for you.’

  ‘It’s awkward, Dad.’

  ‘What’s awkward? That you don’t want to go through with it? Not just putting it off, you don’t want to marry her. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Arthur was looking fully at his father now and he nodded eagerly, yet somewhat shamefacedly, as he said, ‘Yes, that’s about it. I just don’t want to go through with it.’

  ‘Well, how do you propose getting out of it? It’s going to be a damn sight harder getting out than it was getting in, mind that.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘You won’t only be slighting her, it’s the other pair you’ve got to reckon with. Duckworth will take this as a personal insult. As I see him, he’ll do everything in his power to keep you to your word. As for her, she’s the kind that’ll do a breach of promise on you without winking and she’ll be ably supported by both of them. You’ve got yourself into a jam, boy.’

  ‘I know, Dad, and…’ Arthur chewed on his lip and hung his head as he muttered, ‘And that’s not all.’

  ‘No?’ said John enquiringly. Then he added, ‘You’re thinking about your job?’

  ‘Not the job.’

  ‘Not the job? Then what?’ John was leaning forward a little, and he asked very quietly, ‘Somebody else?’

  Arthur nodded and John sighed and remarked, ‘Well, this is a kettle of fish—who is it? Do I know her?’

  Again Arthur nodded, a reluctant nod this time, and John began to think rapidly of the girls in the village round about Arthur’s age, any one of whom he considered would be a better match for him than the Duckworth miss. ‘Well, as you’ve told me so much, you’d better tell me the rest.’

  ‘It’s awkward, Dad, seeing how you feel.’

  ‘Seeing how I feel?’ John repeated slowly. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘What I mean to say is…’ Arthur paused then stumbled on, his eyes still downcast. ‘Well, you don’t get on with them.’

  John peered at his son. ‘Who… who don’t I get on with?’

  Arthur’s eyes indicating their neighbours to the right caused John to think, ‘The McNallys? But what had the McNallys to do with this?’ And then the answer struck him like a blow… Moira, that damned little bust-pushing piece. ‘No. Oh no.’ The last no was a deep growl somewhere in the depths of his stomach and when Arthur muttered apologetically, ‘I can’t help it, Dad, it’s been working up for a long time,’ John said in a loud, harsh whisper, ‘You won’t do it. You won’t marry into that family; I just couldn’t stand it. I would go round the bend then, and no mistake.’

  ‘But you can’t stand Duckworth either, Dad,’ said Arthur, now slightly on the defensive.

  ‘No, I can’t, can you? But Duckworth’s one thing and McNally another, quite another. The Duckworths would leave us alone because we’re inferior—at least they think so—but not the McNallys. Once we’re connected… Once you’re linked with the McNallys, there’ll never be another minute’s peace in this house. They’ll spread over us like locusts. It’s only me stonewall attitude over the past years
that’s kept them on the right side of me door. No, Arthur’—he gripped Arthur’s joined hands—‘don’t do this, lad.’

  ‘But, Dad, I’m mad about her, I can’t get her out of me mind.’

  ‘You mean you can’t get her bust out of yer mind.’

  Arthur was on his feet now. ‘That’s a rotten dirty thing to say, Dad.’

  ‘Aye it might be, but it’s true.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. She’s got a figure, admitted, and is that anything to be ashamed of? But there’s more to it than that. She’s got something in her, has Moira, and what’s more, she’s kind.’

  John sighed and dropped his chin on his chest, but it was no sooner there than it was up again and thrust outwards, as were his ears, for through the open bedroom window came the sound of Broderick’s voice saying in what was supposed to be an undertone, ‘Now, Florrie, what would I be wantin’ rompin’ round the block covered in a sheet or me nightshirt—which, by the way, I don’t have as I sleep in my pelt—just to put the wind up John? Now what would I be wantin’ to do that for, Florrie?’

  Only the mumble of Florrie’s reply reached the room, and while John was endeavouring to catch Arthur’s averted glance to say silently, ‘See what I mean?’, Broderick’s voice came again saying, ‘Yes, yes, I understand, Florrie. A blow like that was enough to knock his brains out. Some people go on seeing stars among other things for days and days on end. It’s a well-known reaction. I remember a mate of mine once, he slipped and ran his head into a pick, the pointed end, poor sod. Fell right on it, he did. You know that fellow saw cats flying in the air until the day he died. It was likely because it was to avoid bringing the pick down on a fleeing cat that he got it in the head himself. There’s a connection, you see? It’s likely the same way with John… Would you like me to go and have a word with him, Florrie… give him a laugh?’

  As Florrie’s quick reply of ‘No, no thanks, Broderick, the doctor’s on his way’ reached the bedroom, John said softly, ‘Do you see what I mean? Pretending to sympathise and all the time aggravatin’ and suggestin’.’

  ‘But, Dad, it’s only his devilment,’ whispered Arthur.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Arthur, and it’s just his devilment that I can’t stomach, and if you don’t want me to leave me job and this village, forget about his girl. Anyway’—John gave a violent hitch to his hips and almost lifted himself onto the pillows—‘why am I worryin’, I can’t see what’s going to get you loose from the Duckworths, except a miracle.’

  As Arthur turned without a word and went out of the room, John lay back and repeated slowly to himself, ‘Except a miracle.’ And as he lay, he kept thinking of the phrase. ‘Except a miracle.’ Miracles were funny things. He knew he had it in his power to perform one for Arthur. But in the end would Arthur thank him? There was a question here that no one could answer but Arthur himself. But who would have to pay for the miracle… Florrie… and Florrie wasn’t paying anymore. She’d paid enough.

  The doctor came at half past eleven. John had never seen him before nor had the doctor seen John because he was new to the district, having been in the practice as assistant to Dr Sanderson only a matter of months. He was young and had a brusque manner and this particular morning was in a bit of a temper, for Florrie’s call had broken into his arrangement for a game of golf. Yet it was evident right away that he was impressed with the size of the lump on John’s head, and as he pressed his fingers gently round it he muttered, more as a matter of course than as a question, ‘Sore?’

  ‘No,’ said John.

  ‘Not sore, a lump like this?’ He went on moving his fingers. ‘Is it sore there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not there?’

  ‘No, it’s not sore anywhere.’

  The doctor straightened his back and looked hard at John. ‘You have a headache, I suppose?’

  ‘No, I haven’t a headache.’

  ‘Did you have one yesterday after it happened?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, nor since. I’ve neither pain nor ache in me head.’

  This fellow, the doctor considered, was either a liar or he had been knocked so silly he couldn’t feel anything. He dismissed the latter idea. He half closed his eyes now as he looked at John and said, ‘Well, if you’ve neither ache nor pain you must be very tough. You’ve likely inherited a tough constitution from your country forebears.’

  ‘I wasn’t born in the country.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, I was born in Howden on the North Tyne. I’ve only been in the village a short time… sixteen years.’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows as he commented to himself, a short time, only sixteen years. At least the fellow had imbibed one thing from his sojourn in the country—the insignificance of time. ‘Here, put this in your mouth.’ He gave the thermometer a shake before sticking it between John’s lips, then sitting down by the side of the bed he felt his pulse. In a few minutes it was clear to him that both pulse and temperature were perfectly normal. He wiped the thermometer and placed it in his case on the foot of the bed, then he blew his nose, after which he gave his attention to his case again, and while he straightened an odd thing here and there, he remarked, ‘Your wife was telling me you had a rather distressing experience last night.’

  John said nothing.

  ‘Is that so?’ His medical case closed now and standing upright on the bed, the doctor leant his elbow on it, rested his chin in his hand and tapped one finger slowly at his lips as he asked, ‘Tell me, as clearly as you remember, what you saw.’

  John returned the youthful, penetrating stare as he said slowly, ‘I saw a man in my garden in a white gown, or perhaps it was a sheet over him, and he had a stick in his hand.’

  The doctor nodded slowly. ‘You thought you saw a man in a white gown with a stick in his hand?’

  ‘I didn’t think I saw,’ put in John quickly. ‘I know I saw somebody there.’

  The doctor dropped his head back between his shoulders, he looked up at the ceiling, he looked to the right of him and then to the left of him before once again looking at John. ‘You’ve been concerned lately about these St Christopher medals people carry about with them, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Well then, can’t you see the connection? You get a blow on the head and things that have been troubling you acquire gigantic proportion; they even take on a form of reality. The figure that you saw last night was merely a figment of your imagination. It’s nothing to worry about, it will pass as your head gets better.’

  ‘My head isn’t bad.’ John now leant towards the doctor and said under his breath, ‘Believe me, doctor, I have neither ache nor pain and I’m going to tell you this, I’ve never felt better in me life.’

  The doctor’s expression did not change, but his eyes slid down corner-wise as if he was observing some strange manoeuvre on the eiderdown. After a moment he said, ‘That’s good then.’ But his tone did not imply that there was anything good in it. It rather gave the impression that the situation was anything but right and his next words bore out this impression, for rising to his feet and picking up his case he said, ‘You must take it easy. Stay where you are until the end of the week. Say Friday when I take surgery here, then toddle along and I’ll have a look at you again. All right?’

  ‘I’m going to work the morrow.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, then you can’t hold me responsible for anything that happens, can you?’

  ‘No, that’s fair enough.’

  The doctor gave his patient one last look and marched out, closing the door none too gently after him.

  Florrie was waiting anxiously for him at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes were asking him a question and he answered it. ‘I don’t think my visit’s been of much use, Mrs Gascoigne. I’ve told your husband that what he needs is rest and quiet, and he tells me he is going to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, doctor.’

  ‘Is he always as stubborn as this?’

  �
��Yes, I’m afraid so, doctor. You see he’s never been ill in his life before. About… about what he saw, doctor.’

  ‘Oh! That was likely the effect of the blow on the head, and if only because of it he should rest, but he insists that he feels fine, never better. But I’m afraid, Mrs Gascoigne, that I don’t believe him. By the look of his head that ball hit him with some force. It’s a wonder it didn’t knock him out altogether. But you tell me that he didn’t lose consciousness.’

  ‘As I told you, I wasn’t there, doctor. They said he just swayed a bit and looked dizzy and then he came round.’

  ‘Well, I would keep an eye on him, and if you think my presence is necessary again within the next few days, just give me a ring.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  Florrie let the doctor out and then turned to the kitchen. It was evident that the family had heard all that the doctor had said for Gran voiced her opinion straight away. ‘Let him go to work the morrow. If he wants to see things the cemetery’s the best place to do it in.’

  ‘Oh, Gran, how can you be so hard?’ Linda tightened her face at her grandmother. ‘It’s all right being like that when he’s himself, but Dad’s not well, and you know it.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ Gran retorted. ‘If his behaviour last night is anything to go on, for I’ve never seen him so lively or talkative in me life. And don’t forget, miss’—she wagged her finger at her granddaughter—‘I happened to know him a while afore you did.’

  ‘Yes, I know you did, Gran, and I never heard anybody speak of their son as you do of Dad. Great Aunt Lucy acts more like a mother to him than you do.’

  ‘Linda!’ It was Florrie rapping out her name, but Linda was not to be silenced on this occasion. She was strongly in defence of her father and at this moment she disliked her grannie intensely and there was one known weapon with which to attack Gran, and that was the mention of her sister. So she reiterated, ‘So she does.’

  ‘You’re not too big, me girl, to have your ears boxed.’ Gran turned on Linda.