Mr Campion's Fault (14 page)

Bertram Browne had taken a keen interest in the history of mining in Denby Ash and would frequently expound – too frequently, many said – on how the Flockton seams had been mined since 1770, the coal being transported far and wide first by turnpike and tollgate, then by canal and then railway before the modern era and the convoys of heavy lorries which pounded the road through the village, leaving a fine sheen of black dust on everything they passed. Bertram had also delighted in springing on the unsuspecting his patent lecture on the various products of mining – gas coal, coking coal, manufacturing coal and fire clay used in firebricks, pottery and ceramics – or alternatively, his potted history of the Denby Ash Brass Band and the concomitant rise of Methodism locally.

If all that made it sound as if Bertram Browne would be an unlikely guest to be asked back to a second dinner party (and Mr Campion admitted to himself that it possibly did), then the headmaster was, he insisted, doing his former colleague a disservice. When not on his hobby horse, Browne had been a delightful chap; an intelligent conversationalist and a dedicated and much-liked teacher. His interest in coal mining had resulted in friendships struck with numerous pit deputies and colliery managers as well as miners and their wives, who all acknowledged him in the street just as their husbands acknowledged him, albeit less chattily, should he visit the public bar of one of the village pubs. He was a popular and respected figure in Denby Ash, something which could not, sadly, be said of the majority of school staff, and had even formed what Raymond Bland, the geography master, called ‘an unholy alliance’ with the firebrand trade unionist, Arthur Exley.

‘Ahh yes, Trotsky …’ Mr Campion had breathed softly. ‘Him I must meet.’

‘I would be surprised if he gave you the time of day,’ Armitage had said with genuine regret. ‘You, I and this school represent everything Exley despises and wants to tear down. He is dangerous because he combines the energy of youth with the conviction of the zealot. Wing Commander Bland, of course, blames it all on the fact that he never did National Service.’

Mr Campion had commented that he had noted the political divide between Bland and Bob Ward in the school’s own staff room.

‘Oh, you’ll find it much worse down in the village,’ Armitage had said ruefully. ‘In fact, most places in the West Riding are staunch socialist and they say that, come election time, you could put up a pig wearing a red rosette and it would get elected.’

Mr Campion had smiled broadly at that and said that he had, so far in his brief acquaintance with Denby Ash, not observed any demonstrations by Red Guards or mobs of angry students storming the police barricades, and most lampposts seemed mercifully unadorned with hanging aristocrats. Nonetheless, on his meanderings around the village – for he certainly intended to explore the area – he would make sure to avoid the topic of politics.

‘Well, don’t expect too much,’ the headmaster had warned. ‘They don’t take kindly to strangers if they don’t earn their living on their hands and knees underground. Oh, the women may seem motherly enough but they’ll gossip about you as soon as they’ve passed you on the street, and you’ll find the men doffing their flat caps to you in the most sarcastic way. The truth is they are very class conscious round here and the likes of you and I, Campion, they regard as toffs. Denby Ash doesn’t have much time for toffs.’

‘But I hear it is happy to tolerate a witch,’ Mr Campion had replied quietly. ‘Do tell how the village acquired her.’

W
ith the warnings and caveats of both Brigham Armitage and, that morning, DCI Ramsden, rattling inside his head, Mr Campion had collected his Jaguar from outside the George Hotel and taken the Wakefield Road towards Denby Ash. He had no clear plan or timetable, other than if he took lunch today it would be a late one, for the full Yorkshire breakfast provided at The George had consisted of enough bacon, eggs, black pudding, mushrooms (tinned), tomatoes (likewise) and fried bread to keep a sergeants’ mess quiet for an hour – even though he had politely declined the baked beans, the stack of slightly toasted, still foldable sliced white bread and an aperitif of either Cornflakes or porridge, or possibly both.

A military maxim – time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted – sprang to mind, though he was not sure whether it had been prompted by actual circumstances or by the fact that he was, at that moment, driving through the Huddersfield suburb of Waterloo, where the main attraction appeared to be a square buttress of a grey-brick building called The Waterloo, a cinema built in the 1930s heyday of modernist functionality but now awaiting its inevitable fate as a bingo hall.

The road became rural rather than urban and turned into a series of long, steep hills where Campion’s Jaguar had to slow down in the wake of lorries bellowing black clouds of coal dust, almost as if the cargo they were carrying was boiling and giving off steam. The fields at either side of the road were shared equally by cows and marching armies of electricity pylons and, on the higher ground, outcrops of bare rock were guarded by ferocious-looking sheep.

He could see the black mountain that was the spoil heap of the exhausted Grange Ash colliery for many minutes before he passed the Urban District Council sign telling him he was in Denby Ash and then he was turning left, following a far more ornate wooden sign with gold lettering announcing that he was once more on the premises of Ash Grange School for Boys.

Brigham Armitage had given Mr Campion permission to park at the school whenever the need arose and even extended an invitation to visit the school’s classrooms whilst they were in action. Campion had hastily declined the offer whilst admitting that he had promised Perdita that he would look in on her rehearsals at some point, at which the headmaster had raised his eyebrows, shaken his head slowly and changed the subject.

Campion took his coat, hat, gloves and scarf from the back seat and locked the Jaguar. Suitably wrapped, for although it was not raining there was a stiff mid-morning breeze, he put one sturdy brogue in front of the other and set off back down the driveway to conduct his reconnaissance on foot and, with luck, mingle with the natives whom he was sure could not possibly be as unfriendly as had been suggested to him.

From the tree-lined driveway of Ash Grange, he turned left and marched down the Huddersfield Road. To his right was the unavoidable looming presence of the giant Grange Ash muck stack, and as he progressed he could see, peeping from behind the pyramid, the metal tower and wheels of the pit’s winding gear which had lowered cages of men deep into the dark earth.

He passed the slip road, no wide or better surfaced than a country lane, which had given access to the pit if the faded wooden sign saying ‘NCB Grange Ash’ was to be believed, but which now was being reclaimed by weeds, grass and brambles spreading from the hedgerows lining it. That particular colliery may have been retired, but others nearby were still of working age judging by the number of lorries passing Campion – fully-loaded and deep-throated when travelling towards Huddersfield and rattling empty when speeding towards Denby Ash and the two still working collieries on its eastern border.

A stone bridge came into sight and Campion realized he was nearing the spot where Bertram Browne had died, though of course there was no trace of the incident. Still, Campion mused, wincing as more trucks thundered by, even at full dark night, Browne
must
have heard the engine or seen the lights of the vehicle which hit him and, if he had, why had he not taken evasive action? On one side of the road there was ditch; not deep, but no set of wheels would have followed him in there. The other side ran adjacent to an open field dotted with rocky outcrops and, again, would have provided sanctuary from homicidal traffic on the road. Indeed, Campion felt confident he could himself make it to safety should the need arise and surely the younger, fitter Browne would at least have tried.

He crossed the stone bridge over the Oaker Beck, marvelling at the size and solidity of the structure needed to cross such a tiny stream; an indication that things in Yorkshire were built to last. The fast-flowing stream was no more than four feet wide and the water was a bright rust colour, almost the shade of light ale, which suggested the presence of iron as well as coal in the local geology. It was possible, Campion mused, that the Oaker Beck had got its name from a corruption of ‘ochre’.

Once over the bridge he felt that he was in Denby Ash proper. There was the Sun Inn guarding the western entrance, but this long, low stone built, slate-tiled pub had an unassuming air about it, at least compared to its brighter, brasher competitor the Green Dragon at the eastern edge of the village. This establishment, Mr Campion noted, did not make any claims to being famous for basket meals or indeed anything else.

Beyond the pub the road, now called Oaker Hill, began a steep descent and the views over the playing fields of Ash Grange school – blissfully, as far as Rupert was concerned that morning, deserted – and of Denby Wood were blocked by the stone and brick of human occupation.

Campion strode on purposefully, hands thrust into the pockets of his Crombie, content in the knowledge that the walk back up the hill might be just the thing to restore his appetite following his Yorkshire breakfast. Initially, though, Denby Ash seemed more concerned with providing for Mr Campion’s soul rather than his body, for the first building he encountered was the large but impressively plain frontage of the Primitive Methodist Chapel which squatted like a silent grey toad overlooking the village. As he strolled past it, Campion noted that from the reverse angle the chapel itself was dominated by the Grange Ash muck stack. The Methodists might have fine views over their earthly kingdom but demand for picture postcards of their chapel would be small.

God was soon followed by Mammon, albeit a lukewarm incarnation in the shape of the Co-Operative store, divided by large picture windows displaying its wares, into two halves: Grocery and Drapery. For the first time that morning, Mr Campion encountered the native population of the village and determined to discover whether they were friendly at the earliest opportunity. They appeared to be entirely female.

The Co-Op appeared to act as a hive, attracting a steady stream of middle-aged women clutching shopping bags but clearly intent on making withdrawals rather than deposits of honey. Through the main window of the grocery department, Campion could see the open racks of vegetables being examined by a swarm of headscarves and pointing fingers. Although he could not hear what was being said, he felt sure that the portly, white-haired man in the brown coat behind the counter was unlikely to get the best of whatever argument over quality and price was raging.

If commerce in the grocery department resembled that of a souk then the drapery department, as seen through the next window, suggested the interior of a
duomo
. There were fewer women here and they were politely waiting their turn as the first customer perused a bolt of brightly coloured curtain material. This gave them the opportunity to look sceptically through boxes of buttons, ribbons and streams of lace whilst keeping one watchful eye on the street outside. To those ladies who thus spotted him, Mr Campion smiled and raised his hat, to be rewarded, through the glass, by several silent mouths in various diameters of openness.

He hurried on down the hill, confident that news of his presence would reach the bottom before he did.

To his left, a long row of uniform terraced houses wound down Oaker Hill like a snake resting on the edge of a crag, although Campion quickly realized it was not one continuous terrace but several blocks of identical houses separated by narrow alleyways not wide enough to drive through. Campion had seen from the bridge across Oaker Beck that access by vehicle was via an unmade road running behind the houses which serviced the low brick coalhouses and a large area of ground (albeit north-facing) subdivided into gardening allotments.

Across the road he noted the low single-storey building of dark stone which proclaimed itself the Hill Top Wesleyan Church – somewhat presumptuously, Campion felt, as technically the Primitive Methodists had already claimed the high ground, at least geographically.

The next detached building, its stones stained with coal dust from the passing haulage trade, was twice the size of the Wesleyan chapel and just as functional, if only marginally more welcoming to the casual passer-by – the Denby Ash Working Men’s Club – and the sign outside proudly added in brackets that it was ‘Affiliated’, though to what was a mystery to the casual passer-by. Its front door was propped open with a large iron cobbler’s last but the sound of aggressive hoovering coming from its unlit interior suggested that it was not yet open for business.

Mr Campion stretched his legs and continued on his downward path on the pavement which ran parallel to the row of ‘pit houses’ and, across the road, he ticked off on his mental guide book a small development of new housing before he found himself opposite yet another religious house. Or to be accurate, two, for the Zion United Reform Church – once clearly a substantial detached house dating from the 1920s – was next-door neighbour to the much smaller (a converted garage or stable?) Denby Gospel Mission, which Campion guessed was a much more recent invention. The Zionists had a sturdy wooden sign with faded gold lettering, whereas the Gospel Mission had a crudely painted board nailed to a short stake in the ground to announce its presence.

He was almost at the bottom of Oaker Hill now, opposite the small primary school protected from the threat of Methodists sliding down the slope by a thick dry stone wall, and its more modern extension which, from Rupert’s description, was the parish room as used for band practice. Beyond that, the village church and what looked to be the vicarage stood in splendid defiance, and then the road forked at the Green Dragon.

Mr Campion thought it somehow symmetrical that on entering Denby Ash he had been greeted by a pub and then a chapel and, on leaving, he would wave farewell to a church and then a pub. He had, however, no intention of leaving the village until he had made some human contact other than nodding at a speeding lorry driver, and for the first time since he had passed the Co-Op store he spotted a fellow pedestrian stepping out from the lychgate of the churchyard.

It was a thin, very elderly, bird-like figure of a man with long white hair flowing in the breeze like seaweed on an outgoing tide. He wore a dark blue gabardine raincoat with the top buttons undone to allow his dog collar badge of office to be displayed.

‘Good morning,’ said Campion from across the road. ‘Brisk, isn’t it?’

‘What they call a good drying day around here,’ answered the reverend gentleman and then added, rather enigmatically: ‘Pity it’s not a Monday.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Campion crossed the road, having first convinced himself that there was a safe lull in the lorry traffic, almost because he could not help himself. Country parsons had always intrigued him; not necessarily for what they knew about their parishioners but what they did not.

‘Monday is wash day in Denby Ash and as immovable as the Sabbath. If it rains on a Monday washing cannot be pegged out until Tuesday, to the consternation of all. If it continues to rain on the Tuesday there is great wailing and gnashing of teeth. Peter Cuthbertson-Twigg. I’m the vicar of St James’ here. Would you like to see the church?’

‘I seem to be seeing churches everywhere,’ said Campion lightly, ‘or chapels.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the vicar, as if considering the point for the first time, ‘we are rather well-equipped in that department, possibly because there were once no fewer than twenty-one pubs and beerhouses in the village. Religion always followed the brewers’ dray and I am delighted to say has more staying power. Now there are only two pubs and the club, so they find themselves outnumbered.’

‘And do you form, dare I say, a holy alliance against the demon drink?’ Campion spoke with a smile which was not returned.

‘Oh, that’s hardly necessary these days.’

The Rev Cuthbertson-Twigg seemed suddenly distracted, as though he had forgotten why he was speaking to this stranger.

‘So you co-exist with your competitors?’ Campion persisted gently and was rewarded by regaining the vicar’s full attention.

‘The Methodists? Oh, they’re fine fellows and we do have the same boss in the end. There’s not really any competition; in fact, they’re quite accommodating and they’ve always held their services at different times from St James’. Well, at least the
established
ones have. I cannot speak for the latest church to pitch its tent here.’

‘Would that be the Gospel Mission? I passed a rather temporary sign on my way down the hill.’

‘You are observant, sir.’ The vicar’s brow furrowed as he remembered something. ‘Yet I do not know your name. Was I expecting you? Am I to show you round St James’? Or are you seeking spiritual guidance?’

‘Forgive me, I did not introduce myself. My name is Campion and I am an all-too-brief visitor to your parish. I would indeed like a tour of your church, but not just at the moment and, as for my spiritual welfare, I feel I am fully accommodated. The prevalence of places of worship here is, I find, most interesting though. You say this Mission place is a new arrival?’

It took the vicar almost a minute to digest Campion’s response and for half of that Mr Campion feared that Cuthbertson-Twigg had ‘switched off’ again. It was a trait, he felt, which must prove very annoying for his congregation during sermons.