Mrs Fytton's Country Life (24 page)

Angela ran her fingers over the low-relief of the pew carvings to her right - a boy holding a candle, two choristers with books, two curvaceous girls holding branches, an old man humping a sack, a woman with trailing cloak and flying curls carrying a flagon.

'You've got Faith, Hope, Charity and Time, the Virgin and Child, and the Five Wise Virgins down the left hand side -'

'And this one? On the right?'

'Well, I
think
that's very local. The Blessing of the Ale. Although it might just be a harvest procession, but it looks like winter to me - cloaks and caps and things. I haven't done enough research on it yet. The woman with the flagon might be a saint or mythical woman, or she could be the ale-wife, and if it is then she lived where you do now. Fancy doing a spot of brewing? Church ale was very special. It was sold off to the locals to raise money for the church and its charity
’

Angela laughed. 'I've got enough to do, thanks
’

'I know what you mean
’
said Daphne, looking at the half-cleaned wall. 'You can't get a machine to do restoration. Thank God.'

'Amen
’
said Angela automatically.

She went over to the ladder and peered at the emergent wall-paintings. They were crudely drawn, in black and red outline, a jumble of disproportionate cartoon shapes - men in flowing, striated robes; weird creatures that were half devil or half snake or half dragon or peculiarly imagined lion or bird; decorative patterning; wild, leaping flames
...
Heaven above, saved souls in the middle and hell below. 'Are they very old?'

'Late fifteenth, I think. Difficult to tell. Whitewashed over in the name of the Puritans
’
said Daphne. 'And I think -' she pointed around the tops of the arched walls of the nave - 'that on either side, below the clerestories, there were more paintings, of the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy and the Seven Spiritual Works of Mercy. It was fairly common to remind the congregation of the charitable and worthy things that got you into heaven. You can just see the shadow of one there, where I gave it a brushing.'

Angela peered. She could see, faintly, a series of shapes. 'Only just
’
she said.

'Oh, they'd have been bright as a cartoon when they were first done. That's "To Clothe the Naked", I think. And then over there -' Daphne pointed - 'is "To Bear Wrongs Patiently". It's all an instruction manual for the way to do things properly.' She returned her Afghan profile to the work.
‘I
think they might be in for a shock when I get round to that lot. Clothing the naked usually meant that you gave the clothes off your own back. We might yet see a Devereux patronness in the buff
’
She laughed. 'And bearing wrongs patiently was not above showing a saintly wife being beaten and looking as if she was positively enjoying it.'

Angela felt a shiver down her spine, though whether it was the chill in the church or the thought of such brutality she was not sure. 'What happened if they fought back?' she asked.

'Best not ask,' said Daphne Blunt. 'Anyway, those won't get uncovered for a month or two. These are taking the time. Dorothea Tichborne's paying. She just might get a little bit more than she thought she was getting, that's all. She wants the glory of the family name restored in the shape of this place. Which her family built.' Daphne looked up sharply. 'Or rather put up the money for. It was the peasants and local craftsmen and masons who built it. Always makes me laugh the way they talk of this king or that queen having built something.' She pointed to the face of one of the devil figures emerging as she cleaned. 'Little people had their ways of getting back at big people. Look at this - it's a Devereux face. And the stonemason had a
verybig
grudge.' She pointed up at the roof. 'Have a look at some of the gargoyles outside and the carvings in these bosses.' She picked up her torch. 'Funnily enough,' she said, concentrating the beam on the hell section of the wall, 'the ones that have lasted the best are the devils.'

Angela peered. It was so. Especially the devil spewing out the Host.

Daphne's laugh rang round the church, making the pigeons on the roof outside flap their wings and coo irritably. 'Gave them an extra coating of whitewash,' she said joyfully, 'to be sure of getting rid of them, but it meant they were only protected all the more . . . That's some kind of metaphor, I suppose. The more you try to eradicate something, the harder people hold on to it. Nothing like having to fight for something in order to value it.'

Angela nodded. In the torch-beam she could indeed see a very strong resemblance to old Dr Tichborne's wife. 'She's a good woman
’
she said.

'She's pious
’
said Daphne, 'which is different.' She laughed again. 'I love history for the jokes it plays. Nothing is ever what it seems. It's all conjecture and interpretation.' She turned back to the wall and continued cleaning.

'Let me know if you come up with anything about the ale. I'd be interested
’
said Angela. But Daphne, engrossed again, just nodded. 'Well
’
said Angela, taking her cue, I've got to get back and start my digging.'

'Digging?' The Afghan nose came up, sensing scent.

'I'm putting in a couple of herb beds. With Sammy's approval
’
she added wryly.

'Where?'

'Up at the back. Near the hedge.'

'Let me know if you find anything interesting
’
said Daphne. And then she added, as if striking a bargain, 'And I'll look out what I can about the ale ceremony.'

Angela thanked her and walked back up the aisle. She stopped by the bench ends on her way out. If the woodcarver held any grudges they were not apparent. The virgins all looked as dainty and silly as medieval virgins were supposed to, while on the other side the woman with the flagon was a mature, full-bosomed beauty in a stylishly swirling cloak. She certainly did not look like a saint.

Nevertheless, she was reminded of those seven corporal acts of mercy and decided, magnanimously, that she too would be charitable. Busy and charitable. As women have ever been known for their charity. Therefore, what she wished on Binnie was not death or pain or serious misadventure. It was just a very pleasant single-parenthood. That was all. Nothing wrong with that now, was there?

But something along the lines of Faith, Hope and Charity made her uncomfortable. She resolved never to make the acquaintance of baby Tristan.

No matter, she thought. Busy, busy, she thought. And put the irksome feeling to one side.

From the lych gate she looked up at the gargoyles.

Why that's outrageous, she said. Outrageous.

Angela was standing in the Elliotts' kitchen, having found one of the children's toys in the lane. Lucy Elliott's eyes were pink-rimmed, with the customary shadows of pale lilac beneath them. 'You're in luck,' she said. "The oldest two have gone on the Sunday school outing with the au pair and the baby's asleep.'

'How's the au pair?' asked Angela.

'Large,' said Lucy Elliott happily. 'Very
large
’

She handed Angela a cup of coffee and sat down as if she wanted to lie down.

'Craig's working?'

'Craig's working,' Lucy Elliott agreed, looking oddly suspicious.

'He's very dedicated.' 'He is,' agreed his wife. 'He gets on with things.' 'He does.'

'Creative types do, I suppose. I've just been in the church. Daphne Blunt's really getting on with things too.'

'Hah!' said Lucy Elliott, the manner of which implied that getting on with things so far as she was concerned was as likely as the moon turning blue. She said wistfully, 'I used to play the piano in there sometimes. Before number three came along.' She gave Angela a despairing look. 'I was a professional musician, you know. Played all over the world. I used to find playing the piano very relaxing.'

If ever woman was born who looked like she needed a bit of relaxing, this was she.

'Don't you still?' asked Angela.

'Oh no, not now. We don't even have a piano. The noise -' she lowered her voice and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Above which sat Craig Elliott, struggling, as he'd told Angela earlier, with his new novel.

'You must borrow mine,' said Angela. 'It's quite a good one.'

'No
’
Lucy Elliott said firmly.

So firmly that Angela was surprised. 'I could have it tuned for you
’
she said, 'if that's the problem. I'd need to have it tuned anyway. You and Craig could come over
...'

'No
’
said Lucy Elliott, even more firmly. 'Craig is extremely busy. When he's not in London.'

'Come on your own. Please do.'

'Perhaps
’
said Lucy Elliott, in a voice that meant she never would. She really was being unnecessarily unfriendly.

'It would be good for the thing
’
Angela persisted. 'Really it would. I was told that pianos, like pearls, should not be left untouched for any amount of time
...
They flatten and die.'

At which, Angela was astonished to see, Lucy Elliott let two silent, gigantic tears go plop on to her chest. So it
was
the piano she missed.

'Well, the offer is there any time you want to take it up
’
she said.

And a soft and friendly voice from above said, 'Do I hear our Church Ale neighbour down below?' 'Goodbye
’
said Lucy Elliott hurriedly. Angela went.

'When are those kids of yours coming down?' asked Dave the Bread, as he dropped off a lovely warm loaf and asked her to admire his tie-dyed shorts. Bright yellow. Saffron, he said.

She had a vague feeling that you needed several acres of crocuses to colour a small pocket handkerchief, but when she said this to him he just smiled mysteriously and said that Wanda knew how to get the best out of even the smallest of things
...
And he winked with such startling wickedness that she immediately wondered about the contents of his saffron shorts.

'When they're ready to come, I suppose
’
she said. She told him about the herb gardens and the box of old medicine bottles. 'All shapes and sizes, and some of them probably as old as the century. I thought I might come over and get some advice from Wanda about the decocting side of things
’
she said.

'Ah well. Ah well
’
said Dave, backing away oddly. 'She's very busy doing the pink muslins
’
he said. 'Beetroots and secrets
...
You know Wanda. Better not disturb.'

It was a similar situation to Lucy Elliott. Every time Angela made an overture of friendship, it was - though not unkindly - rebuffed. She'd been trying to have a cup of tea with Wanda for weeks. Angela often wondered if behind those closed doors and steamed-up windows, Wanda was really doing what she said. Was she dyeing muslins or making corn dollies and bog myrtle wreaths, or was her secretiveness because she was making a witch's brew or magicking up potions with incantations? Once or twice, cycling by the gate of Tally-Ho Cottage late in the evening, Angela distinctly heard the sound of cackling from within.

And Wanda not only looked very mysterious; Wanda
acted
very mysteriously. The last time Angela had met her on her bicycle in the lane had been very disappointing. Feeling quite proud of her newly acquired country knowledge, she wished to try it out on the expert.

'I've heard that yarrow, witch hazel and willow is a good tonic
’
she began, all friendly-like. Wanda nodded furiously. 'Oh yes, it is, it is
’
she said, and started pedalling away. 'Perhaps you could help me identify them
...'
But Wanda was too busy. 'Could you draw them for me, then?' she asked. 'So I can find them on my own.' But Wanda had a sore finger. 'Split a woody nightshade berry and bind it on
’
Angela offered, remembering the additional information found in Maria Brydges's method of physick. 'They're very good for sore fingers, felonwort meaning whitlow or abscess healer -but I expect you know that.'

It was then that Wanda looked at her most witch-like and shifty. As if she knew something that Angela didn't. Angela longed to enter into those ancient ways and mysteries. But she understood. A wise woman keeps her sources to herself.