The Chalice (24 page)

      
'Oh.' Diane looked apprehensive. 'I was wondering where all
this was leading.'

It was dark by the time Jim
wheeled his bike down to the bottom end of High Street, where The George and
Pilgrims stood in all its late medieval splendour. To convince himself he
wasn't vet a total slave to the booze, he'd pedalled around the town a while,
down Benedict Street, round the Northload roundabout, weighing up whether or
not he should buy a new hat.

      
On the one hand, a new hat would remind him distressingly, every
time he put it on, of what had happened to the old one. On the other hand, not
having a hat reminded him all the time.

      
The George and Pilgrims looked more like an Oxford college
than a boozer. Over the doorway were set the heraldic arms of Edward IV. On the
hanging pub sign, a fully armoured knight with a red-cross shield brandished a
broadsword while a bunch of standard medieval punters - monks and nuns and a
kid - hung around in case he needed anybody to defend. In the top right hand
comer of the sign was the ubiquitous Tor.

      
Jim signalled to St George to keep an eye on his bike and went
in, slotting himself into a corner of the bar with a double Chivas Regal and
looking around.

      
He listened to two elderly ladies taking tea at a table in the
passage outside: 'Oh, he's quite miraculous, Charlotte. Two weeks ago, I could
only bend it this far. Now ... see? Isn't that wonderful?'

      
There was only one other customer in the dark, woody bar.
Young chap he thought he recognised, at a particularly shadowed table. On the table
were a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser. But before Jim had had more than a
couple of sips or Chivas, both glasses were dumped, empty, on the bar.

      
'Same again,' the young chap told the barman
grimly.
He had thick black hair and
a pair of small, square, gold-rimmed glasses, baggy cord trousers and a
practical Guernsey sweater.

      
Jim recognised him now. 'Tony, isn't it?' Tony something
double-barrelled with the pottery a few doors up the street and the gorgeous if
rather brittle wife.

      
'I'm sorry?'

      
Blinking. Voice a trifle slurred. Oh dear, and not yet seven
in the evening. Jim knew this road all too well.

      
'Jim Battle. Came into your shop when you first opened to
enquire whether you were interested in displaying examples of local, er, fine
art.'

      
'Oh yes. Sure. The painter.' Tony peered at him without much
interest. 'Another one?'

      
'Civil of you. Thanks.' Jim drained his glass and Tony jerked
a thumb at it, for the barman.

      
'Married, are you, Jim?'

      
'Not at the moment.' Jim smiled. Not the most original way to
open a conversation in a pub. 'Hope you're not going to tell me what a lucky
devil I am, Tony. Not with a wife like yours.'

      
Dorrell-Adams, that was the name. Holy Thorn Ceramics.

      
Tony sank a staggering quantity of his new pint, still looking
like a man who wasn't used to it.

      
'Bloody bitch,' he said eventually.

'Oh gosh, Juanita, it's
ridiculous. I only did a year. And it's not as if I was any good.'

      
Diane was pacing the tiny parlour, nervously nibbling another
carob bar.

      
'How are you on layout? Subediting.'

      
'Hopeless. I was just a slightly mature trainee reporter. Sort
of. I know how to write stories. Sort of. I know how not to commit libel.
Probably. And that's it.'

      
'Sounds OK,' Juanita said. 'Sam knows about layouts. Sam
Daniel. Griff Daniel's son. Estranged, fortunately. Set himself up as a sort of
printer, with an enterprise grant. Desktop stuff, computers. But there's also a
local offset plant which could turn the thing out.'

      
'I remember Sam Daniel. Mostly by reputation. We didn't mix in
the same circles. He's in business?'

      
'In a bolshy sort of way. We discussed
The Avalonian
about a year ago. I was thinking of doing it all by
myself.'
      
'Why?' Diane sat down, looking flustered.
      
'Because it seemed like a really
nice thing to do, Diane.' Juanita rolled her eyes. 'For the town? OK, it wound
up on the back-burner, as these things do. But then you coming back like this,
it just seemed ...'

      
Jesus God, don't tell her it was a sign.
      
'It would be quite a costly
venture,' Diane said.
      
'You mean, have I suddenly got
money to throw away? Well, the old bank balance stands at about twelve grand. But
I could write to Danny. I bought him out of the shop when he ... when he needed
to leave. Which put me in the red for quite a while, and fortunately he still
feels bad about that. Also, I may approach the Pixhill Trust.'

      
Diane looked blank. '
Colonel
Pixhill?'

      
'You knew him?'

'I sort of remember him. My
father claims he conned my grandmother over the sale of Meadwell after the War.
Father was abroad with the Army at the time He was furious. They

kept trying to buy Meadwell
back, but the Colonel wouldn't play.'

      
'Poor old Pixhill,' said Juanita. 'They say he lived his last
few years on fresh air to keep that place together and then, when he died, his
family couldn't even sell it because of the Pixhill Trust, this rickety charity
seemingly run by the Colonel's old army pals, most of them miles away.'

      
Diane said. 'Archer was very friendly with Oliver Pixhill the
Colonel's son. Same school. Inseparable for a while.'

      
'Oliver was apparently seriously pissed off at not being able
to flog Meadwell. His inheritance was zilch. But now they say he's a member of
the Trust.'

      
'What's it do, this Trust?'

      
Juanita perched lightly on the arm of Diane's chair. 'Good
works, my child. Worthy things, connected with - and I quote - the Spreading of
the Light for the Furtherance of Peace and Harmony in a Troubled World. Does
that sound like
The Avalonian
or doesn't
it?'

      
'They'd give you money?'

      
'For services rendered. Hang on. Stay right there.'

      
Juanita went through to the shop and unlocked the cabinet
where the antiquarian tomes were kept. She returned with a slim, pocket-sized,
softbacked book. It had a rather drab, green, cloth cover.

      
'I may live to regret this, but you're bound to see it sometime.'

      
You had to hold the book up to the light to make out the
wording, in black, on the cover:

GEORGE PIXHILL: THE GLASTONBURY DIARIES

      
'Take it,' Juanita said. 'Won't take you long to read. Gets seriously
depressing towards the end, but you might find you and the old guy have a
certain amount, er, in common.'

      
Meaning an unhealthy obsession with certain aspects of
Glastonbury. But at least it would show her where this sort of thing could
lead.

      
Diane held the little book gingerly in both hands, like a child
with a first prayer book. 'Why've I never heard of this?'

      
'Probably because it's only been published a couple of months.
And because it's never exactly been advertised. You have to ask for it. Oh, and
because this is the only shop that sells it.'

      
'What?'

      
Juanita lit a cigarette.

      
"Bout a year ago, an old buffer called Shepherd -
"Major Shepherd, good day to you ma'am" - swans in with this dog-eared
manuscript. Wants some advice on publishing it. An absolute innocent. Left the
manuscript - the only copy, mind you - left it with me to read. I'm expecting
some tedious old war memoirs, Rommel and Me sort of thing.'

      
Diane put her knees together, her elbows on her knees and her
chin between cupped hands. Juanita stiffened, her memory superimposing a plump
schoolgirl with spots from too much comfort chocolate: Diane a dozen years ago
when Juanita had given her Dion Fortune's
The
Sea Priestess
to read.

      
Oh God.

      
'Not Rommel and Me,' Juanita said. 'Although he did serve in
the Western Desert with Montgomery.'

      
Diane nodded eagerly. As if she knew what was coming Jesus,
Juanita thought, she'll see it as another of those portents.

'You probably think I'm pitiful,'
Tony Dorrell-Adams said, not for the first time tonight.

      
'Not at all. my boy.' Jim thought it was best to sound fatherly,
this was what he seemed to need. 'Women go through phases. Particularly, erm ...
particularly here, for some reason.'

      
Actually, he was bloody embarrassed. Chaps flung together in
pubs, there were, after all, long established ground rules about what might
safely be discussed. Sport, work, the Government. Women as a species. Certainly
not - not even after lour Chivas Regals - your, erm, intimate personal
problems.

      
'She's a completely different person,' Tony Dorrell-Adams said
miserably. 'We've been here nearly four months. It's getting worse. It's as if ...
well, as if it isn't me she wants. Not me as an individual. Just the male
element. like ... like a plug for her socket.'

      
'Quite,' said Jim gruffly.

      
'Except she's the one that lights up. Last night ...'
      
Tony's eyes had a deceptive
brightness, suggesting a man who hadn't slept in a long time. 'Last night,
after dark, she made me do it in ... in the window'. I mean the shop window.'

      
Pause for effect. Jim just nodded. Strewth.

      
'And I ... I nearly couldn't. You know? I mean, it's against the
law, isn't it? In public? Not that anybody was about. Least, I don't think so.'

      
'Oh, you'd have heard.'

      
'Suppose so. You see, the very reason we came here … I'll tell
you, shall I?'

      
'If you think it'll help.' Jim groaned silently.

      
'It wasn't all that good between us, you see. I'd had a bit of
a thing going with another teacher, to be frank. Nothing important, but it left
a gulf, as you can imagine. Well, coming here, that was supposed to be a new
beginning. In a place that was, you know, blessed. I thought, if we were working
together, in a compatible way, things would straighten themselves out. Especially
somewhere like this. Somewhere steeped in magic and earth energy. Somewhere that
would
feed
our hearts. They say, you
know, that Glastonbury is actually the heart chakra in the great spiritual body
of the world.'

      
'You came here to put your marriage together?'

      
Jim shook his head in real sorrow. No wonder they were staring
at each other across a gap the width of the Severn Estuary.

      
'Tony, this is the very last place. Yes, it is uniquely spiritual,
but that doesn't make it an easy place to live. Quite the reverse. And as for
marriages ... same again, is it?'

      
He handed Tony a tenner and Tony went for more drinks. Jim
leaned back, eyes half closed.
I'm not
like that, am I? I didn't come here expecting anything, surely? I'm just a
painter. Came for the mystery.

      
He was aware of the bar filling up. One or two locals, but
mainly incomers - healers and psychics, artists and musicians - the ones who
thought it was OK spiritually to drink alcohol. He saw Archer Ffitch come in,
moving discreetly through the bar to sit at a table occupied by Griff Daniel.

      
'Have you seen our new range, Jim?' Tony Dorrell-Adams,
distinctly unsteady now, placed another Scotch in front of Jim, spilling some.

      
'I came to see you, old son," Jim said patiently. 'You remember?
I saw all your pottery.'
        
'
She's
actually the potter. Domini.
Glazes are my thing. And design. On-glaze colours, you know? I thought we were
becoming compatible at last. You saw my Arthurian range, didn't you?'