The Chalice (6 page)

      
Of course this was not the first time. Nor was Stella the first
cat to decide that, despite the veritable army of mice, it simply did not wish
to live at Meadwell.

      
But tonight being the night of the Abbot's Dinner, Verity
could not bear to be entirely alone.

      
Because Meadwell was so venerable, Grade Two listed and starred,
little could be done to relieve the dispiriting gloom resulting from tiny,
mullioned windows which must never be enlarged, oak panelling too delicate to
disturb and enormous beams so oppressively low that even little Verity was
obliged to stoop.

      
A touch of whitewash between the beams might have lightened the
atmosphere a little, but there were sixteenth-century builders' marks to be protected.
Also, in two of the upstairs rooms without panelling, repainting of the walls was
forbidden because of what was described as Elizabethan graffiti - words, names
perhaps, carved and burned into the sallow surface.

      
Of Verity's own presence here there was little evidence
beyond, on a shelf inside the inglenook, a collection of novels by the great
John Cowper Powys, whose sensually extravagant prose was her secret vice and
her refuge. She considered it part of her role not to disturb the house's historic
ambience, to flit mouselike about the place.

      
Most of the holiday guests - elderly, educated people, retired
doctors, retired teachers, friends of the Trust - said how much they
absolutely loved
the house, with its
tremendous character
. In summer.

      
But even high summer entered Meadwell with uncharacteristic
caution, pale sunbeams edging nervously around the oaken doors like the
servants of a despot.

      
And it was getting darker. It
was
. Not simply because of the time of year; the house itself was
gathering shadows, its beams blackening, its walls going grey like old, sick
skin, its deeper corners becoming well-like and impenetrable.

      
It was as if only the Colonel had been able to keep the shadows
at bay, and now the fabric of Meadwell was darkening around her, as if hung
with mourning drapes; And in spite of her faith she was beginning to be ...
      
... afraid?
      
But
I do not see.

      
Verity Does Not See. It had become like a mantra - and after
all these years in Glastonbury and attendance at hundreds of esoteric lectures
at the Assembly Rooms, there was very little one could tell Verity about
mantras.

      
'
I do not see.'

      
Whispering it as she opened the door of the oak cupboard in
the corner to the left of the great inglenook and took down the silver
candlestick. It should have been cleaned and polished this morning, but she'd
been putting it off ever since the upsetting telephone call from Major Shepherd.

      
'Awfully sorry, my dear. Most awfully sorry.' His wheeze had
been like an old-fashioned vacuum-cleaner starting up, the bag inflating.

      
Verity had told him, in her bright, singing way, not to worry
in the slightest.
Just look after
himself, drink plenty of water, keep warm, leave
everything
to her.

      
Not expecting, for one moment, that the Abbot's Dinner would
be able to proceed without the chairman of the Trust. Without, in fact, any guests
at all, only Verity, who would prepare the meal, and ...

      
... and the Abbot.

      
Whom She Did Not See.

      
This day was almost invariably a dull day. Subdued. When the
late Colonel Pixhill was here, it was the one day of the year on which he was
never seen to smile. He would mope about the garden, gathering the first dismal
crop of dead leaves, pausing occasionally to sniff thoughtfully at the air like
an old English setter.

      
On this day nearly twenty years ago, the Colonel had come into
her kitchen, put a sad hand on her shoulder and solemnly thanked her for all her
years of service. Saying sincerely that he didn't know how- he would have
managed here without her.

      
It had occurred to Verity later, with a shiver of sorrow and
unease, that he must have sniffed his own death that morning on the bitter wind
coming down from the Tor.

      
Don't think of it.

      
Verily pursed her lips, straightened up and glared defiantly
into the gathering dark of the dining hall.
      
'At least... at least I ...'

      
Although, apparently, it had been the most essential
qualification for a mistress of Meadwell. At her initial interview, some thirty
years ago, the Colonel had broached the issue delicately but with persistence.
      
Quite
an old place, this, Miss Endicott. Damned old. Damned cold. Bit grim, really.
Lot of ladies would find that off-putting.

      
I suppose
they would.

      
Might
be ... how shall I put it?... a trifle timid about living here. If they were
left alone.

      
Yes.

      
But not
you? Think about it before you answer. Wind howling, timbers creaking sort of
stuff.

      
You
mean they might be afraid of... spirit-manifestation, Colonel.

      
Well.
Hmm. That sort of thing.

      
I... I
am not privileged to see the dead.

      
I see.
Consider it a privilege, would you? If you could see the damn things?

      
No, I... I suppose I'm
rather a superficial person, that is, I believe in God and have an interest in
the spiritual, as ... as a force for healing. And therefore I should dearly
love to live in Glastonbury. But I don't think it necessary or desirable for us
all to have ... communion. If we believe, then that is enough, and if we do not
wish to see, God will respect that. I am not afraid of old places. I try to be
a simple person. I get on with what I have to do, and I... I do not See.

      
Each year she'd polished the candlestick and laid the table for
the Abbot's Dinner, as if it was just another evening meal. After the Colonel's
death, she'd imagined and rather hoped - that the Dinner would be discontinued.

      
However, under the direction of the Pixhill Trust, it had become
even more of an Occasion - now also as a memorial for Colonel Pixhill. It was,
said Major Shepherd, one of the
most
important
of the Colonel's conditions.

      
For ten years or so, the Dinner had been well attended by
members of the Trust, two or three of them even staying on for a few days
afterwards. This had pleased Verity, who found life in general rather dreary
when the holiday season was over and Mrs Green, the cook, and Tracy, the maid, had
disappeared for the winter.

      
But, as age and infirmity eroded the Trust, fewer and fewer
chairs had been required around the dining table. Most of the original trustees
had been, after all, the Colonel's contemporaries, fellow officers and
associates. The new, younger ones - including the Colonel's son, Oliver, were
apparently less concerned with the more eccentric traditions and, indeed, were
keen to modernise the administration of the Trust.

      
Major Shepherd had been adamant that the Abbot's Dinner must
not be allowed to lapse ... even when, last year, he and Verity had found themselves
alone at the huge table, the silver candlestick between them, the Major speaking
the words he claimed not to understand. And
now it had come to this.

      
'My dear, none of us is getting any younger,' the Major had
admitted on the telephone this morning. 'Except, perhaps, for you, Verity.' She
could imagine the tired twinkle in his faded grey eyes. 'You never seem to
change.'

      
Which she decided to take as a compliment to her vegan
lifestyle and her beloved Bach Flower Remedies.

      
'I shall be
seventy
next year, Major. But ...' She'd thought it a timely moment to remind him. '..
. I have absolutely no notion of
retirement
,
you understand. I wouldn't know
where
to put myself.'

      
'Perish the thought.' And he'd gone on, somewhat hesitantly,
to raise the question of the Abbot's Dinner, which she was convinced would have
to be abandoned.

      
'I do realise, my dear, you must have been finding it increasingly
something of a trial. And perhaps a little ... well, sinister?'

      
'Oh,
no
. Major...'

      
Oh,
yes
, Major.
Sadly.

      
'So obviously, I wouldn't dream of asking you to go through
the whole ceremony on your own tonight.'
      
Verity had been so relieved that
she had had to cover the mouthpiece to muffle her sigh. She would go
out
tonight. In the absence of a scheduled
Cauldron meeting, she could perhaps invite herself to Dame Wanda's charming
townhouse for the evening. Or see if there was an interesting talk at the
Assembly Rooms. Or even a potentially
tedious
talk - there would at least be people there and tea to share.
      
'But perhaps,' Major Shepherd had
said at the end of a particularly painful wheeze, 'I could prevail upon you ...'
      
'Oh. That is, you don't have to
prevail.
Major.' Verity's brightness had
begun to dissipate.
      
 
'... to light the Abbot's candle?'

      
'Oh.'

      
'And perhaps…'
      
Verity had closed her eyes.
      
'… short prayer?'
      
'I …'

      
'I'm so sorry, Verity. We'll be there with you in spirit. George
Pixhill too, I'm sure.'
      
    
'In
spirit. Yes.'
      
    
I do not...

      
Now she brought out the silver polish, laid an oilcloth over
the long, oak dining table and began to work on the candlestick. Her throat was
parched, her chest tight.

      
But she had her duty. She polished and polished, until the candlestick
shone in the dark air like the moon.

      
The Abbot was used to fine things.

      
It would be four hundred and fifty six years since he was hanged
on the Tor.

SIX

The Weirdest Person Here

'It knows we're coming.'
Headlice was aglow with the excitement of being a pagan at what he said was the
greatest Pagan temple in Britain. 'Look at it... it
knows
, man.'

      
The Tor was temporarily free of cloud but losing definition in
the darkening sky. You could no longer make out the ridges which ringed the
hill and were supposed to be the remains of a prehistoric ritual maze.

      
It did look ever so mysterious now, with not a house in sight
and no other visible hills. Diane, too, felt herself wanting to go up. But on
her own. She didn't care to be part of a so-called pagan ritual. They'd come a
long way for this; things could get rather, well, orgiastic.

      
Once, she'd said to Headlice, .Why did you want to be a Pagan?
What does it
mean
to you? Headlice
had mumbled something about his childhood near Manchester, being made to go to church
and all the hypocritical bastards in their Sunday suits and the women in their
stupid hats. How he'd grown up despising Christianity as a meaningless social
ritual. Headlice said the difference with the old gods was that they had balls.

      
'But what will we actually do, when we get there?'
      
Headlice shrugged. 'All down to
Gwyn.'
      
Everything seemed to be down to
Gwyn. Gwyn the Shaman. She hadn't seen him since their arrival. He had his own
van. Very dirty on the outside, but newer than the rest. He kept himself apart
from the others. Even the travellers, it seemed, had their aristocracy, and
Gwyn was the adept, the man with the Knowledge. Since he'd joined the convoy in
East Anglia the mood had been somehow less frivolous. Some people had even
left.

      
'Aw,' Headlice said at last, 'most likely we'll just light a
fire. Take our clothes off, you know? Under the shining goddess of the moon.
Let the energy flow through us and, like, see what develops.'