The Chalice, page 25
Woolly wandered up to stand with Juanita at the entrance to the alleyway, watching the punters going in, shaking his head in disappointment.
‘Two real locals, maybe three.’
‘And the rest we know,’ Juanita said.
It was a shame; Woolly had also tried to give the meeting an element of conventional respectability. He was wearing a suit, had his hair pulled tightly back and bound with a fresh rubber band, looked almost like a regular person.
‘That bastard Griff Daniel. You reckon he had advance warning about the road?’
‘Well, the word is some posters went out yesterday. But they only went up this morning. Archer?’
‘Bastard.’ Woolly shook his head.
Still, he couldn’t have been expecting a vast crowd. Apart from the easing of traffic congestion and rush-hour holdups, most people would be thinking about all the extra jobs the road would bring, how it would open up central Somerset to Euro-money.
‘Trouble is, the Government’s got the bloody moral high ground,’ Woolly said. ‘Take the juggernauts off the village roads, make the towns safer for the kids, you got the mums and dads on your side before you start. But it’s all bullshit – you put this bloody road in and traffic expands to fill it, as traffic invariably does, and the lorries start hitting the village lanes again and kiddies still get mown down, and then you need another new road, and so it goes, until the whole of the West is a sea of metal.’
‘That’s what I love about you old hippies,’ Juanita said. ‘You never lose that dewy-eyed optimism.’
‘Unless we stop it now.’ Woolly pulled Juanita into the shadowy doorway of a picture-framing shop. ‘I got this leaflet through the post the other day. Offering the support of the eco-guerrillas.’
‘God,’ said Juanita. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘They got a point. Public inquiries and stuff, ’tis no more than a charade. But if contractors find their diggers getting vandalised, the bosses’ fancy cars getting scratched …’
‘Oh, Woolly, that’s not you.’
‘Yeah, I know. I hate that stuff. Man of peace. But what d’you do, Juanita?’
‘Well, you don’t do anything undemocratic. You’re a councillor.’
‘Sure,’ said Woolly. ‘But when you get on the council, you find out pretty soon how helpless local authorities are. Thing is, with this bunch in there and no local locals, you’re gonner get demands for the extreme option anyway. Not counting the ones who’ll recommend curses and laying out the runes and stuff.’
‘Ceridwen’s there, then,’ Juanita said.
Woolly grinned. ‘Least you done me proud, Juanita. You look … sheesh.’
‘Well, thank you, Woolly. I decided to pass up on the pearls.’
‘Anyway.’ Woolly straightened his tie; it was actually a kipper tie, circa 1974, featuring Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe. ‘I better get in there, strut my stuff.’
‘Just don’t go over the top, there’ll almost certainly be Press there.’
‘Yeah,’ said Woolly dismally. ‘They’re the ones not smoking joints. Sheesh, I can’t even see Jim Battle. He’ll be coming, surely?’
‘Yes,’ Juanita said tightly. ‘I’m sure he will.’ She glanced over her shoulder and went into the meeting.
He poured another Scotch, pulled three bristle brushes from the sink, putting aside the linseed oil; time for neat turps. Got to work fast. Get this down while the energy’s there.
The three paintings on their easels were all part of the same picture. He could see it now. The afterglow, usually close to the centre of the canvas, should in fact be on the perimeter, a before glow. The paint burning through from the edges, to the heart of the experience, the core of the pyramid.
Where lay the Grail.
Why had he never seen this before? To reach the inner light, you had to pass through darkness. Every experience, no matter how negative, was a force for progress. Even the worst humiliation – the sickle over your head, rejection by the woman you’d yearned for … all part of a rite of passage, through the deepest darkness, to the core of it all.
He was feeling so much better now he was painting. He’d been hoping for a good dusk to fire him, but the rain had kept on. Only when a bough of the ash tree tapped on his window, awakening him – and he saw something hanging from that bough, yes, yes – did he realise he could ignite his own:
Inside: he’d poured more whisky, finishing off the Johnnie Walker, starting on the Chivas Regal he’d been saving for Christmas. Arousing a glow in his gut and feeling it spread.
And outside: he’d pulled out the dog grate and lit a fire on the stone hearth, building a pyramid of oak logs, watching the sparks shoot out until the logs began to turn red, and then he’d wedged more logs around them, making a hard, hot funnel.
By the time it got dark, the whole room was glowing with a roaring, red energy.
Never lifting his gaze from the canvas, Jim Battle rummaged like a blind man among the tumble of tubes on his worktable to find a fat, full one he rarely used.
It would be labelled Lamp Black.
The association calling itself Glastonbury First was clearly not a sham after all. For a start, you had to be seriously confident to hold your inaugural public meeting at the Town Hall.
The building was next to the Abbey gatehouse and a little taller – nineteenth-century officialdom overseeing ancient sanctity. The town hall was lit up, the gatehouse an archaic silhouette.
The worrying part was that the main hall was nearly full. Must be close to four hundred people. Diane sat at the back, near the doors, as a sober-looking band filed on to the stage, among them Griff Daniel, discreetly followed by her brother Archer, and a wave of spirited applause from the floor.
She hadn’t seen Archer in months. He’d put on a little weight, the chest-expanding, shoulder-widening kind she supposed heavyweight boxers like to acquire before a fight. Archer’s hair was coiled and springy; he looked well.
Would Archer chair the meeting? Couldn’t, surely, be Griff Daniel; he didn’t have a terrific reputation for integrity.
It was neither of them. A bulky figure in a pinstriped double-breasted suit stood up at the table, perusing his notes through half-glasses. Oh gosh, Mr Cotton, Quentin Cotton MBE, noted charitable fund-raiser and the Ffitch family solicitor.
Credibility. Mega credibility.
Mr Cotton coughed for silence.
After thanking everyone for coming, he said, ‘It saddens me that such a gathering as this should even be necessary. One might reasonably have thought that everyone in this town would put Glastonbury first. But this, regrettably, is not the case.’
Oh well; obvious what was coming.
‘An increasing number of persons in our midst – although I doubt that any at all is here tonight – appear to give higher priority to bizarre beliefs of a quasi-religious nature, which for various far-fetched reasons, they appear to consider appropriate to our pleasant old country town … a town which, let me say at the outset, has no use for this nonsense!’
An awful cheer arose. Mr Cotton smiled grimly and nodded.
‘Where once we attracted the more discerning visitor, we now draw, on one level, the lunatic fringe and, on another, what I can only describe as the dregs of the inner-cities. Those who exist on state benefits and prefer to steal from our shops rather than expend any of their hard-claimed money, which they prefer to go on drink and drugs.’
Clapping, general noises of affirmation, and a dusting of bitter laughter.
‘But you’re not here to listen to my opinions. You want facts. And behind me is a distinguished panel of experts ready and waiting to supply them. First, may I introduce a local businessman, well known to most of you – Mr Stanlow Pike, of Pike and Corner, estate agents and valuers, who will outline for you precisely how the value of the very fabric of this town has declined. By the fabric, I mean your homes. By decline, well, I think I am talking – and Mr Pike will confirm this – in the region of twenty per cent. Calamitous. Mr Pike …’
An anxiously overweight man in his fifties, Mr Pike began by saying that his business had been established in this town for three generations.
‘I can see among you many of my clients, past and … and present. Among the, er, present clients are …’ Stanlow Pike was pressing the tips of his fingers into the table, his body leaning back then forward like a large bird on a perch. ‘… Are several who have had properties for sale for more than a year and been unable to find a satisfactory purchaser. This is, to an extent, a national problem as you all must be aware. And a problem shared by every other agent in this town. However, it is worse here. Worse than Somerton, worse than Street, worse than Castle Cary. Because this most beautiful and historic town is no longer … no longer considered such a desirable place to live. And … and we all know why.’
One after another, they arose. The chemist, who had suffered two drug-related burglaries. The local official of the National Farmers’ Union, whose members had been obliged to blockade their land against the thieving, trespassing travellers.
Griff Daniel’s own speech was brief and, at first, restrained. He was a local man. He remembered a time when these mystical types were just a handful of harmless cranks. When they wore suits and ties like everyone else. When they did nothing more threatening than picnic on the Tor.
Which brought him to the point of this gathering.
‘’Tis a pretty place, the Tor, on a summer’s morn,’ Griff said lyrically. ‘But after dark …’
He thumped the table once with his fist.
‘… after dark, ’tis a threat and a menace to us all.’
Griff’s face broke into a grim smile.
‘But they also know the law, these scum. They know they’re legal. Now don’t that make you sick?’
‘Disgraceful!’ someone shouted.
‘Indeed. But that’s a public place, and if there aren’t more’n six vehicles, they can do pretty much what they like there. And I know that most decent people in this town do not want these layabouts and are deeply, deeply frustrated that we cannot keep ’em out altogether. Now I’m not a lawyer and not a politician, except in the most amateur way, look …’
Diane was pretty glad at this moment that Juanita was not here.
‘… so I took my problem to a man whose roots in this area go back farther than mine and probably farther than anybody else’s in this room tonight. Now he’s a new boy in the political game …’
‘Oh really!’ Diane exclaimed crossly. A woman in a hat turned and gave her a hard look.
‘… but he’s got his head screwed on and he knows how people in this town think and feel. Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased and honoured to have with us tonight, the Hon. Archer Ffitch, MP-elect for Mendip South.’
In the midst of the applause a lone voice was raised.
‘Just a bloody minute!’ Five rows in front of Diane, a man had shot to his feet. ‘I object! If you’re gonner do your arse-licking in public, Dad, at least get it right.’
Oh gosh, Sam Daniel.
Griff’s eyes bulged like a frog’s. He strode angrily towards the edge of the platform, as though ready to jump down and attack his son.
Archer arose easily and put a large, firm hand on Griff’s shoulder.
‘Thank you, Mr Daniel. And thank you, also, to the gentleman who pointed out that understandable error. I am, of course, not quite MP-elect. The term, at this stage, is Prospective Parliamentary Candidate. Although, perhaps – who can tell, strange things happen in Glastonbury – perhaps exposure to the atmosphere at the bottom end of High Street has bestowed upon Mr Daniel the gift of prophecy …’
This caused an immediate eruption of mirth. Diane raised her eyes to the plaster mouldings.
Sam Daniel sat down. The young woman next to him looked furious. Diane recognised her at once. Charlotte Lovidge: dark-haired, undeniably chic, a trifle haughty. Diane saw Sam try to take Charlotte’s hand, whereupon she turned pointedly away from him.
They were an item? Gosh. Charlotte, who couldn’t be more than twenty-four, worked for Stanlow Pike, possibly training to become a valuer and auctioneer. It seemed an unlikely liaison for Sam. Diane supposed it came down very much to basics: Charlotte was extremely attractive.
Diane huddled into her coat, feeling fat and frumpish, as her brother Archer began to speak.
Against the greystone walls of the Assembly Rooms, they looked a fairly joyless bunch tonight, Juanita thought. They’d shelved the quest for the Grail for the present. They were here to plan a crusade to protect their holy land from the infidels.
‘My information,’ Woolly was saying from the makeshift black-box stage, ‘is that they’ll be making a start pretty soon after Christmas.’
There was a rumble from the more committedly Alternative types sitting cross-legged on the carpet below the stage.
‘They’ve learned a few lessons from other road-protests – use the bad-weather months, don’t make it easy, don’t let the protest turn into a holiday camp with open-air music, stuff like that, don’t attract tourists. Anyway, they’ll start by clearing woodland. Chainsaw gangs.’
‘Savages,’ a woman yelled. Road-construction seemed to have taken over from nuclear power as the number one ecomenace.
‘Do we know where?’ another woman asked. A strong voice, Juanita noted. A voice with a sort of cello effect.
Dame Wanda. Just what the campaign needed. Ha.
Woolly shrugged. ‘You tell me. That’s what we got to organise. Intelligence. People on the ground who’ll report anything suspicious. But this is a preliminary meeting, and there’s things we can’t very well discuss in a public place, so I suggest we form a Road-rape Action Committee. For which we need an office. Got to get it together under one roof. Somewhere we could have manned round the clock.’
‘Staffed!’ It was Jenna, the wire-thin Cauldron member. ‘Staffed around the clock.’
‘Staffed,’ said Woolly wearily. Jenna sat down amid a cluster of women in the centre of the room. To her left, Juanita saw the free-floating blonde hair of Domini Dorrell-Adams. To her right the grey coils of Ceridwen.
Ceridwen whispered something to Jenna, who was back on her feet at once.
‘I propose Wanda Carlisle as a kind of president or something, because … because she’s a famous person and will attract publicity to the cause.’
And because you can control her, Juanita thought.
‘All right,’ Woolly said without enthusiasm, doubtless realising he wasn’t going to be running the campaign much longer. ‘You all wanner take a vote on that one?’
And when the hands rose, Juanita rose too and left. It was all so predictable. Anyway, she wanted to ring Jim again, maybe go up there and drag him out to the pub.
She wasn’t prepared to lose a friend.
Funny, all those evenings outside on the hill, the stage all set, the sun primed like the canvas. All those evenings, summer and winter, vest and overcoat. Never realising that on the other side of the dusk was an intensity of energy he’d never dared dream of.
And when he was at last closing in on the mystical vanishing point, when he’d finally found – so to speak – the burial plot of the Grail, it was happening inside his cottage on a grey and sodden evening in no-hope November.
Jim had come through. He lurched from canvas to canvas, pushing the paint before him, as the bronze heat gasped from the fireplace, turning his studio into an alchemist’s laboratory, a cave … a cave within the Tor itself.
He felt like a god. The god of the cave. The old god Gwyn ap Nudd, Celtic lord of the dead, in his chamber at the heart of the Tor.
The thought of the other Gwyn ap Nudd, the pagan goat-priest, no longer made Jim shrivel inside. What the priest had taken from him, he had summoned back. He’d seen it. In the ash tree. It was a sign; he was in control again.
Well into the bottle of Chivas Regal now, he thought about Juanita with her heavy, dark hair, her big Spanish mouth, her breasts, like brown, freckled eggs.
He lunged with his brush and was only half-aware of it tearing the canvas. He thought he saw faces in the sunset window, but he didn’t care.
He was close to breaking through to the Grail. The ash tree stroked the wall, something hanging from it.
FIFTEEN
A Beautiful Dusk
The rain was easing as Juanita walked quickly along High Street. She’d made up her mind: she would ring Jim once more and then take a drive up there.
She caught sight of her reflection in the darkened window of the veggie-bar. From a distance of five feet, in an almost-sophisticated ensemble, under an umbrella, backlit by the golden streetlamp, she could almost be a refined version of the sylph with the headdress on the front of that long-ago Avalonian.
Maybe she ought to change before going to Jim’s.
The door of the former Holy Thorn Ceramics – its sign had gone – opened suddenly, making her heart race, some primitive part of her quite ready to see the goddess standing there in all her dark glory.
But it was only Tony Dorrell-Adams and a suitcase.
‘Tony?’
He scowled at first, then saw her, the way she was dressed.
‘Oh. Hi, Juanita. You look … normal.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You know what I mean.’ She could almost feel the accumulated sorrow and the bafflement vibrating around him.
‘Yes. I do. I’m sorry, Tony, I really am.’
‘I bet you are.’
His car was parked by the kerb, an old Cavalier hatch-back. He put his suitcase on the wet pavement, released the rear door.
‘Look,’ Juanita said. ‘I’m not part of this, you know.’
‘You’re a woman. That makes you part of it.’
‘Why don’t you come over to the shop, have a cup of tea? Talk about it? You can’t leave like this. Can’t just give up.’
‘Watch me,’ Tony said. ‘I’ve been given the car. Wasn’t that kind? I get custody of the car so I’ve got the means to remove myself. It would be appreciated if I do this quietly, while everybody, including my wife, is in the protest meeting.’
