Crybbe

Mrs Preece actually had hair like an onion, coiled into a tight, white bun, and everything else about her was closed up just as tight.

She looked unlikely to offer her guest a cup of tea.

'I do realize things must be very difficult for you at present,' Jean said, if there is anything I can do…'

Mrs Preece snorted.

Jean smiled at her. 'The reason I'm here, the public meeting will be upon us tomorrow evening and I felt there were one or two things I should like to know in advance.'

'If you're yere as a spy for Mr Max Goff,' Mrs Preece said bluntly, 'then there's no need to dress it up.'

Jean was not unpleasantly surprised.

'Do you know, Mrs Preece,' she said, being equally blunt, 'this is the first experience I've ever had of an indigenous Crybbe person coming right out with something, instead of first skirting furtively around the issue.'

'Maybe you been talking to the wrong people,' said Mrs Preece.

'And who, would you say, are the "wrong" people? By the way, I wouldn't waste that nice onion on me.'

'I beg your pardon.'

'Just don't tell me,' Jean said levelly, 'that the onion on the saucer is there to absorb paint smells or germs. You put it there to attract any unwelcome emanations from people you don't want in your house. And when they've gone you quietly dispose of the onion. Will you be getting rid of it when I leave, Mrs Preece?'

Mrs Preece, face reddening, looked down at her clumpy brown shoes.

'Or am I flattering myself?' Jean said.

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Och, away with you, Mrs Preece. I'm no' one of your London innocents.'

'You're none of you innocent,' Mrs Preece cried. 'You're all as guilty as, as…' Her voice dropped. 'As guilty as sin.'

'Of what?' Jean asked gently.

Mrs Preece shook her head. 'You're not getting me going, I'm not stupid. You must know as you're doing no good for this town.'

'And why is that, Mrs Preece? Do you mind if I sit down?'

And before Mrs Preece could argue, Jean had slipped into the Mayor's fireside chair.

'Because it seems to me, you see, that all the new people love Crybbe just exactly the way it is, Mrs Preece. They would hate anything to happen to the local traditions. In fact that's why I'm here. I was hoping your husband could tell me a wee bit about the curfew.'

Mrs Preece turned away.

'I'm also compiling a small history of the town and its folklore,' Jean said.

'Nothing to tell,' Mrs Preece said eventually. 'Nothing that's not written down already.'

'I don't think so. I think there is a remarkable amount to tell which has never been written down.'

Mrs Preece stood over Jean. She wore a large, striped apron, like a butcher's. Discernible anxiety in her eyes now.

'Tell me about it, Mrs Preece. Tell me about the ritual which your husband's family has maintained so selflessly for so many centuries.'

'Just a bequest,' the Mayor's wife said. 'That's all. A bequest of land a long time ago in the sixteenth century. Depending on the bell to be rung every night.'

'This is codswallop,' Jean Wendle said. 'This is a smokescreen.'

'Well, we 'ave the documents to prove it!' Mrs Preece was getting angry. 'That's how much it's codswallop!'

'Oh, I'm sure you do. But the real reason for the curfew, is it not, is to protect the town from… well, let's call it the Black Dog.'

Mrs Preece's face froze like a stopped clock.

Into the silence came lazy footsteps on the path.

'Be my husband back.' Very visibly relieved.

Damnation, Jean almost said aloud. So close.

But it wasn't the Mayor. A thin, streaky haired youth with an ear-ring shambled in without knocking.

'All right, Gran? I come to tell you…'

'You stay outside with them boots, Warren!'

'Too late, Gran.' The youth was in the living-room now, giving Jean Wendle the once-over with his narrow eyes.

Ah, she thought. The surviving grandson. Interesting.

'Hello,' Jean said. 'So you're Warren.'

"s right, yeah.' From his ear-ring hung a tiny silvery death's head.

'I was very sorry to hear about your brother.'

Warren blew out his mouth and nodded. 'Aye, well, one o' them things, isn't it. Anyway, Gran, message from the old… from Dad. All it is – they brought Jonathon back and 'e's in the church.'

'I see,' said Mrs Preece quietly. 'Thank you, Warren.'

'In 'is coffin,' said Warren.

Jean observed that the boy was somewhat less than grief-stricken.

'Lid's on, like,' Warren said.

Jean thought he sounded disappointed.

'But 'e's not screwed down, see, so if you wanna go'n 'ave a quick look at 'im, there's no problem.'

'No, I don't think I shall,' his grandmother said, 'thank you, Warren.' Tiny tears were sparkling in her eyes.

'If you're worried the ole lid might be a bit 'eavy for you, Gran,' Warren said considerately, 'I don't mind goin' along with you. I got half an hour or so to spare before I got to leave.' He turned to Jean. 'I got this band, see. We practises most Monday and Wednesday nights.'

Mrs Preece said, her voice high and tight, 'No, thank you, Warren.'

Warren watched his grandmother's reaction with his head on one side. This boy, Jean registered with considerable interest, is trying not to laugh.

'See, it's no problem. Gran,' Warren said slowly and slyly. ' 'Cause I've already 'ad 'im off once, see, that ole lid.'

He stood with his hands on narrow hips encased in tight, leather trousers, and his lips were just the merest twist away from a smirk.

Jean had been listening to the tension in the air in the small, brown living-room, humming and then singing, dangerously off-key, sending out invisible wires that quickly tautened and then, finally, snapped.

'Get out!' Mrs Preece's big face suddenly buckled. 'GET OUT!' She turned to Jean, breathing rapidly. 'And you as well, if you please.'

Jean stood up and moved quietly to the door. 'I'm really very sorry, Mrs Preece.'

'Things is not right,' Mrs Preece said, sniffing hard. 'Things is far from right. And no you're not. None of you's sorry.'

They'd stopped for coffee but hadn't eaten, couldn't face it.

Fay still felt a bit sick and more than a bit alone. She badly needed someone she could rely on and Joe Powys no longer seemed like the one. But while she felt slightly betrayed, she was also sorry for him. He looked even more lost than she felt.

'All I can think of,' he said, driving listlessly back to Crybbe, 'is that the stone near the cottage is the actual one – the Bottle Stone.'

'You mean he had it dug up under cover of darkness and…'

'Sounds crazy, doesn't it?'

'I'm afraid it does, Joe. Why would Boulton-Trow want to do that, anyway?'

'Well, he knows that was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and…'

'And he wanted to bring it all back by confronting you with the stone again? That would make him… well, you know… quite evil. I can't imagine…'

'I'm sorry. I'm asking too much of you. Maybe I ought to stay out of your way for a while.'

Fay looked at him hopelessly. 'Maybe we'll take some time and think about things. See what we can come up with.'

She decided she'd go, after all, to Goff's press conference, in a private capacity, just to listen. See what questions other people raised and how they were answered.

'I don't think we have much time,' Joe Powys said, 'I really don't.'

'Why? I mean… before what?'

'I don't know,' he said.

He looked broken.

Alone again, Mrs Preece shut herself in the living-room, fell into her husband's sunken old chair and began to cry bitterly, her white hair spooling free of its bun, strands getting glued by the tears to her mottled cheeks.

When the telephone rang, she ignored it and it stopped.

After some minutes Mrs Preece got up from the chair, went to the mirror and tried to piece together her bun without looking at her face.