Time had done his work so cunningly that few of these folk were aware of what he was at, or paused to consider his ravages upon their persons. They felt themselves to be much the same as ever: that is, neither young nor old in any intimate sense. Such terms were applicable to other people, but hardly to oneself; and one did not notice how the point from which age is measured had insensibly shifted with every passing year, so that, whereas to Seth Shellett a man of thirty was middle-aged and a man of forty almost an old man, to Richard Mykelborne the state of being seventy seemed the only natural and normal state, and all other ages in man a matter for some surprise. Mykelborne was only just beginning to observe changes in himself. ‘Every year,’ said he, ‘do tell the tale, Tahm Shellett. Every year past senty. Three score and ten, as Postle Paul do put un. I can’t make a coffin the way I could. Nor dig a grave nuther.’
‘And what call have you to goo diggen, Mus Mykelborne, when Eddie Green be sexton?’
‘I’ll tell thee, Tahm Shellett. The way of it be this way. Sexton Green’ll dig you a pretty grave, so’s you’d not wish a better, when he’s a mind to. But he ha’nt gotten his heart in his work. And whatsumdever thy hand findeth to do, do it willen and hearty, says Postle Paul. Gird up thy loins and run to ut, and Devil take the hindermost, says he. Up betimes, Tahm Shellett, is up betimes. And lyen abed be no sech thing. Tis uncivil, says I, in man or boy, to keep a carpse waken, the same as Sexton Green ud do, did I leave he to his sinful marnen slumbers. For a dunnamany times I’ve taken the spade from his hands, in a figure of speaken, and fashioned so snug and sleek a grave as you’d be blithe and proud to lay in, and many a better man wud be.’
‘And if Parson were late for the burial,’ put in old Mr Bailey, ‘I wager you’d preach as good a service as any, Dick, let alone make the coffin and dig the grave.’
‘You may say so, Mus Bailey,’ agreed Mykelborne. ‘You may say so in sperrit and in truth. For didn’t it fall out so t’other day, as near as no matter? Ten or fifteen year agoo, when they small pox carried young Nat Broome away, and Parson come sidling up the High Street along of us, yawnen and rubben the sleep out of’s eyes, and who’ve you got in there, says Parson, with a nudge. Where, says I. In the hearse, says he. Who should us have there but the carpse, says I. Plague take ye, says Parson, what be carpse’s name, says he. Well, Reverence, he’ve done wi’ names, says I, nuther marriage nor giving in marriage, I says, but Nat Broome was his name afore a died, and Nat Broome he’ll be buried by. Nat Broome, says Parson; why, I dint knaw a was dead. Dead or not, says I, we be agwain to putt he in. And it’s a dunnamany times crossed my mind to wonder, Mus Bailey, what poor Nat thought of ut up in heaven, and whether he took and had a good laugh with the Lord about ut. And if you ask me what do us poor miserable sinners know of heaven, I’ll tell ye I’ve been there, and I’ve been there twice.’ His eyes opened wide with wonder and self-importance and he paused weightily, that his words might take full effect on the audience.
The door opened and the summer evening flowed in, mellow and golden and warm. From where he stood Mr Bailey could see the shining road, the tall church, rolling hills, and a patch of luminous green sky; and it seemed to him to be a picture of the happiness he had never had and was forever foolishly expecting. He wondered whether death might bring him to his heart’s desire, but had no mind to go by that gate; for though old he was vigorous and full of health, still able to enjoy a fireside talk with his cronies, still liking to think himself a thinker, and still capable of turning out a couplet or two in which to crystallize his thoughts. Since his wife’s death, five years ago, there had been more time for such indulgences. There had sometimes, indeed, seemed to be too much time. The house was a strangely quiet place nowadays: it contained, no matter what noise you made, a continuing silence: a backcloth for the queer unexpected drama of memory. Mr Bailey had Tisha’s twins, his two dull grand-daughters Mary and Kate, to look after him and the house, and to help in the taproom when necessary: an arrangement as convenient to himself as to their harassed mother. They were quiet and devoted girls, and so ludicrously alike that young Hugh Marden, the Squire’s son, had once remarked, in his impudent fashion, that if you tumbled the one twas even chances the other would be brought to bed of your bastard. Mr Bailey himself had signalized the occasion with a gentler jest, and following his example most patrons of the inn addressed each of the girls as Mary-Kate. The folk of Marden Fee were fond of their joke, no matter how small and slight a thing it might be; and the more often they heard it the better they liked it. This one, already mellow with age, seemed to hold for them an inexhaustible treasure. Anyhow they were good girls, mused Mr Bailey, and staring at that distant country of the sky he thought of heaven and wondered if poor Sarah were indeed up there, bustling about with a broom and setting everything to rights. But his musing was interrupted by the entry of an old man, who had paused for an instant, a black silhouette, in the glimmering rectangle of the doorway: a small human figure sketched in, vivid and dark, against Mr Bailey’s vision of the world beyond.
‘God-a-mercy,’ said Coachy Timms.
A chorus of genial grunts made him welcome, and into the inn with him he brought an ageless gaiety of heart that infected everyone. Most of all did it infect the old ones, Bailey, Mykelborne, Shellett, who, if not often aware of being old, were always, in the presence of Coachy Timms, aware of being made young again: whether by force of contrast with his vast age or because new-kindled by his quenchless spirit, they did not pause to consider. Here he was, the wily old sinner, with his slim body and large head, his ripe rosy cheeks and candid blue eyes, and the topheavy air that made one marvel to see him balanced so featly on his pins. He was so old that no one knew his age; and he talked so much gammon that no one troubled to call him a liar when he spoke of bygone centuries with the air of having lived in them. He was a rare old fellow, they said, and that contented them; and they could see for themselves, the elder folk, that but for an extra wrinkle or two round mouth and eyes, and sometimes an enhanced remoteness of manner as though this world of children fatigued him, Coachy Timms seemed not a day older than he had been at any time during these past twenty years. Sometimes they would ask him his age. ‘You’ll be long in years now, Coachy, I’ll ’low. Getten on to a hundred, bainta?’ ‘Hundred?’ says Coachy, with a boy’s shy smile, ‘Ay, I be a hundred right nough.’ ‘And a bit besides haply?’ they suggest. ‘A bit besides, shoont wonder,’ says Coachy. ‘I were that or more the day Master Hugh’s granfer fell into carp pond farty year agoo. Parple in face a was when they dragged un out, and his poor wife, Master Jack’s mother that was, was all bewildered to see un.’ There was clearly nothing material to be got out of a man who dealt like that with a plain question; and the catechism always ended in sagacious sighs and happy laughter at the thought of old Squire Marden and his purple face. So Coachy, for all they knew or cared, was as old as the earth and as enduring: indeed, though reason might have suggested that he must be near his end, nothing would so much have astonished Marden Fee as to be told that he had at last paid the inevitable debt.