‘I don’t know.’
‘Exactly. Don’t worry about what Clement said just now. That’s between him and them. It’s nothing to do with us. Alright?’
‘Yes, Father,’ I said, though I was less convinced than he was.
He smiled at Mummer who came over with an expensive looking floorlamp and set it on the table out of harm’s way. She looked at him and went away to help David shift a delicate crystal vase off the mantelpiece.
‘What would Father Wilfred have made of these fellers, Tonto?’ said Father Bernard.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t really talk about him all that much. Did you get along with him alright?’ he said, dusting his hands.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Only suppose so?’
‘He did a lot for the poor,’ I said, and Father Bernard looked at me and smiled.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I know he did, Tonto.’
At Mummer’s request, he started to close the curtains.
‘I’m only asking, because I know nothing much about the man,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know he was well respected but was he happy in his work, would you say?’
‘I think so.’
‘I mean, how did he seem before he died?’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Aye.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you say there was something on his mind?’
The sound of a bell came from behind the curtain and Mummer turned off the main light.
‘I don’t know, Father.’
He knew I was being obtuse, but he smiled and turned his attention to the Pace Eggers instead, storing away what I’d said or hadn’t said for later.
‘Who’s your man in the purple there?’ he asked in a whisper, pointing to the player pressing his Zapata moustache back into place.
‘That’s the Turkish Knight,’ I said.
‘Is he the villain? He looks like a villain.’
‘Yes.’
First out of the shadows was Collier, dressed in a frayed kilt, a harlequin shirt and a top hat like a broken chimneypot. He carried a wicker basket under his arm.
‘Who’s this?’ Father Bernard said behind his hand.
‘That’s Brownbags,’ I said. ‘He collects the money.’
‘Money?’
‘You’re supposed to give them some money before they perform.’
Brownbags walked from person to person, as they dug into their pockets for any loose change and threw it into the basket. At each clink of metal, he touched the brim of his hat with his finger and when he had passed along the row he began.
‘Give as much as you can spare, we only come but once a year. Build up the fire and let the flames burn. Here are some jolly boys to give you a turn.’
Mummer started clapping and gradually everyone else tentatively joined in.
Brownbags went off and was replaced by Saint George and his daughter, Mary.
‘Isn’t that your man from Little Hagby?’ Father Bernard whispered.
I looked again. He was right. Mary was the gangly altar boy from the Tenebrae service, got up in a blonde wig and a white dress that was filthy with mud at the bottom.
Saint George drew his sword from its scabbard and clasped Mary to his side.
‘In I come, old Saint George. The champion of Ingyland. My sword was made in God’s own forge. A flash of lightning in my hand.’
There was loud cackling from the dark and the Turkish Knight stepped into the circle and drew his sword. Into the spirit of the thing now, everyone booed and hissed on cue, even David who had let go of Miss Bunce’s hand and was watching the play with a face like a child at a pantomime.
The Turkish Knight twirled the end of his long moustache and stepped closer to us.
‘I am Sullyman from Turkey Land. I seek to find Saint George the brave. I’ll take his life and his daughter’s hand. And toss his body in a cave.’
Saint George pulled Mary behind him, shielding her from the Turkish Knight. Mary cowered on her knees, the back of her hand on her brow.
‘I am George of Ingyland,’ he said. ‘My sword is sharp and keen as wind. I will fight you Sillyman. And God will judge you for your sins.’
‘Now, Saint George, I will have your life.’
‘No, sir, I will strike you dead.’
‘I’ll take your Mary for my wife.’
‘And marry her without your head?’
The two men circled each other, then leapt forward and clashed their swords. Mary screamed, and everyone began to cheer for Saint George, who at last ran the Turkish Knight through, knocking him to the ground where he lay with the sword sticking upright, clamped in his armpit. Mary rushed to the dead knight’s side and lay her head upon his chest, weeping.
‘Oh, father, you have killed my one true love.’
Saint George knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Oh, my poor little turtle dove.’
He turned to us and pleaded, ‘Is there a doctor in this town? One that can be quickly found?’
There was a knock at the door. All faces turned to where a small figure appeared, wearing a bowler hat and a coat that trailed on the floor. Everyone was a little startled that he had slipped out unnoticed during the performance.
‘Here comes little Doctor Dog,’ he said, stopping on the way to pat the top of Hanny’s head. ‘Best doctor in the county, sir.’
‘Can you cure this knight of Turkeyshire?’ Saint George said, taking off the doctor’s hat and speaking into it.
‘Of what affliction?’ said the doctor, removing Saint George’s crown and doing likewise. ‘Tell me, sir. Confess.’
‘Of death, sir doctor, darkest death.’
‘Not for five pounds, sir,’ the doctor said.
‘For ten pounds, sir?’
‘For fifteen, sir.’
‘Twelve, sir.’
‘Yes, for twelve whole pounds and Spanish wine, it shall be done.’
The doctor felt around in the pockets of his huge coat, making Father Bernard laugh louder with each scrap of junk he turned out and dropped onto the floor — toy cars, plastic animals, golf balls, seashells. Eventually, he found a small bottle and knelt down by the dead knight.
‘Now, my sleeping Turkey knight, drink this brew of holy breath. Old Doctor Dog will cure you, sir, and call you back from blissful death.’
The dead knight began to cough and then sat upright and clasped Mary to his chest. Saint George embraced the doctor and then flung out his arms to us.
‘Rise up, rise up and sing and sing, a song of warm and merry things.’
The knight stood up, touching the wound in his side.
‘Once I was dead and now I am alive. God bless Doctor, George and wife. Bring me flesh and oranges and beer. A happy Easter to all our friends here.’
They were about to go off, when a banging sound came from the far end of the room. All their smiles dropped as they sloped away one by one, leaving Saint George who said:
‘Yet, there is one who will not sing, or dance about.’
I felt Hanny grip my hand. He had obviously remembered who was coming next.
Another player, the one who had arrived completely swathed in a black cloak, came into the circle holding a single candle at chest height so that it lit up his face. Once he was in the middle of the circle, he reached up and took down the hood. Unlike the others, his face was a post-box red and he had a pair of horns growing out of his bald head. Real buck antlers fastened by some device that was undetectable.
‘Ah, now I know this feller,’ Father Bernard whispered and nudged me gently in the shoulder.
‘In I come to say farewell. Devil Doubt shall take his bow. Come to take your souls to Hell. Where is God the Father now?’
And as he smiled and pinched out the candle I felt Hanny’s hand slip out of mine.
***
I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t in the bedroom. Nor was he out in the yard, for it had gone dark now and he wouldn’t have gone out on his own. I looked around, checking all the places Hanny liked to hide: behind the ancient upright piano, in the wide bay window on the other side of the curtains, under the tiger skin rug.