“That car is stopping,” Hall said in measured tones.
Wood glanced back at the road. “Idiot drivers,” he said, braking and honking the horn. He looked in the side mirror, saw that the next lane was clear, and swung the car out of danger with a twitch on the steering wheel. The screech of tearing metal said that the car behind them had not done as well.
To his credit, Wood did not cause an accident himself when he saw that his passenger was gone.
The apartment door opened only moments after he knocked.
“I’m sorry, Elaine,” Wood said. “I had him, and I lost him. I was distracted by traffic, and he must have taken that moment to jump out. I couldn’t look for him very long, because he was on foot and I had a car back on the highway.”
“Find him? Find who? What are you talking about?” she said, kissing him perfunctorily.
The kiss had the emotional impact of a heavyweight’s best punch. “Richard, of course.” When she showed no recognition or understanding, he added, “Your husband.”
“You have a strange sense of humor sometimes,” she said stiffly. The phone rang. “Come in and sit; I’ll be ready in a few moments.”
Wood stared as she disappeared into the kitchen, the folds of her long dress swishing with her precise steps. Then he looked at the rest of the room, seeking some clue that would relieve him of his confusion.
Almost immediately his eye fell on the picture that hung by the front closet. It had been a huge print of Richard and Elaine’s wedding picture. Had been. Had been. Now there was a graduation photo of Elaine, and beside it in a second frame, her college diploma. Why had she changed it? No—how had she done it—the diploma she had never earned, because she had married Richard.
Wood felt beside him for a chair and fell back into it. He held his head in his hands, fighting the pain of accepting the unacceptable. Then he looked back at the photo and diploma, and was confused. It had been a fine graduation—a beautiful clear day, a wild party at night.
Elaine returned from the kitchen. “Now, will you please explain your joke about Richard? You make me feel like such a dummy sometimes.”
Wood looked up at her and frowned. “Richard who?”
Elaine sighed. “I’m not going through that again. Do you have the tickets? I’m ready to go.”
Wood patted his pocket absently, as though something had happened that he had missed. “Yes.”
That night, they enjoyed each other as though it were the first time.
THE EXECUTOR
by David G. Rowlands
Born August 1, 1941, David G. Rowlands is a biochemist who makes his home in Buckinghamshire. Presumably such a technical profession would have predisposed Rowlands to direct his writing interests toward “hard” science fiction; instead, he discovered the ghost stories of M.R. James while at Eton College Choir School and had written his own first ghost story at age 13. Writing during college lectures instead of taking notes, Rowlands published numerous ghost stories in student publications between 1958-63, and thus was born Father D. O’Connor, whose reminiscences are very much in the classic English ghost story tradition. Since those days Rowlands’ stories have appeared in The Holly Bough and Ghosts & Scholars; Eye Hath Not Seen… a booklet of Father O’Connor stories, was published by Rosemary Pardoe’s Haunted Library recently, and a second such collection is being planned. Rowlands’ other interests include western films, campanology and model railways, and other facets of his writing reflect this: he was associate editor of Wild West Stars, and his books include Spliced Doubles, The Tralee and Dingle Railway, and The Dingle Train (with W. McGrath).
M.R. James observed that “places are prolific in suggestion,” and David. G. Rowlands agrees: “My stories invariably encapsulate a setting that has impressed me. It needs no deep penetration to recognize my ‘Longbury’ of the story as an amalgam of Longville and Rushbury—the latter being one of the loveliest villages in Shropshire. The house/wash-house/chapel complex was situated in my old home village (Iver, Bucks), however, and was only demolished as part of a redevelopment scheme in 1973. It was much as I’ve described it—the scullery with range, the chapel and that dank, dark, gloomy washhouse. I did indeed hear children’s voices all about me—it was a very strange house—and to this day it remains quite inexplicable.”
Fr. O’Connor made it a regular custom to invite other clergy to dinner from time to time, a pleasant little ecumenical exercise resisted only by a somewhat dour Presbyterian. On such occasions the table talk might center on ‘shop,’ local gossip, antiquities or anecdotes.
One particular evening, the Baptist and Anglican ministers only were present—a Mr. Cummings and a Rev. Timothy, respectively. A remark from the Rev. Timothy about the grievous matter of one of his church bells needing to be recast had launched Fr. O’Connor into anecdotes of early itinerant bellfounders. Beginning with Robert Catlin, who had cast the local tenor bell in the churchyard, he came by devious routes to a sixteenth-century monk of St. Milburg’s—the Cluniac Abbey at Much Wenlock in Shropshire—one William of Corvehilclass="underline" noted for many mechanical and artistic talents, but especially for bell casting and bell hanging… but—by your leave—I will keep that for another occasions.
Mention of Wenlock sufficed to enthuse the Rev. Timothy, who was a keen student of architecture, and we had a long exposition of the beauties of the Guildhall in that quiet little Shropshire town. His panegyric on the paneling was interrupted by Mr. Cummings, who inquired whether the wheeled stocks were still there.
“I believe so, my dear fellow,” replied the Anglican, “but why do you mention them? There are a much better set in the Cardiff Folk Museum, you know.”
Mr. Cummings laughed. “No reason, really. It just reminded me that my great aunt Lucy was threatened once by the vicar of Wenlock (or is it Rector? I forget) with being put in the stocks and wheeled through the town and surrounding villages.”
“She must have been a character,” I commented.
“Yes,” he said musingly. “She was widely believed to be a Wise Woman or witch; certainly people came from miles around for her cures.” He laughed (the Baptist congregation being very small in our village). “It’s a pity I haven’t inherited her talents, maybe.” He grew suddenly serious: “Though I’m glad I haven’t.”
Fr. O’Connor caught my eye and winked so that Mr. Cummings could see.
“Ha,” he said, “that sounds like the basis of a good story, Cummings; what about it?”
Mr. Cummings thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “It reflects badly on my relatives, but as they’re all dead and buried long ago, I don’t suppose any harm can come of telling the story now.”
“Well then, gentlemen, I propose we adjourn to the study, where we can talk in comfort over a pipe or two,” said the good Father, rising to say Grace.
When we were all comfortably ensconced, Mr. Cummings began his story:
My grandfather was the son of a Shropshire yeoman farmer,” he began. “He blotted his copybook by marrying a Romany girl (of all people!) and his father threw him out in consequence. The couple went to Hereford, where my father was born, and they both worked in the cattle market. However the girl tired of the restricted life, upped and went off with a drover, leaving him to raise my father alone. He moved to Gloucester as stockman for an auctioneer and lost touch with his family, apart from his sister, this eccentric old dame who lived on Wenlock Edge. (The family farm went to my grandfather’s younger brother). My father entered the auctioneer’s as a trainee clerk, married the boss’s daughter and ultimately managed the business for her family. All this is by the way however; what concerns my story is that at the age of ten, or thereabouts, I succumbed badly to bronchitis and the doctor recommended a holiday away from the lower reaches of Gloucester. My poor Dad was at his wits’ end what to do about it, since he was too proud to ask help from my mother’s family, despite her urgings. Then he remembered his old aunt. Somehow, it was settled that I should go and stay there for six weeks or so.