TOMB
IT MAY CONCERN
In the village of Combe Upstanding,
life and death followed each other round in a rapid and endless succession. The
newer headstones in the graveyard of the Norman church were smaller and packed
together much closer now of course since cremation increasingly replaced burial
but the mechanical digger still appeared at regular intervals amongst the well
tended graves for those who preferred a slower decomposition.
Topsoil
as he was affectionately known, had been serving the undertakers for the
surrounding area as long as he could remember and Combe was his favourite
village and the pub was his watering hole.
Nestling in the top of the valley and
surrounded by hills, about twelve miles from the sea, it was off the tourist
trail but by virtue of its isolation and the fact that the road through it
provided a useful alternative North - South route to Taunton through the mysterious
Blackdown Hills, it had managed to survive the upheavals of time and maintain a
vibrant community supporting a school, pub, post office and two shops; bus
service, hairdresser and a host of societies with their committees, most of
whom conducted their business in the village hall. Thespians, campanologists,
gardeners, keep-fitters and many others were all active in Combe. The farm
workers had nearly all gone of course, along with the mills and small rural
industries and garage but there was one large engineering factory and many
retired incomers put the skills they’d been trained for to good use in their
own cottage projects and for the first time in their lives were doing what they
always wanted to do without interference.
On the surface it was an idyllic
place, not architecturally chocolate box but with houses, church and school clustered
picturesquely and conveniently around two greens, one to which outsiders
aspired to live, young or old. The surrounding lanes although quiet were not to
be taken for granted. There was always a horse and rider round the next bend or
someone walking the dog not to mention groups of ramblers with their state of
the art outdoor kit, ski sticks and maps striding determinedly along, to or
from one of the many footpaths, noting diligently any illegal obstructions or
maintenance failures that hindered their progress.
Topsoil never gave any of this much
thought of course, he’d been part of the scenery too long. To him and others of
his generation all change was bad and he longed for things as they used to be.
He turned off the engine of his digger and
relaxed. “That should do it; won’t get out of there in a hurry,” he announced
cheerfully to his assistant, who was tidying up the spoil and positioning the trestles
and covers. His name was Gladstone
but everyone called him Happyrock. He gave new meaning to the word taciturn,
never joining in a conversation and living a solitary life in a small flat
somewhere, nobody knew quite where. Every night though, he’d sit in a corner of
the Three Wheeled Wagon, listening and occasionally nodding to the regulars
around him. Like so many others down the years, the pub played a large part in
his life and no doubt later, his premature death. Any alien observer from
another world might well wonder why there was so much debate about legalising
suicide when mortals already seemed to be managing to do it so well already.
Topsoil knew his job was safe. There
would always be someone like him waiting at the end of the motorway of life,
but it often struck him as a shame that all those youngsters in their brightly
lit homes on the housing estates, never gave a moments thought to this their
ultimate destiny. If they did, anti-social behaviour would probably become a
thing of the past
He contemplated the soon to be incumbent
of this particular pit, the much loved and revered Mr Ben. He’d lived just down
from the pub and been a regular, able to consume vast quantities of beer and
scotch before closing time. His girth had become huge on an already large frame
and consequently his health had been deteriorating for some time.
In his eighties, unkempt and with a
rebellious old soldier’s contempt for authority, he’d never been afraid to
speak his mind. He’d been one of ‘Stirling’s Mob’;
the forerunners of the Special Air Services and proudly still carried the photo
of himself riding a camel across the desert in his wallet. If he liked you, as
an evening progressed the conversation would often go hilariously downhill as
would his corduroy trousers if he’d loosened his belt too much to make way for
more beer.
Topsoil had taken him home on several
occasions; him and his dog that always accompanied him. The secret was to keep
him away from the telegraph pole which wasn’t always easy. He had the strength
of an ox and once clasping the pole it would be impossible to prise him off. He’d
stay there with his trousers round his ankles until he was sober enough to move
or be moved and nothing would budge him.
He’d a thing about his brother in law and every night at some point the
obvious enmity between them would surface in the conversation. He’d even asked Mr
Harry, the retired copper if it would be a crime to dig up his old service
revolver and shoot him. Give him his due, Mr Harry had told him it would be an
act of mercy. They’d been friends ever since.
His wife was a tiny frail little woman and how she managed to get him up
the stairs to bed each night was the subject of much speculation. In the end
he’d fallen down those same stairs; an ignominious end after surviving so many
dangerous situations. Such was the fickleness of fate.
At the end of this particular day, Mr Harry
staggered from the entrance of the Three Wheeled Wagon to the gateway of the
churchyard and paused, swaying outside. He was an early retiree, now middle
aged and going through somewhat of a mid life crisis. His children were all but
grown up and his sexual life, the romance and glamour of yore were somehow
becoming a distant fantasy. He’d lost his way in more ways than one and also his
friend Mr Ben.
The powerful beams of the arc lights
illuminating the front of the church shone up into the blackness. Mr Harry
wondered if they were there to show lost souls the pathway to heaven.
He stumbled up through the graveyard to the locked Norman
front door and
tried to open it before remembering the vicar had told him the key was kept at
the vicarage for anyone with legitimate reasons of worship who wished to enter
at unusual times. He didn’t think 11.45pm
was too unusual. This would be God’s last chance; one to one, and if he didn’t
get an answer he’d become an atheist. That would teach him to ignore a man in
his hour of need.
The vicarage was round the back, through
another part of the graveyard. A powerful security light switched itself on as
he reached the kissing gate entrance to the vicarage. He carried on up the
driveway and rang the doorbell but there was no reply to that or repeated
knocking; It crossed his mind there ought to be a law about security lights
that made you feel like an escapee from the East at the Berlin Wall about to be
shot.
Frustrated at every turn he made his
petulant, inebriated way back along the path to the kissing gate, kicking over
a small, dim pedestal lamp on the way. He’d seen brighter Toc H lamps than that
and anyway it could be a danger to an unsuspecting crotch. The powerful
security lights turned off, rendering him temporarily blinded and disorientated
and he deviated off the path across the graveyard.
Shortly afterwards, The Rev and Mrs Defont
were walking home through the churchyard after a pleasant evening at the home
of one of the more illustrious members of their congregation. The wine had been
particularly excellent.
The
vicar, like his wife, was tall and thin, insufferably sanctimonious and vain,
even to the extent of personalised number plates on their car. They were
extremely proud of their child prodigy trumpet playing son who went to private
school 15 miles away from the village. He offered the same ministrations to
horses as he did for humans and it was rumoured he’d an enormous portfolio of
stocks and shares which was true if somewhat exaggerated. He didn’t discourage
the rumours as they saw no conflict of interest or hypocrisy in the latter as
there was no way a family could survive on his pitiful stipend in this day and
age, especially with rising private school fees. He also knew there was
speculation whether he’d do exorcisms, having heard snatches of conversation
from the other bar, mainly amongst the older pub regulars who liked to cause
mischief. But the subject was taboo as far as he was concerned and he never
rose to the bait. To anyone familiar
with Richmal Crompton they might well have come straight from the pages of a William
book.
An unearthly howl horribly disturbed their
until now pleasant, late night stroll.
“What was that?” Mrs Defont whispered,
clutching her adorable husband’s thin arm. “It sounded as if it was coming from
one of the graves.”
“Yes dear,” he replied, bravely
protective, “perhaps it would be better if we went round the other way, along
the
road. You never
know these days, lunatics and drunken thugs everywhere.”
“Perhaps someone is in trouble, needs
help. Shouldn’t we at least see?”
“Nonsense, not here, just a drunk probably,
he’ll be gone in the morning.”
They about turned and exited the
churchyard the way they came.
On the morning of the funeral, the
pallbearers lurched and swayed with their heavy burden towards the chosen plot,
followed by the vicar and the rest of the mourners. The front left bearer
complained bitterly to the front right bearer about the weight, but they should
have known what to expect. It had been hard enough getting him into the casket.
The mourners, including Ben’s frail
widow, brothers, sister, hated brother in law and their children, cousins and a
handful of friends gathered round the grave as the pallbearers waited for the
signal to proceed. Timing was so important in these matters.
A
small boy, who didn’t look very mournful, curious to see how deep it was,
eluded the captive hand of his mother, ran to the edge and looked down. “Mum!
Mum! There’s already one in here, he’s got out of the box, he’s loose.”
“Come here, yer little so and so” Mum
screamed, rushing forward to grab her wayward offspring. “If this is another of
your stupid games I’ll bloody murder you.”
Suddenly realising where she was her tone
became gushingly upper crust Queens English. “ I’m so sorry vicar, take no
notice of him. They’re nothing but trouble at this age, aren’t they.”
She pulled him, still protesting, away
from the edge as the vicar looked down curiously into the grave, idly
speculating at the way children’s imaginations were prone to run riot at times
like these. He suddenly stepped back in horror, slack jawed and mouth gaping
idiotically. ”Good Lord!”
One of the mourners also ventured to the
edge and looked into the void. “There’s a body already in here.” He said it in a matter of fact way as if it
were an everyday occurrence. The effect though was amazing. The rest of the
mourners crowded to the edge, nearly knocking the vicar into the hole. He
teetered on the lip with arms flailing until a hand grabbed his habit and
pulled him to safety.
“Shouldn’t it be in a coffin?”
“Somebody should call the police.”
“Are we in the right place dear?”
Suddenly the funeral had taken on a
whole new dimension. This looked like being much more interesting than your
average run of the mill burial.
The Rev Defont
turned to the pall bearers who were now in severe discomfort. “I think you’d
better take him back to the Chapel of Rest for now.”
Mr Harry opened one eye, trying to work out why his bed was so cold,
damp and lumpy, and why he could hear voices coming from somewhere above him.
He stared at the bright oblong patch of sky and imagined he saw strange faces
peering down at him. He’d no recollection yet of the night before. He shut one
eye and opened the other one but the faces were still there. He opened both
eyes and felt the cold, crumbly earthen walls of his tomb and realisation
struck him. Memories of the fall into the blackness and his unanswered calls
for help, trickled back. He must have passed out. They were burying him before
his time. He shrieked in terror and scrabbled frantically at the sides of the
grave. Any minute now it could soon be too late and he didn’t want to share
this place with anyone, dead or alive. He briefly wondered whose headstone was
up there and the awful thought occurred that it might be his own until he
remembered Mr Ben. Movement returned to his limbs like an electric shock and he
scrabbled frantically at the walls of his tomb, somehow propelling himself up
the side of the grave like a man possessed. The mourners scattered in all
directions. The vicar stood there in total bemusement.
“Sorry” Mr Harry muttered sheepishly at
nobody in particular. Then he noticed Mrs Defont, the vicar’s wife. “I’ll fix
the light tomorrow, don’t let the kids go near it, there may be bare wires.” He
slunk ashamedly away amongst the drunken headstones to the sanctity of his home
and his beloved long suffering wife, vowing to call AA as soon as he got in.
Mrs Defont turned to her husband. “Well
that solves that little mystery. Who said dead men can’t speak.”
Mrs Harry regarded her husband curiously
as he entered the kitchen, looking distressed and dishevelled. It was well past
lunch time. “Have a nice night? I notice your side of the bed wasn’t slept in
last night. I was beginning to get quite worried” She didn’t try to hide the
sarcasm, used to his occasional spontaneous disappearing acts by now.
There was no point telling her the truth,
she’d never believe him. “Sorry, stayed over at the Grimes” he lied. He’d
stayed there before so it might just ring true.
The first awful pangs of guilt and remorse
engulfed him as snatches of memory returned. He knew the suicidal depression
would last for days, before his next binge gave him temporary reprieve from
reality and the past. He should never have been a policeman. His brushes with
the worst aspects of human nature, his governors and the justice system had
left him cynical and disillusioned. He couldn’t cope with the rapidly changing
liberal attitudes. The shift work and stress had all taken their toll on his
health. He was bowed if not completely broken.
Some called it mid-life crisis, male menopause, but he knew himself for
what he was; a weak willed, drunken dinosaur who couldn’t come to terms with
his lack of ambition or tangible achievements in life. He’d thought that early
retirement to the country would somehow restore his self-respect. It hadn’t happened
yet but it had transformed the life of his family for the better.
He
wished Mrs Harry would scream or shout abuse at him rather than her
condescending acceptance, but it wasn’t in her nature. Sometimes, when she was
asleep he’d stare at her face and he loved her so much it hurt. Why couldn’t it
be like before, he wondered bitterly? Why did it have to change? Why had there
been no trestles or covers over Mr Ben’s grave.
Next day, Mr Harry had just finished
mending the light as The Rev and Mrs Defont emerged from the vicarage
“There you are vicar, good as new. Sorry
about yesterday.” “It’s those
people at the funeral you should be apologising to. You disrupted the whole
days schedule.”
“Yes, well it won’t happen again I can
assure you” Mr Harry replied shamefacedly “I’m giving it up.”
“What! You’ve done it before then?” The
Rev Defont replied facetiously, knowing full well what he meant.
It was lost on Mr Harry though in his
present humiliating circumstances.
“No, no, drink I mean. Someone from Flaggon
AA is coming down to see me this evening.”
“Aaaah there, you see, sometimes our Lord
works in mysterious ways, does he not.”
“You said HE, vicar. Do you think there’s
any chance it could be a woman?”
The man was unreal. The Rev Defont blinked uncertainly
before answering somewhat vaguely that he didn’t think you could refer to god
in terms of flesh and blood. A female god didn’t sound right anyway. It would
have to be a goddess. There was no mention of a goddess in the scriptures.
Later, when the AA volunteer finally arrived
on his doorstep Mr Harry was disappointed. It wasn’t an attractive young woman,
but a middle aged nondescript looking man with spectacles; a bit like himself
in fact.
“Mr Harry?”
He nodded doubtfully, having harboured
second thoughts. It would have been easy to deny all knowledge and send him
away but a small glimmer of the last vestiges of his self-respect still glowed
deep inside him and he decided to give it a chance.
The man showed him a scruffy identity
card.
He showed him in, waiting with waning
enthusiasm for the prognosis.
“Yes, well firstly I think you should
know that I’m an alcoholic too. We have to face the truth about ourselves. It’s
the first step. There’s no cure, we can then deal with it day by day.”
“Well that’s encouraging, do you mean to
say, there’s no tablets, medication or substitutes then?”
“Afraid not, we just have say I will not
drink today. We hold meetings every week where you can talk about your problem
and listen to others in the same boat.”
Mr Harry wondered whether he meant sinking
ship.
“You’d be surprised at the people we get. They’re
not all down and outs you know. We get celebrities, all sorts. In fact there’s
a meeting tomorrow night if you’re interested.”
“Are there any women?”
The AA man looked puzzled. “Er yes we
have a mix of sex; no discrimination in our organisation you know. I take it
you have no problem with women then.”
“Chance would be a fine thing,” Mr Harry
replied sardonically.
The AA man blinked uncertainly. He was
beginning to wonder if he was at the right address.
The following evening, Mr Harry arrived on
time outside the brightly lit hall. Through the glass doors he could see them all
seated round the perimeter as if they were waiting just for him. So many and so
respectable looking he observed with some trepidation. Like a goldfish in a
bowl he made his way uncertainly to the only unoccupied seat.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the
pleasure…”
Mr Harry glanced up at the tall,
distinguished looking man who’d miraculously appeared from nowhere and shook
hands gingerly.
“I’m the chairman….and you?”
“Mr Harry” he mumbled. “This is my
first time” adding inappropriately “as the actress said to the bishop…everyone
seems so civilised.”
“What did you expect, drunks
falling about all over the place?” A few
sniggers greeted his remark.
He looked pleased with his comment
but Mr Harry thought it was odd. That’s exactly what he would have expected.
“We’re all looking forward to your inaugural
address” he went on, “so please tell us about yourself and what brought you
here.”
Mr Harry made his way to the centre of
the room and coughed self-consciously. He noticed one or two promising looking
female faces; things might work out. After a moment of embarrassing silence,
sudden inspiration saved his blushes. He’d give it them straight; just as it
had happened. This lot didn’t look as if they’d ever been outside the vicar’s
social circle.
“Good evening,” he began, “My name is Mr
Harry…I’m here because I spent the night before last in an open grave and was
almost buried alive.” He articulated each word carefully for maximum impact. The
sniggers now turned to outright laughter. Mr Harry felt a sense of outraged
betrayal.
“I can assure you it wasn’t funny……”
“I’m sorry I think there’s been a
mistake,” the chairman interrupted humanely before things got out of hand. He
led Mr Harry to the door and pointed to a flight of stairs. “I think you want
AA; this is the Temperance Society meeting.”
“What did he say?” the chairman
asked.
“Bloody Christians I think,” the
secretary replied. “We really must get AA to change to another evening.”
Mr Harry glanced briefly at the stairs
before fleeing humiliated into the night without a backward glance.
The doors of the Three Wheeled Wagon
beckoned invitingly. It wouldn’t hurt to have just one before bed. He ordered a
large gin and lemonade. His breath mustn’t smell tonight. The crispy snacks on
the counter looked inviting. There were a few sniggers as he spat the
polystyrene packing material out in disgust.
“Bloody realistic aren’t they” smirked Laas,
the half Swedish landlord.
“Almost as good as the real ones,” Mr
Harry retorted. It wasn’t his idea of a joke.
One of the regulars was missing.
“Where’s the Commander?” Mr Harry asked.
“Don’t think he’ll be back, didn’t you
hear he’s back in hospital. Liver; it was only the scotch keeping him alive. He
should never have given it up. Doctors orders; the shock will kill him.”
“Good
God! How many more? At this rate you’ll be out of business.”
“I don’t think so, not while Jimmy’s still
around.”
Jimmy was Scottish and drank himself into
oblivion by the end of every day on single malt. He used to be a surgeon but his
main interests now were golf, woodwork and avoiding his dragon of a wife who
regularly locked him out of the house.
Mr Harry waved across the bar; “Hallo Jim.”
“Och it’s ma ol’ Sassenach pal, Mr Harry.
Yorl reet then? Let me get ye a wee
dram.” He leant back to get his wallet out of his trousers pocket and fell
backwards off the stool.
Mr Harry made the cardinal error of trying
to help. As Jimmy got to his feet he started to flail furiously with his heavy
walking sick.
“Get yerrr hands off me. Nae Scot ever needed
help from a sassenach. Now shut yersel up and drink that doon.”
He grinned sheepishly; the others had
known better. Jimmy carried on as if nothing had happened.
Brenda the barmaid would be described as
bonny in Jimmy’s vocabulary. She knew Mr Harry as a frustrated middle aged retiree
as were many of her customers. She cruelly enjoyed flaunting her assets and wore
a short tight skirt and top showing deep cleavage. The Three Wheeled Wagon’s patronage
owed much to her presence behind the bar
“Yes please, Brenda; in a jug this
time; usual; can’t drink any more of this bloody stuff.”
“You do like your handle don’t you Mr
Harry.”
“Yes, my psychiatrist says it’s
insecurity from childhood. I need to hold something firm.”
She giggled, “Ooh, I bet you do,”
demonstrating her point on the handle of the pump and leering at him in what was
supposed to be a sexually provocative smile. It wasn’t without effect. He started
to feel uncomfortable and shifted his position self-consciously to make more
room in his trousers.
Laid back Hippie Dave was on his usual bar
stool, with his long straggly hair, full beard, bright red complexion, purple
nose and blackheads. He’d spent most of his adult life with the Hells Angels
but now lived alone with his ailing mother in their tiny cottage. He was deferred
to by even the most conservative members of the clientele who all knew what he
really did in the toilet; their silent collaboration somehow compensating for
their own inability to cross the divide into the mysterious world of weed and
grass.
The Brigadier was in, along with knock-kneed
Mr Giles of the hunt brigade; some of the horsy-set and an assortment of thespians
and rustics. He greeted them all in turn.
A local gas fitter whose hobby was
shooting came in. He’d been several years in the army and could be difficult
after a few drinks. It was wise to humour him when he reached that stage.
“I’ve brought those pheasants I promised
you.”
“Thanks, Jules,” Mr Harry replied with
dismayed gratitude. “I’d forgotten all about them. We’ll have them tomorrow for
dinner.”
“Better if you hang ‘em for a couple of
days first.”
. Hell with
that thought Mr Harry. He couldn’t go through all that again. He’d had enough
of birds to last a lifetime. It was too soon after the goose business; bad
enough killing the thing, but he’d had no choice. It had made their small
orchard a no go area for Mrs Harry, so his brief foray into keeping livestock
had to be brought to an end. He’d never plucked a goose before and after
exhaustive effort had been appalled how little impression he’d made, even
though he could have filled a mattress with the feathers he’d already wrenched
out and which now smothered everything in the shed including himself. He’d
tried to burn the rest off with a blow torch but almost set the shed alight.
Finally a damp sponge had made the remaining down disappear. He’d used a
hedging tool to cut off the head, feet and flight feathers. Cleaning out the
inside had been a nightmare. He’d struggled desperately to get his hand inside
the bird, getting ever more frustrated, until he realised he’d been trying to
get in through the neck end. The anus had made for easier access and he’d
managed to remove some giblets, but there’d still been a large object he
assumed was the gizzard at the far end. His arm was inside right up to the
elbow but he hadn’t been able get a good enough grip or find enough strength to
tear whatever it was up there away. Doreen, the egg delivery lady had come just
in time to rescue him as he’d emerged from the shed covered in feathers and
with what must have looked like a badly swollen arm. She’d agreed reluctantly
to hold the neck end while he pulled from inside but without anchorage he’d
just towed her round the garden. She’d hung onto the rose arch which came down
on top of her and even her normally unflappable rural stoicism had been tested
to the limit. A red object, the size of a tennis ball had come adrift though
and as Doreen had stormed off without waiting to be paid for the eggs he’d
noted with satisfaction he could see daylight through the shattered goose which
by then had a greatly enlarged rectum. Worst of all, the damn thing had been
almost inedible; all skin and bone and tough as old boots.
“Some people get a sexual thrill having
their hand inside a bird.” Brenda commented lewdly, acknowledging the smirks
with a giggle as she watched him placing the pheasants down in the corner. From
Mr Harrys perspective, far enough away from his stool to be able to
conveniently forget to pick them up.
Mr Giles tottered to the door. “Got to go,
my young bride awaits me.” It was his trademark departing declaration. He
waddled out, feet splayed, knees knocking, before painstakingly getting into
his brand new mini. All eyes turned to the window expectantly. A car coming up
the main street took frantic avoiding action as he pulled out from the car park.
There was a moments silence then all eyes reverted back to the bar and
conversation returned as though nothing had happened.
“He’s getting better.” Hippie Dave
commented dryly. “Sound as a pound.” He sauntered
off to the toilet.
Laas appeared on his mobile phone looking
angry. “I’ll give you my beer’s crap…” He became suspicious at all the badly
suppressed sniggering that had suddenly broken out as if at some unseen joke. “Who
is this?” He noticed one of the village
football team putting his mobile away and the penny dropped. He stormed off red
faced.
Laas didn’t take a joke well unless it was on
someone else.
Mrs Harry was reading in bed when Mr Harry came
in trying to appear sober. “Good meeting then dear?”
He tried not to slur his speech “Yes,
very good, it’s a pity it clashes with the creative writing course on the same
night though. It starts next week. I think I’ll enrol for that instead.” He
turned out the light and rolled over.
“I’m
still reading if you don’t mind dear…Oh my God, do you have to make those awful
smells?”
Mr Harry pulled the duvet over his head
and started to giggle.
The demons would return in the morning.
Five years passed. Jimmy, Happyrock, The Commander,
The Brigadier and Mr Giles had all crossed to the other side to join Ben.
The sun rose one day to a golden spring dawn
of Daffodils and Dandelions. Mr Harry closed his eyes for the last time but for
the first time in his life he felt totally, sublimely at peace with himself. He
briefly imagined he could see a small boy and the tearful face of Mrs Harry; his
family, Topsoil, The Rev Defont and other mourners looking down on him. He
thought he saw Mr Ben and a host of old friends queuing up to greet him. It had
been his headstone up there after all.
THE END
Copyright Harry Hunt 2014
