What Lies Beneath

Chapter 9

Clem Poulter had not really wanted to have Ella’s granddaughter working in the library because she might disrupt his orderly routine. Also, he wanted to nurse his cold and sip mugs of hot blackcurrant and be given sympathy.

But Ella could be a bit of a steamroller at times and it had been difficult to get out of it, so in the end he had agreed.

And in fact he found he rather liked Amy being there. He had forgotten how unusual-looking she was – dark-haired and dark-eyed, with an odd cast of features that, in some lights, were very nearly simian and in others, nearly catlike. It was something to do with the length of the upper lip, which was unusually long, and the jawline. A lot of men would find her unattractive to the point of ugliness, but other men would see her as beautiful in a very singular way and consider her a one-off. But it would take a very particular kind of man to appreciate her. Clem thought about this, until some inner demon said, in the language of today’s youth: Yeah, like you’d know about those things. Nobody’s perfect, said Clem crossly to the urchin-voiced demon, and set about drafting plans for his Old Bramley exhibition.

Amy was full of energy and intelligence. She mixed Clem’s cold remedies cheerfully, smuggled in a miniature bottle of rum for his sore throat, and entered into the exhibition project with enthusiasm. She helped Clem drag several boxes of archive stuff out of the cellars, dusted off display screens, and went off to the stationery store to dig out Blu-Tack, drawing pins and green baize. After this, she designed posters on the computer: bright jazzily worded advertisements with requests for people to loan any photos they had for the duration of the exhibition.

‘We’ll ask the Red Lion and the shops to display the posters,’ she said to Clem. ‘Oh, and I thought I’d see if the local newspaper has any archive stuff we can use.’

Clem felt a bit as if a whirlwind had dashed in and turned his orderly world upside down, but he was pleased. Meeting Ella in the greengrocer’s two days later, he said Amy was turning out to be a great help.

‘Derek says it sounds as if she’s having a pretty wild time of it at that university,’ said Ella, who seemed displeased with life in general and with the greengrocer’s display of mushrooms in particular. ‘I feel responsible for her, you know, with Andrew being in Africa. Why he ever wanted to go out there to build a bridge I can’t think, because he could just as well build a bridge in this country I should have thought.’

Clem heard a faint note of envy in her voice. Poor old Ella, who had been born and lived in Upper Bramley all her life. Clem, with his three years of emancipation at Warwick University, from which he had emerged with a modest degree and a wish to do nothing other than come home to the familiar security of his home, felt quite sorry for her at times.

Amy had not expected to get so absorbed in Clem Poulter’s exhibition, but it turned out to be rather fun. She unearthed packets of ancient sepia photographs of St Anselm’s church, which looked utterly Gothic and gloomy, and several of the village street of Priors Bramley with the kind of shops you never saw nowadays: ironmongers offering paraffin for lamps, and flypapers, and sweet shops with bull’s-eyes, and blocks of toffee you smashed up for yourself, and drapers who sold interlock vests and liberty bodices. What had a liberty bodice been, for goodness’ sake, and when did you wear it?

There were photos of Cadence Manor, which looked as if it had been hugely grand and decadent. Amy was not in anti-Establishment mood at the moment, so it was OK to admire Cadence Manor, with its stone scrolls and porticoes and its air of having been teleported from seventeenth-century Italy. It was very OK indeed to admire some of the men in the photographs. Some of them were pretty sexy: there was one guy of about twenty, who had dark hair and amazing eyes, and who you would certainly look at twice, if not three times. He was in several of the shots. There was a really cool one of a bunch of people at a party. Somebody had written ‘Cadence Manor, Christmas 1910’ on the back, and the man with the come-hither eyes was at the centre, wearing evening dress and drinking from a champagne glass. We’ll have you in the exhibition for sure, said Amy to him.

Clem Poulter fussed and flapped around, wanting to see everything Amy found, exclaiming in delight over some of the stuff, trotting off to talk to the vicar and the choirmaster about the church, so that Amy began to feel as if she had fallen backwards into Trollope or even Jane Austen. But it was all restful after the stomach-churning roller-coaster ride with the faithless English tutor. (Will he phone/will he turn up/will he ignore me…) She enjoyed pottering round the library, which was in an ugly Victorian building with a tiny art gallery on the first floor, and a meeting room for book clubs and craft groups and music societies.

Clem asked if she would mind helping out with a talk one evening, handing out coffee at half-time and things like that. He would normally do it himself, he said, but his cold had progressed to laryngitis and he had hardly any voice. Amy was agreeable to helping out, particularly since the evening happened to be a rehearsal night for Gramps’s operatic gang, and Gran was taking the opportunity to give one of her polite sherry parties. Amy would rather help with a library talk – she would rather listen to a library talk, for heaven’s sake! – than hand round Bristol Cream and defrosted savouries.

At first the talk did not seem particularly interesting. It was about the early church music that had been played at St Anselm’s in its heyday, and Amy thought she would sit at the back with a book. In the event, however, she got quite interested. The choirmaster from St Michael’s church was giving the talk. He was thin and bespectacled and earnest, and he said Ambrosian plainchant was less well known than Gregorian chant, but just as interesting and beautiful. He demonstrated a few bars of the Ambrosian stuff on a recorder. Amy thought it was not music you would want to hear when you were glammed up for a night out with a crowd of friends, but you might want to hear it when you were on your own and feeling a bit introspective and dreamy.

She handed out the coffee, collected the cups afterwards, and tidied up the leaflets the choirmaster had given out. She talked to some of the people who had come along, and thought it was a pity the faithless English tutor was not here to see how unconcerned she was about him and how well she was doing on her own. People were smiling at her quite approvingly, which put paid to the English tutor’s last hurtful jibe about her having the face of a cat and a personality to match. A man did not want to wake up and find a scraggy alley-cat on his pillow, he said, and Amy had only just managed to get out of the bedroom before crying. She knew she was not especially pretty, but she had hoped she was interesting-looking. She did not think she had the personality of a cat, and she hoped the English tutor ended up with some vapid empty-headed chocolate-box.

Quite a lot of people were at the talk, some of whom Amy vaguely recognized as library users, others who came to Gran’s house or to see Gramps about his opera rehearsals. But there was one she had not seen before: a shabbily dressed man who sat by himself, studying some notes with absorption. At first Amy thought he was a tramp who had wandered in to avoid the rain and drink the free coffee. One or two vagrant-type people came into the library sometimes during the day, pretending to read the newspapers, falling asleep and emitting meths and stale sweat. Clem always tried to get them out, but Amy thought they were as entitled as anyone to a read of the newspaper and a comfortable sit-down in a public library, and anyway, it was in the good old English tradition of coffee houses, if it was not in the even older one of soup kitchens.

The man tonight was not emitting meths or stale sweat, and he was making notes in the margins of the hand-out from the talk. Amy collected his cup and he looked up and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Did you enjoy the talk?’

‘I did,’ he said. ‘I’m tracing the usage of Ambrosian plainchant, along with one or two other threads of obscure music and poetry.’

‘What kind of obscure?’

‘Connections between music and poetry and their surroundings,’ he said. ‘Tracking down links – trying to establish if a local legend has brought about the use or even the composition of a particular piece of music or a sonnet.’

His voice did not match his ragamuffin appearance, and he looked a bit like a Pre-Raphaelite painter or even a consumptive poet from the days when romance had a capital R. Oh God, not Shelley again. And he had talked about sonnets, as well.

But he said, ‘You’ve got an abandoned village here, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Priors Bramley.’

‘I’m hoping to go out there when they finish disinfecting it,’ he said. ‘Oliver Goldsmith wrote a poem called The Deserted Village. It’s a bit idealized, but it’s full of thumbnail sketches of people going about ordinary lives in the eighteenth century, then having to leave because the land was “usurped”.’

He paused as if unsure whether to go on, and Amy said, ‘ “Usurped”? Enclosure? Some feudal overlord yomping arrogantly across the fields, snaffling people’s cottages to build a palladian folly or something?’

He smiled, but he said, ‘Yes, something like that.’

‘With Priors Bramley it was a government who did the yomping in order to build a motorway,’ said Amy. ‘Only then they sloshed a load of corrosive stuff everywhere and poisoned the place for years. Some people still call it the Poisoned Village.’

‘That’s what interested me. Goldsmith has a line about poisoned fields in his poem. That’s why I thought I’d stay for a few days – I’d like to see if anything about Priors Bramley mirrors Goldsmith’s fictional Auburn.’

‘Art imitating nature,’ said Amy. ‘Or the other way round.’ And then, because it was Priors Bramley they were talking about and she had spent the last few days buried in the place’s history, she said, ‘Did you find any other echoes?’

‘As a matter of fact there is another one,’ he said. ‘An old, virtually vanished opera called The Deserted Village. It’s by an Irish composer from the mid-to-late 1800s – John William Glover, he’s called – and he based it on the Goldsmith poem. But the curious thing is that there’s a recording of that music here in this library. It’s old and very scratchy, and it’s not the whole opera, of course – just a kind of potted version. Maybe even only the overture. But whatever it is, it’s full of harmonies that chime with the cadences of the poem and it’s really surprising to find it in any library… Sorry, I’m getting carried away, and it looks as if they’re waiting to lock up. Do you work here?’

‘Holiday job,’ said Amy.

‘Student?’

‘Second year at Durham.’

He nodded as if this was an acceptable explanation, thanked her again, and went out.

‘He’s been into the library once or twice,’ said Clem, when questioned about the man next morning. ‘He’s staying at the Red Lion, I think. Some sort of music researcher, somebody said. Unusual chap, isn’t he?’

‘I didn’t notice,’ said Amy, burrowing into her photographs.

It was an odd feeling to see the faces of people who had lived in the village – the deserted village, thought Amy, remembering the conversation about the poem. Some of the wartime photos were interesting as well. Amy liked seeing the hairstyles of the females, and the clumpy shoes, and she liked the paragraphs snipped from the Bramley Advertiser as well. They told how you could rub gravy browning on your legs to make it look as if you were wearing stockings, and what to do if the moth got into your woollen frock. There were reports of how the Spitfire Fund was getting on, grisly ‘Beware’ warnings to look out for German spies who might still be roaming the countryside, and what to do if people thought they had identified one. But to balance that were reports of the celebrations for D-Day and VE Day – street parties and victory marches. It looked pretty good fun. The Red Lion had provided most of the food for the celebrations, although Amy supposed it would have been fairly spartan, what with people’s cupboards being bare after six years of war. Spam and eggless cakes.

As she went back to Gran’s house for lunch, the air was misty from the spraying that was still going on down in Priors Bramley. People were finding it a bit irritating – it got in your hair and made everything damp. But there were only another few days left before the village would be ready to be reopened.

Entries From an Undated Journal

There are only another five days left.

I’ve tried every way I can to escape, but it’s impossible and I’ve run out of ideas. It looks as if I must acquiesce – sit here with my hands meekly folded and allow death to come to me. But it’s a nightmare prospect, and then there’s the matter of what comes after death – that’s even worse. Or is it? I’ve been a good member of the Protestant Church – none of your papist rubbish for me, thank you very much – and I attended church service on Sundays, well, most Sundays.

When I pace the length of this small room, and when I see how swiftly the clock ticks its way round to yet another midnight, I’m filled with such despair and fury I can scarcely contain it. Who would have thought it would end here? Who would have thought that hell-inspired journey in 1912 would lead to this?

I didn’t know the entire truth about that journey, not at the beginning. That was Crispian again. Devious, you see. I promise you, Machiavelli had nothing on Crispian Cadence. But if I’m honest – and since I’m staring death in the face it’s probably the time to be completely honest – long before we set off it had occurred to me that the journey could present a whole range of opportunities to get rid of him. Travel’s hazardous. People fall under railway trains or off ships. In foreign countries they’re poisoned by peculiar food, or they contract malaria or jungle fever. They’re bitten by venomous snakes or knifed by people with grudges against the British Empire. The list seemed endless. But whatever I did would have to be carefully planned and I still needed to be wary of the periods of darkness. I suspected I was not entirely in control at those times, and it would be no good doing something dramatic and unplanned during one of those spells. For one thing, it might fail. More to the point, I might get caught.

I wondered how many people would mourn Crispian if I managed to kill him. Quite a lot, most likely. He was so memorable, so noticeable. In any group of people he was always the one people looked at or turned to. I did myself, I couldn’t help it. And I suspect that in fifty or even a hundred years’ time, if people find photographs of him, he’s the one they’ll look at.

And so we set off for Marseilles. Crispian was being his usual charming efficient self with railway porters and carriage attendants. The porters were occasionally a bit surly, but I think money changed hands to smooth the way. There’s nothing like the chink of a couple of sovereigns to solve difficulties.

Halfway to Marseilles somebody quoted the famous Flecker verse:

Very appropriate, of course, but within the first two days of the journey I saw that this bizarre, macabre voyage would be much closer to travelling the road to hell than to Flecker’s visionary Golden Road.

I was wrong. The journey was far worse than any hell we could have imagined.

1912

Crispian had known the journey would be difficult. What he had not realized was that it would be hellish.

He had thought his father would create the difficulties, but Dr Martlet had administered some sort of bromide and Julius Cadence went meekly into the cab that was waiting for them, the luggage and a big cabin trunk already strapped to the roof. Crispian felt a knife twist in his guts when he saw how obediently and unsuspectingly his father got inside.

The difficulties came mostly from Gil Martlet. Crispian supposed he should have known Gil would cause disruptions, but he had not expected any to occur quite so early in the journey. But heading south across France, in the privacy of the first-class private carriage, Jamie suddenly said, ‘Where’s Gil?’

Crispian had been immersed in a Times article about the Balkans War. A ‘Balkan League’ had apparently been formed, with the idea of liberating Macedonia from the Turkish yoke. The aim seemed to be the ultimate ejection of the Turks from Europe, largely because the Turkish government had not carried out promised reforms. Crispian thought it sounded complicated and potentially dangerous. It was slightly worrying to read about Greece’s involvement. Crispian hoped the decision to sail round the Greek coast would not turn out to be a bad one. Thomas Cook had said as long as they did not go near the Turkish coastline they would be perfectly safe, but The Times had provided a helpful map explaining where the areas of aggression were, and Turkey was worryingly close to Greece.

He looked up at Jamie’s question and said, ‘Gil went to the washroom, didn’t he?’

‘Well, either he’s having the longest wash in living memory or he’s been taken ill,’ said Jamie. ‘Because it’s over an hour since he went out.’

‘Oh Lord,’ said Crispian resignedly and, putting the Balkan worries aside, went out to address a worry nearer home.

Gil was discovered in a carriage near the luggage compartment with the waitress who had served their lunch earlier. They had pulled down the blind, but behind it Crispian discovered they were tangled sweatily on a threadbare banquette, the waitress’s skirts pushed round her waist, her bodice unfastened, revealing her breasts. He had time to reflect that this particular act looked extraordinarily ungainly to an onlooker, then embarrassment and annoyance took over.

Gil lifted his head and looked straight at Crispian. A grin lifted his lips. ‘Be with you in a while, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Unless you’d care to join me…?’

‘Good God, no!’ said Crispian instantly.

‘Pity. But I’ll come back to the carriage fairly soon,’ said Gil, as the waitress wound her legs round him again.

Crispian got himself out of the carriage, but he did not go back to his compartment. He stood in the corridor, staring through the window at the passing countryside, beating down the spike of sexual desire that had sliced through him at Gil’s words. Unless you’d care to join me – the words throbbed in Crispian’s mind.

When Gil came out into the corridor Crispian found he could not look directly at him. This was absurd. He ought to be feeling furious; Gil was supposed to be helping with this difficult, dangerous journey but at the first opportunity he had vanished in order to have sex with the nearest available female.

Gil appeared entirely untroubled. ‘Have we reached Marseilles yet?’ he enquired. ‘I didn’t think we were due there for another hour at least.’

In a low, furious voice, Crispian said, ‘You’re supposed to be here to help me with my father! Gil, how could you go off like that?’

‘All too easily,’ said Gil, lounging against the window, and looking out. ‘It didn’t matter, did it? Your father’s all right, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but he might not have been. Have you no self-control?’ said Crispian, realizing too late what he had said.

‘As a matter of fact I’ve got very good self-control,’ said Gil, and Crispian heard the smile in his voice. ‘I even managed to time rhythms to coincide with the vibration of the wheels—’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Crispian, glancing down the corridor.

‘—although it was touch and go when we hit that fast downhill stretch. It’s considered the height of discourtesy to succumb to premature ejaculation with a total stranger, isn’t it?’ He sent Crispian his lazy smile and went unhurriedly back to their private carriage.

Crispian remained where he was. I can’t take him on this journey after all, he thought. Not if he’s going to behave like this all the time. Join me, he had said… Join me… And with the words, a shocking bolt of longing had seized Crispian – not romantically by the heart, but bawdily, between the legs.

Then he thought, no, it will be all right. Jamie’s here. He’ll keep Gil reined in. And Gil was making fun of me – he’s always done that. Remembering this, he felt better, and was able to return to the private compartment and reach for the discarded Times. Jamie was in the other corner, apparently engrossed in a book, and Julius sat opposite, drowsy and unfocused from one of the bromides Gil’s father had provided. Martlet had given Crispian several doses of the powders with a note as to how often they should be given. Julius seemed hardly aware of where he was; Crispian hoped he could keep him like that until they had got him onto the ship. If his father came out of the drugged stupor and realized what was happening, he might well resist.

Several times, as Crispian worked his way through The Times, he sensed Gil watching him. Once he could not resist glancing up. Gil did not speak, but there was amusement in his eyes, fixed on Crispian, and Crispian lowered his gaze at once.

As the train jolted its way across France to Marseilles, night began to fall. Crispian was deeply grateful for this, because it meant they would be able to board the ship in darkness.