ONE

It was an ancient and attractive custom, one enjoyed by music-lovers and the stout-hearted but detested by those who were trying to get ‘a decent night’s kip’, as Jack Boggis, the local misery, put it. The Vicar of Lakehurst, representative of the Church of England in a quaint and sometimes malicious village set in the heart of rural Sussex, had thought of restoring the tradition, and had been getting mixed reactions ever since.

It was all about a celebration of May. In years gone by, on May morning the choir had climbed up to the top of the church tower and raised their voices in song as dawn had lightened the skies. Now is the month of Maying, When merry lads are playing Fa la la la, et cetera. In fact, the lyrics were full of double entendres and rudery, much loved in the sixteenth century and ever afterwards. The original had been composed by Thomas Morley in 1595 and was the most famous of the English balletts – or madrigals. But despite the fact that it was all about sex, it was sung with much sincerity by as august a body as the choir of Magdalen College in Oxford from the roof of the Great Tower. But in Lakehurst people were not so keen.

‘Can’t get a wink of sleep after six,’ Jack Boggis had proclaimed in the Great House, banging his pint of beer down on the table to emphasize his words. ‘All that caterwauling from the church. Why can’t they just sing at services like they used to?’

‘It’s a celebration of May, Jack.’

‘Sounds like a lot of socialist nonsense to me. They’ll be rolling tanks down the High Street next and we’ll all have to cheer the Great Leader.’

He had expected a laugh but instead was met with a somewhat stony silence. The major, a relative newcomer to the village, having bought a house just outside with rolling countryside for a view, some three years earlier, cleared his throat and shuffled his newspaper. His wife, an attractive woman in midlife, concentrated fiercely on doing a crossword with an irritable little twitch of her head. Jack guffawed.

‘I say that May Day was invented by the left-wingers. Whoever heard of it before Stalin?’

The major put down his paper and gave Jack a steely look.

‘I hate to correct you, old boy, but it is a celebration as old as time. It’s all to do with fertility rights. That song you object to so violently actually refers to it. The line about “barley break” is the ancient equivalent of a roll in the hay.’

Jack stared. ‘Do you mean that the vicar allows them to sing filth from the church tower?’

‘That filth, as you call it, is sung by children in Salt Lake City.’

‘Well, they’re American,’ Jack retorted, and raised his newspaper.

Melissa Wyatt, the major’s wife, kicked her husband gently under the table.

‘What an old bore,’ she whispered. The major merely smiled and nodded. ‘Anything interesting in the paper?’ she asked at conversational level.

‘Not much. Another soldier killed in Afghanistan. Somebody or other punched someone else in the Big Brother House. Usual stuff. How’s your drink? I’m going to have another.’

‘I’ll just go to the garden and check that Belle isn’t making a nuisance of herself, then yes, please.’

She stood up and her husband saw her go out by a side door. When she had gone he sighed a little and picked up his paper but the gesture was rather to hide his face than to read. Much as he loved his granddaughter, Isabelle, he could not help but wonder that just as he had retired from the army and bought a new home in Lakehurst, there should have been that dreadful accident. An accident involving an articulated lorry and three other cars on that horrible A21.

That his son Michael should have been wiped out, that his pretty wife Chloe should have died a few hours later, was almost too much to bear. But it was the miraculous escape of their infant daughter that had altered Major Hugh Wyatt’s life for ever. For from that moment he and Melissa had had to face the responsibilities of parenthood once more. Not that they would have done anything differently, of course. But it was just that they had reached the stage in their lives when things should have been calmer, when they could have enjoyed their new home in Lakehurst in peace and tranquillity. Yet it was not to be. Their only other son, Ralph, was newly married and was moving from place to place, a soldier like his father. There was nobody to take on the responsibility of Isabelle but her grandparents.

Standing on the steps looking down into the Great House’s garden, Melissa smiled just a fraction sadly. Below her she could see Belle playing on the swings, yellow bunches flying as she called out, ‘Push me harder. Push me harder.’ Her playmate, another ten-year-old called Debbie, was valiantly trying to obey but struggling somewhat. They both looked up as Melissa called out, ‘Are you all right, darling? Can I get you another Coke?’

‘Yes, please, Mummy. And some crisps.’

Melissa sighed inwardly. Crisps were not allowed so close to Sunday lunch and she knew that Belle would squeal in protest. But looking at the primrose head she felt a surge of protective love, and weakened.

‘All right, darling. But just this once. And you’re not to eat them all. Share them with Debbie.’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

And Belle looked away and continued to swing.

Melissa went back inside to find her husband in conversation with the vicar of Lakehurst, a delightful young man, in Melissa’s opinion, who never tried to ram religion down people’s throats but somehow by his very charm managed to involve them in church activities.

‘Hello, Mrs Wyatt,’ he said, and shook hands enthusiastically.

Melissa smiled and transformed herself momentarily into the beauty she had once been. A rather hawk-like face was softened by the large blue eyes and the gentle curve of her lips. She looked pretty and worldly simultaneously.

‘Hello, Mr Lawrence,’ she answered formally.

‘I do wish you’d call me Nick,’ said the vicar. ‘After all, you’ve been in the village three years now.’

‘Is it really that long? I still feel like a newcomer.’

Nick grinned over his glass. ‘So do I.’

‘Surely not.’

‘It’s a tradition with the older generation. They think of you as a foreigner unless you’ve been born here.’

‘Well, I’m afraid the foreigners are growing in number,’ put in the major. ‘The place is turning into part of the commuter belt.’

‘Hear, hear!’ came from behind Boggis’s newspaper.

‘Look who’s talking,’ whispered Melissa. ‘You can tell by his accent that he’s pure Yorkshire.’

Nick peered into the depths of his glass, his eyes catching something of the light thrown by the beer. Then he winked, a look which slightly disturbed Melissa.

‘He’s been in this pub so long he thinks he owns it,’ he murmured.

Hugh Wyatt looked shocked and amused.

‘That was a very unvicarish thing to say, if I may make so bold.’

Nick laughed. ‘I quite agree,’ he said.

He was an intriguing young man, Melissa thought, aged about thirty, with a squarish face and a lock of tawny hair that fell forward when he was talking seriously, somehow ruining the effect of his words. His eyes were clear and had a tendency to change colour slightly. His lips, though hardly virginal, had yet to find the impact of true love. He looked likeable, which, indeed, he was. Melissa smiled, enjoying his company.

Her husband, Hugh, was very much like the new generation of retired majors; keen-eyed, tight-jawed and various other clichés that suited his type. But behind that facade there was an intelligence and a quick wit. Melissa had fallen for those together with his charismatic smile and general charm.

He stood up. ‘I’ll just go and check Belle,’ he said.

Watching him go out, bearing a bottle of Coke and a packet of crisps, Melissa gave a half smile. The vicar, somewhat to her surprise, caught her mood.

‘It must be a great responsibility for you, bringing up a grandchild.’

She turned to look at him. ‘Yes, it is. Of course, we wouldn’t be without her. I mean, it is enormous fun having her around. It is just that …’

‘Bringing up any child must mean a certain sacrifice of freedom.’

‘We were looking forward to a bit of peace after army life.’ Melissa shot Nick a quick glance. ‘No, that sounds awful. I didn’t mean it like that. Isabelle has brought us both a great deal of joy.’

The vicar smiled. ‘I’m sure she has. She wouldn’t like to come along to Sunday school by any chance?’

Melissa smiled. ‘I can ask her.’

He grinned, and Melissa wondered why he wasn’t married. Why somebody hadn’t snapped him up years ago.

Hugh returned. ‘Couldn’t find the little wretch anywhere.’

Melissa looked alarmed. ‘Is she missing?’

‘No, I located her in the end. She was hiding in the bushes with Debbie.’

‘Where was Johnnie?’

‘Oh, he’d run off somewhere or other.’

‘How like a man.’

‘Now, now.’

Nick stood up. ‘Well, I must be off. It’s been so nice chatting to you.’

‘Going to put your feet up?’ asked Hugh.

‘No, I’ve got to drive out to Fulke Castle and see Sir Rufus Beaudegrave.’

‘Lucky old you. Mixing with the A-list, eh? I took Belle to the castle on a visit. She was very taken with the weapons they had on display.’

‘Typical,’ Nick answered. ‘No, this isn’t a social call. Sir Rufus has offered us a field when Lakehurst puts on its annual fête. I’m just going to finalize the details.’

‘Is this the medieval thing I read about in the parish news?’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ the vicar answered cheerily as he made for the door.

‘Waste of bloody parish money,’ came from behind Boggis’s copy of the Sunday Telegraph. ‘Lot of people running about in fancy dress. Who do they think they are?’

‘Perhaps they are enjoying themselves,’ Nick muttered as he made his way out.

Despite his early start on the church tower, lustily singing ‘Now is the Month of Maying’, followed by Sunday communion, May Day falling on a Sunday, Nick felt in a buoyant mood and set off for Fulke Castle still humming the tune aloud. The fact that eighteen months ago there had been a murder there, a rather ghastly one – that is, if the taking of someone’s life maliciously by another could be considered anything other than horrible – it failed to subdue Nick’s sunshine mood. Fulke Castle had seen many deaths within its walls during its nine hundred plus years and therefore nobody considered the addition of one more as anything particularly significant.

As he drove along, Nick considered the extraordinary four years since he had been granted the parish of Lakehurst. Despite the grim times that he and the rest of the population had been subjected to – and some of the times had indeed been particularly unpleasant – he had fallen in love with the village, with its fair share of eccentric inhabitants, with the local people, even with the resident grumblers. Thinking of them as a multitude, Nick thought that they represented the whole human race in miniature.

The drive to Fulke Castle always inspired him by its beauty. Everywhere the countryside had burst into life with the spell of sunshine which had bathed it recently. Unlike last May 1st, Nick considered, when the choir had huddled in raincoats, grey-faced beneath umbrellas, while the lantern-jawed choirmaster had braved the downpour in a slouch hat from which a drip of water had descended at regular intervals. It had been a ghastly experience, particularly as Mrs Ely, amply built, had slipped on the descent and twisted her ankle. But today was different. The sun god in all its glory glittered high in the heavens and all was well with the world below.

Crossing the moat, Nick pulled up in the small car park and observed the castle for a moment before getting out. It rose in dramatic beauty, its other self reflected in the water that lapped at its feet. Like all buildings of a great age, various owners had added wings in their own particular style. Nick looked at medieval battlements, a Tudor dining hall – currently full of people moving slowly around with headsets on – delicate Georgian rooms, also lively, and finally the solid grandeur of the Victorian wing, where the family dwelt and which was not open to visitors. Getting out of the car and breathing in the fresh air, Nick made his way to the somewhat unimposing black front door which stood hidden round one of the corners. It was opened with a burst of laughter, and Nick smiled at Ekaterina, Sir Rufus’s mistress, who had to all intents and purposes taken up residence with him. Officially she lived in London but she only went to her flat in Chelsea when she visited the theatre or went shopping. She was the incredibly wealthy and beautiful – but also, as it happened, incredibly nice as well – daughter of a late Russian oligarch.

‘Come in, come in, my dear Nicholas. I spied you through the peephole.’ And she indicated a Victorian copy of an arrow slit in the wall above. ‘Rufus is doing his duty with the visitors – he does so occasionally. What can I get you to drink?’

‘A very small and very weak tonic and gin. I’m serious. I’ve just had a pint in the Great House.’

She ushered him into the sitting room, a lovely place, Nick thought, with the Victorian heaviness gone, the only allusion to it being a chaise longue and a large plant in a burnished copper pot. Welcoming armchairs stood on either side of the fireplace, which today was covered by a William Morris inspired screen, while huge windows stretched down to the level of the moat itself, their shutters drawn back and partially hidden by floor-length red curtains.

‘Take a seat, Nick, do,’ Ekaterina said, her Russian accent quite pronounced, as always. ‘Rufus will not be long.’

From the depths of an armchair as comfortable as it looked, Nick gave her an appraising glance. She had always been beautiful, gloriously so, but now she had an inner glow, a radiance that spoke of her being greatly loved by more than just a man, by children who also adored her.

It was out of Nick’s mouth before he had had time to think of what he was saying. ‘Are you going to marry him?’

A naughty little smile hovered round her mouth. ‘How did you guess?’

‘Well it wasn’t hard.’

‘We are getting married next month in London, at Chelsea Register Office. Then we are going to the Seychelles on honeymoon. Then we come home and want you to bless our marriage here, in the chapel in the castle. It will be my first proper wedding. I married my late husband in a crazy place in Las Vegas. The pastor was dressed as Elvis Presley.’

‘I trust you will not want me to do the same.’

She whirled a gin and tonic into his hand and, leaning forward, gave him a hug. ‘No, dear Nick, we want you to wear whatever you think suitable for the occasion.’

He raised his glass to her and at that moment Sir Rufus Beaudegrave came through the door. Nick stood up because he had been well brought up by his mother and was fanatical about good behaviour.

‘My dear Sir Rufus, I hear that I am about to be called into service.’

‘Are you?’ He looked puzzled.

Ekaterina interrupted. ‘I have told Nick our news. He has agreed to give us a blessing in the chapel.’

‘Well, that’s absolutely splendid. Thank you so much.’ Rufus glanced at his watch and added, ‘Sorry to be a bit late. The crowds were rather large today and I had something of a struggle to greet them all. But it’s all good for business, I’m pleased to say.’

Nick metaphorically raised his hat to the effort that went in to keeping Fulke Castle in family hands. The unfortunate part about it was that Rufus’s first marriage – to a titled airhead who had run off with the gamekeeper – had produced four daughters, none of whom could inherit the mighty place. There was a younger brother, of course. The typical ne’er-do-well who loved fast women – and the occasional fast boy, if rumour were correct – fast cars and fast living. He had been married three times and had a son by each wife. Fate was simply not fair, Nick considered. But now, with Rufus’s remarriage there might yet be hope of an heir. The vicar sent up a rapid prayer that this pleasurable ending for everybody might be fulfilled.

Ekaterina rose from her chair. ‘Where are the girls?’

Rufus smiled. ‘I know that the youngest has gone out riding but the other three have all gone off to see friends.’

‘Then I think I’ll go and join the little one.’

‘Do you ride well?’ said Nick.

Ekaterina laughed joyfully. ‘I’m not really any good. But Perdita is teaching me.’

‘Then off you go,’ said Rufus and gave her the tiniest smack on the bottom.

No need to ask how their relationship was progressing, thought Nick. One could tell at a glance that it was rock solid. Once again he spoke before assessing the words properly.

‘I’m so glad you and Ekaterina are getting married, Sir Rufus. Let’s hope it might produce an heir for you.’

The owner of the castle shot him a wry grin. ‘’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,’ he quoted.

Having started, Nick could not leave the subject alone. ‘And how about Ekaterina? Does she want children?’

‘Does she!’ answered Rufus laughing. ‘I tell you, she is totally besotted with my daughters. In fact, she’s a better mother to them than their actual one. And she would adore children of her own. They’ll probably all turn out to be girls, but what the hell.’

Nick, sipping his second tonic and gin, thought what a truly nice man Sir Rufus was.

He changed the subject. ‘I was wondering if you had any questions for me about the Grand Village Fair.’

‘No, why don’t you describe it to me.’

‘Well the general idea is to make the whole theme medieval. We’ve hired a team of archers – I believe they’re all amateurs but they’re very good. They appear in films, that sort of thing. We’ve also hired a set of morris men—’

‘The Casselbury Ring crowd?’

‘No, they had another engagement. This lot are called Mr Grimm’s Men.’

‘Where do they come from?’

‘Foxfield. Apparently they are a very ancient troop who disbanded after the Second World War only to reunite some ten years ago.’

‘Not with the original members, I trust.’

‘You trust correctly. This lot are quite young and vigorous. They even have a professor of history amongst their ranks.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Anyway, that aside, we’re going to try and make the stalls look authentic and all the stallholders will be dressed up, mostly in stuff from the WI pantomime, I’m afraid. But there it is. Anyway the beer tent is going to make some effort to look ancient and will be selling Ye Olde Ale and that sort of thing.’

‘Sounds good fun to me. Now you’ll want to know about the field I can lend you.’

‘Please.’

‘Well, it lies behind the Remembrance Hall and has the most exquisite view. It’s lying fallow at the moment so I think a heavy duty mow or two should make it quite suitable for your purposes.’

‘You think it will be big enough?’

‘Oh, I should say it will be ample.’

‘And how will people get in?’

‘There’s a rather rough path leading directly to it. I can get it cut back a bit if you like.’

Nick protested. ‘No, I’ll ask the chap who mows the graveyard to do it – and to mow the field too. You’ve done enough in giving us the space to hold the fair.’

‘It should be quite a sight. Will visitors be encouraged to dress up?’

‘It will be optional – you know the English.’

‘Indeed I do. I went to a Lady Chatterley dance once and would you believe there was somebody all got up in a crinoline?’

‘Yes,’ Nick answered sadly. ‘I would believe it. I have seen a great many strange sights in my time.’

‘I’ll bet you have.’

The door opened and in walked Iolanthe. Nick thought that in the relatively short space of time since he had last seen her, she had grown more like her father than ever. She had also grown up, looking at him through mascaraed eyelashes, her height quite considerable, obviously a Beaudegrave hallmark. Nick stared at her, a little nonplussed, never being quite sure how to treat teenage girls. However, she obviously was perfectly used to dealing with people who were shy.

‘Hello, Reverend Lawrence,’ she said, holding out a confident hand. ‘How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘I’m very well, thanks,’ Nick answered, and shook it.

‘Well, I’m going to dress up,’ she answered, coming directly to the point and making no effort to conceal the fact that she had been listening outside the door. ‘In fact, I’d like to help on a stall if that’s possible.’

‘Well, I can certainly ask if anybody wants any help. A lot of the volunteers are members of the WI. But the younger ones are quite go-ahead.’

‘Don’t you like the WI, Vicar?’

‘I don’t really approve of any organization that bans the other sex. Men’s clubs, for example. But as individuals I think members of the Women’s Institute are generally charming and hard-working and they are certainly doing their very best to help with the Medieval Fair.’

‘It sounds terribly exciting. I wonder if I could help out the fortune teller.’

‘I don’t think we’ve booked one of those.’

‘I’d love to do it if you can’t find anyone.’

Sir Rufus spoke from his armchair. ‘No, Iolanthe, you’re far too young. I won’t hear of it.’

‘But Daddy, I’m fifteen. I’m not a child any more.’

Rufus lowered his newspaper. ‘You will always be a child to me, even when I’m eighty and you are fifty. And it’s no good wheedling because the answer will still be no.’

Iolanthe rolled her eyes and turned back to Nick. ‘Then I’ll set up a stall selling castle produce. We have tons of it in the shop. The gooseberry jam is particularly popular, by the way.’

And what she said happened to be true. The grand tour exited into the gift shop, which Rufus had established in a converted barn, selling everything from a booklet written by himself on the castle’s history to wine and free-range eggs, with as many trinkets and souvenirs as he could pack in between. Its turnover played an important part in adding to the Fulke Castle finances.

‘I think that is a very good idea,’ said Nick. ‘Would you agree to it, Sir Rufus?’

‘My dear chap, I would agree to anything that would boost the funds and also help your fair along. Where did you say the profits were going?’

‘To the steeple preservation fund. If we don’t seriously rebuild it, it will come crashing down one day.’

‘If you’re having a raffle at any time you can add the prize of a free balloon trip over the castle and surrounding countryside.’

‘Thank you very much.’

They discussed the practicalities of Iolanthe managing a whole stall by herself and Rufus tactfully suggested that it might be so overrun with customers that Araminta should help as well. This she agreed to with a thoughtful nod, during which her marvellous mop of red hair flew round her head like an aureole. Nick was impressed and thought of suggesting to Ivy Bagshot that she step down from the role of principal boy in the WI annual pantomime and give Iolanthe a chance instead. Then he realized the folly of his ways and decided that discretion was all, if he wanted to stay on friendly terms with the parishioners of Lakehurst.

After refusing another drink, he was shown out by Sir Rufus’s daughter and made his way round to the private car park. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he was late for his next appointment and drove rather faster than usual back towards the delightful but somewhat strange village of which he was the parish priest.

Returning to consciousness under a hedge was always an odd experience for Dickie Donkin because he was never quite certain which way up the world was. Under his back he could feel the earth, hard and uncompromising, while over his head there seemed to be a vast crown of thorns and leaves, all interwoven. What he always did in these circumstances was to blink his pale blue eyes – so pale that they looked like the sunlight glinting on a glacier – several times over. Then he would heave himself up on to one worn elbow and see if the world turned round again and then, when it didn’t, clamber into an upright position and grasp the hedge with a hand on which was a mitten so old and tired that it looked like a tracing done by an angry child.

Dickie Donkin had been living rough for many years now and yet the view that greeted him when he finally stood on his worn and battered legs was always fresh. He would gasp at the neatness of the fields, at the beauty of the villages that lay in front of him, at the majestic splendour of the tall trees, at the wheeling and dipping of the birds in the sky above. Then his hand would go to the worn, old school satchel that he had stolen many years ago from a playground, fasten round the shape of a bottle he always carried within, and raise it to his lips. What was inside was anybody’s guess – usually the contents of a can of cider transferred to the Scotch bottle to give him a feeling of importance, but sometimes a drop of gin that a publican would give him just to stay outside and sit solitary on a bench, supping, and sometimes it would be a lager or a pint. But whatever it was that he purloined or was given as a hand-out, the bottle was always full.

Dickie Donkin was known throughout the vast county of Sussex because he had walked its entire length and breadth in his time, starting when he was twenty and his mother had died. There had been something about the rent book – he didn’t understand it – but apparently it could only be passed down three times. Whatever the facts of the case, he had found himself without a home and had quite literally been turned out on to the streets by his landlord. So he had taken to the highway and walked from that day to this.

A legend had grown up about him, about Daft Dickie Donkin, as he was known. A legend that it was lucky to get a sighting of him, that it brought good fortune to see him when one was out and about. Children would often run after him chanting, ‘Smile at us, Dickie. Come on, look our way.’ Sometimes he would oblige them, showing what was left of his rotting brown teeth in the parody of a grin. Other times, when he was moody or not interested, he would keep his pale eyes fixed on the ground and hurry away, conscious of their feet scampering in his wake. Yet he wasn’t quite as daft as people thought. He knew a thing or two about folk, having observed them from a midnight tree or caught them in the long grasses. So he was also known as Dickie the Watcher and he preferred that name because it gave him a certain air of dignity.

This day, though, when he awoke and gradually got to his feet, he saw that a man sitting on a mower was cutting the long grass in the Nether Field, part of the grounds owned by some local toff. Dickie had walked forward, his gait long and rolling, and had stared silently. The man had waved an arm. He had heard the legend that the tramp was a lucky omen. But Dickie approached cautiously, wondering whether or not it was a trap.

‘Hello, there,’ the man on the mower called out. ‘How you doing?’

Dickie remained silent. He rarely spoke, because he didn’t care to. He had been born autistic. The only sound he liked was his singing and often at midnight, standing solitary in the woods, he would startle the night creatures by chanting to the moon in a rich, melodious baritone.

‘Want a beer?’ continued the other. ‘I’ll buy you one if you like.’

Dickie nodded.

‘Do you know the Great House?’

Dickie nodded again.

‘Well, start walking then. I’ll catch you up.’

Dickie gave a deep nod to show he understood and proceeded across the fields, his gait now rolling and purposeful as he had just received an invitation and did not want to be late getting there. After a while the man on the mower passed him and gave a cheery wave, pointing in the general direction of Lakehurst. Daft Dickie raised his pale eyes but otherwise gave no clue that he had even noticed.