After a certain amount of deliberation the organizing committee of the forthcoming Medieval Fair had decided to make it a two-day event. At the urging of the Reverend Nick Lawrence it had been advertised widely, a considerable sum of money being laid out on bright, colourful posters which announced that it was going to be genuinely ancient with displays of archery and unrivalled morris dancing, together with stalls, pedlars and a fortune teller. These flyers had been distributed almost throughout the county with the help of determined folk driving great distances and pinning them to noticeboards. The die was cast. It was to be a two-day stint.
‘Provided that we get sunny weather, of course. But with your help, Father Nick, that’s a forgone conclusion,’ said Mrs Ivy Bagshot, with a conspiratorial smile.
Nick had wondered how he was so supposed to perform the miracle but guessed that he was probably meant to have a direct line through to the Almighty.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied in his customary manner, grinning cheerfully and looking reasonably confident. But within he questioned, as he did so often, whether God would bother with the minutiae of the Lakehurst fête or whether He was more concerned with problems more profound. Whatever the answer, he still sent a small, meek prayer for the weather to be fine as he walked into the Great House two days before the event.
Dr Kasper Rudniski, the latest addition to the stable of doctors who served the community, was still regarded as a new boy, despite having been in Lakehurst nearly four years. Nick had arrived in the village shortly after the doctor and the two of them had formed the sort of bond that strangers in a new environment frequently do. Now he was pleased to see the Polish man as he walked into the Great House.
‘Hello, Kasper. Haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘No, we have a doctor off sick and I have been covering her duties.’
‘Poor soul. Will you have time to come to our Medieval Fair?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Are you having a maypole?’
‘Yes. And hopefully pretty little children dancing round. Which reminds me, I’ve got the task of going to the school and getting a list of their names and who will be taking them to the field. I rather dread it, in a way.’
‘Why? They’re only kids.’
‘I know, Kasper, I know. But they stare at me with unsmiling faces and I try to be jolly but they don’t laugh at my jokes.’
‘Well, I think that’s sad. You’re a vicar and you don’t know how to handle children.’
Nick gave a sloping grin. ‘I know. It’s pathetic. But they scare me stiff.’
‘You should go for hypnosis.’
‘I think perhaps I will.’
‘When is this terrible event to take place?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Just after break time. They will file into their classroom to be greeted by me.’
‘What a treat,’ said Kasper, and smiled sweetly as he ordered a round.
Yet Nick felt genuinely nervous as he walked the short distance between the pub and the vicarage. Letting himself in, he told himself not to be idiotic as the smell of old wood and log fires greeted him, followed by the familiar feel of Radetsky, his cat, stropping round his ankles. After all, they were only children and he would give them a short talk on the origins of the maypole – omitting the fact that it was a phallic symbol and the dances round it were exuberant expressions of fertility. Very like the carol sung on the church roof on May Day, which Jack Boggis was still maintaining was an invention of the socialists.
Nick had just settled down to watch television when there was a knock at the vicarage door. Putting on a smile, he went to answer it. The leader of the group of morris dancers known as Mr Grimm’s Men stood in the entrance.
‘Good evening, Vicar. I was visiting a friend in West Street and thought I would call just to check a few facts with you.’
‘Yes, of course. Come in, come in.’
‘Nice old place you have here. I thought most vicarages were a bit modern and dreary.’
‘Thank you very much. I was very lucky to get it, I can tell you. You’ve seen a few of them, then?’
‘The group gets called upon for the odd village fête, so I have visited one or two, yes.’
‘Well, Mr O’Hare, do sit down. Would you like a glass of wine? How can I help you?’
‘Yes, please. And it’s about what you want us to do at the fair.’
‘Well, I was wondering if you could mingle with the crowd when you’re not dancing.’
‘That should be all right. As long as we can mingle in the beer tent.’
‘Some of the time, certainly. But if you could chat up the visitors a bit? We’re hoping that one or two will come in costume.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
Perhaps because he was tired or perhaps there was something slightly odd about O’Hare but Nick was finding it difficult to make conversation. He was trying to think of something to say to the strange young man, with his peroxide hair and his pointy green eyes, when Chris spoke.
‘Do you come from Sussex, Vicar?’
‘No, I was actually born in Dorset. But my father’s family lived in the west of the county.’
‘We’re all Sussex men – or should it be men of Sussex? – in the dance troop. That’s how we got our name.’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘Mr Grimm is old Sussex slang for the Devil.’
Nick stared, not quite sure how to answer, then said, ‘Is it a joke?’
‘Apparently not. Back in the 1500s when the group was originally formed, it had for its leader, one Thomas Hennfield, who was supposedly in league with Mr Grimm. The story goes that he fancied a girl called Alison Fairbrother but that she would have nothing to do with him. She was betrothed to someone else and was not interested. To cut a long story short, Thomas sold his soul to the Devil and Mr Grimm promptly removed his rival and Alison married Tom and had fourteen children. True or false, that’s the story.’
‘Rather a creepy tale.’
‘Precisely.’
‘And you’ve kept the name all these years?’
‘When the group was reformed post-World War II, it was decided to keep the old title, despite its demonic connections. And it hasn’t done us any harm. It usually causes a chuckle amongst the people who know what it means.’
‘Well thank you for telling me, Mr O’Hare …’
‘Chris, please.’
‘Chris. It’s a very interesting piece of folklore.’
‘It is indeed. But there are some people who say that Mr Grimm is still practising his wicked ways in Sussex.’
‘Do they indeed? Well, I’ll just have to make it my mission to prove them wrong, won’t I?’
Chris O’Hare made no answer but stared, eyes glinting, into his glass of wine.
Dickie Donkin loved walking in the woods at night. He liked listening to the sharp, cracking sounds made by the creatures as they moved from one place to another, foraging for food and hunting, or the great swishing of wings as the owls hovered over a poor wee mouse before gobbling it up. Every note that came from the forest sounded to his ears like a rustic rhapsody, a great harmonious burst of sound, and he was grateful to whatever it was that had turned him into a nightwalker so that he could enjoy alone this vast melodic symphony.
Standing by himself in a little clearing, thrilling to the great music he could hear, he put his head back and sang his appreciation:
All through the night there’s a little brown bird singing
Singing in the hush of the darkness and the dew
Would that his song through the stillness could go winging—
He broke off abruptly as a different noise came like the sound of a saw through delicate fretwork. A car was driving down the lane nearby and drew to a stop a few feet away from where Daft Dickie was standing. The tramp faded into the shadows as there was the sound of the door opening and a man relieving himself. Dickie felt annoyed that the beauty of the night-time anthem should have been shattered so rudely and wondered what he could do. He crouched down in one of the inkier patches of darkness and let out a low growl. He listened and heard the man hurrying to adjust his dress, noticing with satisfaction that the fellow’s breathing had become shallow and nervous. Grinning, Dickie shuffled a foot closer and this time howled like a wolf. The cry rang out, deep and sinister. This time the man leapt into his car and drove off at speed.
Dickie laughed, a strangely sweet and melodious sound, and continued with his song, while the creatures of the forest stayed hushed to hear him.