Ferney (40 page)

She shook her head. ‘So was that better or worse?’

‘Neither of them was any damn good, but the church liked the new clocks. The church was all about keeping the poor in their place, always was. The merchants with their special pews, they
saw the possibilities of the clocks right off. Poor old eternity never stood a chance.’ He looked out of the window for a moment. ‘Oh, that was a real time of change. They tell you
about the Industrial Revolution at school, this recent one, like it was the only one. That was the real revolution, though, back then. All kinds of things, cranks, cams, springs, gears – all
coming one after the other. That’s what really changed life. Sometimes for the better, too, I have to admit.’

‘When was that?’ she asked, thinking, how far back did I get?

‘The clock? I wish I’d remembered exactly, but I’ve tried to work it out since. As near as I can get I reckon it was 1348.’

That was a date that rang horrible bells and he saw it dawning on her. ‘Funny isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Maybe just exactly then, when you and I were listening to that clock
chiming, there was some seaman getting off his little sailing ship just down on the coast there at Melcombe, wondering why he didn’t feel so good. I don’t know what month it was but the
Black Death came in on its ship in August, the books say. You could probably remember it yourself if you try. You’ve cracked it now, I reckon. If you just work at it, you’ll get
anything you want back.’

‘I don’t feel in control. I really need to talk to you about the bad bits.’

‘The nightmares.’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew they might be a problem. I’ve been lying here worrying. When I gave you the drum it was meant to be the start of the explanation. I never thought I’d have a silly turn
like this.’

‘A silly turn? You mean a heart attack.’

‘Whatever. Anyway I realized it probably made it all worse. These nightmares of yours – they’ll be about what came after Monmouth. That man Jeffreys.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Boilman and Burnman. They’ve been in my head for years. I thought it was my father dying, you see? I thought it was because he’d burned up, but I was
wrong, wasn’t I? It was Jeffreys and the Bloody Assize and that’s why the drum frightens me, the ring and the drum. This woman came from the museum to look at the ring and she told me a
bit.’

‘Don’t dwell on that,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a good time.’

‘I need to know. You know I do. It’s the only way I can get rid of it. You said as much yourself. Those two, they’ve been my nightmares ever since I was old enough to
remember.’ Ever since well before the car crash, she suddenly realized for the first time.

‘They would be. You see, all those cloth workers round our way that marched with the Duke, they came looking for them afterwards. Everyone accusing everyone else. Jeffreys, he was a true
sadist. They grabbed me, took me in. Do you remember that?’

She shook her head.

‘We’d buried the ring, but we only had time to tuck the other things, the swords and the armour, away in the roof. There was an old woman saw Monmouth with us.’

‘Mother Mogg.’

‘You remember that?’

‘Just a bit of it.’

‘Well, well. She must have said something. They came searching for Madox and for me. They would have searched the roof, only you thought up some clever trick and distracted them, but like
I say, they took me away.’

‘And?’

‘You know what they did with the bodies of the people they killed?’

She nodded. ‘I think I do.’

‘The man who boiled up the bits for Jeffreys – they called him Tom Boilman ever after. He was struck by lightning in the end. Burnman, his real name was Raphael. He provided the wood
for the fires, tended them carefully, helped Boilman pour the tar. Nobody would ever talk to him from then on. He wasted away.’

An image of butchered, blackened flesh kept trying to creep out into the open and she pushed it away. The guilt she always felt, the guilt that had always seemed to belong, in defiance of logic,
to the car crash. Was that because she’d let him down? Was she somehow responsible for death?

‘What did they do to me?’ she said in a voice that shook.

‘Scared you and threatened you. Took you to the boiling. Told you I’d be next into the pot in pieces if you didn’t save my life by admitting everything.’

‘And did I?’ she said fearfully.

‘No, of course you didn’t. You had far too much sense. You knew the best chance for both of us was if you said nothing. All that time, knowing the drum was up in our roof and the
ring was under the step, you held out and in the end you fooled them. A lot of people came to an end then, but not you and not me because you were brave.’

She breathed again. It might not spell the immediate end for the nightmares but she knew at that moment she would be able to set them in their place, that – given time – she could
now think them through. A huge burden had been lifted, but there remained a part of it that the story hadn’t touched.

‘No one died because of me, because of something I did?’

‘No one,’ he said, puzzled. ‘Is something troubling you?’

She shook her head. It must be her father then. That at least would still dog her even if the nightmares went.

‘It was such a cruel time,’ he said. ‘You and I, we’ve seen all sorts of cruelty. Most cruelty is fear, really. People do it to you in case you’re going to do it to
them. The more afraid they are inside, the crueller they are. Cruelty gives them the feeling it will always happen to someone else, not to them. It’s different for us. We’ve been
through enough pain to know we won’t ever take any pleasure in it.’

‘Is this a better time to be alive?’

‘Better than some,’ he said. ‘Better than the plague times. We didn’t get to stop long then. Proper revolving door that was, either busy being born or busy
dying.’

She smiled. ‘Isn’t that a line from a song?’

‘I must have heard it somewhere. Not that the Death was all bad. Lots of land to go round afterwards and it got rid of a lot of priests.’

Gally looked up to see a recently familiar face heading for Ferney’s bed, a face above a dog-collar.

‘Here’s one it didn’t get rid of,’ she said quietly.

‘I don’t want to see him,’ said Ferney aghast.

‘I can hardly stop him,’ Gally hissed.

‘Tell him I’ve got the Black Death,’ said Ferney far too loudly.

The man wheeled to an uncoordinated halt beside the bed. ‘Mr Miller? Oh hello again, Mrs Martin. How nice to see you here. Always nice when the younger ones take the trouble. I’m
Roger Wigglesworth, the stand-in vicar. Heard you were laid up, Mr Miller, so I thought I’d pop in. Did I hear you were talking about the Black Death?’

‘I’d better tell you I’m not a Christian,’ said Ferney bluntly. ‘If you’ve got others who are waiting on your visit, you’d better not be wasting your
time on me.’

‘Oh gosh. That makes me sound a bit like the RAC, stopping to help someone who isn’t a member,’ said the vicar, simpering slightly. ‘The fourth emergency service, what?
Rushing to the emergency after the ambulance. That’s rather good. I might use that.’

‘They’d sack an RAC man if he went round doing that,’ said Ferney but the vicar took no notice, pulled up a chair and sat down. Ferney glared at him. ‘That’s what
they did in the Black Death,’ he said. ‘Except there weren’t any ambulances.’

‘Jolly brave, those priests, going in to minister, don’t you think?’

‘Jolly dead most of them. Bloody fools thought it was all foredoomed, thought only the sinners would die. Didn’t do ’em much good.’

Wigglesworth gave a vague smile that turned into a frown. ‘You can’t hold
that
against them, surely?’

‘Maybe not, but there’s a lot of other things.’

‘Oh dear. Are we so very bad? A lot of people have gained a lot of support from the . . . you know . . . the
unchanging
church.’

‘Unchanging?
Unchanging?
’ said Ferney incredulously. ‘It changes every time you take your eye off it.’

Gally saw a slightly manic look come across his face and wondered if she should try to shut him up.

The vicar kept trying to find his smile again. ‘What
do
you mean, Mr Miller?’

‘Well, all those miracles and saints and things when everyone was stupid enough to believe in rubbish like that. Then Protestants and Catholics and Protestants again and Puritans. Not
being
allowed
to play games, then
having
to. Burning the maypoles and making new ones.’

The vicar was trying his best. ‘This is, er . . . the Reformation you’re referring to?’

‘Of course it is. A new religion every ten minutes and on to the fire with anyone who disagrees. What’s God got to do with that?’

‘Well, that was rather a long time ago . . .’

‘No it wasn’t. Then there’s class, that’s another thing. Pews you weren’t allowed to sit in because they were for the smart set and I even remember one vicar who
served different communion wine. Expensive stuff for the nobs and rubbish for the rest of us.’

‘Dear me. I’d never do that in my church.’ He had no idea that Ferney, adrenaline reacting with his medication, was in free fall back through time and he grabbed for a straw.
‘So you were a churchgoer once, Mr Miller?’

‘Only when they passed the laws forcing you to go.’

‘But surely there’s never been a law that says . . .’

Gally broke in. ‘I think perhaps this is a bit much for him, Mr Wigglesworth. Maybe it’s time we left him alone to get some rest.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the vicar hastily. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Goodbye then, Mr Miller, I hope you’re up and about again soon.’

‘I’ll have time for religion when it has time for me,’ Ferney said to his retreating back, ‘and when it takes account of all the other planets out there and when it stops
telling people they can ruin the earth in any way they please because it was put there for our convenience.’

The vicar had gone.

‘He came a long way to see you,’ Gally said with a hint of reproach.

‘I wish he hadn’t.’

‘Just because he’s . . .’

‘. . . a vicar it doesn’t mean he’s not a good person,’ Ferney finished for her.

Gally clenched her fists. ‘Look, let me say it by myself. I may have said it a million times before, but don’t do that to me.’ There was a silence in which Ferney turned his
face away. ‘Have I said it a million times before?’ she asked more gently.

‘A few times,’ he said.

‘Am I wrong?’

‘No, you’re not wrong.’ He turned back towards her. ‘They call it a rock, their church, like granite. Always there, always the same, but we’ve seen it twisting and
turning. Okay, there have been plenty of good people in it, but it’s been part of the government much too often for me, part of the whole set-up for persuading all the poor, suffering people
that the entire unfair business was for the best. Oh and the blood that’s been spilt. Henry and Bloody Mary and Elizabeth, ducking and weaving and changing the rules and having people killed
who said their prayers the wrong way. It made people forget to think for themselves, you see.’ He grabbed her wrist and held it tightly. ‘Follow the sovereign, they always said,
it’s the sovereign’s duty to choose. We do what he says and God won’t be cross. Crap. The Church helped invent the class system. It gave all the land-grabbers the best pews. It
told us to obey them. Don’t ask
me
to respect that.’

‘Well, that puts the last two thousand years in their place,’ said Gally faintly.

‘Hey, don’t you forget, we’ve been around well over half of that. We’re entitled to a view.’

The sister arrived, took Ferney’s pulse and tutted. ‘Are you getting worked up, Mr Miller? And after that nice man came all this way?’ She looked at Gally. ‘Mrs Martin,
the doctor said could he have a quick word. In my office?’

‘I’ll be back,’ said Gally, pressing Ferney’s hand as he lay back on the pillow looking suddenly exhausted.

The doctor was middle-aged and looked depressed. In a hospital full of youngsters fresh to medicine or older, rich consultants, he was clearly neither.

‘Mrs Martin, sister told me you were here. I just wanted to have a word about Mr Miller.’

‘Yes?’ she said, surprised.

‘I’m afraid we have found some signs of another possible problem with him. It requires a bit of further exploration, but it may be that he has a growth on his intestine.’

‘Stomach cancer?’

‘Well, it’s only a possibility. We’re not certain, of course. It’s a question of whether we should tell him or not.’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘You are his granddaughter, are you not?’

‘No, I’m not.’

The doctor looked at his file in confusion. ‘Oh, I am so sorry – but he’s put you down here as next-of-kin so I assumed . . .’

‘I see.’ That was a poser. ‘Well, it’s certainly true that he doesn’t have any close relatives. I think you should tell him everything.’

‘You know him well, do you?’

‘I’ve known him for a very long time.’

‘It’s just that there have been occasions when he’s said some odd things and we weren’t entirely sure that the balance of his mind was holding up. He told sister
yesterday that he wanted nothing but raw onions and marjoram. He said he’d been eating it for the last five hundred years and he wasn’t going to stop now. Then there’s this
business of the heart attacks.’

‘Don’t worry. Just ignore that sort of thing. He’s very sane really.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

She went back into the ward again and sat by Ferney who looked a slightly better colour. ‘What did you say to the sister yesterday about your food? The doctor thinks you’re
bonkers.’

Ferney looked blankly at her. ‘Food? Nothing.’

‘Something about marjoram.’

‘Nothing wrong with that.’

‘You told her you’d been eating it for the last five hundred years.’

He looked abashed. ‘It’s this stuff they give me. I can’t always remember what I’m not supposed to say. You’re still a vegetarian, aren’t you?’

‘Still?’ Oh good heavens, she thought and I believed it was my own moral, rational decision. This me, not some me from way back. ‘That is irritating,’ she said.