The Chalice (50 page)

      
Diane handed him his tea and said nothing.
      
'Ever heard of the Watchers of
Avalon, Diane?'

      
'Sort of. The group she founded to defend Britain against Nazi
black magic in World War Two?'

      
'I believe that,' Woolly said. 'Everybody goes on about the
V-2 or whatever it was being the Nazis' secret weapon, but the
secret
secret weapon was heavy-duty
magic. They were well into it. Now the Watchers, they were all over Britain,
but they all concentrated on the Tor at certain prearranged times and like
pooled their energy. Really heavy. A real reservoir of psychic power to keep
the enemy out.'

      
'The Tor's a very powerful beacon,' Diane said. A few weeks
ago, all this would have sent her into overdrive, but this morning, everything
felt so dull and stagnant.

      
'Some people say the Watchers of Avalon are still around, you
know. Not the original ones, like, but magical adepts who've picked up the
banner. What I wanner know- is, if they are around, what the hell they doing
about this fuckin' road? Right,' Woolly rubbed his hands together. 'Got your notebook?'

      
'I've got a good memory. Oh gosh!'
      
'Huh?'

      
'Nothing. It's OK.'

      
What if
Colonel Pixhill and John Cowper Powys were involved with DF in the Watchers of
Avalon? Pixhill first came to Glastonbury in the War - while recovering from
his wounds in fact. Was that how the three got together?

      
'OK,' Woolly said. 'Gimme a sec to get my head together. Everything'll
be cool.'

      
'Everything will be cool,' repeated a voice as smooth as cashmere
'Is this a cartographer's convention, Diane, or have I wandered into a timewarp?'

      
Woolly spun round in alarm.

      
Dark overcoat, briefcase, gloves. Diane's brother Archer in
his city clothes.

      
'Leaving early to catch my train to London,' Archer said.
      
'Saw the lights. The sign said
Closed but the door was slightly open. So I took the liberty of walking in.'

      
Woolly dived at his maps like a maniac, gathering them to his
chest. The one held down by the table legs ripped in two places.

      
'Not inconvenient, I trust,' Archer said.

Young Paul, who thought even
anoraks were a little avant garde, was wearing a sleeveless pullover in maroon.
He was waving his arms about.

      
'Swear to God, Sam, I'm coming back from the Avalon Internet
Group at Dean Wiggin's flat, I'm taking a short cut across the car park ... and
there she is. Got three, four spray cans and she's going at it like a loo ...
like mad.'

      
'Painting her van? At night?' Sam leaned back in his favourite
director's chair, legs stretched out, hands behind his head. 'You don't by any
chance take hallucinogenic drugs at meetings of the Avalon Internet Group?'

      
Paul looked insulted. The kid didn't even drink; his idea of
hard drugs was extra-strong mints.

      
'Sam, I saw it.'

      
Sam needed to think about this. He'd been in the print-shop since
seven, no need to be here, wasn't expecting Diane cracking the whip or anything.
The Avalonian
dummy was more or less in
the can, just waiting for the interview the guy with the dog was doing with the
bishop. So no sleep lost over
The
Avalonian.

      
Just Diane?

      
Daft eh? Found he couldn't sleep for ages last night, through
... not exactly worrying about her. Trying to puzzle her out. Track down her
motivations. Odd, that. Never lost a wink of sleep over Charlotte or the row
with his dad. Or even getting arrested over the sabbing, come to that. Probably
the last time was the fox cub. Six nights feeding the little guy with a dropper
- seven, eight years ago, this must be, a hunt orphan from Pennard's land.

      
Nearly
 
got
 
himself snatched by that bastard, Rankin - Hughie
Painter shouting,
Leave it, Sam, they'll
see your face.
      
He couldn't do that.

      
Rufus. Cute little guy. Still had that sweet, puppy smell.
Used to fall asleep on Sam's knees. He'd cried like a baby into his pillow the
night Rufus died.

      
'OK, Paul,' Sam said. 'You don't mention this to a soul.'

      
'No, Sam.'

      
'Good boy.' Sam sat up in his director's chair, Beyond puzzlement
this time

Verity arose at
seven-thirty and made a point of not putting on any lights, doing her tenebral breathing
as she found her way through the shadows to the kitchen.

      
Although it was the youngest and least museum like part of the
house, the Victorian kitchen was depressing in its own way. Those tall, dark
stained, fitted dressers leaving hardly any wall visible. Knotted, exposed
wiring crawling along two beams like varicose veins. The water pipes coiling in
the shadows, making intestinal noises.

      
In the drab stillness, the telephone rang just after eight a.m.,
rattling the plates on the dresser, the combined sound somehow reminding Verity
of the shrill, protesting warble of the fire engines trapped in Wellhouse Lane,
less than half a mile away, while poor Mr Battle had burned to death.

      
She picked up the receiver sharply.

      
It was Dr Grainger; he came straight to the point.

      
'Verity, I've been thinking about this a good deal. Also discussing
it, in confidence, with my partner, the psychotherapist Eloise Castell. Bottom
line is, if you are going to gain any benefits from our work together, we need
to get around to some corrective therapy for the house itself.'

      
'Yes, but Dr Grainger, I don't ...' He was suddenly a runaway
force in Glastonbury. The publication of his book.
Embracing the Dark
, had been brought forward to coincide with the Winter
Solstice, the shortest, darkest day, and the
Sunday Times
had done an article on him for its colour magazine.

      
But she really couldn't have him tampering with the fabric of Meadwell.

      
'I would like to check this out soonest. Verity. Specifically the
old well itself.'

      
'But you can't
get
to the well. It's sealed up, Dr Grainger. Concreted over. Because of
contamination. There was a ... a health risk.'

      
'Precisely. The sealing of the well put the house into a state
of denial. What you have there is a vital subterranean artery you can no longer
access. I say vital, because this was the reason for the house being built in
this location. Could we say tomorrow? Eleven a.m.?'

      
'Oh, but I ...' Verity frantically fingering her wooden beads.
'I would need to consult the Trust.'

      
And I'm
afraid to. Because I don't know who controls the Trust ant more or to what
extent it still honours the Colonel's wishes.

      
'Verity,' he said with heavy patience 'I ran into Oliver Pixhill
last night. We discussed the problem at some length. Oliver is concerned about
your situation. He wants to help you. He said to me, go ahead.'

      
'Go ahead?'

      
'And unblock the Meadwell.'

      
Afterwards, Verity, who had not been down to the old well in years,
felt so jittery that she was obliged to take a measure of Dr Bach's Rescue
Remedy before she was even able to leave the oppressive kitchen.

Archer stood in the doorway
exuding Presence; Diane wondered if this was something they taught you at
Conservative Central Office, how to walk into a room and dominate everybody or
perhaps he'd just had lessons from Father.

      
'Councillor Woolaston.' Archer smiled, managing to make Diane
feel as though he'd discovered her and Woolly dancing in the nude.

      
Woolly shoved roughly folded maps under his arm to shake hands.
Archer said, 'I suspect we'll be seeing a good deal of each other in the years
to come. Or perhaps not.'

      
'If you get elected,' Woolly said. Diane glanced at him;
wasn't like Woolly to be so abrasive. He must have been very startled.

      
She saw Archer's full mouth develop a petulant twist, swiftly
straightened. Too swiftly - as if he'd been studying his less appealing expressions
on video, with a view to strangling them at birth.

      
'Quite,' Archer said pleasantly. 'Look, I don't want to intrude
on you, Diane, if…'

      
''s OK,' Woolly said hurriedly. 'I was just off. Got this site-meeting
out at Meare in half an hour. Catch you again, Diane.'

      
'Interesting to meet you. Councillor.' Archer watched him go,
shaking his head almost kindly. 'Quaint little person. Surely the last of a
dying breed.'

      
'He's a nice man, Archer.' Diane moved defensively behind the
counter.

      
'I'm sure he is. Diane, reason I called. Father's been trying
to reach you - with a conspicuous lack of success - to find out what you were
doing for Christmas.'

      
'If you remember,' Diane said icily, 'the last time I saw Father
was when he had me kidnapped.'

      
'Oh Diane ...' Archer twitching off his gloves. 'What can one
say? The old man was thinking of me. A trifle embarrassing if the news of one's
election had appeared next to the arrest of one's sister, along with two dozen
smelly hippies, for public order offences. But you're quite right, an overreaction
Educated people make allowances for you now.'

      
Archer smiled his vulpine smile She noticed he'd developed lady
Thatcher's mannerism of finishing a sentence by putting the head on one side
and exposing the teeth.

      
'Archer ...' Diane stopped suddenly, realising she was being
given a chance to mention what the Rankins had done to Headlice. Archer was
watching her, unblinking, and Diane felt a stillness come upon the room. The
colours of the books on the display stands seemed to be neutralising before her
eyes.

      
She let her arms fall to her sides in defeat. 'It ... it's
just you can't do that, you know, that ... that sort of thing.'
      
The words mushy and inexact, not
quite aware of what she was saying. 'I mean I'm twenty-seven, which ... which makes
me a ... grown-up person, you know?' Blinking to clear her vision. 'I mean,
what... what was he going to do, lock me in the attic?'

      
Archer retracted his smile If he was relieved she hadn't mentioned
the Headlice business he wasn't showing it.

      
'Diane, believe me, when Juanita Carey arrived to collect you,
we couldn't have been more happy. A responsible woman, in spite of ...'

      
Archer gesticulated at the books with a certain nose- wrinkling
contempt.

      
'Really 'palling tragedy, though. Wondering if I ought to pop
in and see her in hospital. Take a bunch of flaaahs.'

      
'Perhaps not,' Diane said carefully. She felt as if she were standing
in a pool of grey water, its temperature just above her body heat.

      
'Whatever you think best. Anyway, we're all jolly happy to see
you apparently settled and working on this little ... ah ... periodical…
pamphlet thing.'

      
Diane let it go. They weren't making a great secret of
The Avalonian
, but the less Archer knew
the better. She didn't want to talk about the new road either. And certainly
not the Tor; Archer was its enemy. And her…

      
'So.' He beamed, 'What
are
you doing for Christmas? Because, Father and I thought you might like to join
us - family, friends, neighbours. Party people - at Bowermead. The usual Christmas
Day gathering and then the hunt, of course, on Boxing Day. We couldn't possibly
think of you being so close and not joining in the festive fun.'

      
Diane could almost feel the bloody dampness on her thighs as
she remembered Archer's idea of festive fun. She could hardly see him now, the
shop was so dark, its window and door clouded with fog. She heard her own voice
say, 'Tell Father it's terribly kind of him, but I think Juanita's going to be
out of hospital for Christmas. And she won't be able to use her hands much, you
see. Not properly. Not for some time.'