Tell me about Sam Flood, insisted Sam, sensing evasion.
Thats what Im doing, he said. I met Sam when I was doing my art course in Leeds. That surprises you? Me with qualifications, not just a natural genius. My father saw there wasnt much future in shoeing horses so he started to diversify. Even traveled abroad, which no self-respecting Illthwaitean did, met a Norwegian girl and married her. Thats how I got to be Thor. Fitted somehow, as Winander is a Viking name anyway. Windermere means the lake belonging to Vinandr. I sometimes think Ill put in a claim.
For some reason this information put Sam in mind of her visit to the churchyard, but she brushed the irrelevancy aside.
So you met this guy when you were a student, she prompted.
Thats right. He was at some vicars training college close by. There was this chap making some interesting furniture in the same neck of the woods. I rode out there on my motorbike one day to take a look round his workshop. The bike spluttered a bit when I set off back to town and I was just passing the college gate when it gave up the ghost. Also it started to rain. In a few minutes it was a deluge. A bus stopped close by and some young guys, students from the college, got out. Most of them sprinted through the gates, but one of them came over. He said, Having trouble? I answered something like, Who the fuck are you? The Good Samaritan? You know, really gracious.
Nothings changed then, said Sam.
Winander grinned. He had a nice grin when it was spontaneous.
He said, Wrong. Nowadays Id recognize this guy was my best chance of getting out of the wet and come over all pathetic. Fortunately, as youve guessed, this was Sam Flood, and ill-mannered crap like mine just bounced off him.
He paused, then repeated, Bounced off him. When I said that to Frek Woollass, she said he sounded like Balder. You ever heard of Balder?
Sam shook her head.
Me neither, till then. Seems he was one of the Norse gods, the loveliest of them all both in appearance and in personality. He was goodness personified and everybody loved him so much that his mother Frigg had no problem getting everything that existed, animal, vegetable and mineral, to swear an oath that they would never cause Balder any harm. Eventually it became a favorite after-dinner game of the gods to hurl plates and spears and furniture and boiling oil at him, just for the fun of seeing it bounce off while he sat there laughing at them.
Sounds more like the Pom upper classes than gods. I guess they didnt have any videos to watch in those days. Were drifting away from the story again.
Not really. The only thing Frigg didnt get a promise from was the mistletoe, which she reckoned was too young and slight to pose any danger. Another god called Loki, who got his kicks out of making mischief, took a sprig of mistletoe, sharpened it into a dart and gave it to Balders brother, Hod, who happened to be blind. Joining in the fun, Hod, guided by Loki, hurled the mistletoe and it pierced Balder right through the heart.
He fell silent. Sam had a feeling there was stuff here it might be dangerous to stir up. But all she wanted at this time were the straight facts.
So Sam the Samaritan helped you, she prompted.
Thats right. Invited me to come and shelter inside. I did. We drank coffee and talked till the rain stopped. Then we went back out to the bike and got it to start. I said thanks to Sam. He was a genuine Christian with a real faith in human goodness. Not many around. Also he was a trainee parson, a Bible puncher, an idiot who felt called by God to waste his life standing around a drafty church, preaching to six old ladies on a good Sunday. Too many of them around. But Sam was different. I really liked the guy. He said he enjoyed football, so I gave him my address in Leeds and invited him to drop in next time he came to see United play. In fact I said if he came before the match, we could go together, and if theres anything I hate more than religion, its football!
So Sam the Samaritan helped you, she prompted.
Thats right. Invited me to come and shelter inside. I did. We drank coffee and talked till the rain stopped. Then we went back out to the bike and got it to start. I said thanks to Sam. He was a genuine Christian with a real faith in human goodness. Not many around. Also he was a trainee parson, a Bible puncher, an idiot who felt called by God to waste his life standing around a drafty church, preaching to six old ladies on a good Sunday. Too many of them around. But Sam was different. I really liked the guy. He said he enjoyed football, so I gave him my address in Leeds and invited him to drop in next time he came to see United play. In fact I said if he came before the match, we could go together, and if theres anything I hate more than religion, its football!
He sounds a real winning character, said Sam.
Indeed. And before your brutish antipodean mind starts getting the wrong end of the stick, let me emphasize the attraction was queer only in the sense of odd. I had no desire to fondle his bum. Ill admit to enjoying the sight of him when we swam together in the buff, but it was an artists enjoyment in beauty, the same that I might possibly get if you were to strip off, my dear, but without any of the concomitant carnal stirrings.
He leered at her unconvincingly.
She said with some irritation, OK, you werent after his body. What was it he was after? Your soul?
Certainly not my arseole, said Winander. He was so straight you could have drawn lines with him. No, we just got on somehow, despite all the obvious oppositions. An elective affinity, I think the scientists call it.
Or an amicable pair, said Sam.
Sorry?
In math, thats what we call two numbers each of which is equal to the sum of the divisors of the other. The smallest ones, 220 and 284, were regarded by the Pythagoreans as symbols of true friendship.
Well now, for a plain-speaking wysiwyg Aussie, youre full of surprises. Anyway, whatever the cause, we became good friends. I invited him to stay with me in the hols. He loved Illthwaite and of course Illthwaite loved him. Naturally he went to St. Ylfs during his visits. Surprisingly he and old Paul thats Rev. Petes father seemed to get on well. Paul was old school, hellfire and damnation. Perhaps what he saw in Sam was all those parts of Christianity like compassion and forgiveness which his own leathery heart couldnt reach. Also that same leathery heart had been diagnosed as dodgy and he probably wanted someone he could rely on to keep the place ticking over till his own boy, our Rev. Pete, was old enough to follow the family tradition and rule at St. Ylfs. When he twisted his superiors arms into providing him with a curate, and made sure Sam got appointed, even the ranks of infamy could scarce forbear to cheer.
And Sam jumped at the chance to come here, did he?
Winander shook his head.
In fact, no. He agonized over it.
But why, if he liked the place so much?
That was the trouble. He really felt it was too easy coming somewhere like this, to work in an area he adored among people he knew and liked. He thought he would be more needed elsewhere. He even asked what I thought. Big mistake.
Whys that?
It was a bit like Eve asking the serpent whether he thought apples or pears were better for her teeth. I was at my subtle best. I didnt take the piss out of his desire for poverty and adversity. Instead I told him he could find that here if he cared to look. And I said maybe this yearning to fight the good fight in some godforsaken hole where everyone would know he was a hero was in itself a form of indulgence. Oh, I was persuasive because I was sincere. I wanted him to come here. And in the end I prevailed.
He fell silent for a moment then said flatly, I sometimes think it was the worst days work Ive done in my life.
Why do you say that? asked Sam.
Because if he hadnt come here, he might still be alive today.
Then he laughed without much humor and said, On the other hand, if he were, hed probably be a broken-down old nag like me.
Comes to us all, I guess, said Sam. But even avoiding that fates not much consolation for dying at how old would he be? Early twenties?
Yes.
So howd he die?
And when he didnt reply she went on, Killed himself, did he? Is that why he doesnt have a proper headstone?
Youre a real little detective, arent you? he said. Wondered why you seemed to get on so well with Noddy Melton.
She put that aside for future consideration and said, So why did your friend who was such a great guy that everybody loved him, a guy who was so religious he became a parson, why did someone like that top himself?
Despair, he said shortly.
Despair? What the hells that mean?
God, you are young, arent you? How can you be expected to get your head round the notion of grim-visagd comfortless Despair?
From the sound of it your chum was just my age when he died, so try me.
He shook his head.
No details. Theyre nothing to do with you. All Ill say is that the very essence of Sam Flood, the source of all his strength and the basis of his faith, was a belief in human goodness. Confronted by something that seemed to give the lie to this in a direct incontrovertible and personal way, he lost his whole raison dêtre.
That his grief was genuine and deep was beyond all doubt. His body seemed to fold in on itself, and with the light of mischief and mockery switched off, his face became the face of despair, of a man condemned as much as of a man mourning.
Then he took a deep breath as if consciously reinflating himself and stood up so abruptly he knocked his chair over.
End of stories, his and mine, he proclaimed. And thats it, my young friend. Im sorry if the sad coincidence of your name has caused you inconvenience or distress, but Im sure it will quickly pass. For us who live here its different. We had a young god living with us for a while, but we werent good enough to keep him. If we dont talk about him, its simply because nobody wants to talk about their shame. Please excuse me now. I have a headstone to finish and move down to the church.
Couple more questions, Sam said peremptorily. Tell me about the inscription.
He said, Back in 1961 suicide was still a criminal offense and very much the unforgivable sin in the eyes of church traditionalists, and they didnt come any more traditional than old Paul Swinebank. Church burial was out of the question, so Sam was cremated, and you couldnt get near the crem. chapel for mourners. Then some of us scattered the ashes at St. Ylfs, around the Wolf-Head Cross. Someone said, The cross will have to do for his memorial. Pity we cant carve his name, though. And I thought, right, well see about that. And I went into the churchyard one Sunday morning and carved my little tribute on the wall.