This is good stuff, she said finally. Does this mean Ive been baptized? My pa will kill me.
The frivolity popped out as it often did at moments of high stress. Her rescuers didnt seem to find it funny.
God was a six-footer, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, though the barrel showed signs of rolling downhill into a beer gut. Way back he must have been a craggy good looker, but now he was definitely the ancient of days, in his sixties she guessed, his weathered face lined and crinkled. But his eyes still sparkled a bright blue and his thatch of silvery hair was still touched here and there with starts of gold.
The other one, Gerry the rainmaker, was a bit younger, mid-fifties maybe, his hair still black with only a slight frosting at the edges. His rather chubby face looked as if it could relax into a kind of koala attractiveness, but for now it was set in a blank from which his slatey eyes viewed her more like a strange animal who might be a threat than a young stranger whod just had an accident. In contrast to Gods sports shirt and jeans, he wore a dark suit and a collar and tie.
I still think we should get you checked out, said God. That was a nasty tumble you took.
You saw it? said Sam.
No. I came in and saw you lying on the floor under all that crap. It didnt take Miss Marple to work out you must have fallen off the loft ladder, right?
It might have tested her to work out what my name was, said Sam.
Before he could reply, the porch door opened and another man came in, this one wearing a priests cassock and collar. He too was in his fifties, medium height, slightly built, with a salt-and-pepper shag of hair, and a matching tangle of beard, which, if the moistly anxious brown eyes peering out above it were anything to go by, had been cultivated to conceal meekness rather than express aggression.
Thor, he said. And Gerry. Hello. What on earths happened here?
As he spoke his gaze swung rapidly from the pile of hassocks and hymn books on the floor to Sam, and stuck. His mouth opened and white teeth gleamed through his beard like the moon through a bramble bush in what may have been intended as a welcoming smile but came over more as a grimace.
The man called Thor (right name for a god, wrong religion, thought Sam) said, I came down to make sure young Billy got screwed in properly. This young lady seems to have slipped off the tower ladder. You should get it fixed. Its a death trap.
Oh dear. Im so sorry. Are you all right, Miss?
Flood. Sam Flood, said Sam. Yeah, Im fine. Few bruises, nothing broken. And I didnt slip. Someone slammed the trap shut on my fingers.
Something in what she said robbed the vicar of the power of response for a moment and when he got it back, it hardly seemed worth the effort.
What? Youre sure? Who would do such a thing? It hardly seems likely
While the vicar was wittering, God ran up the ladder with the casual ease of an ancient mariner and pushed open the trap.
No one up here now, he declared. Wind must have blown it shut.
He slid down, landing easily.
Youd need a bloody gale! protested Sam.
Gales are what we get round here, said the man. Did you actually see anyone?
No, not really, she admitted. But I did hear something. And he had time to come down and get away
She moved away from the support of the font and was pleased to find she was pretty well back in control of her limbs. Standing under the once more open trap, she peered up at the clouds and recalled that sense of a presence just before it slammed shut. No features, just that frightening feeling of being at the focal point of a predatory stare
There was a guy outside digging a grave when I arrived, she said. Was he still there when you arrived?
She directed this at the man the vicar had called Thor.
Laal Gowder? Yes, I had a word with him. Why?
Because I thought it might be him who came in behind me and climbed up to the tower seemed even less sensible an answer than it had a moment ago.
Just thought he might have seen someone, she said lamely.
Coming out of the church, you mean? Well, I didnt see anyone. And you were coming up the path behind me, Gerry. You see anyone?
No, said the silent man. Only Gowder.
He spoke the name as if it tasted foul on the tongue. Despite his apparent lack of enthusiasm for her own presence, Sam felt maybe they had something in common after all. She recalled that Mrs. Appledore had mentioned someone called Gerry Woollass. It came back to her. Not Gods son, but the squires son. Same thing round here, perhaps?
Despite beginning to have doubts about her interpretation of events, she wasnt quite ready yet to give up.
He could have gone out that way, she said, pointing to another door in the wall opposite the main entrance.
Sorry, no, said the vicar. Thats the Devils Door.
Sorry? What was that? The devils door?
Yes. It opens north, which in the Middle Ages was regarded as the direction the devil would come from. In some churches the doorway was actually bricked up. Here at St. Ylfs were not so superstitious. We merely keep ours locked.
The bramble bush smile flashed again, this time definitely a smile, signaling a joke.
Sam thought of checking the door but didnt. These old farts probably thought she was simply overreacting to the embarrassment of admitting that she, young, fit Sam Flood who held her years record for scaling the unis climbing wall, had fallen off a ladder. And they might be right!
She said, Look, Im sorry for the bother Ive caused. Thanks for all your help.
Glad to be of service, said God. Im Thor Winander, by the way. And this is Gerry Woollass.
Got you right, then, thought Sam, looking at the vicar who, rather reluctantly, said, And Im Peter Swinebank, vicar of this parish.
Same as the guy who wrote the Guide? Which reminds me, it must be lying around here somewhere.
It was Woollass who spotted it. He picked it up, dusted it off and handed it back to her, taking the opportunity for a close inspection of her face as he did so.
Good. Well, Im glad that no real damage was done, said Swinebank rather stagily. Once again my apologies. Now I really must get on. People will be arriving for the funeral soon
Can I have a quick word first? said Sam. It was you I was looking for when I started climbing the ladder. Thing is, I think maybe my grandmother came from these parts. Dont know much else about her except that she made the trip out in spring 1960.
The trip out where? inquired Swinebank.
Have you got cloth ears, Pete? said Winander. I should have thought even a deaf man would have picked up our young friend has come hopping along the yellow brick road from Oz.
Oh, shoot, said Sam. And all them elocution lessons my ma wasted money on. Anyway, Vicar, any chance you can help me?
I dont know, said Swinebank. What was your grandmothers name?
Same as mine. Dont ask me why. Its a long story, she said. Flood. Samantha Flood. I thought if it was a local family they might be mentioned in the church records.
The three men looked at each other.
No, declared Rev. Pete. To my best recollection there has never been a local family called Flood. Right, Thor? Gerry?
The other two shook their heads.
No? said Sam. Still, if maybe I could glance at your parish records
Im afraid that when did you say she left? Spring 1960, was it?
Thats right.
Youre sure of that? And that it was Illthwaite? probed Swinebank.
Im sure of the date, and pretty positive it was Illthwaite or something like it.
Thwaite is a common suffix in English place names, said Swinebank. As for the records, I fear we cant help you much there. You see, the church was broken into a few months back and everything valuable stolen. Fortunately the really old records are kept locked in a safe in the vicarage, but most of the postwar books vanished. But, as I say, Im pretty sure there hasnt been a local family called Flood. Now I really must start getting organized for the funeral. Thor, I presume youve come to see to the coffin?
Thats right. You can tell Lorna the memorial should be ready tomorrow.
Excellent. Gerry, Lornas so grateful youve agreed to say a few words about Billy. The sense of a community coming together is so important at a time like this.
The sense of a community coming close together was very much what Sam was getting. And maybe she was being neurotic, but she felt a sense of relief here too, as at a problem solved or at least sidelined.
She said, Ill get out of your hair. Thanks again for your help. Have a nice day.
Not perhaps the most apt form of farewell to men about to screw down a coffin and get ready for a funeral, but if it confirmed them in their Pom prejudices that she was an uncouth young Aussie who stuck her nose in where she wasnt wanted and fell off ladders, that was OK by her.
Outside she saw that the gravedigger with the odd name Laal Gowder, was it? had disappeared, his job presumably completed. It was to be hoped so, as the church gate now screeched open to admit what were presumably the first of the mourners.
Outside she saw that the gravedigger with the odd name Laal Gowder, was it? had disappeared, his job presumably completed. It was to be hoped so, as the church gate now screeched open to admit what were presumably the first of the mourners.
The wind had become intermittent, but a sudden gust strong enough to support Thor Winanders theory sent a chill down her body. She glanced down and realized that the soaking shed given herself from the font had left her looking like an entrant in a wet T-shirt competition. Not a very strong entrant, in view of her shallow frontage, but hardly what a grieving family might want to encounter so close to the dead boys grave.
She headed round the back of the church, thinking she might find another way out here. But when she put the building between herself and the road, she pulled up short.
Here, at the center of a quincunx formed with four yew trees which overshaded but did not overpower it, stood what must be the famous cross mentioned by Mrs. Appledore.
It was at least fifteen feet high. Its shaft was ornately carved with intricate knotwork patterns interspersed with panels depicting various human and animal forms. The most striking image, both because of the vigor of the carving and its position at the center of the wheelhead crosspiece, was a wolfs head. Its gaping jaws were wedged open by a sword, but the one huge visible eye seemed to glare straight down at Sam, tracking her hesitant approach, promising that this state of impotence was temporary.