Free The Grace in Older Women by Jonathan Gash Page B

as indigenous as us. 'He's had troubles.'
    Never question country folk, you'll get nowhere. Leave a space,
and answers come a-flowing. Upset over Juliana's crummy forgery, I'd flitted
without hearing of their impending robber.
    'Well, churches nowadays . . .' Me, leaving a casual space.
    'He'm Fenstone's bad luck, son.’ He spat a parabola, the grot
splattering on a fragment of pane. Tinker had a rival, the Fenstone champ.
    'Bad luck! A holy man?'
    'Aaah.' A local yes, with mistrust. 'With him, Middle Snoring's
come nigh to vanishing.' Middle Snoring was Fenstone's old name. 'Post office,
gone! Go to Dragonsdale for a stamp. Our lady's farm had a fail lately, all bad
luck.'
    'Your farm! Failing!' I tutted.
    'Her got new animals, goo-an-acko. Wool fit for a king, nigh's
good as East Anglian sheep. All to nought, that.'
    'Hard luck.'
    'Luck?' He nodded the way Suffolk shows apoplectic rage. 'Took
sickness, they. The Ministry come in from Lunnon, closed the herd.'
    'Still, you've got your church.' I was starting to wonder now. It
didn't only seem to be Jox that suffered in Fenstone.
    'St Edmund's? How she lasts I dunno. If it weren't for Miss
Witherspoon there wouldn't be no church at all. What she makes from visitors
wouldn't keep a gnat in beer.'
    'Oh, I dunno.' I was only talking, not really hoping. 'Some
villages attract tourists in summer.'
    'Aaah. But who wants their likeness these days? Fenstone's not had
a Ringing Day these three years. That Jox tried, but folk're saying it's
cursed.'
    A mist was slowly spreading from the fields opposite. A river vale
lay there, where the track fell away. The gleam of daylight by the lych gate
had gone The faint gold light in the church windows lessened as the mist
climbed the buttresses. I tried to ignore it.
    Ringing Day is November Fifth, that folk mostly call Bonfire Plot.
A relieved parliament ordered bells rung to celebrate Guy Fawkes getting caught
before he could blow everybody to blazes. It's a time of bonfires, fireworks, parkin
cake and general wassailing. No more in Fenstone.
    'Can't your policeman help?'
    He snorted derision. The shire was restless, snorting, not liking
the mist. 'Police? We'n't no bobby these nine year.' He looked round. 'Best be
off before I'm blinded.'
    'Mist comes every morning, does it?' This sort of thing happens.
East Anglia in some areas is flat as a pancake. Village lads wear joke
T-shirts, EAST ANGLIA MOUNTAIN RESCUE.
    'And evening, this time of year. Cheers, son.'
    'Morning.'
    Now, likeness' means a painting in old speech. I looked hard at St
Edmund's. Its old name, Parish Church of Middle Snoring, had been painted over.
Who'd change an interesting old name to a boring new one?
    Which made me start listing failures in Fenstone, apart from
Fenstone. Jox's orchestra, antique shop, restaurant, wildlife scheme, estate
agency, others I didn't know about. And now some lady's farm of, what
creatures, goo-an-acko? What the hell was a goo-an-acko, with its wool fit for
a king?
    No cars coming. I started a long lonesome plod, away from Fenstone
and its eerie creeping mist, thinking as I went.
     
    Names are odd things, when you think of it. Women usually hate
their forenames, though they tolerate their surnames well enough. Villagers are
almost as bad, especially when their village name's a national joke. But when
you've grown up in this creaking old kingdom of ours, the laughter of tourists
is simply a surprise. I mean, a Canadian lass laughed on hearing of Middlesex.
You've got to make allowances. But do Canadians roll in the aisles at
Newfoundland's Blow Me Down? Or Americans fall about at Intercourse,
Pennsylvania?
    There is a Little Snoring in Norfolk, and a Great Snoring.
Cornwall has Goongumpus. There's North Piddle, for grinning motorists to
photograph each other peeing nonchalantly by the name sign. Essex has a village
called Ugley. It's a pretty postcardy place, but I'll bet they wish they had a
quid for every time a visitor's asked their bar