Casting Samson (17 page)

“What about the press?” Alan leaned forward anxiously. “Many reporters here?”

PC Carrick rubbed his chin. “One or two local guys, that’s all I’ve seen.”

“Well, thank God for that!” Alan declared as they drove on. “Hopefully we’re yesterday’s news now, and they’ll leave us alone.”

“It does seem to have had some effect though,” Deborah observed from the backseat. “There’s a lot of people here.”

Anne grinned. “We might make a bit of money, then, if they stay around.”

“Reverend Bodicote is organising members of his Bible Class to sell ice creams and go round with the collecting tins. Let’s hope they’re all in place by now.”

By the time they walked onto the green, there was already a crowd gathering, and a gratifyingly large number were strangers to Anne. Alan grunted his approval.

“Looks as if the publicity wasn’t such a bad thing after all.”

PC Carrick saluted smartly as the procession made its ponderous way past him towards the village, but somewhat ruined the effect by grinning broadly and giving the thumbs-up to his son, who was standing beside Goliath on the float.

“Must be a sod having a copper for a dad.” Sam Stansfield sneered down from his superior height. “I mean, you’ve gotta be a little goody-goody, ain’t you?”

“Leave him alone, Stansfield,” growled Shaun Tring, who was Wayne’s best friend. “You don’t know nuffin about it.”

“Ah, shut your trap, stringy.”

Shaun reddened, hating the nickname, but he bit his lip. He couldn’t pick a fight now, not in the middle of the procession. Besides, Stansfield was so much bigger, he was bound to win.

At the head of the procession, Bernard dug his heels into Murphy and spoke between teeth that were clenched into a broad smile. “Come on, you bastard, pick your feet up.”

The sun was making a fitful attempt to pierce through the grey cloud, and as the procession made its way past St. John’s and across the bridge it managed its first, brief appearance of the day. From their vantage point by the public address system, Deborah and Anne watched the mock Crusader lead the floats along Drakes Walk, skirting the village green.

Reaching the far end of the green, Bernard halted and remained motionless for a few minutes, listening to the trucks pulling up behind him, their brakes hissing and wheezing. Then, as instructed, he turned Murphy and made his stately progress back along the line.
God, these rustics like their playacting!
Bernard walked Murphy on to the end of the procession, his lance held firmly upright and its pennant flying proudly in the breeze.

Nothing to it,
he thought,
these little village fêtes. What was all the fuss about?

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our pageant to celebrate seven hundred years of St. John’s Church.”

Murphy started as the vicar’s voice boomed out over the speakers, but Bernard tightened the reins.

“It’s only a microphone, you stupid brute,” he muttered. “Come up, now!”

“Our splendid floats here represent the stained glass windows in the church, and we’re going to act out the stories for your entertainment.” The vicar’s voice fell a little uncertainly on the last word, but the audience responded with round of applause.

“I have to admit I was worried that they would all be acting out their little pieces with the sun in their eyes,” Anne said. “The cloud cover has solved that problem.”

Deborah nodded. “I just hope Moses can descend from Mount Sinai without dropping her Commandments. She doesn’t look very happy.”

The vicar was standing before the first float, holding aloft a microphone to catch the speeches. A little girl in a rather battered cardboard crown stepped to the front.

“I am King Darius, and Daniel is my favourite official.”

She was joined by a second, much larger girl, who gabbled in a loud monotone. “But-your-Majesty-you-issued-a-decree-that-nobody-should-pray-to-anyone-but-yourself-and-Daniel-prays-to-his-God-three-times-a-day.”

“Then he must be cast into the lions’ den!” cried the first child with obvious relish.

A tall, thin girl with a multicoloured tea towel on her head was marched forward by two giggling guards. She was pushed forward and an imaginary gate was slammed shut behind her. Then from under a blanket in the corner of the truck emerged the lion, roaring and pawing at the air, while a good-natured cheer went up from the crowd.

“I think she’s trying for an Oscar!” Anne laughed as the lion responded to the applause by roaring even louder, and Daniel delivered a surreptitious kick at the furry flanks to quieten the beast before King Darius could deliver his last line.

“Oh, dear, I hope Daniel is all right. I have been awake all night worrying about him.”

Daniel stepped through the imaginary gate and bent towards the microphone. “Of course I’m all right. God protected me from the lions, and now you can write to all the other kings and tell them that they must worship the one true God.”

Their ordeal over, the children shifted into a line to bow, while the crowd cheered enthusiastically. Aubrey Bodicote mopped his brow.

Clara Babbacombe had found herself a prime position at the end of High Street, where she perched on her shooting stick and watched the tableaux through her field glasses. She didn’t mind if she couldn’t hear all the words—after all, she had listened to enough rehearsals to know them off by heart. The market stalls were almost deserted, with everyone crowded onto the green to watch the pageant, but a sudden movement caught her eye and she glanced back to see a familiar figure advancing towards her, leading a donkey.

“Hello, Bertram—come to see the pageant?”

“No, that I ain’t, Babs. I’ve gotta get old Annabelle ’ere up to Long Meadow. I agreed that the police could use my north pasture as a car park, and Annabelle don’t take kindly to sharing ’er field with a lot of cars. She started fretting, so I’m moving ’er.”

“But you can’t go across the green, they’ve just started their plays! Can’t you wait until they’ve finished?”

“No, I can’t! I ain’t got time to stand around here all day. Besides, we shan’t go straight across the middle—I ain’t that thick. No, I’ll take ’er round the back of all them wagons. No one’ll even notice.”

He set off again and, after a brief sigh and a shake of her head, Clara turned her attention back to the pageant.

“…And now we have the Moreton-by-Fleetwater Cubs and Brownies enacting the tale of Jacob’s Ladder.”

“Oh, I don’t think I can look!” Anne covered her eyes as the youngest members of the pageant swarmed over a tall and shaky stepladder, which had been decorated with Christmas tinsel for the occasion. The children’s words were lost on the breeze, but no one seemed to mind, clapping and cheering at the end of their little tableau.

“There, wasn’t that splendid?” Reverend Bodicote beamed, patently relieved.

The next float was the Mothers’ Union interpretation of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments. Rita Tring and her companions were wrapped in sheets and looking very improbable as the children of Israel. Aubrey Bodicote passed them the microphone and, as one of the ladies relayed the story, Moses wobbled uncertainly on the pile of sandbags that represented the mountain, her purple robes billowing softly about her. At the appropriate moment, she was handed two large chocolate sponges, each one covered with delicate writing in white icing.

As she began to descend from the mountain, she lost her balance on the sandbags. One of the cakes flew out of her hand, sailed through the air and smashed to pieces as it landed on the grass. After a brief hesitation, the Cubs and Brownies decided that this was manna and too good to miss. They scrambled down off their float and began to scoop up the unexpected treat.

Hilda Gresham reached out to grab at the microphone. “Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve plenty more cakes to share with you.” She held up another large chocolate sponge, grinning broadly, before allowing the vicar to retrieve his microphone and move on.

Deborah felt her stomach knotting with anxiety as Josh stepped forward to say his lines. Yvonne was behind him, reclining on an incongruous chaise longue. Deborah closed her eyes for a second, willing everything to go right for him.

“Well, he looks good, I’ll say that for him,” Anne said. “Gorgeous, in fact.”

Deborah opened her eyes and indulged herself by enjoying the picture he presented. Dressed only in a pair of loose leggings, his upper body was tanned and glistening, and his black curls hung in an untidy mane about his head. Gorgeous, indeed. Even if he was leaving.

“Yvonne looks the part, too, don’t you think?” Anne remarked.

Deborah had to agree that Delilah looked seductive in a low-cut dress, and she seemed to be enjoying the role, leaning against Josh and rubbing her hands over his bare chest.

“Ooh, Samson, go on. Tell me the secret of your strength.” Yvonne had turned her head to speak into the microphone, but her generous curves were pressed against Josh. The vicar held the microphone aloft but delicately averted his gaze.

“Looks like Graham Tring’s enjoying the performance too,” Deborah remarked. Anne followed her glance.

“Good grief, his tongue’s almost hanging out there. Oh dear, poor Rita. If I had a bucket of water I’d throw it over him now!”

But Deborah wasn’t listening anymore—she was watching Josh’s final scene, as he pulled the polystyrene pillars down around himself. He ended on his knees, his dark head bowed, like a model for some pre-Raphaelite painting.

“Oh, thank goodness that worked!” she cried, clapping.

Observing her young friend’s smiling face and glowing eyes, Anne smiled to herself. “Yes, very effective. He was a good choice, wasn’t he, as Samson?”

Deborah was still clapping. “Oh yes,” she said, laughing, “the best!”

On the next float, Goliath moved into position. “Get ready then, stringy.”

Little Shaun Tring scowled at the giant. “Shut up, Stansfield!”

Sam Stansfield grinned and drew himself up to his impressive if skinny height. “Who’s gonna make me?”

Reverend Bodicote gave them an admonishing frown and turned to the crowd.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you will remember that David was the little shepherd boy who took on the giant Goliath…”

Shaun waved his slingshot in the air and put one hand into the pouch hanging from his belt, where the scrunched-up paper balls were waiting to be fired at the giant. But at the bottom of the pouch his fingers touched another object, a small, hard ball that would fit perfectly into his slingshot. Smiling to himself, Shaun Tring prepared for his moment of glory.

As the order reverberated through the columns, the exhausted Templars saw their attackers withdraw, and the relentless showers of arrows ceased. But their relief was short-lived. As dusk fell and the Christians withdrew behind their meagre defences, a dense dark cloud enveloped them.

“Sweet Jesus, the devils have fired the scrub!” Hugo’s sergeant pulled his scarf across his mouth and watering eyes.

“Aye,” Hugo grunted, “but you may be sure they will retire to a well-watered camp tonight.”

The men huddled down, trying to evade the hot, acrid smoke that scorched their already parched throats. Like his fellows, Hugo sipped cautiously at his goatskin water carrier and buried his head in his cloak, waiting for the dawn.

As the sky lightened first to grey, then pale rose, the Christians abandoned their camp, determined to press on, leaving behind them beasts that could not keep up. The soldiers were in poor heart, their eyes smarting and lips cracked from the acrid bush smoke they had endured throughout the night.

The Saracens continued to harry them, forcing the army off the road and onto the rough ground of the high plateau. As the heat of the day took its toll on the weary soldiers, the Muslims grew bolder, circling the army with crude taunts, while all the time the deadly arrows showered down upon them, until the knights’ arms ached with the effort of holding their shields aloft. Progress ground to a halt, the king’s crimson tent was set up in the centre of the troops, and they gave up their attempts to advance, concentrating on survival.

The Christian army turned to face the enemy. Bravely the knights charged, and charged again, but gradually they were forced back. The ground was slippery with blood, and they had to guide their mounts over the bodies of their fallen brothers. There was a grim determination in their struggle. A Templar riding at Hugo’s side fell with scarcely a cry, his head severed with one blow from a Saracen’s deadly curved blade. The screams of the horses mingled with those of the men cut down by the attack. Hugo fought on, his breath rasping in a throat parched and dry. Eventually the Templar found himself beside Raymond of Tripoli.

“How goes it, my lord?” he cried, shouting above the din of the battle.

Raymond paused. “Very ill, brother. I see no way out of this.”

A rider galloped up, his mantle so torn and encrusted with blood that it was unrecognisable.

“Acre has fallen—the Bishop of Acre is dead and the True Cross captured! The king is with the Master of the Temple now and orders you to find a way out, Lord Tripoli. Take a trusted group and make sure this day is chronicled for Christian records.”

Hugo rubbed his eyes. The noise was overwhelming, screams and battle cries numbing the brain while the stomach was sickened with the stench of the dead and the dying. Already the flies were gorging on the bloody remains. Raymond of Tripoli touched his arm.

“We must force a route. Hugo—are you with me?”

Hugo shook his head. “No! We fight on to defend the king!”

Raymond put a hand on his bridle. “Don’t be foolish, man! Your master has ordered it. Come with me.”

Confident that Hugo would follow, Raymond turned his steed, shouting to those of his knights he could see to join him, then with a wild cry he led the little party in a deadly charge. Hugo followed, urging his horse on towards the enemy. The speed of their charge carried all before them in the confined space, trampling Christians and Saracens alike until their bodies formed a level path through the battle lines.

Hugo gritted his teeth, tried not to think of the flesh beneath his horse’s hooves, and dug his heels into the stallion’s sweating flanks. The knights rode on as one, bursting through the Muslim lines, past flashing scimitars and screaming faces. Hugo glimpsed a flash of steel, felt a searing pain in his left arm, but he held on, and after a terrible, life-spanning moment the crowd was gone. They had broken free.

“Ride!” Raymond cried. “Ride for your lives! Don’t look back. We live to avenge this day!”

They rode on, the enemy too intent on their imminent victory to follow, for despite the desperate charges of the Christians, the Saracens were closing in, the encircled army growing smaller until at last the king’s red tent fell, trampled in the dust.

***

“…You think you can beat me, shepherd boy?” Goliath cried, adding sotto voce, “Not in a million years, scrawny Shaun!”

His opponent was bright red with fury but, obedient to the microphone waving before him, he said, “You come at me wiv a spear an’ a sword an’ a shield—but I’m ’ere in the name of the Lord. You just wait, bigmouth,” he muttered, loading ammunition into his slingshot. He whirled the sling around his head and let it go, and Goliath, expecting to feel the soft thump of a paper ball against his bare chest, let out a yell as a small missile crashed into him.

“Ow! What the f—” He looked around to see what had hit him. There on the floor of the trailer was a small black-and-white sweet. One of Mr. Mullett’s humbugs. He glared at Shaun. “You little bastard!”

Forgetting the audience, he launched himself at the smaller boy. It only took the Philistines on the float a second to decide where their loyalties lie. Eager to pay off old scores, they fell upon Goliath.

“Boys, boys!” Aubrey Bodicote hopped helplessly from one foot to the other. Godfrey Mullett ran over and scrambled onto the float, trying to prise the combatants apart, but no sooner had he driven back the Philistines than Goliath threw himself once again upon young Tring.

In front of the floats, members of the Mothers’ Union were handing out pieces of the Ten Commandments to the crowds. Rita Tring, realising her youngest was involved in a brawl, dropped her tray and raced towards the float.

“Here, Sam Stansfield, you get off my Shaun! Get off, I tell you!”

Josh and Yvonne had already descended from their float, and Josh ran over to help Godfrey Mullett restore order. Deborah and Anne stood and watched, their hands over their mouths as the scene degenerated before them.

“Oh, no—more trouble!” Anne pointed to Graham Tring, who’d walked over and was now standing beside Yvonne, their heads very close together as they talked.

Deborah grabbed Anne’s arm. “Oh, no—look!”

Rita Tring was striding across the green, fresh from her triumph in rescuing little Shaun from a mauling. She was carrying a slab of the chocolate cake, which she was holding out before her like a peace offering as she came up to her husband and Yvonne.

“Just thought you two might like some of this,” she called, her voice carrying all too clearly on the breeze. “I saved it for you special. It’s the part that says
Thou shalt not commit adultery!
”

She slammed the cake into Yvonne’s face, and splodges of brown sticky sponge dripped onto Yvonne’s décolletage. Her howl of fury brought a momentary hush over the proceedings.

“You jealous bitch! Just ’cos you can’t keep ’im happy in bed—” Yvonne launched herself at Rita, and the two women fell to the floor, scratching and kicking. Having secured a temporary peace amongst the Scouts, Josh hurried back to help Graham Tring, who was trying to separate the two furies.

“Vicar, carry on with the last piece,” he hissed, “we need to distract everybody.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Reverend Bodicote almost ran on to the last float, and soon the band was playing a rousing march, drowning out the discordant voices beside them.

From his vantage point at the western end of the green, Bernard watched the proceedings with contemptuous amusement. This would be something to tell them at the office next week. Life in the country. Well, it was certainly
Nature, red in tooth and claw!

At that moment the band reached its rousing climax, which was the cue to bring down the cardboard walls of Jericho. Unfortunately, in their hurry to change lorries, the wall had been erected backwards, so that when the band leader tugged on the rope, instead of falling away from the trailer and onto the green, the boxes collapsed on the band, with one or two rolling away onto the road behind them.

By a cruel twist of fate, this happened at the very moment that Bertram Oldfield was passing by with Annabelle. The donkey very naturally took exception to being bombarded with boxes, even empty ones, and jumped away, braying indignantly. Murphy had been behaving impeccably, standing perfectly still and providing Bernard with a high and not uncomfortable seat from which to view the proceedings. However, Annabelle’s untimely intrusion caused the grey to prick up his ears. Swinging his big head around, he saw not only a hated donkey, but also the patterned cloth that was flapping in the breeze around his hindquarters.

With a snort Murphy started to move.

“Whoa there!” Bernard pulled on the reins, but it had no effect. Worse, Murphy began to canter. Bernard tried desperately to find the stirrups, which he’d kicked off earlier in order to stretch his cramped legs, but the irons had slipped back beneath the saddlecloth. “Whoa, you brute!”

He dropped the lance and pulled hard on the reins again, but Murphy was a seasoned riding-school campaigner and he had the bit firmly between his teeth. He cantered on, and all his hapless rider could do was hold on.

To the spectators, the sight of the knight in armour galloping across the green was a fitting end to the spectacle, and they clapped and cheered as Bernard charged by. Only the members of the committee knew that this was not part of the plan. Murphy was heading for the High Street, but he drew level with the last float just as Daniel and the lion were leaving to join the mayhem. Murphy didn’t object to a human dressed in long robes scrambling down the side of a lorry, but in the moth-eaten and partially threadbare lion’s costume he recognised a hitherto unknown species of mule and he stopped, rearing dramatically. Bernard clung on, and Deborah heard the murmurs of appreciation from the crowd around her.

“Better than the telly!” declared one young spectator.

“Yeah.” His friend grinned. “That blood on Goliath looks almost real.”

“Oh, my God!” Anne turned to Deborah. “Come on, we’d better do something. Which way to go first? Look, I’ll try and help stop World War III over there, and you had better go after your friend!”

Deborah nodded and ran forward as Murphy set off again, heading away from the High Street now and towards the narrow lane that led to the riverbank. She would have preferred to help Josh, who she could see was still trying to calm Yvonne and Rita Tring, but she knew Anne was right. Someone had to follow Bernard.

The crowd was enjoying every minute, and the band, after the initial shock of being battered with cardboard boxes, had risen to the occasion and struck up with a spirited rendition of “The Dambusters March.” As Deborah sprinted from the green, the sun broke through the clouds and she heard Aubrey Bodicote marshalling his crack troops, the members of his Bible class who’d volunteered to sell ice creams.

Deborah ran down the narrow lane to River Walk. After the noise of the green, it was strangely silent, cut off from the main village by the terrace of houses that backed on to the river. She stopped. Looking towards the bridge at Eastgate she had a clear view of the path. It was empty. She set off in the opposite direction—Bernard
must
have gone this way.

As she rounded the bend in the path, she saw Murphy, riderless, standing at the water’s edge. It took her a moment to realise that Bernard was
in
the river. After her initial shock she was relieved to see he was in no danger, for he was in the shallow water near the bank, trying to scramble to his feet while a family of ducks paddled around him, quacking indignantly at his intrusion into their territory.

Deborah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Are—are you all right?”

“Of course I’m not fucking all right!” He struggled towards the bank. The river here was only knee-deep, and there was little current, but his knitted chain mail was sodden and sagged heavily around his limbs. “Catch that bloody horse, will you? The bastard just took off.”

“I know. There was a donkey.”

“Yeah, well, the woman had no right letting us have an animal that couldn’t be trusted. I could have been killed.”

Murphy snorted and swung his big head, looking as untrustworthy as an old sofa. Deborah picked up the reins and tied them to a nearby bench, then she went back to help Bernard onto the bank.

“Let’s get that armour off you.” She pulled at the sodden cardboard. “It must weigh a ton. You were lucky he threw you into the shallows. The river is quite deep in places.”

“How many people saw me come off?”

She shook her head. “None. Most people thought your exit was part of the scene. It looked very good.”

“The hell it did.”

“Anyway, everyone wanted to stay on the green to watch the fighting.”

“Fucking shambles. Should have known how it would end. Bloody amateurs.”

“Well, why did you offer to help out then?” Deborah retorted, stung.

“Because I thought you’d be pleased!” He stepped out of the knitted costume and stood before her, looking extremely vulnerable in his dripping boxer shorts. “I wanted you to come back to London with me, and I thought if I did this for you—”

“Oh, Bernard.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, sensing his advantage. “I miss you, Debs. Doesn’t this prove that I’d do anything to get you to come back with me?”

His eyes were pleading. She felt herself weakening in the face of such devotion.

“Bernard—” Deborah looked at him helplessly. “Bernard, I—” She broke off when she saw Josh approaching.

“I just came down to see if you needed a hand…”

“Yes, I mean, Bernard came off…”

“Everything’s fine, mate. Thanks.” Bernard’s arm snaked possessively around her shoulders.

Seeing the move, Josh shrugged. “Oh. Okay. I’ll get back then. See you later, Debs.”

He turned and began walking away, the muscles of his bare back gleaming as he moved. Graceful, Deborah thought. Gorgeous. Perhaps if they could talk, if she gave him a chance to explain why he’d given Alan that information about her parents—maybe things could be worked out. She drew a breath to call after him but even as she did so, Bernard leaned heavily on her shoulder.