A TRAVELLING MAN

Jacob Byghan strides along the road, his stick tapping rhythmically. A grey rucksack sits on his back, frayed and saggy but doing its job. He pauses to admire a butterfly resting on the hawthorn bush. there seem so few in number compared with when he lived here as a child.

The heat of the sun generates steam on the tarmac from the recent shower. Jacob is glad of his green wax hat which protects him from the extremes of weather.

He pulls a hessian sack from his jacket pocket. The acrid smell of wild garlic makes him screw up his nose as he bends to pick up litter from the hedgerows. His booty includes a plastic water bottle, a drinks can and a polystyrene burger box. He stows them in the sack for safe disposal later. As he does so he becomes aware of a gentle presence nudging at the sack. The moist nose of a chocolate brown cocker spaniel, whose dark eyes gaze up at him with trust. He rubs the spaniel’s head with his calloused hand and the dog wags its tail in delight.

‘Hello old boy,’ he murmurs, ‘nothing in there for you.’

‘Come away Henry.’

The woman’s voice is shrill, but the dog obligingly returns to his mistress. She puts him on the lead.

Jacob touches his hat brim in salute.

‘Lovely bit of sunshine now.’

Sylvia avoids his eye. She would tell Geoffrey later that she’d seen a vagrant in the village. The council should do something.

Jacob shrugs and resumes his walk. He is heading for the church, hoping to find some shelter. A new estate of houses sprawls to the right. He remembers it used to be the orchard where he’d scrump for apples with his cousin Treve.

As he continues along the road, a car passes, then another. A convoy of traffic builds. The occupants of the cars are dressed in black. He pauses, shrugs off his rucksack and places it on the grass verge next to a stile. Perching on the stile, he takes a baccy tin from an inside pocket and extracts a cigarette paper from a slim packet in the tin. Then he takes a wedge of tobacco and spreads it along the paper with his yellowed thumb and forefinger. He licks and rolls the cigarette and places it behind his ear for later.

He gazes across the fields and river to the nearby town. The cranes above the docks look like toys. Multi-coloured houses decorate the hillside in pastel colours of mint, peach, blue and yellow. Cars move like busy ants along the bypass down into the town. The mournful toll of the church bell comes to him along the breeze. He shivers, the sound taking him back to his own young son’s funeral.

The road is quiet now. He heaves his rucksack onto his shoulders and resumes his walk down the steep hill towards the creek. He enters the gate at the top of the churchyard. It is dark and cool in the shade; the trees block most of the sun. Many of the inscriptions on the gravestones are familiar, he recalls them from childhood. The grass grows high, dandelions and primroses pop sporadically, like stars. He settles at the base of the old Celtic cross which affords him a view down onto the roadside below.

A late pair of mourners sidle into the church as the hearses arrive. Two undertakers emerge from the cars and bow their heads towards the coffins, before wheeling them out of the vehicles. Two men get out of the black saloon which has pulled in behind the hearses. Both are in their thirties with shocks of red hair. One runs a large forefinger inside his collar, seeking to ease the discomfort. The other stands with hands clasped in front of him, and shifts from one foot to the other, uncertain where to stand. The resemblance is undeniable. These are Treve’s boys.

The undertakers wheel the coffins into the church and the two men follow. Jacob slips into the back of the church behind the funeral party. The church is packed. Silence falls as the music ends, punctuated only by the occasional cough and rustles of the orders of service. The wicker coffins lie side by side at the front. Beams of light, cast red and green from the stained glass windows, fall on the caskets. A vicar with long, shiny brown hair adjusts her stylish black glasses and leads the congregation in prayer.

One of the sons stands and goes to the lectern clutching some notes. He talks of family life on the farm, the freedoms and the fun. ‘It is not the end that matters,’ he says, ‘but the lifetimes of love.’

‘So Treve and Sheila both gone. Some tragedy has occurred here,’ thinks Jacob,’but I’ve no mind to speculate as to what it might be.’

He slips out of the church as the service continues and makes his way back up to the cross where he inhales the clean, fresh air from the sea. He pulls his cigarette from behind his ear, lights it and looks down at the boatyard. The boats swing from side to side in the quickening breeze, and the sunlight magnifies and dazzles as it bounces off the masts. The crows caw, and the gulls bicker and cry.

The voices of the congregation rise to ‘Abide with Me’ and he sings along quietly. The church doors open, the coffins emerge and are smoothly slid back into the hearses. Treve and Sheila’s sons stand by the entrance, shaking hands with the mourners as they emerge. Jacob recognises some of the faces. Emily Ferguson stands straight backed in a smart but dated coat that looks too warm. Margaret Clemens leans on a  walking stick and looks as if she has missed too many meals. She is supported by a woman who places a protective arm behind her back. Jacob does not know her but she wears a striking pendant necklace that is at odds with her drab outfit and mousy ponytail. Emily approaches Margaret in conversation, bending forward to study the helper’s necklace.

Eventually the mourners disperse and the vicar emerges from the church heading towards the churchyard gates. She looks up at Jacob, pauses and smiles. She fishes keys from her bag and does an about turn, walking to a small shed behind the church, where she unlocks the door. She waves to Jacob and heads off towards the car park.

Chapter 8