Off With His Head

‘Thank you.’

As she drove away she thought she heard him loudly repeat that his dad didn’t fancy women.

‘He’s going to fancy me if I die for it,’ thought Mrs Bünz.

The lane wound round the copse and there, on the far side, she found that classic, that almost archaic picture – a country blacksmith’s shop in the evening.

The bellows were in use. A red glow from the forge pulsed on the walls. A horse waited, half in shadow. Gusts of hot iron and seared horn and the sweetish reek of horse-sweat drifted out to mingle with the tang of frost. Somewhere in a dark corner beyond the forge a man with a lantern seemed to be bent over some task. Mrs Bünz’s interest in folklore, for all its odd manifestations, was perceptive and lively. Though now she was punctually visited by the, as it were, off-stage strains of the Harmonious Blacksmith, she also experienced a most welcome quietude of spirit. It was as if all her enthusiasms had become articulate. This was the thing itself, alive and luminous.

The smith and his mate moved into view. The horseshoe, lunar symbol, floated incandescent in the glowing jaws of the pincers. It was lowered and held on the anvil. Then the hammer swung, the sparks showered, and the harsh bell rang. Three most potent of all charms were at work – fire, iron and the horseshoe.

Mrs Bünz saw that while his assistant was a sort of vivid enlargement of the man she had met in the lane and so like him that they must be brothers, the smith himself was a surprisingly small man: small and old. This discovery heartened her. With renewed spirit she got out of her car and went to the door of the smithy. The third man, in the background, opened his lantern and blew out the flame. Then, with a quick movement he picked up some piece of old sacking and threw it over his work.

The smith’s mate glanced up but said nothing. The smith, apparently, did not see her. His branch-like arms, ugly and graphic, continued their thrifty gestures. He glittered with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead in a white fringe. After perhaps half a dozen blows the young man held up his hand and the other stopped, his chest heaving. They exchanged rôles. The young giant struck easily and with a noble movement that enraptured Mrs Bünz.

She waited. The shoe was laid to the hoof and the smith in his classic pose crouched over the final task. The man in the background was motionless.

‘Dad, you’re wanted,’ the smith’s mate said. The smith glanced at her and made a movement of his head. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ asked the son.

‘I come with a message,’ Mrs Bünz began gaily. ‘From Dame Alice Mardian. The boiler at the castle has burst.’

They were silent. ‘Thank you, then, ma’am,’ the son said at last. He had come towards her but she felt that the movement was designed to keep her out of the smithy. It was as if he used his great torso as a screen for something behind it.

She beamed into his face. ‘May I come in?’ she asked. ‘What a wonderful smithy.’

‘Nobbut old scarecrow of a place. Nothing to see.’

‘Ach!’ she cried jocularly, ‘but that’s just what I like. Old things are by way of being my business, you see. You’d be’– she made a gesture that included the old smith and the motionless figure in the background –‘you’d all be surprised to hear how much I know about blackschmidts.’

‘Ar, yes, ma’am?’

‘For example,’ Mrs Bünz continued, growing quite desperately arch, ‘I know all about those spiral irons on your lovely old walls there. They’re fire charms, are they not? And, of course, there’s a horseshoe above your door. And I see by your beautifully printed little notice that you are Andersen, not Anderson, and that tells me so exactly just what I want to know. Everywhere, there are evidences for me to read. Inside, I dare say –’ She stood on tiptoe and coyly dodged her large head from side to side, peeping round him and making a mocking face as she did so. ‘I dare say there are all sorts of things –’

‘No, there bean’t then.’

The old smith had spoken. Out of his little body had issued a great roaring voice. His son half turned and Mrs Bünz, with a merry laugh, nipped past him into the shop.

‘It’s Mr Andersen, senior,’ she cried, ‘is it not? It is – dare I? – the Old Guiser himself? Now I know you don’t mean what you’ve just said. You are much too modest about your beautiful schmiddy. And so handsome a horse! Is he a hunter?’

‘Keep off. ’Er be a mortal savage kicker. See that naow,’ he shouted as the mare made a plunging movement with the near hind leg which he held cradled in his lap. ‘She’s fair moidered already. Keep off of it. Keep aout. There’s nobbut men’s business yur.’

‘And I had heard so much,’ Mrs Bünz said gently, ‘of the spirit of hospitality in this part of England. Zo! I was misinformed, it seems. I have driven over two hundred –’

‘Blow up, there, you, Chris. Blow up! Whole passel’s gone cold while she’ve been nattering. Blow up, boy.’

The man in the background applied himself to the bellows. A vivid glow pulsed up from the furnace and illuminated the forge. Farm implements, bits of harness, awards won at fairs flashed up. The man stepped a little aside and in doing so, he dislodged the piece of sacking he had thrown over his work. Mrs Bünz cried out in German. The smith swore vividly in English. Grinning out of the shadows was an iron face, half-bird, half-monster, brilliantly painted, sardonic, disturbing and, in that light, strangely alive.

Mrs Bünz gave a scream of ecstasy.

‘The Horse!’ she cried, clapping her hands like a mad woman. ‘The Old Hoss. The Hooden Horse. I have found it. Gott sie danke, what joy is mine!’

The third man had covered it again. She looked at their unsmiling faces.

‘Well, that was a treat,’ said Mrs Bünz in a deflated voice. She laughed uncertainly and returned quickly to her car.

CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_23618e87-46b7-5d6e-877d-2f25a3a4173d)

Camilla (#ulink_23618e87-46b7-5d6e-877d-2f25a3a4173d)

Up in her room at the Green Man, Camilla Campion arranged herself in the correct relaxed position for voice exercise. Her diaphragm was gently retracted and the backs of her fingers lightly touched her ribs. She took a long, careful deep breath and as she expelled it, said in an impressive voice:

‘Nine Men’s Morris is filled up with mud.’ This she did several times, muttering to herself, in imitation of her speechcraft instructor whom she greatly admired, ‘On the breath dear child: on the breath.’

She glanced at herself in the looking-glass on the nice old dressing-table and burst out laughing. She laughed partly because her reflection looked so solemn and was also slightly distorted and partly because she suddenly felt madly happy and in love with almost everyone in the world. It was glorious to be eighteen, a student at the West London School of Drama and possibly in love, not only with the whole world, but with one young man as well. It was heaven to have come alone to Mardian and put up at the Green Man like a seasoned traveller. ‘I’m as free as a lark,’ thought Camilla Campion. She tried saying the line about Nine Men’s Morris with varying inflexions. It was filled up with mud. Then it was filled up with mud, which sounded surprised and primly shocked and made her laugh again. She decided to give up her practice for the moment, and feeling rather magnificent helped herself to a cigarette. In doing so she unearthed a crumpled letter from her bag. Not for the first time she re-read it.

Dear Niece,

Dad asked me to say he got your letter and far as he’s concerned you’ll be welcome up to Mardian. There’s accommodation at the Green Man. No use bringing up the past I reckon and us all will be glad to see you. He’s still terrible bitter against your mother’s marriage on account of it was to a R.C. So kindly do not refer to same although rightly speaking her dying ought to make all things equal in the sight of her Maker and us creatures here below.

Your affec. uncle

Daniel Andersen

Camilla sighed, tucked away the letter and looked along the lane towards Copse Forge.

‘I’ve got to be glad I came,’ she said.

For all the cold she had opened her window. Down below a man with a lanthorn was crossing the lane to the pub. He was followed by a dog. He heard her and looked up. The light from the bar windows caught his face.

‘Hallo, Uncle Ernest,’ called Camilla. ‘You are Ernest, aren’t you? Do you know who I am? Did they tell you I was coming?’

‘Ar?’

‘I’m Camilla. I’ve come to stay for a week.’

‘Our Bessie’s Camilla?’

‘That’s me. Now, do you remember?’

He peered up at her with the slow recognition of the mentally retarded. ‘I did yur tell you was coming. Does Guiser know?’

‘Yes. I only got here an hour ago. I’ll come and see him tomorrow.’

‘He doan’t rightly fancy wummen.’

‘He will me,’ she said gaily. ‘After all he’s my grandfather! He asked me to come.’

‘Noa!’