Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [64]
‘Daisy was just where your young friend said. She’d whelped, and there was one pup left alive. It were a good guess on his part.’
‘So he was right?’
‘It were a good guess. A very good guess. He must know the ways o’ dogs. Well, what are we going to be shown this morning, Mr Jenkins?’
‘I wonder. There’s quite a fair lot of people have come to see. It means local interest in preventing what the quarry want to do.’
Mr Gauntlett laughed at some amusing thought of his own in this connexion. When he voiced that thought the meaning was not immediately clear.
‘Ernie Dunch won’t be joining us today.’
‘He won’t?’
There was nothing very surprising about this piece of information. It looked as if Mr Gauntlett had cut across the fields from Dunch’s farm, which was out to the west from where we were walking. Mr Dunch farmed the meadow on which The Devil’s Fingers stood. He was not the farmer who had acted as figurehead in purchase by the quarry of the neighbouring fields, his land running only to the summit of the ridge, but his own attitude to quarry development was looked upon as unreliable by those who preferred some restriction to be set on the spread of quarry workings. Dunch was unlikely to bother much about what infringements might be taking place on territory with scenic or historical claims. Idle curiosity could have brought him to the meeting, nothing more. He would be no great loss. For some reason Mr Gauntlett found the fact immensely droll that Mr Dunch would not be present.
‘Ernie Dunch didn’t feel up to coming,’ he repeated.
‘I don’t expect Mr Dunch cares much, one way or the other, what the quarry does.’
‘Nay, I don’t think ‘tis that. Last Tuesday I heard Ernie saying he’d be out with us all today, to know what was happening nextdoor to him. I said I’d drop in, and we’d go together. I thought I’d see, that way, Ernie did come.’
Mr Gauntlett laughed to himself.
‘That’s natural enough, since the quarry would extend quite close to his own land. I’m glad he feels himself concerned. What’s wrong with Mr Dunch?’
Obviously, from Mr Gauntlett’s manner, that question was meant to be asked. He had a story he wanted to tell. I was not particularly interested myself why Dunch had made his decision to stay away.
‘Ernie’s quite a young fellow.’
‘So I’ve been told. I don’t know him personally.’
‘Two-and-thirty. Three-and-thirty maybe.’
Mr Gauntlett pondered. We plodded on through the heavy furrows. Mr Gauntlett, having presumably settled in his own mind, within a few days, the date of Ernie Dunch’s birth, changed his tone to the rather special one in which he would relate local history and legend.
‘I’ll warrant you’ve heard tell stories of The Fingers, Mr Jenkins?’
‘You’ve told me quite a few yourself, Mr Gauntlett – the Stones going down to the brook to drink. That’s what we want to make sure they’re still able to do. Not be forced to burrow under a lot of quarry waste, before they can quench their thirst. I should think the Stones would revenge themselves on the quarry if anything of the sort is allowed to happen.’
‘Aye, I shouldn’t wonder. I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Smash up the culvert, when the cock crows at midnight.’
‘Ah.’
I hoped for a new legend from Mr Gauntlett. He seemed in the mood. They always came out unexpectedly. That was part of Mr Gauntlett’s technique as a story-teller. He cleared his throat.
‘I’ve heard tales o’ The Fingers since I was a nipper. All the same, it comes like a surprise when young folks believe such things, now they’re glued to the television all day long.’
Mr Gauntlett watched television a good deal himself. At least he seemed always familiar with every programme.
‘I’m pleased to hear young people do still believe in such stories.’
‘Ah, so am I, Mr Jenkins, so am I. That’s true. It’s a surprise all the same.’
I thought perhaps Mr Gauntlett needed a little encouragement.
‘I was asked by a young man – the one who told you where to find Daisy – if the Stones bled when a knife was thrust in them at Hallowe’en, or some such season of the year.
‘I’ve heard tell the elder trees round about The Fingers do bleed, and other strange tales. I can promise you one thing, Mr Jenkins, in Ernie Dunch