Facing the Tank by Patrick Gale Page A

briefly liquefied school. Seismologists had produced what they swore were accurate maps of the hill’s interior. These were enough to put any fool off digging a mine but, as far as householders, Dean or Chapter were concerned, had arrived a little late in the day. Severe accidents were rare enough to be outweighed by the attractions of the place, but close enough in public memory for Barrowers to see themselves as invested with a certain brave, frontier spirit.
    Nine centuries on, alas, Nature had begun to tamper where Normandy had held off and the Saxon section was at risk. The first warning came as long ago as 1908 when a new altar was installed in the Patron’s chapel and the floor was found to be so out of true that a portion of the new stone had slid forward and smashed against Saint Boniface’s tomb. With the more recent appearance of alarming cracks in the outside wall of the chapel and the tumbling, during eight o’clock Communion, of the Patron’s crucifix and one of the larger flower arrangements on his tomb, it was decided to declare an emergency and launch an appeal. An expatriate Californian billionaire kindly put up two thirds of the money needed, without even coming to see the damage, and so forced Mrs Delaney-Siedentrop to soften, if not exactly to recant her views on his people.
    Work was to begin today, supervised by the family of masons who had arrived from Glasgow between the wars and since secured a monopoly on all work at the Cathedral and Tatham’s. Although only the retired patriarch retained his Glaswegian accent, his several sons were still known as ‘the Scottish Masons’ and it was cause for pride if one could ever secure their time to labour on anything so mundane as a house. Before they could move in, the Patron had to be shifted. A charming service of apology and explanation had been concocted by the Dean and this morning, with the aid of a winch and the attendance of such local archaeologists, well-wishers and press as could not be put off by an ungodly hour, the tomb was to be opened. The sainted contents were eventually to be removed to a cavity before the high altar. The cavity in question was actually something to do with a redundant heating system but, by the tender attentions of the Scottish Masons, had been transformed into a clean and passable tomb. Because the sight of such important bones being slid on to an unpoetic plastic sheet might upset the congregation, no more than the sarcophagus lid was to be moved during the little service. The rest would happen once the crowds had departed and once the area was afforded the discretion of a curtain and no-entry sign.
    With the saint safely stowed, the massive task was to begin of dismantling the east end, stone by historied stone, so that the cavity beneath it could be dealt with. William Walker, a fearless diver, had spent months and at last his health, swimming through mud to shore up the sinking mass of Winchester Cathedral earlier in the century, so it was assumed that the brave workers of Glasgow would not be averse to clambering in Barrowcester’s primeval potholes to erect similar supports. The whole secure, the east end would be rebuilt. It had occurred to Gavin to suggest that the rain-smoothed gargoyles and carvings be replaced with stone caricatures of modern figures so as to continue the medieval tradition. It was a suggestion which he thought could now wait a little.
    He entered the Patron’s chapel. The winch that was arranged over the tomb, its chains cunningly attached to the corners and sides of the sarcophagus lid, was entwined with Mrs Delaney-Siedentrop, or at least her watchful flowers. He walked over, not knowing their names, and took a sniff to show he was not afraid. They were white and smelled of honey and dust. He touched the pulley chain and made it and its scented burden swing with a sound like distant mice.
    Temptation overcame him. It would be another half hour before the first verger came to open up