The Man in the Moss by Phil Rickman Page B

progressed. There's summat special
about this place, I've always known that.'
                Moira Cairns , Ernie remembered. That
was her name. Scottish. Very beautiful. Long, black hair.
                'Right.' Matt bawled back over his shoulder, into the
bar. 'Let's have a few lights on. Like a flamin' mausoleum in there.'
                Ma Wagstaff stiffened and plucked at Ernie's jacket.
     
    The sun wasn't ever going
to get out of that low cloud, he thought. Won't know till tomorrow if it's made
it to the hills or if the Moss has got it.
                'By 'eck,' he said ruefully, as if his fanciful thoughts
were printed on the misting, mackerel sky where Ma Wagstaff could read them,
'I'm ...'
                'Getting a bit whimsy?'
                Ernie laughed through his discomfort. She made it sound
like a digestive problem.
                'Not before time,' Ma said. 'Never any talking to you
when you was headmaster. Jumped-up little devil. Knew it all - what teacher
ever don't? Still ... better late than not. Now then, Ernest Dawber, I'll try
and teach thee summat.'
                He let Ma Wagstaff lead him away to the edge of the
forecourt, from where terraced stone cottages plodded up to the high-towered
church, a noble sentinel over the Moss.
            'What do you see?'
                'This a trick question, Ma?'
                Now, with the sun gone, all
the houses had merged. You couldn't tell any more which ones had fresh
paintwork, which had climbing roses or new porches. Only a few front steps
stood out, the ones which had been recently donkey-stoned so they shone bright
as morning.
                'To be honest, Ma, I can't see that much. Can't even see
colours.'
                'What can you
see, then?'
                'It's not light,' Ernie said, half-closing his eyes,
"and it's not dark. Everything's melting together.
                'Go on.'
            'I can't see the individual
houses. I suppose I can only see the people who live in them. Young Frank and
Susan and the little lad. Alf Beckett. Millicent Gill at the Post Office ...Gus
Bibby, Maurice and Dee at the chip shop.   And I suppose ... if I look a bit harder ...'
                'Aye, you do that.'
                'If I look harder I can see the people who lived in the
house before ...The Swains - Arthur Swain and his pigeons. Alf Beckett's
mother, forty-odd years a widow. I can bring them
all back when I've a mind. Specially at this time of day. But that's the
danger, as you get older, seeing things as they were, not as they are.'
                'The trick' said Ma, 'is to see it all at same time. As
it was and as it is. And when I says "as it was" I don't just mean in
your lifetime or even my lifetime. I mean as far back as yon bogman's time.'
                Ernie
felt himself shiver. He pushed the British Museum papers deeper into his
inside pocket. Whatever secret knowledge of the bogman Ma possessed, he didn't
want to know any more.
                Ma said, 'You stand here long enough, you can see it all
the way back, and you won't see no colours, you won't see no hard edges. Now
when you're out on t'Moss, Brid'lo don't look that welcoming, does it? All cold
stone. You know that, you've written about it enough. But it's not cold to us,
is it? Not when we're inside. No hard edges, no bright colours, never owt like
that.'
            'No.'
                'Only shades. Ma said, almost dreamily. 'Them's what's
kept this place the way it is. Shades of things '
            'Shades?'
                'Old colours all run together. No clashes. Know what I'm
telling you, Ernest?'
                'Harmony?' Ernie said. 'Is that it? Which is not to say
there's no bickering, or bits of bad feeling. But, fundamentally,