"The Sabbatical" is an episode of West Country Tales, a British supernatural anthology television series written by acclaimed children's horror author Josephine Poole. First broadcast in 1982 by the BBC, the folk-horror drama explores themes of isolation, urban development encroaching on tradition, and the breakdown of reality.
The Sabbatical
By Josephine Poole
A picture postcard village. Narrow streets, thatched cottages, gardens full of old-fashioned flowers— the sort of sleepy, sun-dazed place that keeps itself to itself through the centuries. It was never stirred by great events; it never bothered with history.
Its young men had gone to war — there was a memorial to prove it. But the flower show still happened at midsummer; seedtime and harvest came and went; the years ticked past. And peace returned, as people knew it would. No change in the village.
The Squire was a tweedy, red-faced man, a gardener and Labrador owner. On his shoulders lay the heavy responsibility of judging between the cucumbers and tomatoes, and gross, forcibly-fed marrows, at the annual show. When his wife died, he married her nurse, just a shade too quickly; people did talk about that but otherwise his life looked as straight as a gun barrel.
Mr Tucker kept a little shop, which sold tobacco and newspapers. Mr Tucker was news. Inside his narrow head, all the events in the village were stored. If you knew you had an appointment tomorrow, but couldn't remember where, you only had to ask him. He was a weights and measures man, who made it his business to assess the worth of everyone in the village. Impossible to fool him: he had a cold heart and a calculating eye — an eye like a cash register. No girlie mags in his shop.
The general stores and post office was kept by Mrs Shattock. She was very fat. You would have thought she kept the stores in order to eat the provisions. With her bosom friend, Mrs Sweetapple, she would lean across the counter, munching something chocolatey, chewing over a scandal. Mrs Sweetapple was the eyes and ears of the village. She kept a guest house, 'The Cobblestones'. Bed and breakfast all year round, with evening meal optional, extra; cream teas in summer. Mrs Shattock and Mrs Sweetapple often got together over a cream tea in the garden, whispering the latest, flapping at wasps.
Mr Foxwell farmed. He provided the district with milk and butter, cheese, eggs, and fruit and vegetables (pick your own) in season. Every inch of his land produced something to sell. His bulging bank account threatened him like a bottomless pit; however much he poured into it, there was always room for more. He was far richer than the Squire, but he did not feel rich. He kept his family hard at work; and he worked harder than any of them.
These five people held the strings that ran the village. They were represented on every committee, from the Mothers' Union to the Parish Council, and no decisions could be made without their consent. They were the big fish in the sleepy, sun-dappled pond; and woe betides any visiting minnow who dared to wriggle in and upset the equilibrium!
The name, 'The Cobblestones', was worked in olde Englishe poker work on a board outside the neat white-washed cottage. A card reading VACANCIES was tucked discreetly into the net spy curtains at a downstairs window. Behind these curtains Mrs Sweetapple hovered, poised for the event of the day — the arrival of the bus. Mr Tucker, too, leant forward to rearrange something in his shop window — and note the comings and goings.
The bus ground to a halt, and one man got out. Mrs Sweetapple was expecting him; he had booked to stay a week at 'The Cobblestones'. He was a clergyman named Antony Shaw. Mrs Sweetapple and Mr Tucker eyed him critically as he descended from the bus. One mac (inevitable accompaniment to an English holiday), one suitcase (cheap), field-glasses. Nothing threatening about him, so far, but then you could never tell. He obviously wasn't of the same breed as their own dear Vicar, that wishy washy, slender, caring person. Antony Shaw was built more like a boxer, burly and brisk, with quick dark eyes. Mr Tucker, not liking to appear inquisitive, dissolved among the shadows in his shop. Mrs Sweetapple sucked in her lips, and prepared to answer the door — all welcoming surprise —when the new arrival found her cottage and rang the bell.
Antony Shaw had a certain reputation in his home town. He wasn't a passive priest. He believed in the reality of the devil, and his whole life was involved in the struggle to put him down. He was a crusader; but not quite a saint, not yet. To tell the truth he'd been getting a bit obsessed with the devil, and that was why his bishop, recognizing signs of strain, insisted on this unexpected holiday.
He'd never been to the West Country before. He'd often heard how beautiful it was — but this was unbelievable! He might have travelled to another planet; this was so different from the city where he worked. The crowds, the noise, the worry — gone! A different race of people must live here; he felt almost afraid to speak, as if he talked a foreign language. He felt that perhaps he had died on the bus, and this was Heaven.
The Squire happened to walk down the street just then with a letter to post. Antony Shaw had his 'Good after noon!' ready— his understanding of country manners; but the Squire ignored him. Better to wait for friendly gestures from the natives! He crossed the street to The Cobblestones', hoping that the name wouldn't apply to the beds an innocuous, vicary kind of joke.
As the door closed behind him, Mr Tucker and Mrs Shattock emerged from their shops, and the Squire moved in to join them. Had he seen this Antony Shaw, with his eye for such things, might have detected something hostile about the group. But at that moment he was chucking his dog collar down on the bed, making himself at home among the knick-knacks of his clean but cluttered room.
Later, he went out for a walk: soft shirt open at the neck, walking shoes, field glasses. He stopped at the shop to buy some sweets, and a map. He'd have stopped longer, for a chat; but he had that disconcerting feeling of not belonging. Beyond the pale — that was how he felt. And as if he was watched, all the way through the village .
But what a pretty village! He really couldn't have found a lovelier spot for rest and relaxation.
All the old granny flowers bobbed in the gardens— roses of course, the sweet-scented, tissue papery sort; valerian, snapdragons. Stocks, sweet williams, lavender — the smell of cottage gardens, a breath of childhood that took his breath away. Angels' breath —
He walked soberly on. It surprised him a little that there weren't more people about; neighbours gossiping, children racketing on bikes. Maybe they were all watching the television. Though again he could have sworn there were eyes at curtains as he passed by. He felt prickly all down his back. He felt that if he turned suddenly, he'd see heads poking out of the windows he'd passed, all the way up the street.
In a few minutes he'd walked right out into the country. Then, what a view, of rounded, rolling hills, and sheltered valleys! He drew in his breath, filling his lungs with the warm air. Some rooks were flying over the woods. Down in the combe, out of sight, a man was calling 'Hope! Hope!' bringing in his cows.
On top of the hill, quite close, there was a church. It stood in a little graveyard which was enclosed by an overgrown hedge. The hill was steep, and he was out of breath by the time he reached the top. An iron gate led into the churchyard, and a path to the church door.
This was an unexpected bonus. He'd understood that the nearest church was in the next village. He opened the gate.
It was a shamefully neglected place. Dead leaves, long grass, hog weed and ivy — peeling elms and brambles in the hedge. The church was locked, of course. But there was a wooden seat under the window, and he climbed up, and peered in. The glass was very dirty. Old wooden pews — it might be interesting. He'd find out who kept the key, and have a look round sometime. He wondered about the history of the place. The view beyond the hedge was superb. It might have been an ancient British camp; or a chieftain's burial ground. Maybe this Christian enclosure had its roots in the Old Religion —
As he stood there, absorbed in his thoughts, his attention was caught by a flash of colour. He snatched for his field-glasses and clapped them to his eyes. Not daring to move, he followed the flight of the bird which was certainly rare in his part of the country. It swooped over the graves, quite at home in the little churchyard -- until suddenly he lost it He dropped the glasses and stared after it in disappointment. He realized then, with a bit of a shock, that he was not alone.
A little girl was standing between the graves, picking flowers. She was only a few yards away, but it wasn't surprising that he hadn't noticed her because she was a very little girl — not more than six or seven; and every time she bent for a flower she was quite hidden in the long grass. She wore a loose cotton dress the colour of hay, with a faint flowery pattern, and her brown hair hung straight to her shoulders. She had a curious face. It wasn't childlike in its expression. It wasn't open, or friendly. Her eyes were brown and very penetrating.
He looked at her, and she at him, and then she bent and picked more flowers, and straightened and looked at him again. He took a few steps towards her and made some banal remark about being there on holiday as if he had to justify his presence. He pulled himself together, made a treat of opening his packet of sweets, and offered her one. She didn't want it. So he put it into his own mouth, and raising his glasses, had another look round the churchyard. She went on picking flowers — they were pink campions, and she was bare-legged among the nettles, but she didn't seem to mind them. Now and then she paused, and regarded him gravely.
He said, 'I must be getting back, or I'll miss my — what do you call it in these parts? Tea? Evening meal?'
She didn't enlighten him.
`Don't forget to put your flowers in water. Don't you think it's a shame to pick them all? They look so pretty growing!'
She didn't answer. He moved away. He felt as clumsy as an ox and embarrassed by his failure to communicate. At the gate he turned. She was standing looking after him, but catching his eye she stooped to pick more flowers.
High overhead the pigeons were coming in to roost. No quieter voices ever lulled the earth to rest.
He expected to sleep well that night. Mrs Sweetapple's cooking, of sterling British quality, was not the sort to keep him awake with indigestion. The bed was good enough, and country air notoriously soporific.
But a priest can't work close to the devil without getting acquainted; and the devil had followed him even here, to dominate his dreams. His hairy devil scratched like a bramble bush, with a voice as harsh as a rusty nail. 'Did you think you'd cheat ME by taking off your dog collar? You fool, I can spot you without that! You've been twisting my tail too long. Look out, Antony Shaw! Watch it!'
Childish nightmares! But they woke him up in a sweat. He sat up at last, wearily, and looked for his sleeping pills. He found them, but he had forgotten to bring in a glass of water, and he couldn't swallow them without.
So he got out of bed, hitched on his dressing gown, and came out on to the landing. The house was perfectly quiet. Only the clock like a beating heart kept the rhythm of the sleeping house.
The absurd fancy crossed his mind — what if the clock stopped? What of the sleepers then? Would they wake in the morning?
He had to guess which door led into the bathroom; that was a tricky moment. (Unwarranted intrusion into Mrs Sweetapple's bower; appalled shrieks; letter of complaint to the bishop.) Fortunately, he guessed right; gulped straight from the tap to swallow the pills; and raised his exhausted face to the mirror over the basin. And seemed to hear again that mocking, rusty nail voice: 'What's up, Antony Shaw? You surely don't expect to see me looking over your shoulder!'
He returned to his bedroom. The house was so quiet! Could the people still be breathing in the different rooms?
There were two windows in his room. The one at the far side overlooked the garden, but that on the left of the door had a view of the street, and he turned to it for a breath of air before going back to bed. He'd left the window open (no noise or fumes to worry about) and the net curtains were lifting slightly in the draught.
He looked down — upon a group of people standing just across the street. Some he recognized: his landlady, and Mr Tucker, and the man he had seen when he got off the bus. They were all tightly together, in some sort of intense communication — and staring up at him as if by some power they had drawn him to the window.
What sort of a meeting was that?
For the first time in his life, he felt that it would be comforting to hear a lorry: just a homely, all-night lorry thumping safely through the village —
He went back to bed.
Next morning Mrs Sweetapple provided a sandwich lunch, and he set out for the day. At first he was dogged by his nightmares, which persisted like a shadow across his mind. But he made himself concentrate on the holiday. He'd been advised — ordered — to relax and enjoy himself. This wasn't his parish. Midnight meetings here were not his concern. He was on the look-out for birds, not devils; this summer morning —
He found an unmade track dipping down from the village. It was still early by holiday time. The young corn bent to the wind like brushed hair. Over the corn, a lark rose, more and more recklessly, to the radiant sky.
After a while he caught sight of a handsome grey wagtail, and he knew there must be water close. Sure enough, he soon reached a belt of trees with a wooden footbridge between. He paused on the bridge to watch the dark, swift river.
Now the track dwindled to a path, which led along the river and the lower edge of a large sloping field of uncut, yellowish grass, where docks grew, and blue scabious, and yellow ragwort, and many other weeds he couldn't name. It struck him as a lovely place. It seemed to him extraordinarily peaceful. The path led to a gate at the far side of the field, where there was a wood.
A flash of brilliant colour caught his eye. It couldn't —even here -- be a firecrest? Full of excitement, he tried to find it with the glasses. But once again he was disappointed, and letting them hang from the strap round his neck, he went on with his walk.
He had then the uncanny feeling that he wasn't alone in the field. He stopped, and looked all round, and presently, in the long grass on the slope, he saw the child. Only her head and shoulders showed above the sea of yellowy grass. She was some distance away, but he didn't need to use his glasses; he knew who it was. He called, 'Hallo!' She didn't speak, only looked at him, and then ducked, and disappeared. He waited on the path until she surfaced again, in a different place. He imagined she was absorbed in a game of her own. He found himself wishing he could be included. `Lovely day!' he cried, with a wave of his arm, but she'd gone again.
He walked down close to the river, remembering the times he'd played, all the islands and dams. When he came back to the path, the field was empty; he waited several minutes but she didn't appear and he thought she must have gone home. But as he came round a clump of bushes, he saw her in front of him. She was sitting on the gate into the wood. She was wearing the dress she had had on yesterday, and her legs and feet were bare.
She must have been waiting for him, because when she saw him, she stretched out her arms without speaking. It struck him that her expression was indescribably forlorn, and it touched his heart, so that he moved forward clumsily, saying, 'Do you want me to help you down?' She looked wistfully into his face; but as he took her hands she sprang off the gate and sped away. He was left, staring after her, staring down at his hands — because she was cold, cold! A touch of ice, on that summer day!
Was she his friend, or not? He couldn't say. Soon she was out of sight. High over the field, on the threshold of Heaven, the larks were singing their hearts out.
He walked on through the wood, and found a cornfield where he stopped for lunch. Then he settled down for a sleep. He thought he'd chosen a shady place, but he became very hot. Still after a bad night, he was too sleepy to move; but he seemed to hear church bells in the distance, which was odd at that time of day. The bells had a sea sound, wavy, intermittent. The flies were troublesome. He frowned and twitched in his sleep like an old dog. Lord of the Flies —
He woke up boiling, with a headache.
At supper he asked Mrs Sweetapple about the little girl, and got nowhere. Mrs Sweetapple had never seen her; certainly she didn't live in that village.
Antony Shaw went to bed early. He was surprisingly tired, and he still had a headache. But by doubling the number of his sleeping pills, he ensured that whatever the nightmares and voices, and secret meetings under his window, his eyes stayed shut all night.
Next day he decided to go and look at the church, but what with one thing and another, it was afternoon by the time he set off. He had to borrow the key from Mr Tucker. The weather was still fine, and he walked through the village in his shirtsleeves. He wondered vaguely whether it ever rained here. He couldn't imagine it cold or wet. A sun-dazed place —
He wondered, too, whether the little girl would be waiting for him. No -- the churchyard was empty.
He turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open. Derelict — that was the word that came into his mind. A double row of pews, the old-fashioned sort with doors; a Communion rail; drifts of dried leaves; not much to see. It couldn't have been outstanding at the best of times. But it had atmosphere —
He glanced at the memorial tablets. Sweetapple Tucker — the same old names. Links with the past.
Yes, for a disused church it certainly had a lot of atmosphere. And not all pleasant. Besides the mouldy smell, he detected a definite feeling of — well — death --
At that moment the church door slammed violently shut. Antony Shaw spun round. He walked quickly down the church with his heart knocking — he knew that when he came in there wasn't a breath of wind. Somebody's joke —that little girl's, perhaps; or maybe the door was weighted in some way, to draw it shut.
The door was shut, all right, and it had locked itself. And he had left the key on the outside. Stupid of him! But there must be another door.
He hurried to it. It, too, was locked. All right! Exit vicar through church window!
None of the windows would open. And even if he lost his self-control and smashed one, it wouldn't help him because the little panes were set between vertical iron bars, which effectively stopped thieves from climbing in — and vicars from escaping.
He sat, and reviewed the situation, with his heart banging away in allegro time. It was ridiculous to feel panic-stricken. There was no logical reason for alarm. He wouldn't even have to spend the night here; because they'd realize what had happened, of course. Mrs Sweetapple would miss him at the evening meal, and both she and Mr Tucker knew that he had gone to look at the church. So someone would soon be along to let him out.
Absurd to feel trapped.
A light wind whispered up the church. He watched the leaves shift on the dirty stone. He climbed up so that he could look out at the churchyard. The hot flies buzzed against the panes.
He got down, and wandered restlessly about. He found a box with candles in it -- if the worst came to the worst, at least he wouldn't have to wait in the dark! He thought it was getting darker. He told himself that this was psychological darkness, caused by irrational fears. There wasn't so much as a guidebook to read; he'd be reduced to saying his prayers!
The evening crept on. Mrs Sweetapple must have missed him by this time, but she didn't come. The lowness of his spirits surprised him; he'd always thought of himself as tough, a useful man in a corner. But the place was very dreary, and smelt like a tomb.
Then he wondered whether the little girl would come back to the churchyard, and he climbed up again to a window. His last hope. He watched for her until it was too dark to see.
The wind was getting up. He could hear rustlings, scatterings along the draughty floor. Mice, maybe even rats --- the thought of sleeping here ---
The white-faced moon got up to view the scene.
He saw then that there was no wind, outside. The trees in the churchyard were transfixed, as if they were pinned against the sky.
But in the church a gale was rising. Inside the church —
His candle guttered, a figure of fright. He looked down the nave. What he saw filled him with terror. His landlady — she had come at last, but not to let him out! Mr Tucker, the Squire, Foxwell, Mrs Shattock — they were standing naked at the back of the church! What did it mean, this devilish congregation?
He ought to have known this was brewing! The village felt bad from the start. Come on, Antony Shaw! Take a grip! It's not like you to hesitate! You're the original daredevil, snatching the sinful souls like hot potatoes out of the everlasting bonfire!
But his arms and legs were cramped with fear. He stumbled forward as bravely as he could, and fell on his knees before what was once the altar.
`Is it a service you want?' he shouted. 'I'll give you a service! Here's a prayer for you! God damn all devils and witches!' There was no reaction behind him. Sly, malevolent, merciless, they peered at him between their fingers. They knew he had only one resource: the power of his prayers. They waited for him to lose it.
He felt the deadly chill of panic terror. His mind had paralysing blanks. He found himself gabbling pious non-sense: 'Now I lay me down to sleep God bless our sailors on the deep and we are all sinners, God forgive.' He groaned: `Oh my mother —'
He heard them behind him, shuffling up the church. His struggle was desperate, to pin down a prayer. 'Matthew Mark Luke and John bless the bed that I lie on —'
They waited, like dogs for dinner. The wind turned hot, like ravenous breath.
Antony Shaw roared out in his agony. He called on the tombstone under his knees, on William Oliver Senior of this Parish also Emma his Wife also Margaret Daughter of the Above; he shouted: 'I am the Way, the Truth and the Life —'
The whole church shuddered, demented with wind. His hunters were very close.
`He saved others, Himself He cannot save —
For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make
US
From what I am about to receive may the Lord deliver me — Deliver me —'
The child stood beside him, in her frock the colour of hay, with its washed-out, flowery pattern.
He didn't see her there. He had fixed his eyes on where
THE SABBATICAL
the Cross should be. The leaves whirled round him in furious gusts and his ears throbbed as if he was drowning. He clung, suffering until he was thinned to a husk, a whirling leaf; there would be only a mouthful left for his pursuers. He writhed at the feet of the calm and steadfast child.
In the grey gap before dawn, in the void, when souls are barely attached to earth, in that time for dying — he felt his agony being drawn away. It seeped out of him like poison.
Then he was suddenly full of happiness. He thanked God — even for a sentence of death. So the wind dropped, and behind him the church was empty. The child, too, had gone.
The east window shone, catching the rising sun. Cob-webbed and cracked, it still conveyed the flame of morning. The first birds woke, to call in the day. And Antony Shaw stretched out his arms, and crumpled, and slept where he had been delivered.
There was a small grave in a corner of that churchyard. A cherub's head had been carved, long ago, on the stone. The child's and the cherub's faces were the same. On her grave lay a bunch of faded pink flowers.
Posts
