Not me. And not you, because you never see any photographers in a factory. People only want to buy pictures of women at a mine.”
A voice behind them said, “He’s no photographer.”
Blair looked up at a young miner wearing a jacket with a velvet collar and a silk scarf with brown spots. He recognized Bill Jaxon from the picture of the rugby team.
Jaxon said, “Last night he visited Rose.”
The rest of the pub was silent, a tableau. It struck Blair that Jaxon’s entrance was expected. Relished. Even the Young Prince’s glass eyes seemed to show a fresh gleam.
Jaxon said mildly, “You didn’t knock, did you? She said she was lucky to be dressed.”
“I apologized.”
Flo said, “Bill, he’s drunk. Besides, he’s got no clogs. He’d be no sport at all.”
Jaxon said, “Hush up, Flo.”
What clogs had to do with sport, Blair didn’t know.
Jaxon delivered his attention back to Blair. “You’re from the Bishop, Rose says.”
“From Reverend Maypole’s family, I heard,” Smallbone said.
“Both.”
“A distant relation?” Jaxon asked.
“Very distant.” When Blair twisted in his chair to lookup at Jaxon he had a sensation of envelopment, like a mouse in a large hand. It wasn’t comfortable. Bill Jaxon had fair features and straight dark hair, exceedingly combed, a pearly scarf tucked under a plowshare of a jaw, the sort that could make an actor’s career. Blair said, “I was asking Rose about Reverend Maypole. Weren’t you on the same rugby team?”
“We were.”
“Maybe you can help.”
At a signal Blair hadn’t caught, Smallbone jumped from the chair and Jaxon sat. The man was the center of attention, a sun in the benighted universe of this pub, Blair thought. He remembered how in the photograph Maypole had been looking at Jaxon instead of at the camera. Jaxon’s eyes said he took questions as seriously as charades.
“Ask away.”
“Did you see Reverend Maypole that last day?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
“No.”
“Did he seem unhappy?”
“No.”
That seemed to cover it, Blair thought. For form’s sake, he added, “What did you talk about with John Maypole?”
“Sports.”
“Did you ever talk about religious matters?”
“The Reverend said Jesus would have been a champion rugby player.”
“Really?” This was a revelation, a contribution of muscular theology: Christ in a scrum, breaking tackles, dashing upfield between centurions.
“The Reverend said Jesus was a workingman. He was a carpenter and fit, so who can say he wasn’t a great athleteas well? John said that Christian competition was a joy to God. He said he’d rather be on the field with our team than in church with all the dons at Oxford.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“All the disciples, the Reverend said, were workingmen, fishermen and the like. John said that impure thoughts undermined the athlete as much as any archbishop, and that it was the special duty of the strong to be patient with the weak.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Blair didn’t feel at his own physical peak. “Exactly what positions did the disciples play?”
“What do you mean?”
“What positions on the team? Peter and Paul? Wingmen, you think? And John the Baptist? Lots of brawn, I would guess. Right wing?”
The pub became quiet. Jaxon liked sending up a visitor; he didn’t like being sent up himself.
“You shouldn’t make fun.”
“No, you’re right.” Blair caught a glow in Jaxon’s eyes. It was a bit like stirring coals. “So my lost cousin John was a theologian and a saint?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Two ways, actually.” Blair decided to get out while he could navigate. He picked up his knapsack. “You’ve been so helpful I can’t say.”
“Are you going back to America now?” Flo asked.
“Maybe. Leaving Wigan, at any rate.”
“Too quiet?” Jaxon asked.
“I hope so.”
Blair wove to the door. Outside, an early twilight was
A voice behind them said, “He’s no photographer.”
Blair looked up at a young miner wearing a jacket with a velvet collar and a silk scarf with brown spots. He recognized Bill Jaxon from the picture of the rugby team.
Jaxon said, “Last night he visited Rose.”
The rest of the pub was silent, a tableau. It struck Blair that Jaxon’s entrance was expected. Relished. Even the Young Prince’s glass eyes seemed to show a fresh gleam.
Jaxon said mildly, “You didn’t knock, did you? She said she was lucky to be dressed.”
“I apologized.”
Flo said, “Bill, he’s drunk. Besides, he’s got no clogs. He’d be no sport at all.”
Jaxon said, “Hush up, Flo.”
What clogs had to do with sport, Blair didn’t know.
Jaxon delivered his attention back to Blair. “You’re from the Bishop, Rose says.”
“From Reverend Maypole’s family, I heard,” Smallbone said.
“Both.”
“A distant relation?” Jaxon asked.
“Very distant.” When Blair twisted in his chair to lookup at Jaxon he had a sensation of envelopment, like a mouse in a large hand. It wasn’t comfortable. Bill Jaxon had fair features and straight dark hair, exceedingly combed, a pearly scarf tucked under a plowshare of a jaw, the sort that could make an actor’s career. Blair said, “I was asking Rose about Reverend Maypole. Weren’t you on the same rugby team?”
“We were.”
“Maybe you can help.”
At a signal Blair hadn’t caught, Smallbone jumped from the chair and Jaxon sat. The man was the center of attention, a sun in the benighted universe of this pub, Blair thought. He remembered how in the photograph Maypole had been looking at Jaxon instead of at the camera. Jaxon’s eyes said he took questions as seriously as charades.
“Ask away.”
“Did you see Reverend Maypole that last day?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
“No.”
“Did he seem unhappy?”
“No.”
That seemed to cover it, Blair thought. For form’s sake, he added, “What did you talk about with John Maypole?”
“Sports.”
“Did you ever talk about religious matters?”
“The Reverend said Jesus would have been a champion rugby player.”
“Really?” This was a revelation, a contribution of muscular theology: Christ in a scrum, breaking tackles, dashing upfield between centurions.
“The Reverend said Jesus was a workingman. He was a carpenter and fit, so who can say he wasn’t a great athleteas well? John said that Christian competition was a joy to God. He said he’d rather be on the field with our team than in church with all the dons at Oxford.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“All the disciples, the Reverend said, were workingmen, fishermen and the like. John said that impure thoughts undermined the athlete as much as any archbishop, and that it was the special duty of the strong to be patient with the weak.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Blair didn’t feel at his own physical peak. “Exactly what positions did the disciples play?”
“What do you mean?”
“What positions on the team? Peter and Paul? Wingmen, you think? And John the Baptist? Lots of brawn, I would guess. Right wing?”
The pub became quiet. Jaxon liked sending up a visitor; he didn’t like being sent up himself.
“You shouldn’t make fun.”
“No, you’re right.” Blair caught a glow in Jaxon’s eyes. It was a bit like stirring coals. “So my lost cousin John was a theologian and a saint?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Two ways, actually.” Blair decided to get out while he could navigate. He picked up his knapsack. “You’ve been so helpful I can’t say.”
“Are you going back to America now?” Flo asked.
“Maybe. Leaving Wigan, at any rate.”
“Too quiet?” Jaxon asked.
“I hope so.”
Blair wove to the door. Outside, an early twilight was
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