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Authors: Robert Aickman
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neither.’
‘Tell us about exorcism,’ said Dyson.
‘Exorcism may only be attempted upon licence from an archbishop, and in any case is applicable only when a person is believed to be possessed by a devil. That is not my case. There was nothing diabolical about my escape, I assure you.’
‘But there was something supernatural?’ responded Gamble; often a little too much the cross-examining barrister when all the circumstances were considered.
‘Yes,’ said the old man in his quiet and simple way. ‘At least I think so. It was connected with this.’ He put his fingers in his bottom left waistcoat pocket and produced a coin or medal. It was dull rather than bright as it lay on his palm in the dim light of the bar; and a fraction smaller, I should say, than a penny.
The barman got in first. ‘Can I hold it?’
‘Certainly,’ said the old man, passing it over. ‘But it has no intrinsic value.’
‘Just a lucky charm?’ asked the barman.
‘More a token. The visible symbol of an invisible grace.’
‘My mother has one. Given her when she married my father, by my gran, who got it from the gypsies. I suppose these marks are the Romany?’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘That’s Russian.’
‘Have another drink,’ said Gamble, ‘and tell us about Russia.’
‘Tell us the whole story,’ said Dyson.
We were really all there to learn about fisheries: agricultural and icthyological students, prospective economists and sociologists, one or two sportsmen and aspirants to tweedy journalism, all male and all young; plus the one old man, retired, and representative of a type often to be found on such courses, often, I fear, regarded by the rest of us as more or less a nuisance. We were all boarded out on the villagers. After our substantial teas, we assembled together every evening at this battered little pub because the competitive establishment was flashy and perceptibly dearer. It was now our third night. Hitherto, the old man had spoken hardly at all. His years had cast a certain constraint upon us, but he had arrived late and left soon, and, in any case, most of us were so brimming with fish-talk and career-talk that his presence inhibited us little. I myself had supposed that he seemed genuinely pleased just to listen to us. The men who ran the course did not fraternise with us in the evenings. In any case, most of them were housed with the flashy competitor.
One reason for the old man’s near-accident had been the failing light. As he went on talking, darkness fell and the night wind off the sea began to creep under the door and across the stone flags. Infrequently, a solitary villager appeared, quietly ordered his drink, and settled to listening with us. One suspected that the presence of our group in the bar every evening was tending to keep out the regulars.
‘Not Russia,’ said the old man. ‘I’ve never been there, though I’ve known Russians – in a way. It was in Finland that I knew them.’ He was looking at his recovered token.
‘Surely Russians are rather unpopular in Finland?’ asked Gamble.
Rort was about to speak, probably in dialectical contradiction , but the old man began his story, ignoring Gamble.
‘Until I retired I was an estate agent and surveyor. At the time I am talking about, I was little more than a clerk, working for a firm called Purvis and Co. I was supposed to be learning the business, and Mr. Purvis was very keen that I should, because he knew my father and because he had no sons of his own. He did everything he could for me; then and for a long time afterwards. I owe Mr. Purvis a great deal. When he died prematurely in 1933, I inherited most of his business. Of course, I was a qualified surveyor by then, and quite competent to handle everything that arose. Ten years earlier, I knew nothing.
‘In 1923, Purvis and Co. had a client with an interest in a Finnish timber plantation. He was in the trade in a big way, with large offices down in the east end of
‘Tell us about exorcism,’ said Dyson.
‘Exorcism may only be attempted upon licence from an archbishop, and in any case is applicable only when a person is believed to be possessed by a devil. That is not my case. There was nothing diabolical about my escape, I assure you.’
‘But there was something supernatural?’ responded Gamble; often a little too much the cross-examining barrister when all the circumstances were considered.
‘Yes,’ said the old man in his quiet and simple way. ‘At least I think so. It was connected with this.’ He put his fingers in his bottom left waistcoat pocket and produced a coin or medal. It was dull rather than bright as it lay on his palm in the dim light of the bar; and a fraction smaller, I should say, than a penny.
The barman got in first. ‘Can I hold it?’
‘Certainly,’ said the old man, passing it over. ‘But it has no intrinsic value.’
‘Just a lucky charm?’ asked the barman.
‘More a token. The visible symbol of an invisible grace.’
‘My mother has one. Given her when she married my father, by my gran, who got it from the gypsies. I suppose these marks are the Romany?’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘That’s Russian.’
‘Have another drink,’ said Gamble, ‘and tell us about Russia.’
‘Tell us the whole story,’ said Dyson.
We were really all there to learn about fisheries: agricultural and icthyological students, prospective economists and sociologists, one or two sportsmen and aspirants to tweedy journalism, all male and all young; plus the one old man, retired, and representative of a type often to be found on such courses, often, I fear, regarded by the rest of us as more or less a nuisance. We were all boarded out on the villagers. After our substantial teas, we assembled together every evening at this battered little pub because the competitive establishment was flashy and perceptibly dearer. It was now our third night. Hitherto, the old man had spoken hardly at all. His years had cast a certain constraint upon us, but he had arrived late and left soon, and, in any case, most of us were so brimming with fish-talk and career-talk that his presence inhibited us little. I myself had supposed that he seemed genuinely pleased just to listen to us. The men who ran the course did not fraternise with us in the evenings. In any case, most of them were housed with the flashy competitor.
One reason for the old man’s near-accident had been the failing light. As he went on talking, darkness fell and the night wind off the sea began to creep under the door and across the stone flags. Infrequently, a solitary villager appeared, quietly ordered his drink, and settled to listening with us. One suspected that the presence of our group in the bar every evening was tending to keep out the regulars.
‘Not Russia,’ said the old man. ‘I’ve never been there, though I’ve known Russians – in a way. It was in Finland that I knew them.’ He was looking at his recovered token.
‘Surely Russians are rather unpopular in Finland?’ asked Gamble.
Rort was about to speak, probably in dialectical contradiction , but the old man began his story, ignoring Gamble.
‘Until I retired I was an estate agent and surveyor. At the time I am talking about, I was little more than a clerk, working for a firm called Purvis and Co. I was supposed to be learning the business, and Mr. Purvis was very keen that I should, because he knew my father and because he had no sons of his own. He did everything he could for me; then and for a long time afterwards. I owe Mr. Purvis a great deal. When he died prematurely in 1933, I inherited most of his business. Of course, I was a qualified surveyor by then, and quite competent to handle everything that arose. Ten years earlier, I knew nothing.
‘In 1923, Purvis and Co. had a client with an interest in a Finnish timber plantation. He was in the trade in a big way, with large offices down in the east end of
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