The Gate

THE VICARS GATE

Looking out of the window of his room in the hotel, that had once been
the vicarage to the old, block granite church facing on the other side
of the road, he watched the black clad figure walk slowly along the
path through the garden. In the early dawn mist, the person was barely
discernable and even if it had been clear, he would not have been able
to see his features, because of the wide brimmed hat that the figure in
black wore. He continued to watch until the person disappeared behind
one of the great rhododendron bushes that grew profusely in the large
garden.

Before turning away from the scene he checked his watch with the clock
on the bell tower of the church. 'Six-o-clock. Some one's an early
riser,' he said to himself and went back to his bed. The church clock
began its first strike as he lay down on the covers of the bed, and he
listened to the six mournful dongs and tried not to think of why they
had come to Cornwall for this short holiday. Instinctively, his hand
went out to touch the sleeping form of his wife who lay beside him on
the bed.

After breakfast they went out into the garden and sat at the white
plastic patio table for his wife to have a smoke. The sun was now up
and bright, clearing the early mist and he could now see clearly the
path that the early rising man had taken. He had forgotten all about
the man until he saw the pathway and now he wondered where the path
led. For someone to have wished to walk at such an early hour did not
seem strange, he always took his running gear with him on holiday to
have a couple of early morning runs. 'Maybe this person liked an early
morning walk,' he thought as he looked at the path through the haze of
smoke that his wife blew across the table.

"Fancy a little walk through the garden before we go out," he
asked.

"Yes, O.K." she replied, "It looks like a nice garden." Stubbing the
cigarette out in the ashtray she stood and looked around. "Which way?"
she queried.

"Lets try this path, see where it goes," he answered.

Hand in hand they walked across the cut grass, onto the worn flag stone
path that led through the rhododendron bushes. On approaching the
bushes he turned to his wife and said, "I saw a bloke walk down here at
six-o-clock this morning."

"What were you doing down here at six-o-clock?"

"I wasn't down here, I saw him from the window. I'd been to the toilet
and looked out of the window before going back to bed." He failed to
mention that he had been at the window for over an hour.

They continued along the path until they came to a small flight of
steps that led to a low, gothic arched gateway, set in a head high wall
that was partly covered in ivy. Stopping they looked at the gate and
his wife said, "Oh, isn't that pretty."

Descending the steps ahead of her he approached the gate, it was locked
with a small, rusted padlock and as he took hold of the iron bars he
was struck by cold shiver.

"What's the matter," his wife asked.
"Somebody just walked over my grave," he replied, laughing.

"Look there's another gate on the other side of the road, going into
the churchyard," his wife said, pointing across to where a similar,
slightly larger gate, allowed entrance to the churchyard and
cemetery.

"This must have been for the Vicar to get to the church. That's
probably the vestry entrance," he answered.

Frowning he looked about and thought to himself, 'Where did that bloke
go, there 's no other path, the gate is locked, and looking at it, I'd
say it hasn't been opened for a bloody long time, and the shrubbery
here is to thick to walk through.' Puzzled he continued to look about,
'He probably came back and I missed him in that mist,' he thought
dismissively.

"We must go and have a look at the church before we go back, it looks
quite old." But he spoke without any real conviction.

"Christ, you and your old church's," she replied sarcastically, "For
somebody who is supposed to be an Atheists you spend a lot of your time
inside churches."

"I just admire the architecture," he replied with a laugh, and as they
walked back to the hotel they continued their friendly banter about his
atheism and old churches.

The rest of the day was spent in St Agnes and the surrounding north
coast but not visiting any of the beaches. There was no discussion
about this, it was something that they could not talk about, each felt
for the other and neither suggested it.

The next morning he awoke with a start. The early morning light
filtering through the curtains dimly lighted the room and for a few
moments he lay, puzzled as to where he was, then smiled as he
remembered and closed his eyes to return to his sleep. But sleep did
not return and he did not want to start thinking again about what had
happened. Opening his eyes he looked at the clock beside the bed,
five-fifty-five showed on its flat narrow face.

Looking towards the window, he thought, 'I wonder if our friend the
walker is about this morning.' He lay for a little while staring at the
split of light coming through the gap in the curtains, then quietly
slipped out of bed and went to the window.

Opening the curtains he stepped inside them, and as he did so the same
cold, shudder racked his body that had done so yesterday at the gate.
Pulling the curtain around his naked body, he looked out of the window
towards the path and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled on
seeing in the mist, the same black clad figure, making his way along
the path towards the shrubbery and on out of sight. This time though he
waited for him to return. The clock on the tower began its mournful
dong and he looked at his watch, six-o-clock.

"Well, he's punctual," he said quietly.

The mist cleared as he watched but the figure did not return. For
fifteen minutes he stood in the growing light of the day to no avail.
Then shrugging his shoulders he returned to his bed and lay down, only
to lie awake pondering about what he had seen and where the figure had
disappeared too. Eventually he fell a sleep and when awakened by his
wife he awoke with a terrible headache and the feeling of having had
heavy night out.

At breakfast, he described the man to the waitress and asked who he
was. She said she did not know of anybody staying in the hotel who
dressed like that, there were only a few guests and they where all at
breakfast now. Looking quickly around the breakfast room he could see
no one who faintly resembled his mystery walker. Continuing to question
the waitress he asked, "Maby the staff?" But again she was negative in
her reply. Perplexed and frowning he stared at the waitress as she
returned to the kitchen.

"What's all this about," his wife broke into his thoughts, "maby you
were dreaming?"

"I was not dreaming," he snapped back in irritation, "I definitely saw
someone in the garden."

"All right, keep your shirt on, I believe you," she replied, reaching
out to stroke his hand soothingly. "Maby it was a local taking a short
cut."

The thought of this suggestion helped him to relax and he agreed with
her, yes it was probably just somebody using the hotel as a short cut.
But for the rest of the day he could not get it out of his mind, the
figure now haunted his every thought. He would have to find out who he
was, and so he made up his mind to be in the garden the next morning,
just out of curiosity, he told himself.

He had set the alarm on his watch to five thirty a.m. but was awake
before the alarm sounded. Rising, he quietly went to the bathroom and
dressed into his training gear, having told his wife he was going for
an early morning run. At five forty five he was outside, standing at
the corner of the building peering through the mist towards the
pathway. The time seemed to stand still as he continuously looked at
his watch, and to pass the time he started to do some light stretching
while he waited. Suddenly he felt that same cold shudder run through
him and he looked across the lawn to see the dark clad figure, heading
along the path and at the same time the clock began to strike. Waiting
until it had entered the shrubbery, he hurried across the lawn to the
path, and then slowed his pace, not wanting to make a fool of himself
if he suddenly met with whomever it was he was following. Catching a
glimpse of the figure through the shrubbery along the path he stopped
and waited until it was out of sight before proceeding on. Slowly he
came in sight of the gateway, only to find no sign of the figure at the
gate. Now moving quickly he approached the padlocked gate only to find
the area deserted. Standing at the gate, perplexed, he looked all
around and through the shrubbery as far as could be seen, nothing!
Turning to the gate, he held the bars to look through and there, on the
other side of the road through the church gate he caught a glimpse of a
black clad figure in the churchyard. In shock he stepped back from the
gate.

"How the fuck did he do that," he said aloud and looked around for an
exit. There was none that he could see. "Shit," he exclaimed, and
turning, ran back down the path, across the green to the main entrance,
out and along the road to the church gate. At the gate he abruptly
stopped, "Shit, this is fucking stupid," he protested to himself aloud.
"This could be taking as stalking." Waiting for a few minutes to
control his emotions, he then cautiously entered the gate and followed
the worn path through the graves. His breath came heavy and fast and
his chest seemed tight, he quickly tried to dismiss this as to the
running but in his mind he knew he was to fit for it to be that.
Approaching the corner of the church his breathing became more rapid
and broken and he had to stop to take in few deep inhalations. Then,
before proceeding past the old, wooden, main door of the church he took
a sneak look around the corner of the wall, to quickly snatch his head
back, then slowly he looked again. The figure, who he could now see was
a man, was kneeling before one of the graves, his head bowed and his
hands covering his face. Now, looking at this person, obviously in
terrible grief, he felt guilty and deeply ashamed of himself. The tears
welled up in his eyes as he watched the man crumple on to the grave and
as he heard his sobbing, the sight and sound of so much grief, brought
back the memories of his own recent bereavement, that which he had so
far managed to control for the sake of his wife. But now there was no
holding it back and he sobbed loudly and as he did so, the man looked
up and slowly raised his hand out to him. With tear filled eyes, he
could barely discern the figure and turning he stumbled away, back
along the path and out through the church gate. Blindly running across
the road, he pushed the iron gate to the vicarage open and staggered on
down the pathway to collapse on the grass of the hotel lawn.

His body shuddering with the force of the sobs that half choked him, he
lay curled up on the lawn, until eventually the sobs started to subside
and he was able to retrieve some vestibule of control over his shaken
emotions. He lay for a while, not wanting to move from this now
drowning like comfort of grief before he managed to sit up and wipe
away the tears. Looking around in the now bright sunshine, he felt a
great release and staggered to his feet. Once back in the hotel room he
quietly crept into the bathroom and had a long hot shower.

Later outside in the garden, his wife having her cigarette he said to
her, "I want to go over to the church this morning, do you want to
come?"

She paused for a moment, before answering, "Yes, all right," and then,
with a frown of concern on her face asked, "Are you all right, only you
don't look to well. Your not going down with something, are you?"

"No, I'm fine. That run this morning probably just tired me, that's
all."

Saying no more she turned her head but continued to look at him from
the corner of her eyes. She had fretted over his lack of grief since
the death of there first child six months ago, he showed so little
emotion, but she new him to well and knew that it was all bottled up
inside, afraid that one day it would burst and she would not be their
for him.

Starting off ahead of her he walked towards the path and she called
after him, "Where are you going, you cant get out that way,"

Stopping, he half turned, "Yes you can, the gate was open this
morning."

"Oh, that's strange, it looked all rusted up yesterday."

Holding hands they reached the gate and before the rusty-padlocked gate
he froze, the blood draining from his face, as he stood transfixed,
looking at the padlock.

"See, I told you so," his wife, admonished him. Suddenly she felt the
crushing pressure of his grip on her small hand and she cried out,
"Martin, you're hurting me," and tried to pull loose her crushed
fingers. But he would not loosen his grip and she raised her free hand
to strike him, when she saw his face, it was ashen, near yellow and
drawn and haggard. "Martin!! Martin!!" This time her voice was high
pitched in fear, the pain in her hand forgotten.

He blinked his wide staring eyes and staggered, near falling, and then
pulling his wife roughly started hurrying back down the path.
Continuing to hurry, he ignored his wife's questions and calls to slow
down. It was not until he reached the entrance to the church that he
stopped. Looking at her face he tried to talk, but no words sounded
from his moving mouth, in frustration he let go of her hands and
hurried on into the churchyard following the path, around past the
church door and over to the grave that the man had knelt before. His
breath rasped in his lungs as he tried to focus on the head stone, but
the stone was old and his eyes and brain would not seem to work
together. Feeling, more than seeing his wife next to him he choked out
the words, "What does it say?" And he pointed at the gravestone.

There was an absolute silence; they could neither hear the singing of
the birds or the rustle of the trees, nor the roar and rattle of a
passing tractor as she read the inscription to him.

IN SACRED MEMORY

"Malici Bath,
Died April 14 1854 aged 44

All so Daughter Elizabeth
Died Dec 17 1842 Aged 7

All so Son James
Died Jan 13 1843 Aged 6

Elizabeth Died Jan 18 1844
Aged 1

James Died June 24 1845
Aged 8 months

James Died Dec 11 1846
Aged 6 months

Mary Died Sep 9 1851
Aged 6 months

All so Wife Sara
Died Feb 6 1852

Placing his arm around her shoulders he held and gently squeezed her.
He felt her body shake before the tears started to flow and once they
did, he to began to cry, quietly at first as he lowered her to the
ground. But once on the grass of the grave they both clutched to each
and let the grief flow together. Later, after their grief had subsided,
they continued to read the story on the stone, hardly able to
comprehend the tragedy before them.

"God, how do you live through that," she whispered.

Not answering the unanswerable, he held her close and kissed her
forehead. "Do you want to go into the church," he gently asked.

"Yes please," she answered with a sob still in her voice.

He stood and helped her to her feet and they walked, holding each
other, to the open door of the church. Inside, the church was dim and
cool, they sat in the first pew holding hands, both deep in their own
thoughts but, both knowing what the other was thinking about,
Tania!

As they were leaving he noticed a large wooden plaque on the wall,
"Lets have a walk around first," he suggested. She agreed without
speaking.

Arriving at the plaque he saw that it was a list of Vicars to the
church of St. Itianes, going back to the 17 century. His eyes scrolled
down the names to come to an abrupt stop at one name: Malachi Bath 1840
to 1854.