Sugar&;#063;
By rosa_johnson
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THE FREE AGENTS
The Verger found them on New Year's morning before the
eight o'clock service: Arthur Montgomery and Cyril Capstick in
a heap together on the floor of the belfry, stoned out of their
minds. They must have made it up at last. For fifteen years
the families had been virtually at war and it was common
knowledge the Vicar was distressed by their animosity.
Harry Finny called the Vicar from his prayers in the
Arbuthnot Chapel and they decided to return the two sleeping
men to their cottages. Using the sexton's wheelbarrow the task
could be completed before the service. Fortunately
fifteen-stone Arthur lived near the church. They handed him
over to his outraged wife and then returned for Cyril who was a
comparative lightweight.
The Vicar held the barrow while Harry lifted Cyril bodily,
dropped him into the bottom of it and covered him with an old
dressing gown they had found in the tower. Cyril's journey to
the other end of the village proceeded at a gallop and the task
was
completed in the nick of time. The Reverend Thomas Carshallton
rushed into the vestry in a panic of crumpled corduroy and
perspiration two minutes before the hour and emerged beside the
altar in a state of black calm on the stroke of eight.
A week later Cyril Capstick knocked nervously on Arthur
Montgomery's door. He tapped the toe of his shoe against the
step, fidgeting as he waited to be admitted.
`Thanks for coming Cyril,' said Arthur showing him into the
kitchen; `Sit down; like a cup o' tea would you? The occasion
probably calls for something stronger but under the
circumstances.....'
`Tea'll do.' Cyril stretched his neck and tugged at his
shirt collar. It was fifteen years since a Capstick had set
foot in a Montgomery's house. He felt very uncomfortable. Was
Arthur calling a truce at last?
Arthur warmed the teapot. `I've got something to show you.
It's in that envelope. Open it.' Cyril hesitated resenting
Arthur's commanding tone. `Go on,' Arthur urged, `It won't bite
you.'
`What's this?' Cyril laid a photograph on the table.
`A good likeness I reckon.' Arthur was laughing and as
Cyril studied the image; it seemed familiar.
Last New Year's Eve, he, Cyril Terrance Capstick, had made
his way down to St. Peter's church about half an hour before
the turn of the year. Tradition had it that the ghost of a
headless woman walked the bell tower at midnight at the
beginning of every year. A number of villagers claimed to have
seen her but the diverse descriptions made Cyril curious. He
would find out for himself. He took with him an old woollen
dressing gown his wife had left behind when she moved out, and
with his Barbour zipped over the top he would beat the cold.
Cyril's wrist-watch showed a quarter to twelve precisely
on December 31st 1993 as he stumbled up the last steps into the
belfry. He glanced round the tower with his flash-light to
make sure he was alone. With the torch on the floor in front
of him he took a quick swig from his hip flask and began to
wriggle his way into the dressing gown. It was tight over his
shirt and two jumpers. Struggling with arms outstretched and
jersey sleeves creeping up inside the sleeves of the dressing
gown he heard heavy breathing, footsteps on the stone stairs
and then a bright flash. He turned rigid with fear.
`Huh, it's you.'
`Any objection?'
`I was here first. You're disturbing the peace.' said
Cyril.
`I've as much right as you.' Arthur sat down making himself
comfortable in his sleeping bag with his camera at his side,
the shutter cocked and ready.
`You'll find it hard to run with that round yer legs if she
does turn up.' sneered Cyril.
`Who said anything about running?'
`You can hardly be expecting to hold a conversation with
her!' The sneer spread into a grin.
Cyril could remember little of what happened after that.
He recalled Arthur had provided himself with bottle of malt
whiskey, or was it Dutch courage? They had argued their way
into 1994 with caustic comments and snide remarks. Cyril had a
vague recollection of slapping someone on the back a few times,
and perhaps there had been a snatch or two of Auld Lang Syne...
but the events of the night were pretty hazy.
`I want us to be friends.' Arthur said pouring milk into
the cups. Cyril didn't reply and Arthur continued, `Come on
man we were good enough friends on New year's Eve, or don't you
remember?'
`Course I remember.'
`Well then? The Vicar thinks the feud's over. So now it's
got to be.'
`Did you have a hang over?' Cyril inquired.
`The mother and father of all hangovers,' Arthur said.
`You know she's left me, don't you? I'm not sorry either.
I feel like a liberated prisoner.'
`I can imagine.' Cyril began to laugh. `She didn't have to
come back for her false teeth did she? When I got into bed and
grabbed her fifteen years ago she guessed I was drunk and made
off to her mother's in a huff and forgot her teeth.'
`She looks terrible without 'em don't she?' Arthur chuckled
and poured the tea.
`I wasn't sorry she went, you know.'
`You weren't? Then why have you never so much as said
good morning to me in fifteen years, Cyril Capstick?'
`When did you ever speak to me Arthur Montgomery? You
took my wife. I didn't want the whole village to know how damn
glad I was to be shut of her. How could I speak to you? Anyway
I was afraid you might try to persuade me to have her back.'
Cyril was enjoying himself now.
`I see,' Arthur sipped his tea. Suddenly he was on his
feet and bringing a packet of sugar and a spoon to the table he
chortled, `I've just realized I'm a free agent. I can have
sugar in me tea.'
`What about this photograph?' asked Cyril raising his
spectacles to look more closely.
`Don't you like it?' You must have seen her? You were
there.'
`I didn't see no ghost.' `Are you sure Cyril Capstick? I
think she's lovely.' Cyril guessed Arthur was up to something.
`That photograph is going to make us a lot of money if we
play our cards right Cyril. You thought it was a ghost, I did
at first. That's why I snapped you. I was convinced of it
until your head popped up above the collar and your arms
dropped as you wriggled yourself into that old dressing gown.'
Cyril looked again. `I've got to hand it to you Arthur
Montgomery that's brilliant.'
`Look there's the bell rope and there's your hip flask
stood up on the window sill. I can easily take that out. This
is a real scoop. Cyril Capstick, the headless woman of Crofton
Tower. Aren't you beautiful?' Arthur clasped his hands across
his belly and roared with laughter.
`The Vicar and Harry know we were there together on New
year's Eve, so they'll corroborate the story,' said Cyril.
`Lots of folk round here say she's real and now we've
proved it. You've photographed the headless woman Arthur.
We've got it made!'
Arthur banged his hand down on the table so that the cups
jumped in their saucers. `That settles it then. We'll try the
nationals first. If they don't cough up the Echo will.'
`Can we sell it to more than one paper?' Cyril knew Arthur
had done this sort of thing before. He was pretty sharp with
his camera and he got stories printed in local newspapers and
occasionally made the tabloids.
`We can sell to as many papers as we like unless one of
them pays us enough to make it exclusive.' He punched the air
and began to sing, `We're in the money, we're in the
money.....'
`Think of it Cyril this money will be all my own... once
I've given you your share of course. What I mean is our wife
won't be able to get her hands on it.'
`No one will. Save the photographer and the ghost.' cackled
Cyril.
`This could be a nice little earner,' said Arthur.
`Reporters'll be here from T.V and Radio and nobody will
suspect it's a put up job because we're known to be sworn
enemies. All you've got to do is lie low and leave it to me.
I'll make sure you get your cut....'
`...Because if you don't,' said Cyril `I might let the cat
out of the bag.' A sudden thought came to him. `What about the
Vicar?'
`He's happy the feud's over, we'll make a donation to his
restoration fund to keep him quiet. The press'll be happy
because they won't want to know. They'll put words into my
mouth which I shan't deny, though I might be tempted to forget
the booze and suggest that we fell into a stupor because we
were confronted by that terrifying headless spectre.'
`But don't I ....'
`Don't you worry Cyril, all you've got to do is keep your
head down and your mouth shut. It'll be less dangerous that
way. Shake on it?'
`O.K. shake.' They clasped each other's hands solemnly.
`Do you mind if I go out the back way?'
`It'll soon be dark, have a quick one before you go,'
suggested Arthur.
* * *
Ten days later Arthur knocked at Cyril's door.
`Thanks for coming Arthur.' Cyril looked anxiously up and
down the street and ushered Arthur into the house.
`What's up mate, aren't you satisfied with the takings?'
`Very satisfied. You've done a good job. A very good
job.'
`Well then' said Arthur, `What's the problem?' `I think
you'd better sit down and have a drink.'
`I don't know quite how to tell you this Arthur,' Cyril
began, as he poured home brewed bitter into two mugs on the
kitchen table. `You see, she's recognized her old dressing
gown.....'
Arthur rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. `I see,
and she's going to shop us. I might have known.'
`She will if she doesn't get her cut,' said Cyril gloomily.
FINIS
1,749 words
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