A REMARKABLE MAN

By JOHN RAVN OR

WHEN my father, in middle age, gave up schoolmaster- ing and took a country living he was, being something of an epicure, in many ways sorry to leave London with its excellent food and still more excellent wines. But, as he philosophically remarked to my mother, there were compen- sations. Such as fresh mushrooms, for instance. Indeed, one of the reasons that had induced him to accept the remote living of Aldersford was that the glebe field in which the Rectory stood was renowned for its mushrooms. As the former rector had pointed out to him when he went down to view the place, there was not much pastureland in the dis- trict, and it was well worth letting the field out for grazing to Farmer Godden for the sake of the bountiful autumn crop of mushrooms that sprang, year by year, among the circles of rich, dark, sheep-cropped grass.

We went to Aldersford in the spring. Everyone was very kind to us, amused at our lack of country knowledge, but only too willing to help us over our first difficulties. But no one was so kind and helpful as Mr. Northeast, the sexton. It was he who came to pump up our water, to put up our wireless aerial, to explain to us the intricacies of oil lamps. Whenever anything went wrong, it became the habit to say: "Better ask Northeast. He'll know about it."

I remember my father saying to him; "Who can we get to do the garden, Northeast? I like a good crop of vegetables, you know."

"Why, I'll come in and do a bit meself. There ain't no one round 'ere you can trust. ICnowin' you don't know nothin' about gardenin' and sechlike they'd take ee in, see? Come round this evenin', shall I?"

Mr. Northeast was something of a local character. Tall and thin, in late middle-age, he had a shock of dark hair, deep-set blue eyes, and a straggling, unwieldy moustache, the frayed ends of which he bit whenever engaged in deep thought. He had married three wives. There were fifteen children; the eldest thirty-two, the youngest six months.

Somehow, they all (except for a couple of married daughters) packed into a rickety thatched cottage on the village green that faintly resembled a large, ancient bee-skep. On Saturday nights, laughter and singing from within seemed to sway the walls of this dilapidated hovel until one felt that it would either burst open and scatter its contents broadside, or would rise in the air, leaving its surprised inmates dazedly crouch- ing on what had been the kitchen floor.

It was a mystery how the Northeasts managed to live. He was a woodcutter; he earned a little by being sexton; he tended our garden and pumped the water. It seemed an inadequate basis upon which to support his large and growing family.

But live they did, and with great gusto; there was not a healthier family in the village. Though I had heard it said that Mr. Northeast was consumptive : a rumour that probably sprang from the fact that he was never to be seen without a bright red scarf twisted about his long thin neck, in my opinion a piece of decorative vanity perfectly in keeping with his character.

It was a very hot summer, and a very dry one. My father said little, but I knew that he was anxiously awaiting the rain and mist that would encourage the mushrooms. I would see him looking at the sunset from the study window and muttering to himself At last, early in September, the weather broke. For four days it rained, solidly, endlessly; and thereafter the morn- ings were misty, the air humid. On the first morning after the rain ceased I was sent out with a basket before breakfast and bidden to fill it with the expected treasure.

Mist was clearing when I stepped into the garden; spiders' webs, silver and glistening, were hung about the michaelmas daisies. I hurried through the wicket gate into the soaking grass of the field. At first I strolled aimlessly about, exrect- ing at every moment to come upon a ring of wet, gleaming mushrooms; later, I searched anxiously, feverishly; finally, I returned empty-handed.

My father said little, as was his way, but throughout the day a gloom lay over the house; voices were muted; and in the afternoon when I wanted to go for a walk, my mother told me to shut the front door quietly, as father was tired.

When Mr. Northeast came in the evening to pump up the water, I heard my father say to him: "I thought this was supposed to be a good field for mush- rooms, Northeast?"

And Northeast's reply : "Well, Rector, all I can say is, I never seen none there, not all the years I bin 'ere. Seems like someone's bin made a mistake. No, you won't find none there, Sir, search as you might. 'Tidn't the right sort o' grass at all, y'see."

All the same, the next morning my father told me to look again; and the morning after that. But there was no sign of any mushrooms.

The following evening when Northeast came up, he brought a basket with him covered with a rather grimy piece of tissue-paper.

"What's in there?" I asked him.

"Never you mind," he said, grinning. " 'Tis sununat for yer father. Is he about?"

" Yes," I said, " I'll get him."

" Ah, good evenin', Rector," Northeast said, as my father came into the scullery. "I got summat for you. Seein' as you's so fond o' mushrooms, I managed to get some. Right down beyond the marshes I bin for 'ern, matter o' six miles, most like. But there, I knew as 'ow you was fond of 'em."

Proudly he drew away the tissue-paper. The basket was piled with fine mushrooms, gleaming whitely in the dim light.

"That's very kind of you, Northeast," my father said. I could tell that he was touched. "Very kind of you indeed. How much will they be?"

"Oh well, say a shillin'," said Northeast. " 'Twas right down beyond the marshes they was . . . You won't find none round 'ere."

My father gave him one and sixpence.

"I had to," he said to my mother, "after his going all that way on my account. There's no doubt Northeast is a very remarkable man."

"Yes, indeed, dear," said my mother. "I don't know what we'd do without him."

"Remarkable man, remarkable man," my father reiterated at supper, contentedly. Certainly, grilled with bacon, the mushrooms were delicious.

I only fully realised the truth of my father's remark the following morning, however. I woke, for some reason, soon after dawn; and, as was my habit on such occasions, I jumped out of bed, and running to the window gazed across the glebe field towards the east. The sun was rising in a haze of fragile colour; the sky behind the distant oasthouses a wash of pale green, stars still shining faintly. In the field, the mist was thick; swirling, a white silent blanket, over the grass. I leant out, breathing deeply the chilly, sweet-scented air. To my surprise, I noticed a vague figure walking across the field, a spectral shape in the mist.

Nearer and nearer he came. I could see that he was carrying a basket. I saw him stoop down as though picking something. For a moment, the dissolving mist thinned around him; I had a sudden vision of a splash of bright red colour about his neck. Then the mist closed over him; he became once more a mere phantom, restored to anonymity. Amazed, I turned from the window and crept into bed again; there to embark upon a train of thought that, try as I might, led me inevitably to the incredible, the only