A Candle Burns

The tiles had discoloured since Meryl had last set eyes on her uncle’s cottage. As the bus puffed out black smoke along the country road, she felt for the handle of her heavy rucksack and grunted as she put it on her back. Gravel crunched underfoot and a thin layer of dust settled on her already battered trainers. She could see the building at the crest of the small hill, just beyond The Carpenter’s Arms. Meryl stifled a yawn and began to walk, the events of recent weeks weighing on her as much as her belongings.

She could feel the querying glances from behind the window panes, busybody curtain twitchers, but she didn’t care. Two days of travelling on rail replacement buses on bumpy roads with the quite literally great unwashed meant that she was inured to the opinions of others. All she wanted was a shower.

She stood before the black door, its paint peeling in several places and knocked, having no reason to believe that Uncle Jack would have repaired the bell in the intervening years. No reply. Meryl rapped her knuckles smartly on the door a second, a third time but the echo of her knock was the only response. 

Well, what now? It wasn’t like she had a whole host of options. Looking at her watch she saw that it was two in the afternoon so Uncle Jack was probably out in the fields with Arthur. There was nothing for it but to while away the time in the local which, thank God, was definitely open because she could see two punters sat at a table next to the front door, amber pints set in front of them.

The Carpenter’s Arms was exactly what you would expect from a country pub. Low wooden beams, a sooty fireplace, a grumpy bartender who resented being there on a warm afternoon, four taps serving real ales with puns for names and a few crusty cobs behind the bar wrapped in acres of cling film. Meryl smiled to herself as she remembered the times she had spent here with her uncle, aunt and cousin in those long summer holidays when her mother had had to work. Arthur and herself sitting outside, licking their fingers clean of the dust from a packet of scampi fries, the tangy flavour making her taste buds come alive. Back then she had only ever been inside if she had needed the loo (NO CHILDREN IN THE BAR AREA, read the foreboding sign). 

Meryl attempted a smile as she approached the bartender who steadfastly glared back at her. 

“Half a pint of Life Cycle,” she said, noting the picture of a tadpole and a frog riding a bike on the tap.

Veiny forearms pulled on the tap and the frothy drink announced its presence in the waiting glass. He nodded to her large rucksack. “Hiking?”

“No, not really. Visiting family.”

“Oh?”

“The Robertsons. I’m guessing you know them?”

“Well enough. That’s £2.65, duck.”

Meryl handed over the coins and received her change. “Any idea what time they’ll be finished today?”

“Who?

“The Robertsons. Jack and Arthur.”

The bartender looked at her unblinkingly. “Jack normally comes in around 5.30, I’d say.”

“And Arthur?”

A muscle tensed in the man’s jaw. “We don’t see him these days.” He moved away to the other end of the bar and started wiping the counter with a wet, dirty cloth.

Meryl took her half pint and sat outside. With her face turned up to the sun and the birds twittering lazily in the background, it wasn’t long until she was dozing, woken only by the feeling of a calloused hand squeezing her shoulder some time later. 

“Uncle Jack?”

She looked up into the rheumy eyes of her uncle. She knew time would have aged him - it had aged everyone - but she was shocked by the change in his appearance. His jet black hair was streaked with thick clumps of white, his skin was grey and hanging off his frame, his clothes were grimey and in need of a good wash much like the man himself. 

“God, it is you.” His voice quivered. “When Don told me there was a young girl looking for me I couldn’t think who else it could be.” His eyes began to fill with tears. He touched her cheek, checking the vision before him was as corporeal as he hoped. A smile began to creep to the corners of his mouth as his hands confirmed what his eyes were seeing. “Dear Meryl.”

“Uncle Jack…” she was unsure how to start. “I need to tal…”

“How’s your mother? How is Mary these days?”

This time it was Meryl’s eyes that began to fill with tears and not with joy. “Mum’s gone,” she said in a voice so small it was barely a whisper.

Jack’s smile faded almost as quickly as it had begun to appear. “Am I to have no-one?” he muttered to himself. 

Meryl didn’t know what to say, so she began to tell the truth. “Mum passed away ten days ago. She had a heart attack. The funeral’s next week. I couldn’t find your number in her phone or in her address book but I wanted to let you know. I wanted to tell you in person. Both of you.”

“Both of you?”

“You and Arthur.”

Jack turned his back and walked towards his house, his pace quickening with every stride.

Grabbing her rucksack, she ran after him, clumsy feet tripping over the loose stones. “Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack! Wait!”

He turned around quickly, his eyes ablaze with anger. “Arthur isn’t here. He’s gone. For good.” He continued to head for home shouting over his shoulder. “You would do well to leave,” and with that he was gone, leaving Meryl alone, lost and confused.

She had no choice but to return to The Carpenter’s Arms and hope they had a room for the night which thankfully they did. The pub was filling up and a jovial atmosphere permeated the dusty corners of the old place as friends exchanged the latest news and work colleagues celebrated the end of another day in the office. Ordering food alone at the bar a short time later, she noticed a solitary candle in a sconce on the wall. It wasn’t a normal candle. It looked like an Advent candle, but instead of twenty four lines to mark the countdown to Christmas, the month was stamped at the bottom and there were enough marks for every day. Next to it was a glass vase with the stumps from previous candles in it. As she was looking, a young lady came into the pub, lit the candle and left again without saying a word. The customers in the bar ceased to talk and avoided making eye contact with her as she engaged in her ritual, conversation only restarting as she exited the building.

“What’s that?” Meryl asked Don.

“Candle,” he supplied unhelpfully.

“Yes, I know that. But what’s it for?”

“Marking time.”

“To what?” 

He shrugged. “Just time.” 

Meryl had the distinct feeling he was being evasive but was prevented from pursuing it as a loud guffaw broke the serenity of the room.

“Don!” boomed the voice. It belonged to a stocky man of about six foot, wearing a suit jacket, a crisp white linen shirt and a pair of dark jeans. “Usual, please.” He glanced at Meryl “and a glass of whatever this lovely specimen wants.” 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Meryl returned to her table and pretended to look in her bag for something. She had not missed the disapproving look on Don’s face as he served the man. 

“Here you are, Sir. That’ll be £3.50.” Don placed a glass of whiskey on the counter.

“Another time.” He knocked back his drink and pointed at his glass for another and then another. Meryl watched in distaste as the man got louder, more obnoxious and more drunk. Each time he refused to pay. After his fifth shot of whiskey, Don again tried to demand payment.

“Sir, that’ll be…”

“That’ll be nothing, I think you’ll find. I own this place, I own you. All of you!” he wheeled his arms around taking in the pub. His tone turned silky but held a deadly quality. “We McCorrigans have owned this land for 200 years. I do not pay for drinks.” His eyes rolled around the room before settling on the candle. “Extinguish that now!” he yelled, spit landing on his chin in his choleric outburst. “And you can tell that girl, Alice, that it is not allowed. Forbidden!” He stomped out of the pub, taking his bad aura and even worse manners with him.

The sun streamed in through the gap in curtains and Meryl slowly opened her eyes, watching the dust motes dance in the morning light. The warmth of the sunshine on her face was a balm to her chilling loneliness. First Mum and now Uncle Jack. Why was she losing everyone? Where was Arthur? And who was that man last night?

After washing and getting quickly dressed, Meryl walked down the creaking, narrow spiral staircase to the bar area to find that she was the only guest. The breakfast buffet was laid out on the counter and a young lady was stood behind it. She looked vaguely familiar. Meryl chewed thoughtfully on her croissant, trying to place her and then she realised it was the young woman who had lit the candle last night. 

Meryl took a moment to look at her more closely. She was fair with shoulder-length, straight auburn hair and watery grey eyes. The young woman, eyes cast down, was wearing clothes at least two sizes too big for her and was nervously pulling at the sleeve of the black cardigan that was sitting over her grey shift dress. Suddenly she looked up and locked eyes with Meryl.

“Is there a problem with breakfast?”

Meryl, abashed, realised she must have been staring. “Oh…no. No. But I could have a bit of milk for the coffee, please?” she asked awkwardly, trying to find a reason for her unguarded gaze.

“Sure.” She grabbed a few mini milk cartons and placed them on the table. 

Meryl noticed that she was wearing two necklaces; an old, battered cross like the one her Aunt Anna had used to wear, and a gold chain with ‘Alice’ on it and decided to take her chance. She cleared her throat and tried to sound casual. “There was a man here last night, he seemed very angry about that candle. Any idea who he might be?”

“Jo-, Jonathan McCorrigan.”

“And he is…?”

“His family owns the land here. His father is very elderly, so Jonathan is the one in charge. What he says goes.”

Meryl nodded in understanding. “Why is he angry about the candle?”

Alice backed away quickly. “I, I, I don’t know. Do you need anything else? If not, I have to be getting on, I’m afraid,” and before Meryl could respond she rushed out of sight to the room beyond the bar. 

What was going on? That people didn’t want to upset the local laird she could understand. After all, he was in control of leases, livelihoods. In these rural areas it could still be almost feudal at times. But what was the significance of the candle and why was Jonathan McCorrigan so mad about it?

After breakfast, Meryl decided to try to connect with Uncle Jack again and made her way to his cottage. This time she didn’t even get to try knocking the door because it opened before she got there. Jack walked towards her and embraced her wordlessly. He released her from his tight hug and held her by her shoulders. 

“I’m sorry. I should never have behaved the way I did yesterday. It was all a shock but that’s no excuse. You’re family. You’re all I have. We only have each other.” He took her into his arms once again.

“But, Uncle Jack, what do you mean? Where’s Arthur?”

“Come inside, love. We need to talk.”

Meryl followed her uncle into the grey stone cottage, once so familiar and now so strange. She hadn’t been here for about eight years and she was assailed by memories. The walls were covered with photos of Jack, his late wife Anna and Arthur at different stages of their lives. When she had come here as a child, the house had always been warm and smelt of fresh flowers, baking, woodsmoke, of family life. Now there was mould in the air, dead flowers on the windowsill, a cold grate, and the unappealing stench of last night’s half-eaten microwave meal, still sat on the kitchen table and one used cup in the sink.

“What’s going on?”

Jack took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Arthur’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“He’s gone. For good.”

She paused. Surely he couldn’t mean…

“Has he emigrated?” she asked in a small voice, fearing the inevitable answer.

“No.”

The weight of realisation hit her hard, her stomach felt as if it had been punched.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“I can’t say.”

“Do you not know?”

“I… It wouldn’t be prudent to talk about it.”

“Wouldn’t be prudent? What do you mean?”

Jack hesitated. “There was a girl,” he started. “Well, a young lady, really, who Arthur had been courting. Things had been getting serious. A ring had been bought, he’d already given her his mother’s necklace. Lovely girl. Pretty girl.” He went to the cabinet in the corner of the room, found a bottle of something strong and poured himself a measure. “She caught the eye of…” he paused, “well, it doesn’t matter who… but let’s say this gentleman was not happy about her being with Arthur. He made advances one night and when she said no, he became physical. Arthur saw him, shouted at him and pushed him away.” He took a long sip of his drink. “He didn’t see the knife in his hand.”

Meryl felt her world swim and sank into the nearest chair. For a moment she was wordless. 

“And the police?” she finally asked.

Jack snorted derisively. “They were persuaded that it was a random attack by a gang of youths.”

“What about the young lady?”

“They were led to believe she was unreliable owing to her ‘emotional state’.”

“But who was leading them to these conclusions?”

Jack looked at her directly. “Oh, I think you already know.”

And suddenly it all became clear. Jonathan McCorrigan. He, who had the power to ruin the lives of every person in this village if he so chose. 

That night there was a sombre atmosphere as Meryl and Jack dined together in the pub. Neither had been in the mood to cook and as they picked over their food, they both realised that neither of them was particularly hungry either. The events and revelations of the past twenty-four hours had killed their appetites.

Alice was working with Don tonight, her two necklaces gleaming in the low light of the pub, the candle was already lit. As Jonathan McCorrigan made his noisy entrance, she retreated to the safety of the back area and began cleaning glasses.

“Usual, Don.”

As the evening before, Don took the bottle of whiskey, poured a measure and asked him to pay. “That’ll be £3.50.”

“Sir.”

Don glared. “That’ll be £3.50, Sir.”

“I think you’ll find I don’t pay in here. Don’t you recall that?” Don maintained a stony expression. The silence in the room was deafening. 

“I’m just going to make a quick call, Uncle Jack. Won’t be a moment,” Meryl told her uncle in hushed tones. Jack barely registered her leaving.

“Well,” continued Jonathan, “don’t you? Or are you all too thick to remember that this,” he gestured around the room, “and all of you belong to me?”

Meryl re-entered and caught Jonathan’s eye. 

“Well here she is. The luscious creature of yesterday. Tonight, you drink with me.”

She walked slowly to the bar. “I don’t think so.”

He sneered. “If I say you drink with me, you drink with me.”

“I don’t drink with murderers,” Meryl replied evenly.

There was a collective intake of breath and a glass could be heard smashing on the ground out back.

“What did you say?” His face was centimetres from hers. She could feel his hot breath on her face and smell the alcohol emanating from him. He repulsed her.

“I said I don’t drink with murderers. I don’t drink with people who murder my family.”

“Your family?” He laughed. “Arthur? Oh, that is rich. It was a gang of youths, hadn’t you heard?”

“It was you.”

“Been talking to Alice have you? What a pair of stupid bitches you are. Anyone see me kill Arthur? Anyone?” He looked around the room, daring someone to contradict him. “I thought not.” Jonathan’s eyes blazed with anger. “So what if I did stab him? He was a stupid bastard to stand between me and his slutty bride-to-be. As if he thought he could stop me! I’m a McCorrigan. I’m glad I killed him. He deserved to die for his imbecility.”

“And that is all I needed to hear,” said Meryl as she held up her phone for Jonathan McCorrigan to see and stopped recording. 

“You little…”

“And that will be all the police will need to hear, too. In fact,” she cocked her ear, “yes, I think I hear their sirens now.”

McCorrigan made to run to the door but he was stopped by Don and Jack who pinned his arms behind him.

“You will finally face justice for what you did to my son!” roared Jack. 

The police thundered into the pub. Meryl stood ramrod straight with Alice and Jack, opposite the candle in Arthur’s memory, as they watched Jonathan McCorrigan being led to the police car. United in grief and taking strength from each other, justice was finally served.