by Mark Stay
A scarecrow with a floppy straw hat waded into the pond and Craddock tensed. Exhaustion weighed on him, his bones ached and his wet clothes clung to his chilled skin.
The scarecrow kept moving, but more followed and Craddock tried not to shiver.
10 A MURMURATION OF STARLINGS
Faye took a longer route home, pushing her bike along a path thick with nettles that meandered by the River Wode. A pair of swans kept her company, gliding in the water, a nonchalant entourage. Faye was sure they were staring at her.
‘Mornin’,’ Faye said with a tip of her chin.
One of the swans nodded back. The other honked at its partner, as if scolding it for replying.
Faye stopped, tilting her head at the swans. ‘Do that again,’ she said.
Both swans raised their wings and began kicking in the water, splashing and gaining height before veering off into the sky. Faye watched them till they were tiny dots on the horizon.
‘Suit yourself.’ Faye had to wonder if they really understood her. Of course they hadn’t. Once again, she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. This was her curse. Too much of a flighty imagination. She had to learn to keep her feet on the ground. Faye resumed pushing her bike along the path, head down, shoulders hunched.
Of course, it didn’t help that she lived in Woodville. Mr Paine was right. The village had more than its fair share of peculiar, odd, strange and witchy stuff going on. But that didn’t make magic real. Sleeping in the buff with a toad on your belly and being rude to everyone you meet doesn’t give you any kind of supernatural powers. To Faye it was simply evidence that you were a sandwich short of a picnic.
Faye felt a flush of sadness: her dear departed mother had probably been just as bonkers as Miss Charlotte. She would put the book away when she got home. Back in the trunk with the other relics of her mum’s life, along with all the anger and sadness. Faye preferred her fuzzy memories of warmth, laughter and sticky jam.
A whiff of smoke tickled Faye’s nostrils and she looked up. At a bend in the river, the ranks of the Local Defence Volunteers had gathered around a pair of braziers that glowed white hot. Black smoke swirled into the air.
The LDV were having another one of their training exercises. Knocking this Dad’s Army of wheezing enthusiasts into shape was no easy task. Every other day they were marching through town with broomsticks for rifles, practising hand-to-hand combat in the church hall or tossing home-made Molotov cocktails at old barns.
Today was a fire-drill day.
Bertie was there, knee-deep in the water, manning a pump that fed a hosepipe gripped by Mr Baxter the ironmonger. Mr Marshall, captain of the bowls team, was shouting at everyone, which meant he thought he was in charge.
‘More pressure, laddie,’ he hollered at Bertie. ‘Put some effort into it.’
Bertie, red-cheeked and puffing like a steam engine, doubled his efforts. At the other end of the hose, little gushes of water began to spurt out.
‘Aim it at the base of the fire,’ Mr Marshall bellowed at Mr Baxter who, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration, took aim at one of the burning braziers. The water continued to huff in sporadic bursts, barely reaching the brazier. The fire crackled on, unimpressed.
Faye hopped on her bicycle and pedalled to join the men, giving Bertie a wave. ‘Mornin’, Bertie.’
‘Oh, morning, Faye,’ he said, his voice straining as he intensified his efforts to impress a girl.
‘Much better, Bertie my lad, much better.’ Mr Marshall raised a triumphant fist in the air as the water began to spray over the flames.
‘Want any help, gents?’ Faye asked.
‘Fire drill, move along, young lady, move along,’ Mr Marshall said, gesturing for her to keep going down the path, but Faye planted her feet on the ground and perched on her saddle, enjoying the show. ‘Need any help, Bertie?’ she called, but before the boy could take a breath to reply, Mr Marshall butted in.
‘I must insist that you move along,’ he barked. ‘This is a dangerous drill and not for the uninitiated.’
‘I tried to get initiated, but you lot told me I weren’t wanted,’ Faye said, folding her arms. ‘I’ll just watch. I won’t get in the way.’
Mr Marshall raised a finger to object but found himself distracted by the trot of hooves coming around the bend.
Lady Aston arrived on horseback, along with three more of her Woodville Mounted Patrol. Her ladyship had organised the patrol back in March after seeing terrifying illustrations in the newspapers of German paratroopers armed to the teeth. The article described the threat of troops descending from the sky into the English countryside, dropping grenades on unsuspecting folk below before wreaking havoc with their machine guns. Lady Aston was having none of that, and immediately kitted out her staff and tenantry with matching armbands, tweed jackets, bowler hats and binoculars. Every day and night they rode out from Hayward Lodge – her ladyship’s sizeable mansion house – to patrol the countryside, with occasional breaks for tea and tiffin.
‘Morning, chaps,’ she called to Mr Marshall’s men. ‘Need any assistance?’
‘We’re fine, thank you, Your Ladyship,’ Mr Marshall said, his cheeks reddening.
‘Jolly good.’ Lady Aston spotted Faye. ‘Ahoy there, young Faye. You enjoying the show, too?’
‘Certainly am,’ replied Faye, beaming.
The Local Defence Volunteers shifted uncomfortably at finding themselves with an audience.
‘I thought you said this was going to be a quiet spot,’ Mr Baxter said.
‘Stick a sock in it, Gerald,’ Mr Marshall snapped.
‘All this coming and going, it’s like bleedin’ Piccadilly Circus,’ Mr Baxter continued.
‘I order you to be quiet,’ Mr Marshall said.
‘I signed up to do my bit, not become a bloomin’ street performer.’
‘Right. You’re off hose duty, Mr Baxter. Stand down and let someone else have a go.’
‘That’s not fair. I’ve hardly made a start.’
‘That’s what you get for insubordination. Now step back, or I shall I have to reprimand you.’
Mr Baxter pouted, refusing to relinquish the still-gushing hose. ‘Shan’t,’ he said.
‘Should I stop, Mr Marshall?’ Bertie cried from the river where he continued to lower and raise the pump handle.
Mr Marshall ignored the boy and went to grab the hose from Mr Baxter, who jerked away, spraying Lady Aston and her horse with freshly pumped river water.
‘Goodness,’ Lady Aston cried as her horse reared up, kicking its hooves and startling Mr Marshall who stumbled back into one of the braziers, knocking it over. White-hot coals tumbled out and flames caught on the stalks of dry corn in the field. Before Mr Marshall could get to his feet, a fire was rapidly spreading.
‘Fire!’ Faye yelled, leaping off her bike to kick dust on the flames, but they danced from stalk to stalk faster than she could kick. Everyone around here knew that a farmer’s field was his livelihood, especially now there was a war on, and the other LDV volunteers joined in. They piled dirt on the flames, but still the fire grew.
Mr Baxter did his best to regain control of the hose as more water spewed forth, but his aim was poor. Mr Marshall intervened and the pair of them tussled as the fire spread.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ Lady Aston said, drenched yet still retaining her decorum. ‘This is most unbecoming.’
Mr Marshall shoved Mr Baxter away and aimed the hose at the base of the fire. ‘Faster, Bertie, more water.’
Bertie pumped as hard as he could, arms straining with the effort, but he was tiring. Faye splashed into the river, rushing to help Bertie.
‘C’mon, lads,’ she cried and more LDV men joined them, all hands to the pump.
Alas, their efforts were a little too enthusiastic and after a few moments the handle broke off with a crack. Bertie raised it aloft for all to see.
‘Oh, blimmin’ heck,’ he said. ‘Mr Marshall, I—’
; All looked to Mr Marshall, who was holding the dripping hose, silhouetted by intense flames. There was nothing they could do. The fire was too big and the field would be lost.
A noise came from above like a sheet flapping on a clothes line. The air shifted and blackened. Faye squinted into the morning sunshine to find a murmuration of starlings swirling over the treeline. They expanded and contracted in perfect synchrony and their dance brought a smile to Faye’s face. She had been lucky enough to see starlings flock like this a few times, but only at dusk. They twisted and spun, hundreds of them breaking like waves on a rock then coming together again, wings shivering, before diving to where the fire burned. The birds swirled around the flames like the tornado Faye had seen in that Wizard of Oz film. In moments, the fire was out, the braziers were smoking husks and the birds spiralled upwards before bursting apart like a firework and flying away over the fields.
All stood about, looking at one another, trying to slot what they had seen into any bit of brain that might possibly comprehend it.
Lady Aston was first to break the silence. ‘That was jolly lucky,’ she said.
‘Wasn’t it just?’ Mr Marshall agreed.
‘That’s quite a well-known phenomenon, actually,’ Mr Baxter chipped in. ‘I read about a similar incident in the newspapers, if I recall.’
Faye looked agog at Bertie as the LDV began to tidy up the mess. ‘I can’t be the only one who saw that, can I?’ she asked him. ‘That wasn’t natural. That was… something else.’
Bertie pursed his lips. ‘Like what?’
‘Like…’ Faye lowered her voice. ‘Like magic.’
Bertie creased his brow. ‘It was very pretty,’ he half agreed.
‘No, not magic like pretty. Magic like magic. Like strange-things-that-oughtn’t-to-happen magic.’
Bertie’s face folded in confusion. ‘But magic isn’t real, Faye.’
‘No. No, course it isn’t. Mr Marshall,’ Faye asked, raising her hand, ‘what will you put in the report about this?’
‘Hmm?’ Mr Marshall looked at Faye as if he had just woken from a nap. ‘I’m sorry? What are you doing in the river, girl?’
Faye struggled to answer that one, but Mr Marshall was already distracted. Lady Aston and her riders bade them farewell as if nothing had happened, and the LDV men stood back to let them pass. The fire and the murmuration were already forgotten.
‘Bertie.’ Faye took the lad by the arm. ‘Tell them. Tell them what we just saw.’
‘Hmm?’ Bertie blinked and smiled absently. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘The birds, Bertie, the birds.’
Bertie looked at Faye with an open mouth, then squinted up into the sky. ‘Birds? What birds?’
‘Oh, forget it.’ Faye released him. Soggy to her knees and utterly confused, she trudged out of the river, got on her bike and rode back to the village.
* * *
The crow folk had not found the man Craddock. They had searched the wood, the ponds and the river. Suky was checking a hedgerow when a boy scampered into view, kicking a ball. The child, a moppet barely five years old with a startled mess of bright ginger hair, stood rigid and stared at her.
Suky’s stitches creaked as her kind smile moved into place.
The child fled, screaming for his mother, leaving the ball behind.
Pumpkinhead reassured her. ‘The child will tell his parents and they will not believe him. They will smack his bottom and send him to bed with no supper for making things up.’
Suky felt sorry for the lad but did not say it aloud. ‘We cannot find that Craddock,’ she said instead. ‘He must be a world champion at hide-and-seek.’
‘He is a hunter, a poacher,’ Pumpkinhead said. ‘Finding him was always going to be difficult. I wonder if we should try a new strategy.’
‘What’s that, my Pumpkinhead?’
‘Do you know the way to the village? There are no signs.’
‘I do, my Pumpkinhead,’ Suky said, looking beyond the hedgerow and finding it familiar, like a half-remembered dream. ‘I do not rightly know how, but I do.’
11 MRS TEACH’S WARNING
By the time Faye had cycled back to the village she was mostly dry, save for where her dungarees bunched behind her knees. What a waste of a morning. Given the brush-off by a nudie witch and treated like a loon by the LDV for being honest about what she had seen with her own eyes. It became clear to Faye that the only way she would learn the truth about her own mother would be to tie her dad to a chair and give him the third degree. In the meantime, she still had chores to do, and top of the list was to pick up the weekly ration. Four ounces of bacon or ham, twelve ounces of sugar and four ounces of butter. There were rumours that cooking fat would be rationed next, so Faye made sure she got double what she usually bought.
Faye was just leaving the butcher’s with her bacon when she saw the widow Mrs Teach at the back of the queue, ration book and wicker shopping basket clasped to the bosom of her Women’s Voluntary Service uniform.
‘Nice to see you in the daylight, young lady,’ Mrs Teach said, with a chortle in her voice and a rosy blush on her cheeks.
‘Oh, good afternoon, Mrs Teach. Yes, sorry about last night. We have to ask those questions, it’s part of our training,’ Faye said, knowing this was only sort-of true. Last night she was just being nosey.
‘Not at all, dear, not at all. We must be vigilant and all that. Did Mr Paine put it in his little logbook?’
‘Yup.’
‘Hmm,’ Mrs Teach said in a way that suggested she would pay him a visit later to convince him to take it out again. ‘He’s right to do so, of course. Any peculiar behaviour must be noted. Did you get lost in the woods today, Faye?’
Faye tensed. How did she know?
‘Mud on your shoes, dear.’ Mrs Teach glanced down and Faye’s eyes followed. Her plimsolls were caked with dry mud. Mrs Teach’s own bright green slingbacks – a daring choice to go with her dark green WVS uniform – looked brand new and Faye wondered how she could afford them. ‘And I can smell woodsmoke and aniseed. You been to see our resident witch?’
Faye’s heart nearly stopped. She knew. ‘Er… Well, yes. I…’
‘It’s fine, dear, we’ve all given her a visit at some point. I appreciate that blossoming into womanhood can be a little bewildering, and we’ll try anything for answers.’ Mrs Teach leaned closer to Faye, who couldn’t help but breathe in her sweet, summery scent of elderflower. The gossip in the village was she put a few drops of elderflower dew in her bath to keep herself looking young. ‘Women’s problems?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘N-not exactly,’ Faye replied, glancing up and down the queue, hoping no one could hear them.
‘That’s all she’s good for.’ The jolly smile that usually propped up Mrs Teach’s face dropped and her eyes lost a little of their usual glimmer. ‘She tried to help with my Ernie, but he passed all the same.’
Faye had liked Ernie Teach. A small man when compared to the voluminous Mrs Teach, Ernie had always been cheerful – one of those chaps who could fix anything. Trouble with your electrics? Ernie Teach would ping the lights back on. Motor broken down? Ernie Teach would get you on the road again. Leaky pipe? Ernie Teach would sort it lickety-split. Lacking in carnal gratification? Ernie would satisfy your every desire.
This last was just a rumour, of course, but word was that Ernie Teach had been, among his many talents, a sensitive and generous lover. There was further gossip that Mrs Teach had worn the poor man out one night last spring and his heart had given up on him.
‘May he rest in peace, Mrs Teach.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Teach gently but firmly gripped Faye’s wrist. ‘Stay away from that Charlotte, young lady, for your own peace of mind. She only brings trouble. Trust me, I know. And if it’s anything other than women’s problems…?’ Mrs Teach trailed off, letting the question hang.
‘Such as…?’ Faye pursed her lips in innocence.
‘Anything…’ Mrs
Teach raised an eyebrow. ‘Peculiar. Odd. Witchy.’ She whispered this last, and Faye leaned forwards.
‘Yes?’
‘Keep it to yourself.’
Faye wanted to act like she had no idea what Mrs Teach was going on about. That’s what a normal person who had never dabbled in magic would do. But Faye got the same feeling from Mrs Teach as she had from the goat outside Charlotte’s cottage. Like the widow could see through her smile to all the sadness and doubt beneath.
‘Why?’ Faye managed.
‘Ordinary folk only see what they want to see. Remember that. If you snap people out of their daily daydream too often, they’ll turn against you. Your mother learned that the hard way.’
‘My mother?’
‘Next!’ The butcher’s cry broke the spell and Mrs Teach’s rosy-cheeked smile returned.
‘Have a lovely day, my dear. And if you ever need any proper advice, don’t hesitate to drop by. I read tea leaves, you know.’
‘I… er… will. Thank you, Mrs Teach.’
Mrs Teach swept into the butcher’s like a Hollywood star, greeting everyone with air kisses.
Faye, still in a daze, popped her bacon ration in her bicycle basket and was about to hop back on and pedal home when a distant banging noise echoed through the village. Around Faye, the postman, the milkman, the children in their red blazers and caps walking in line from school – all stopped in their tracks, looking for the source of the approaching sound. The noise was rhythmic. Almost musical.
The clamour was accompanied by footsteps as Terrence came hurrying down the Wode Road from the pub, a hammer in his hand. One of his chores today was to fix the hanging baskets that had come loose after last night’s storm, and Faye was about to get cross with him for slacking off when she saw the puzzled expression on his face. The rhythmic noise was getting closer. A folky tarantella of sticks clacking almost in time made Faye wonder if the Morris dancers were having a do. Terrence took the red and white spotted kerchief from around his neck and dabbed at the sweat on his brow.