by Gwyn G B
8
Monday was Sophie’s first day at her new school. Alison couldn’t decide who was more nervous, her daughter or herself, but had quickly realised it wasn’t the new pupil. She’d wanted to drive Sophie in for her first time but had met with tough opposition.
‘Aaww mum, I want to catch the bus. I’m too old for all that now, all the other kids will think I’m a baby,’ she’d looked at her mother pleadingly. ‘Don’t make me go with you please…’
Alison had been a little put out, her little girl was growing up and growing away, but she’d acquiesced. Anyway, she was pleased that Sophie felt strong enough to want to go in alone and so she’d resigned herself to merely walking her to the bus stop.
There was one other child besides Sophie waiting to be collected at their stop, a shy thin girl whose pale face and sunken eyes peered at them nervously from under a curtain of black tangly hair. She was smaller than Sophie although Alison guessed that her under nourished body was probably about the same age. She obviously came from a poor family because apart from the hungry dishevelled look, she wore no jewellery, her bag was tattered and re-stitched in several places and her clothes and sandals were worn. She stood well away from them eyeing Sophie but not daring to speak, like a frightened young puppy dying to play, but too scared to make the first move.
When the bus arrived, it was a brand spanking new red minibus, not the old charabanc Alison had been expecting. Sophie hopped onto it without any need for encouragement and sat down next to the urchin. As the bus pulled away, Sophie waved goodbye through the window. Alison’s heart strings tugged but she knew she’d be OK, it would do her no end of good to be in new surroundings.
Alison and Charlie spent the day organising the house. British Telecom paid a visit to put the phone line in and Harding popped round to check everything was OK, just as Spencer had promised. Charlie busied himself in the kitchen putting up some shelving while Alison concentrated on making the bedrooms fully functional. It was while she was wiping down the windows and paintwork of the master bedroom that she found the books.
The centre window was a big bay overlooking the back garden. In its recess instead of a mere sill was a seat made of wood that fitted snugly around its contours. Alison had always loved the idea of a window seat, it conjured up images of finely dressed ladies sitting there in years gone by, working on their embroidery and gazing wistfully outside looking for their Mr Darcy. Alison sat down in her scruffy old jeans, clutching her leather chamois in her rubber gloved hands and stared contentedly over her garden thinking about the tapestry cushions she would buy to go around the seat the next time she visited Harrods. She rested for a few minutes just enjoying the peace and quiet. The day’s activity amongst the bird life outside was all that could be heard, except for the occasional bang from the kitchen as Charlie fixed her shelves. Eventually the sounds of his labour had made her feel guilty at resting and she’d taken one last look at her garden before getting back to the task at hand.
As she went to get up her legs dislodged the top of the seat slightly. Dropping to her knees she found that it was like a lid and could be easily lifted away from the base. Her mind still with fine ladies and embroidery, she presumed that this might be the place they stored their work. Inside the first thing that met her eyes was the predictable dead arachnid, its dried-out brittle legs suspended on a web just inches from her nose. Alison recoiled in horror before re-positioning her face away from its territory. At the bottom were three small books. Carefully she picked them out, wary of any descendants from her first encounter, and brought them into the light where she could see them. They were all in amateur guidebook style rather than professionally produced books. The kind that have limited print runs for a local consumption. From the prices on their cover, Alison could tell they weren’t that old. The first one was indeed a guidebook for the village, ‘A History of Deepdene’, by John Hurrell. ‘John Hurrell,’ thought Alison, ‘Surely he must be Martha’s husband.’ The second and third books were also written by the same author, but these harked back to their conversation with the Vicar. ‘The Chosen Few’ and ‘The Deepdene Inquisition’, both historical guides to witchcraft in the area.
Alison was about to start thumbing through them when she heard the doorbell go, its shrill ring reaching every corner of the house. As she made her way downstairs to see who’d pressed it, she heard Charlie opening the front door, his deep voice and then the singing trill of what Alison guessed to be a middle-aged woman. From her voice she also guessed that she’d be fairly rotund, dressed in country clothes straight out of the catalogues of Barbour or Aquascutum and probably with a passion for organising ladies’ tea sessions.
Alison wasn’t disappointed. The first thing she saw was a pair of brown Churchill’s slip-ons planted at the base of a stout pair of legs in Marks and Spencer support tights. Around these flowed a green corduroy skirt, a flowery blouse from Laura Ashley and an Hermes scarf. At the peak sat a round smiling rosy face, framed by a curly bob and finished with some discreet but terribly expensive antique diamond earrings.
‘Alison this is Mrs Saint-Romaine, she runs the Parish committee,’ said Charlie but was unable to expand any further as the afore mentioned lady flapped her way towards Alison talking at the rate of an express train.
‘My dear it’s so lovely to meet you. Such a joy to have some new young blood coming into the village. I’ve been talking to Simon the Vicar, he tells me you’ve already visited our little church and were horrified by the damage those yobs have caused. Please don’t let that put you off, but I was wondering if you’d like to help with our little working group. Once you’re a little more settled in of course.’ She said looking around her at the stacks of boxes. ‘I know what a terrible drag it can be meeting people in a new place. We’d make you feel very welcome, I’d love to take you under my wing and show you around. Do please give me the opportunity. And it’s Margaret to you, not Mrs Saint-Romaine. My dear husband the Colonel, can be thanked for that mouthful. We’re just across the fields from you at Deepdene Grange, Saint-Romaines have been there for generations. I’m an import, but have made the place my own, you know how it is,’ and she winked at Alison.
Alison seized the breathing space.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Margaret and very kind of you to drop by. I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a mess at the moment but why don’t you come through to the kitchen, that’s the most organised room so far.’
‘And so it should be. The heart of any home I always say,’ replied Margaret heading for the kitchen door without waiting for any further encouragement. ‘It’s just yourself and your daughter here isn’t it?’ She ended the sentence with a slightly questioning inflection and Alison realised she was fishing for information on Charlie. ‘I understand you’ve been recently widowed. My condolences, such a young age to be on your own.’
‘Thank you, yes that’s right. Charlie is an old friend of my late husband’s. He’s kindly taken a week off work to help us settle in.’ Alison watched her make the mental note and store it in her gossip file.
‘How kind,’ Margaret replied throwing a glance at Charlie and quickly turning away again. Charlie got the distinct impression that males, particularly those who didn’t belong to the village anyway, weren’t invited to the forthcoming welcoming chat, and he told Alison he was off on a supplies run and did she need anything other than what was already on the list.
‘No thanks,’ she’d replied, giving him a sympathetic look. His eyes twinkled amusement back and then he left, thankful to leave the ‘gob on overdrive’ as he later nicknamed Margaret, to Alison.
Margaret talked her way into the kitchen, all the way through the kettle boiling and finally only stopped when her tea was cool enough to sip. It appeared that the vandalism at the church was fairly recent and had, quite naturally, horrified the village. Margaret in her position as Secretary of the Parish Council, had taken it as her duty to organise a working party to clean up the mess as soon as possibl
e. Alison had asked her if there was any idea who’d done it, she felt certain that if there were any rumours Margaret would have heard them and she was also likely to be a bit more forthcoming than the Vicar. When her informer hesitated before replying and then lowered her voice, Alison knew it was going to be juicy.
‘Well I don’t think anybody really knows,’ she’d bluffed at first, but Alison wouldn’t give up that easily.
‘Surely, there must be at least some suspicions,’ Margaret looked a little nervous and picked up her teaspoon to stir her half drunk tea.
‘Well some people say there’s a clan of devil worshippers here abouts, but that’s nonsense, just people trying to stir things up.’ Her natural exuberance had left her for a moment, she was serious now and with the mature frame of mind, her face somehow looked older. ‘Don’t you go believing all that’s said. This is a lovely village with a lot of good people.’
‘Yes so I seem to have already found out. My neighbour Martha Hurrell is a gem.’
‘Martha Hurrell?’ Margaret knitted her brows and her lips thinned as she almost spat out her name. ‘Not one I’d necessarily have mentioned.’
‘You don’t like her then?’ asked Alison bemused at her reaction.
‘I didn’t say that, ‘Margaret jumped back a little too quickly, Alison could have sworn her guest even looked a little scared. ‘I don’t know the woman very well that’s all, keeps herself to herself normally.’ Margaret had continued desperately trying to cover up. For a few seconds there was silence, all the more deafening because of how unusual it was for Margaret not to be talking. Alison changed the subject tactfully.
‘When is the working party starting?’ Immediately the sunshine returned to her new friend’s demeanour and the torrent of talk began again. Alison presumed that there was probably some long standing feud between the Hurrells and the Saint-Romaines. Probably a trivial incident that had happened ages ago, but over the years had built into a bitter rivalry. As for the devil clan rumours, of course she didn’t pay much heed, she knew what small closeted villages could be like. People just loved to gossip and make up stories. Alison had lived a bit, she came from London and she didn’t believe silly local village superstitions.
Margaret stayed until Charlie’s return, after which she’d left triumphantly. Her trophy was a promise from Alison that she’d join in the work party next week. Margaret was so glad Alison was joining her team, she couldn’t wait to tell Clifford. He’d told her not to bother.
‘You do more than enough for this village,’ he’d argued over breakfast. She couldn’t blame him for his opinion. The reaction she’d got from that old cow Martha Hurrell when she’d gone round to welcome her to Deepdene had been enough to put anyone off being neighbourly and he hated to see her get upset.
‘But it’s the Christian thing to do,’ she’d argued back at Clifford who’d humphed into his cornflakes. She knew she’d always win with that line of attack, besides she wanted to see the young widow and find out what the village’s latest resident was like.
So Martha Hurrell was being all sweetness and light to her new neighbour, she must be up to something, thought Margaret. That made her feel all the more satisfied that she’d succeeded in not only making contact with Alison, but persuading her to join their working party. She’d sleep easier at night knowing she’d done her Christian duty. Talking of which, she must ring up the Round Table group and check when it was they needed to borrow the tombola. If she ran it over to them tomorrow she could pop into that butchers near the garage and get some of those nice pork chops for their dinner. Clifford does love his pork chops, waxes lyrical about how she cooks them every time – even though she’d been serving them up the same way for the past thirty-five years.
After Margaret had disappeared up the lane in her old Mercedes, Alison remembered the books she’d found and popped over to Martha’s. She found her standing in the back garden holding something in her hand which she was stroking. It looked too fat to be a little kitten or bird.
‘Hello Martha,’ Alison said straining to see what she was holding, ‘what have you got there?’
Martha took her top hand away to reveal a large toad, blinking in the sunlight, its throat bubbling with its croaks. Alison was a little startled.
‘It’s a toad,’ said Martha, by now stating the obvious somewhat. ‘They’re terribly misunderstood you know, they’re my friends, eat the flies in my garden.’ She smiled at Alison, stretching the wrinkles on her face, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Do you want to hold him?’ She offered the toad to her.
‘Er no thanks, think I’ll give it a miss,’ Alison had joked back and Martha instead bent down to put her ‘friend’ on the ground in the shade of one of her herb plants. ‘Actually Martha, I wanted to ask you about some books I’ve just found. There are three of them all written by a John Hurrell. I was wondering if you were related.’
‘Yes of course my dear. John was my late husband. After he retired he used to research the village history. He wrote several books on the subject.’
‘Well In that case I can’t wait to read them. The Vicar was telling us yesterday about the Deepdene Inquisition and those five women who were executed as witches when of course they weren’t at all.’
‘How can you be so sure my dear?’ asked Martha raising an eyebrow mischievously. Alison couldn’t work out if she was joking or not and decided to drop the subject and read what Martha’s husband had to say on the matter before she next brought it up.
At the appointed hour Alison put down her duster and turned off the hoover, Sophie’s school bus would be arriving back in ten minutes and she wanted to be there to greet her.
‘I’m off to pick up Sophie,’ she said to Charlie’s rear end which was sticking half way out of her Aga.
‘OK,’ came the muffled reply, followed by something else she didn’t quite hear. She left him to it, cursing away about some vent thing that wouldn’t open like it was supposed to.
Walking up the lane slowly, she took her time to savour the day. Save for the odd buzz of a car speeding past on the main road she could hear nothing except the sounds of nature. The warm air felt welcoming against her cheek and carried the scent of early summer blooms, rich earth and pine needles. Alison scanned the hedgerows for signs of life, a rabbit or a squirrel, perhaps even a lizard or snake. There were rustlings as she passed and the scratching of claws on bark as squirrels raced up the trees to safety, but the rabbits had yet to wake from their afternoon naps and she had soon reached the bus stop at the top of the lane.
The bus was five minutes late. Alison stood on the main road staring at the wooded corner it was due to appear round. Only one other fume releasing human carrier disturbed the peace. It was an extremely old Landrover, its wheel hubs rusted, paint scratched and dull and its engine mimicking the wheezing chest of a seventy-year-old heavy smoker trying to climb a hill. In the back was a pair of grey muzzled sheepdogs. Their working days long since over, they both stared blankly at Alison as they were carried past. Driving them was a grey muzzled old man, his shepherding days also just a long distant memory. He was actually just returning from the Ferret ‘n’ Weasel, going back to their run-down farm which had yet to feel the hand of modernisation. The sheep were gone and the place was empty. No wife to cuddle up to, or share a meal with, and no children to expand his life with their tales of exciting achievements. Old Jack Cotterell was in trouble with the bank and his health was failing fast. Over his pint of draught Guinness he’d made up his mind to return home, take his shotgun and shoot the dogs and then himself. There was nothing left worth hanging around for.
He formulated and executed his death plan with the same slow, methodical care he’d led his life. The dogs died happy, eating their favourite dinners and old Jack posted a letter to his bank manager telling him the farm was now in his greedy hands and where he’d find the keys. He’d placed them at the bottom of a large pile of fresh manure, his last defiant gesture to a system and institution
he’d never understood or mastered.
Back at the roadside, Alison was overjoyed when the school minibus finally showed its nose around the corner. She was waiting to hear how Alison had found her new school, had she made any friends, was she going to be happy there? Most of her questions were answered when her beaming daughter stepped down from the bus waving to those she’d left behind and chatting gaily to the small, tangly black haired girl they’d seen that morning.
‘Mummy this is Michaela West, she lives across the other side of the road.’
The tangly haired one smiled nervously with dry, cracked lips and in a quiet voice said,
‘Hello Mrs Swift.’
Alison wasn’t at all sure about her suitability as a best friend, but she’d smiled back and returned the greeting. Sophie didn’t stop babbling on about her new friends, the nice teachers and all the extra curricular activities she wanted to do, all the way through dinner. Shortly after pudding, the exhaustion hit her like the proverbial ton of bricks and she volunteered herself to bed, already looking forward to the morning and meeting the bus again. Alison was so relieved, the colour had returned to her daughter’s cheeks and she was eating and sleeping well. At last, she felt she might be able to stop worrying so much about her and instead look forward to their future together.
9
Michaela West trudged home slowly. She’d completed the task set her today; she’d not only made friends with Sophie, but also managed to get some hairs from her and later on she would perform a spell to gain dominance over her, as directed. The spell would be easy, the coven leader had shown her how, but she was tired. Her first task would be to tidy the house and get her father’s dinner ready before he returned from work. Then she’d have to do her homework, competing against his blaring television programme for concentration. Finally, the clearing up of the dinner things, getting their clothes ready for the morning and then to her room. The spell would take as long as the candle took to burn down, but it had to be done.