Ravens Gathering

by Graeme Cumming

  At mid-afternoon on a Thursday, the only sounds to be heard at The Barns were of power tools, hammers, timber being hauled, and the chink-chink-chink of trowels on brickwork. There wasn’t even the other familiar sound from a building site: tinny music from a well-worn transistor radio. On this particular afternoon, the builders were concentrating on a garden wall, so things were more quiet than usual. The scrape of metal against brick and the slap of the trowel into the cement mix only occasionally interspersed with muted comments. Neither workman was particularly talkative at the best of times.

  They were distracted too. All of the houses faced the woods. The edge was perhaps two hundred yards away. That meant the back gardens were south-facing. Just as importantly, they were not overshadowed by the tree line. All the same, the architects had allowed for the retention of trees on the south side. This would enhance the sense of being in the country, whilst adding to the privacy for each house. All part of the marketing plan.

  Matt had spotted the birds half an hour or so earlier. As he worked, he had a habit of pausing every fifteen minutes or so. He would step back for a moment, stretch, and look around him. It eased the strain on his body, and relieved his mind from the boredom it felt when he was involved in work that was especially repetitive. For some time there had been nothing of interest to see. Suddenly he was confronted with five black birds. They were sitting in the branches of an oak tree at the edge of the woods. And they appeared to be watching the builders intently.

  At first, he had shrugged it off. It wasn’t that unusual to see several birds at once. And their apparent interest in the building work was undoubtedly just a matter of timing. He had simply looked up just as they all happened to be gazing in his direction. That’s what he told himself. But he still felt uneasy. More so when they were still in exactly the same position a few minutes later. On this second glance, he realised what kind of birds they were, though he also appreciated that he had probably registered this on a subconscious level anyway. And no doubt that had added to his uneasiness. When they were still there the next time he looked, he reluctantly nudged Patrick, and made him aware of them.

  The older man’s reaction shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but Matt was still struck by it. Patrick was sixty-two years old, but anyone meeting him for the first time would easily add another ten years if they were asked to hazard a guess. His hair had long since passed on from grey, and was now a yellow-tinged white. The real aging had taken place in his face, though. Decades of working outside in all weathers had left him with a patchwork of creases and lines. Where suntanned skin can often look attractive, Patrick’s dry, leathery look simply made him look deathly. When the colour drained from his face at the sight of the ravens, that impression became even more pronounced. And there was real fear in his eyes.

  “What does it mean?” Matt had asked.

  At first, Patrick had just shaken his head, unable to answer. Instead, he had loaded his trowel up and turned back to the wall, as if by carrying on with his work, he could somehow make the birds disappear. But they didn’t.

  “Do you think he’s back?” Matt asked after a couple of minutes had passed.

  “I don’t know.” The reply was curt, a hint of anger behind it. Anger hiding fear, Matt guessed. After a moment or two, he added: “It’s probably nothing. Just a coincidence.” His tone was hardly reassuring.

  “Well, do you think we should tell the others?”

  A sharp shake of the head in response. “What would be the point?”

  “We can warn them. If they know in advance, maybe they can do something. Maybe we can all do something together.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good.” Patrick was never the best at eye contact. But even for him it was noticeable that he was deliberately looking away from Matt.

  “Why not? If nothing else, we could move away for a while.”

  Patrick’s face contorted, a twisted smile that lacked any humour. “If he wants us, he’ll get us, no matter where we are.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I feel it.”

  And they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, neither knowing what to say to the other. Neither knowing what they should do, if anything. Until the cawing began. It didn’t last long, only a few seconds. But the sound tore through them like slashing blades. Terrified, they looked across at the ravens, in time to see them rise from their perches and, in the effortless way that birds do, soar up above the trees, then wheel away and disappear from view.

  For a few moments, they watched the treetops, waiting for the birds to come back into sight. When they didn’t, the two men started to feel the tension begin to ebb away, began to hope that it had all been a matter of their imaginations running wild.

  The hope was short-lived.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  Six

  Patrick studied the man in front of him carefully. It had been almost fifteen years since he’d last seen his son. He’d been a teenager then, his build slighter, his face thinner and much more pale. The man who smiled back at him now looked very different. Not just his appearance, but also his manner. There was more confidence. Borderline cocky, he thought. Martin hadn’t been like that. He’d been quiet. Kept himself to himself. Not that Patrick or the rest of the family had complained. They’d had other things to worry about.

  When he had bought himself an old Volkswagen camper van and started to do it up, they had been a little surprised, but too distracted to consider the implications. The real shock had been when he announced he was using the van to leave the village. Shock mixed with relief. In his more reflective moments, Patrick was ashamed of that. But as he considered the prospect of his son returning, he understood why he had felt the relief. He might be his son – his own flesh and blood – but his presence was already making him uncomfortable.

  Assuming he really was Martin, of course. He studied the eyes, noted the wrinkles that hadn’t been there last time he saw him. Creases that suggested sun – and probably sea. The skin didn’t look as soft either. A combination of age and outdoor living. Beard stubble wouldn’t have looked out of place, but the face was freshly shaved. He wondered whether that was the norm, or if the lad was just trying to make a good impression. The hair was longer, of course. Another difference. Still, no matter how much he wanted them not to be, Patrick knew that the differences were minor when you considered the length of time he’d been away.

  “Hello, Martin.” The words came out reluctantly, as if by saying them he was admitting guilt about something.

  The lack of enthusiasm in his response was noted. Martin didn’t say anything, but he could see it in his eyes. Just a flicker, but it was there.

  “How did you find us?” He knew it wasn’t the most welcoming thing to say, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Martin gave a little nod, acknowledging the distance that still lay between them. “Colin told me where you were.” He paused, clearly thinking about what he had just said. “Well, kind of.”

  He was still standing on the track that ran in front of the house. To the left, the track led eventually down to the main road. To the right – the direction from which Martin seemed to have come – led up the hill to the farmhouse and yard. Behind him was an open field and then the edge of the wood. He rested his palms on the top of the partially constructed wall. So far, his focus had been on his father, but he deliberately looked at Matt now.

  “How’s my big brother?”

  Matt glanced briefly in his father’s direction. Patrick saw and understood the wary look in his eyes. But he had nothing to offer by way of help.

  “I’m fine,” Matt said. His words were spoken slowly, carefully, as if he wanted to make sure that nothing he said could be misinterpreted. “When did you see Colin?”

  “About an hour ago. He was in The Oak. Being given a hard time.”

  “He knows he shouldn’t go there,” Patrick said defensively.

  “Well, I got him out as soon as I could. Took him home
.”

  “You’ve been to the house?” There was no attempt to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I just saw him to the door. I’ve not been inside.”

  Realising that he must have gone too far, Patrick back-tracked. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just surprised, that’s all.” Not to mention relieved that he hadn’t been in their home. He didn’t like the idea of Martin being allowed to roam freely around the house.

  Martin was moving on though. “He told me you were working on the farm. I assumed you were still working for the Sullivans.”

  “Not since 1986. David and Paul sold up.”

  “I heard. Tanya Mclean said Bob Lambert bought the land. Couldn’t you have worked for him?”

  The reference to Mrs Mclean troubled Patrick, but he didn’t pursue it. To do so risked highlighting his concern, and he didn’t want Martin to be aware of that.

  “Bob’s been investing in machinery,” he said, unable to completely suppress his bitterness. He’d known Bob Lambert since they were kids. They’d gone to the same school. But that hadn’t meant anything to Bob. Business was business, and his view was clear: machinery was much more efficient than labour – it could do more for less money. Occasionally, Patrick was prepared to admit to himself that this was probably true. But it didn’t make it any easier to come to terms with when you were far enough from retirement age to need a job, but close enough to it for retraining to be an unrealistic investment of time or money.

  “I’m sorry.” The words were spoken with feeling. For a moment, Patrick wondered if they were meant, then pushed the idea aside. He had to keep his guard up.

  “So have you been working as a builder for the last three years?”

  “No. Just the last year.”

  “It’s been tough then?”

  Patrick shrugged awkwardly. He didn’t feel comfortable talking about his financial situation at the best of times. And certainly not to someone who was a virtual stranger to him. “We got by.”

  “Mum’s working,” Matt chipped in. The next generation, who didn’t have the same hang-ups about money. “She’s got a job in Westfield. Same place as Janet.” Patrick watched Martin carefully, looking for any reaction to these references to his mother and sister. None were obvious. “Of course, Janet and I contribute to the upkeep of the house anyway.”

  Martin cocked his head quizzically. “D’you mean you’re still living at home?”

  Matt and Patrick looked at each other. An acknowledgement passed between them that they may have made their first mistake. But it was too late to take anything back.

  Shrugging, Matt gestured to the houses around them. “It’s not easy to get on the housing ladder here. I’m guessing from your tan that you’ve not been in the country for a while, so you’re probably not aware of how things are here. There’s been a housing boom in the last few years. Property’s got so expensive in the south, people are moving up here, especially Londoners. Westfield’s on a mainline to London, so they can commute to work, and it doesn’t take them that much longer than when they lived in the suburbs. For their money, though, they can get a house that’s three times as big as what they could get down there. The only problem is that’s pushed up house prices round here, and locals can’t afford to buy.”

  There was a lot of truth in everything Matt said. Patrick was relieved to see Martin nodding, accepting the explanation without question.

  “Must be cramped,” he commented, but didn’t wait for any elaboration. “So why’d the Sullivans sell up?”

  Patrick answered. “Paul had an accident back in ’83. He was careless with a threshing machine, and lost a leg. Probably had too much to drink with his lunch.”

  Martin raised a questioning eyebrow. “Did he have a drink problem, then?”

  Relieved that his son was steering things away from the family, Patrick was happy to talk about his past employers. “Just a bit. Still, you can understand it. When you find your dad’s killed himself because he’s found out your mum and brother-in-law have been having an affair, it can do strange things to you.”

  “I didn’t know about that,” Martin said gravely.

  “Why should you? You were only a young lad when it happened. It was a real scandal at the time, but nobody talked openly about it much in the village. The Sullivans were good employers. Good people, in fact. It was a real shock to us. So you can only imagine the effect it had on the family.” He shook his head as he thought back to those times. Twenty-five years had passed, but he could remember so much of what had happened back then. Too much.

  “So Paul’s accident prompted them to sell up?” Martin brought them back from the sidetrack.

  “That’s right. I think he’d just had enough. The doctors fixed him up, and he can walk okay. He moved to Thornberry, so we don’t see him that often. But once in a while, he pops into The Oak. You can hardly tell he’s limping. So he could’ve carried on, but I don’t think his heart had been in the farm for years.”

  “But you said he had the accident in ’83. Yet you only stopped working in ’86.”

  “That’s how long it took to sell. They were hoping to sell it all off lock, stock and barrel. But they couldn’t find any takers. Not at the price they wanted.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  Patrick hesitated a moment, realising he may have moved back into can-of-worms territory. But he knew that if he took too long to respond, he would just arouse his son’s curiosity further.

  “Just the market, I suppose.”

  “The booming property market?” Martin’s lips had curved slightly upward at the edges. Not quite a smile, but there was certainly some humour. Patrick suspected an element of mockery too.

  “There’s a big difference between housing and farms,” Matt said quickly, possibly a little too quickly, but Patrick was grateful for the intervention.

  Martin nodded. In agreement? Patrick wondered.

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Or possibly still mocking?

  “So how come you’ve ended up working as a builder?” It was clear that, in spite of his tone, Martin wasn’t going to dwell on any inconsistencies. Hopefully that was a good thing.

  “Builder’s labourer, really,” Patrick said.

  “No, Dad,” Matt corrected him, “you’re a builder.”

  Patrick looked fondly at his oldest son. It was only later that he realised the effect this might have had on Martin. For now, though, he reacted naturally to Matt’s protectiveness.

  “You don’t have to make me feel better, you know. I know my role here, and I’m very grateful for it.”

  Matt opened his mouth to respond, but Martin beat him to it. Cutting to the chase.

  “So you’re working for Matt, then?”

  “On a self-employed basis.”

  “I’m sure that makes all the difference.” It was difficult to tell from his tone whether the remark had an edge to it or not. “But I take it you’re running things here?” Martin had turned his attention back to his older brother.

  Shrugging, Matt said: “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether you mean from the point of view of the project management, or as the person bankrolling it.”

  “Well, as you can’t afford to buy your own house, I’m guessing you’re not the person bankrolling it.”

  “A fair point,” Matt conceded.

  “And, as Tanya’s already told me that she and her husband’re having the houses built, I took it as read that managing the project was the highest up the pecking order you could be.” There was definitely an edge this time. Martin’s voice was tinged with impatience, and possibly sarcasm. Patrick watched him guardedly. The wall was still between them, and he instinctively wanted to keep that barrier there.

  Martin raised his hands off the top of the wall, palms up, a gesture of supplication. “I’m sorry,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. “I’ve been away a long
time, and I’m just trying to get up to speed with things here. Things have changed.” He gestured to his father. “Last time I saw you, your hair was darker, you were a few pounds lighter, and you were going to work the land until the day you died.” A nod to his brother. “And you, Matt. You were working for a building firm in Westfield. JC Construction, wasn’t it?”

  “JB, but close enough.” Although Martin seemed to be making an effort now to lighten things up, Matt wasn’t letting his guard down.

  A grin from the younger brother. “It has been a while.” He paused a moment before continuing. “What I’m saying is... Things have changed. So I’m sorry if I got a bit pushy. You’re my family, and I just want to know about you.”

  Patrick shifted uneasily at that remark. He suspected that Matt wouldn’t be too happy at it either. But Matt was younger, his brain a little more nimble.

  “You’re right,” he said, then deliberately looked around him at the bricks stacked up and the tools lying idle. “And that kind of conversation needs time and no distractions.”

  His brother cocked his head to the right and ran his fingers through the long blond hair thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said at last. There was some reluctance, but he seemed to be accepting the implication of Matt’s words. “My timing’s not good, is it? When would be a good time?”