Bone Harvest

by James Brogden

  ‘I think it was just a scratch,’ Ardwyn replied. ‘These things always look worse than they actually are. Plus, you know men: big drama queens. How are you doing, anyway?’

  Dennie rubbed her forehead. ‘Quite a bit better, thank you. Listen, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for the way I acted last week.’

  ‘Oh, honestly, look—’

  ‘No, no, you and Everett have been nothing but kind and generous, and the last thing you need is a doddery old neighbour yelling at you. Please, will you accept my apology?’

  ‘Of course. You’re sure I can’t tempt you with one of Everett’s pulled pork rolls?’

  ‘Not me, I’m afraid, but you might be able to tempt Viggo.’

  She did accept a wrapped-up portion of meat to take back for Viggo, as both reward and apology for leaving him at the allotment. ‘There you go,’ she said, setting it down in front of him. ‘That’s for being such a good boy.’ Viggo, who had never been known to refuse a treat, including many that he was not technically supposed to be able to digest, sniffed at the meat but then turned away and curled himself into a corner, looking at her reproachfully over one paw. ‘Really? Do not try to tell me that you’ve gone veggie too. Frankly, my dear, your farts are bad enough as it is.’ She tried again later, but he wouldn’t touch it – wouldn’t even sniff it at it. In the end she threw it in the bin.

  * * *

  ‘That went well, then,’ Everett said.

  ‘Better than we could have expected,’ Ardwyn replied.

  They were driving back from the village with debris from the feast rattling around in the back. Everett was happy but exhausted, and night had fallen, and he was working his way slowly along the twisting country lanes, headlights picking out details of the hedgerows. Hawthorn branches were just coming into bud but they still had the stark, skeletal beauty of their winter thorns.

  ‘It’s just a pity Gar couldn’t be there,’ she added.

  ‘He’s better off at the farm, out of sight. I think we might have been a bit complacent letting him be amongst people so soon. He’s not used to it, poor chap. How many of them ate the first flesh?’

  ‘At least a dozen.’ Ardwyn squeezed his arm lovingly and leaned her head against his shoulder.

  ‘You were magnificent. That speech – the bit about not being religious? I nearly choked. Did you find out their names?’

  ‘Mm-hm. I mingled, I chatted, I caught up on all the local goss. I was the perfect Mother.’

  He nodded, relieved. ‘And we only need six. That gives us the rest of the month to check them out and pick the ones who won’t be missed.’

  ‘As well as the ones who can be useful,’ she added. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with a few dinner parties at home over the next few weeks.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

  ‘Good lord, that bad? I might have to make you eat out in the shed with Gar.’

  They drove on in silence for a while. ‘Pity about the old woman,’ she said eventually. ‘I would have liked for her to join the new church, then we wouldn’t have to worry about her sniffing around so much. But, if she will insist on refusing to eat meat…’

  The van lurched as Everett twisted the steering wheel violently and slammed on the brakes. Something heavy slid up the inside and whacked the back of their seats.

  ‘What—?’ Ardwyn gasped.

  Standing in the road in front of them, paralysed by the headlights, was a small tawny-coloured deer. Its head was narrow and triangular, it had no horns, and it only stood about three feet high. Its flanks were heaving and its nostrils flaring. They stared at it through the windscreen, equally transfixed. Then it bolted, the hedgerow quivered, and it was gone.

  ‘Steady,’ Ardwyn breathed. ‘You nearly killed that poor creature.’

  They looked at each other, and then burst out laughing. Everett started the van and they drove home.

  7

  LIZZIE

  ON THE WEDNESDAY AFTER THE BARBECUE, DENNIE’S youngest daughter Elizabeth paid her a visit, and that was when she really got pissed off with Angie.

  The potatoes had been chitted, she had two rows of strawberries under plastic to force them into an early fruiting for the summer, and her current job was mulching her broccoli with bunches of shredded newspaper as part of the annual war of attrition against the great slug horde. In the Watts’ pond, three plots over, frogs were beginning to spawn, desperately shagging each other and leaving great gelatinous puddles everywhere. In contrast, fruit trees all over Briar Hill Allotments had come into blossom like pink and white clouds of candyfloss, and the bees were going crazy. There weren’t as many of them as there had been in the past, but that was the way of things, she supposed. Even the strange new neighbours were keeping themselves to themselves. She found that the less time she spent interacting with other human beings the fewer blank moments she had, and that was just fine by her.

  The only conversation she’d had so far that day had been first thing in the morning, heading in with Viggo and her tools, when she’d been surprised to see Marcus Overton humming and whistling to himself as he pottered away, weeding. He’d been much less active on his allotment in the last few years as his arthritis had worsened, but she’d seen him at Sunday’s barbecue tucking into a pork roll as rapturously as the rest of them. She certainly hadn’t expected to see him here again, so early in the morning, and especially on his hands and knees pulling up weeds.

  ‘Someone sounds happy,’ she commented as she passed.

  Overton looked up and waved. ‘Good morning, Denise!’ He smiled. ‘I thought it was about time to give the family estate a bit of TLC. How are you?’

  ‘Can’t complain. How are the knees?’ On the rare occasions that he was seen out of doors, it was usually making his painful way to the shops on a pair of walking sticks.

  ‘Do you know, it’s incredible!’ he said, straightening up in a single, smooth action. ‘They are absolutely fine! There’s no sign of swelling at all!’

  ‘And when did this happen?’

  ‘Almost overnight! I hesitate to use the term “miraculous”, but…’ He grinned and did a little dance. Seeing the old chap capering, Dennie had to stifle a giggle. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ he said. ‘I’ve left this far too long. It’s like a jungle here.’

  ‘Well, don’t you overdo it, now.’

  ‘Never do.’

  And she went on her way. As far as having to play nicely with others went, that was it until mid-morning, when Lizzie appeared. Her arrival was heralded by Viggo’s head shooting up like a meerkat’s and him hurtling off to throw himself, barking joyously, at a figure who had appeared at the allotment gates. She came over, laughing as she fended off the huge dog that was capering around her, trying to lick her face.

  ‘Viggo! For God’s sake will you just—’

  ‘Viggo!’ Dennie snapped. ‘Get a grip!’ He subsided and Lizzie ambled the rest of the way, wiping her face with the cuffs of her jumper.

  ‘Hi, Mum. I went by the house first but there was nobody in so I guessed you’d be here.’

  ‘Lizzie, my darling, what on earth are you doing here?’ Her daughter had progressed from waiting tables to co-owning and running her own café-bakery in Bristol with her partner Niamh; it took a lot of time and energy and left little of either for visiting her mother, especially from such a distance. Christopher still lived a lot closer in Burton, but the prodigal son was too busy with his own life, and Amy was working for a disaster-relief NGO somewhere in India. ‘Don’t tell me you were just passing and thought you’d drop in.’

  ‘Nice to see you too.’ She gave Dennie a hug and a peck on the cheek. She smelled like bread and cigarettes. ‘Mum, can we talk?’

  ‘Are you in trouble? Do you need money? Is it the shop? Oh, it’s not Niamh, is it?’

  ‘No, Mum, I’m not in trouble but I will be if I don’t get a cup of tea soon. Can we go home first?’

  ‘Of course.’
/>
  She packed her things and Lizzie drove them home in the battered little yellow Micra that she’d parked outside the allotments. Lizzie looked well. She’d let her hair grow out a bit and there was some colour in her cheeks. It was while Dennie was sitting in the passenger seat that she noticed the overnight bag on the back seat, but didn’t say anything until they were in the kitchen on either side of the breakfast bar with two steaming mugs in front of them.

  ‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ she said, ‘though I do wish you’d called first. Are you planning to stay over? I’ll make your bed up.’

  ‘Mum, I did call, but you’re never here to pick up and you never check your messages.’

  That was fair. She glanced at the phone on the counter by the microwave. A small red LED was flashing. Bugger. ‘Well, I’m a very busy person, you know,’ she said in her best Edina Monsoon voice. ‘Social life is absolutely hectic these days, sweetie darling.’

  It should have raised a laugh, but Lizzie just smiled. ‘Yes, I’d like to stay for a few days, if that’s okay.’

  ‘What about the shop?’

  ‘Oh, Niamh has all of that under control.’

  ‘So, what is it you wanted to talk about?’

  Lizzie fidgeted with the ring on her right hand, the one with the garnets that Dennie’s own mother had given to her youngest granddaughter as a keepsake before she died in ’91. ‘Mum, I don’t want you to get upset, okay? But I had a phone call from the lady that runs the allotments—’

  ‘Angie.’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘I knew it. I bloody knew it. That interfering cow. And she doesn’t run the allotments, she—’

  ‘Mum. Please. She said that she’s worried about you.’

  ‘Fine bloody way of showing it—’

  ‘She said that you’ve been having… episodes. That people have seen you just stop and stare into space for ages.’

  ‘Daydreaming. Wool-gathering. It’s not a symptom of anything, you know. It doesn’t mean I’m going gaga.’

  ‘Nobody’s saying that you’re going gaga,’ said Lizzie, but as far as Dennie was concerned that was exactly what it sounded like. ‘This Angie woman said that you had a big blazing row with the people on the plot next to yours a couple of weeks ago. That you’ve been hearing and seeing strange things there. That you’ve been sleeping in your shed, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Angie’s given you a nice comprehensive report, hasn’t she? Had she told you what my diet’s like? The frequency of my bowel movements?’

  ‘Mum!’ Lizzie twisted harder at the ring. She was obviously uncomfortable having to say all of this and Dennie suddenly felt foolish and cruel for picking on her when it wasn’t Lizzie she should be angry with. ‘You can’t sleep in your shed, Mum. It’s not safe. It’s cold, there are sharp things…’

  Dennie laughed. ‘You sound like somebody’s mother!’

  ‘Funny, I wonder where I get that from.’

  ‘Darling, I am sixty-five years old. I am not…’ And it was gone again. The word. Erased from her memory – no, not erased, become a slippery fishword, squirming away from her the closer she came to grasping it. ‘I’m not…’

  ‘Not what, Mum?’ Lizzie was frowning at her in concern. She put down her mug and laid both hands across her mother’s, which Dennie only just now realised were twisting on themselves, her fingers making little pinching motions as she tried to catch the term that wouldn’t come. She pulled herself together and took her hands away.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there are women older than me that climb Mount Everest and run marathons. For heaven’s sake, the Queen’s nearly a hundred and she runs the whole country!’

  Lizzie frowned. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works. Also,’ she pointed out, ‘the Queen doesn’t sleep in a potting shed.’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  Lizzie peered at her as if she really had gone mad. ‘What?’

  ‘I mean the royals. Very strange people. You never know. I bet the Queen could sleep in a potting shed if she wanted to, though. Who’s to stop her? “I’m the Queen, and I’m sleeping in this shed and if you don’t like it you can fack awf”.’

  Lizzie laughed at that.

  ‘Finally, she cracks a smile.’

  ‘I’m serious, Mum.’

  ‘I know, darling, you have always been one of the most serious people I know. I love you for it. And I love you for coming all this way up here to tell me to stop being such a silly old cow.’

  ‘You’re not a silly cow. And I love you too.’

  ‘Moo.’

  ‘Stop that.’

  Dennie made up the bed in Lizzie’s old room and Lizzie came to help her on the allotment for a few hours. She took Viggo on a long leg-stretch along the country lanes outside the village where they had walked as a family on Sunday afternoons, and in the evening cooked them a vegetable stir-fry for dinner which they ate while watching Emmerdale. And when Dennie went to bed that evening she didn’t have to listen for strange echoes because the noises in the house came from her daughter moving around, brushing her teeth, coming in to kiss her goodnight, and for the first time in a long time the house felt like a home again.

  * * *

  Marcus Overton was also having an unexpectedly good evening. He was up in the attic looking for his passport. Admittedly, this might not have seemed to be anybody’s idea of a fun evening, let alone a septuagenarian ex-schoolmaster, but Overton hadn’t been able to climb a ladder for the best part of ten years. Come to that, he hadn’t been able to get upstairs comfortably for the last two. The carer woman who came around every week had helped him set up the downstairs study as a small bedroom so that on really bad days he didn’t have to make the painful attempt at all. But this morning he’d awoken with the swelling in his joints gone, and the feeling of being pain free after so long was like slipping into a pool of clear calm water after a long day’s hike in the hot sun. He had expected to find that he’d overstretched himself on the allotment and that his knees would punish him for it, but they hadn’t. He’d taken himself out for a meal in town, then a drink at the Golden Cross – sitting at an outdoor table with a pale ale and a copy of Professor Beard’s SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome and not having to worry about the effects of damp or cold – and then walked all the way to his home in Greenlea later in the evening with a literal spring in his step, wondering how long this miraculous respite could last and how much further he could exploit it. It was as he stepped through his front gate and between the mock Doric columns of his front porch that the answer came to him: he would go on a holiday. To Italy.

  In his long career at the chalk-face one of the most rewarding aspects of teaching young men and women had always been the opportunity to take them on overseas excursions to show them the treasures of antiquity that they would otherwise only read about or see on the tiny, ugly screens of the phones to which they seemed perpetually glued these days. Mr Overton’s Overseas Trips (or MOOTs as they became known), had been legendary fixed feasts in the school calendar, always heavily oversubscribed and spoken of with fond remembrance at Old Pupils’ reunions. The cruel irony of retirement had been that at just the age when he had found himself free to travel for his own pleasure, his body had decided that it was no longer willing to get him upstairs to the main bathroom let alone to the Mediterranean.

  Yet now, it seemed, it had changed its mind, and he was determined to take advantage of this situation before it changed back again. Carpe diem, and all that. Carpe patellam: seize the knee. He chuckled as he climbed.

  His passport had ended up in a packing box in the attic when the study was being modified and he’d had a clear-out of his old desk. Of course, it would have expired by now, but you still needed the old one to apply for a renewal. All the boxes up here were carefully labelled, and it was exactly where it should have been. He tucked the passport into his trouser pocket, closed the box, climbed back down to the upstairs hallway, retracted the loft ladder and pulled t
he cord that shut the loft hatch.

  All without so much as a twinge.

  He was so excited by the idea that he completely lost track of time googling destinations, flight options, hotels, and jotting itinerary notes, and when the front doorbell rang he looked up in surprise and realised that it was one in the morning.

  ‘What on earth?’

  He put the door on its chain because you never could be too careful, even in a quiet place like Dodbury, and opened it to see that nice young lady who had organised Sunday’s garden party. Arwen – no, Ardwyn, that was it. A peculiar name but quite lovely, much like the girl herself. She was looking anxious, however, as she stood on his doorstep. It was raining lightly, and she looked damp and cold.

  ‘I’m very sorry to trouble you so late, Mr Overton,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got a bit of an urgent problem and I wonder if you could help me, please?’

  ‘Why my dear, of course!’ He took the door off its chain and opened it for her. ‘Whatever can I help you with?’

  Behind her, a huge shape detached itself from the shadows of his front garden and rushed at the doorway. He glimpsed a giant of a man, a mouth snarling impossibly wide, and then a fist that hit him in the face so hard that he actually flew backwards down the hallway and cracked the back of his skull on the floor. Too stunned and utterly bewildered to be afraid, Overton could only watch as the young woman stepped into his house. Her hulking companion had to duck under the lintel to follow her.

  ‘Well,’ she replied. ‘I was wondering if you might very kindly pass out for me.’

  Fear came then, and he tried to scream, but then the fist hit him again and he had little choice but to oblige.

  * * *

  The deserter kept a sharp eye out through the windscreen as Gar loaded the unconscious man into the back of the van and climbed in after. The narrow road behind these big properties was dark, and the large trees of their established gardens meant that it had been relatively easy to park somewhere that wasn’t overlooked, but he was determined not to be undone by complacency.