by Helen Slavin
“Yes. But,” Aurora mimicked ruthlessly, “you asked me for something edgy and spectacular on a tiny budget.”
“Yes, but…” Roz knew she would not finish the sentence.
“Yes, but.” Aurora was digging in now, her tone superior, her eyes beautiful but harsh in their gaze. Roz was reminded of a weasel eyeing up a woodpecker chick. “You asked me to do this. You understand my skill, or you wouldn’t have asked, and yet, instead of letting me do my job, creating something to blow the minds of your clients, instead of letting me…” she did not pause for breath “…practise my art, you are, without any idea of what I’m going to achieve on your peppercorn budget, persisting in picking holes and criticising.” She paused for the shortest, sharpest of breaths.
Roz held hers.
“Roz, go back into your little office-slash-kitchen and let me get on with this. Your input is curating, display, making the nibbles and whatever the hell else for the opening tonight. Your skill, Roz, is not flowers.”
The only words that filled Roz’s mouth were “yes” and “but”, so she said nothing at all. She looked away from the stack of leafage and flora. She felt panic like a little moth inside her, too close to the light.
“Yes, but no comeback?” Aurora’s expertly groomed eyebrows were lifted in a look of queenly arrogance.
Roz could not reply. At this moment, the air felt prickled with electricity, and in her head that Halloween letterbox rattled. The light from the chapel windows shifted as the clouds scudded by, and the sunlight that streamed down was like a flame to Aurora’s hair. It appeared, to Roz’s anxious gaze, as if it were embers, flickering and alive. Roz scurried (there was no other verb) into the back office and, with hands shaking, shut the door.
It was an hour or more before she felt she could leave the small room. As she emerged, there was a scent of leaf mould, rich and earthy, bringing memories of woodland walks. She turned to see where Aurora had fashioned a framework of cut whips and branches above and around the doorway. She was up a ladder, intent upon her work, weaving ivy tendrils and strappy woodrush, laurel, dried stems of fennel, and hogweed to make oat- and bronze-coloured constellations. There was a calm rustling to the activity, as if Roz listened to a bird nesting.
The finished installation was, Roz felt, the most beautiful artwork in the whole building. She had spent the last week hanging and arranging the displays, but, as the guests arrived for the opening, it was Aurora’s floral sculpture that caught the eye. Roz might have sold it seven times over.
Roz stood at the far end of the chapel posing for photographs with the most famous of their local artists. She paid little heed to the conversation. She had no inclination to make good use of whatever networking or social media opportunities the night threw in her path. She was mesmerised by the sculpture. Above the laughter and conversation, above the clink of glasses in the soft echo of the chapel, she heard only the rustling of leaves and was calmed. She would never take it down.
Aurora clutched her glass of wine and watched the proceedings. She was uncomfortable, aware that her behaviour earlier towards Roz had been… What had it been? The word “unforgivable” was the adjective she settled upon. Still, she had been right. She saw where her handiwork caught at lines of vision, distracted. She loved her work; if only she might love herself as much. Perhaps there was a trade going on somewhere; her talent for this must be balanced in some way. She sipped more wine and, catching Roz’s eye, she raised the glass in a toast. She could do that, be brash and brazen, heartless even. One thing was certain, she could never ever apologise.
9
Badger Ranger
The man behind the counter at the cobblers was irritating Winn. She had not thought that her request was so difficult. He was squinting down through his glasses once more at the scrap of paper she had given him.
“What’s that say, did you say?” His brow wrinkled. His reading glasses were so far down his nose that Winn thought they might slip off at any moment. There was a rising scent of hot oiled metal from the shoe repair machinery behind him. Winn was aware that Emz had left school somewhat by the back door, and she wanted to mark the milestone occasion in a small way. The badge had seemed fitting and simple, but now it struck her that a brass band might have been easier to organise.
“Ranger.” Winn tapped at the paper.
“You sure? Looks like Badger.” The man turned the paper a little more sideways, and the hot oiled metal scent wafted deeper into Winn’s lungs. She reached for the paper and pen that was rolling almost off the counter. RANGER, she wrote in clear capitals.
“You want just the one? Only I usually does batches.”
It was some time before she emerged from the key-cutting cobbler and drove off to Hartfield. It would have been simpler to have the badge etched in silver by a team of elves. As she was halfway up Castlebury Road, she realised she didn’t have any gift wrap and doubled back to park up by Church Lane and pop into Betty’s.
As she hurried up Church Lane, she was struck by the display in the florist, Mimosa. It was a mad crush of branches and thorns that looked like whitewash bramble, the boughs chalked white. It was very dramatic, though Winn doubted that anyone could actually see through the window into the shop.
At Betty’s, she chose a small fold-out box that was perfect and nothing too fancy. Winn wanted to make a small presentation, a token, not a fuss.
Emz was holding the fort at Prickles. Winn, due to the recalcitrant badge maker, was behind schedule, but Emz was, as usual, unfazed.
“Not a problem. It was the year threes from the Poppy Academy.”
Emz, Winn noticed, had a brighter look about her. “What is it?” Winn asked.
Emz smiled, possibly the first smile Winn had seen from her in several weeks.
“Aisling asked what we’d think about having a weekly forest-school session with years three to six?”
Winn took in a small, excited breath. “Weekly? Four classes?”
Emz was already nodding. “They’ve got some private funding and want to increase their green offering for the curriculum or something. They’d pay us £150 a session.”
Winn’s brow furrowed. “Is that good, do you think? I wouldn’t know what to charge. Did you price it?”
Emz shook her head. “No, no, she offered. But I researched around. Wisheart Heritage run education sessions up at Kettlesong, and that’s what they charge per group.”
Winn felt the small cardboard gift box in her pocket. “Well. Good. Good. Great, in fact, possibly bloody marvellous.” The box’s cargo rattled a little as she offered it to Emz. “And since you’ve had such a profitable morning expanding the business, here’s your team reward.”
Emz looked at the box. Winn nodded, and she opened it. Emz gave a small choked squeak.
“What?” Winn asked. “What’s funny? It’s your proper title. Now you have the badge, it’s official.”
Emz burst out laughing and showed Winn. The simple black badge was embossed in white with the word “BADGER”.
“Saints preserve us.” Winn gave a sigh.
Emz hugged her. “I love it,” she declared and pinned it to her Prickles t-shirt.
Her next task was to clear the path down by the far hide. As Emz wheeled the barrow along the trail, the sunlight dappled gold, she felt something within her alter and resettle. It did not last. The clouds scudded over the sun, the shadows deepened, and the wind whipped up cold.
Emz, with a glance at her BADGER badge, picked up the rake and set to, grateful for the task.
Later that afternoon, Winn and Emz decamped to Hartfield. Their plans for The Orangery pop-up café were almost complete. Anna, freed from her job at The Castle Inn, had focused and made the dream happen. In the last month, alongside the do-it-yourself painting and furnishing, she had overseen the refurbishment of the scullery at the side of The Orangery into a neat and serviceable kitchen. As Winn and Emz rolled up in the Land Rover, the farm-shop van was just pulling away. Etta Boyle pipped h
er horn as she passed them. Their first delivery.
Inside, tables were prepped; the crockery, a mish mash collection of the less valuable bits from Hartfield’s ample stock, were all stacked and ready. Anna was stirring a vast cauldron on the hob, a vegetarian stew smelling richly savoury with paprika and thyme. At the worktop, Charlie, still in her Drawbridge gear but with added pinny, was pricking an array of baking potatoes, and the oven was clicking with heat.
“Like the badge,” she said as they entered. Emz’s smile made a valiant but brief appearance.
Anna gave a nod to Winn.
“You have been busy,” Winn said, noting the bread proving in baskets and several cakes cooling on racks. The air was delicious to inhale.
“Yep. We are all systems go for tomorrow’s launch.” Anna bustled about, and Charlie chipped in.
“And we are all confetti-ed up for the wedding fayre on Saturday.” She wiped her hands on the pinny and reached under the counter. The box was stacked with the marketing leaflets for the push for Hartfield’s wedding ventures. They took a couple out to look through.
“They’re so professional.” Winn felt teary, overwhelmed for a moment by the hubbub and energy of their enterprise.
Emz noticed. “Try out one of the chairs.”
Winn took a seat, grateful.
“Any chance of a brew, Anna?” Emz asked.
“You know where the kettle is.” Anna put a plate in front of Winn as Emz moved to the kettle. Charlie pulled up another chair at the table.
“What’s this?” Winn asked, her stomach rumbling at the sight of bubbling cheese béchamel and, beneath it, a suggestion of ham resting on a thick slice of home-baked bread.
“My take on croque monsieur — special Hartfield version.” Anna dished out cutlery.
Charlie cut herself a corner. “It’s a ham and cheese toastie.” She grinned.
Winn also nicked off a forkful. “Not when Anna has finished with it. It’s gourmet deliciousness,” she said, lifting the morsel to her mouth. She had made ham and cheese toasties herself, usually after cutting the mouldy bits off whatever nubbin of cheese she had left.
“It’s all local ingredients. I made the bread, Etta Boyle brought the smoked ham, and the cheese is Hartfield Hard.”
Anna and Emz snicked off small squares, and in amongst the sounds of appreciative munching was a chorus of grumbling stomachs.
“This is lush, Anna,” Charlie said as she cut herself another small square.
Winn looked at the sisters. “When did you last eat?”
The three focused on dividing the remnants of the croque monsieur.
“Breakfast. Probably. Been busy,” Anna said. Emz shrugged and focused on her current mouthful. Winn fixed Charlie with her stare.
“I’m eating now.” And she polished off the last scrap of the toastie.
Winn tutted. “Right. Set the table. I shan’t be long.”
The Orangery was scented with the garlic sausage that Woodfired, the pizza place in Woodcastle, used on their Epic pizza. Winn and the Way sisters had also finished most of the veggie-styled Earthy version, replete with local mozzarella. Anna had lit candles, and Charlie leaned back in her chair to watch the small glittering constellation they made in the glass roof of the Orangery.
“Might be an idea to offer pop-up supper nights,” she mused.
Winn shook her head and reached for the last Earthy slice. “You are busy enough. Don’t want to burn you out.”
“It’s good to be busy,” Emz reassured her.
Charlie took in a deep sigh and stood up, stretching. “Talking of which, I’d better scoot.” She looked at them all. The candlelight, the delicious food; for a time it felt like home.
“Stay,” Anna requested.
Charlie shook her head. “No. Got to patrol.” She took a step to the door.
Emz rose, pulling her fleece from the back of her chair. “I could…” she began, but Charlie stopped her.
“Sit down.” She smiled. “I’m serious. We’ve had this conversation. You two covered for me, now it’s my turn.” She reached the door. “If you need me to help out tomorrow, just text. I’m at the brewery ’til two, and I’ll come here on my way back.”
And with a few more farewells she was gone. There was silence. Then, without a word, Anna and Emz began to clear up the supper things.
The next day had been chosen as the opening day of the pop-up at The Orangery because it was a training day and the schools were off. There were, as a consequence, more wanderers through Leap Woods. Squirrels watched from above as wellies and hiking boots made fresh tracks on the old paths.
The people wandered, too, through the gates of Hartfield, keen to go somewhere new for a coffee and a slice of cake and, besides, The Castle Inn was closed and The Moat Tea Rooms was still shut for winter.
Hartfield was not Chatsworth; it did not aspire to be, but it was busy enough. The Way sisters did not have time to look up, occupied as they were with the nature and nourishment. It distracted them; it tired them out. It was a good thing.
Hartfield Hall looked up and out across its landscape, at the figures mooching in the walled garden, wandering across the lawns, and was glad of the company.
10
A Thinne Man
The news travelled on horseback from the eastern edge of Day’s Ride. It was whispered and chewed over in every pub and coffee house. It was a salutation to passing acquaintances. “Have you heard?” Hettie Way’s name was said over and over, so often in fact that when, at last, it reached Thinne’s ears, it seemed like an incantation: that they might be able to raise her from the dead if they said it often enough. He was bitter about it: not her death, but the fact that so many cared, that she was spoken of with respect, with reverence.
Her demise could not have come at a better time for Thinne. It was a measure of how far he’d fallen that several customers at The Ragged Bear noticed the shabbiness of his coat. While this garment had never been in the best sartorial state, it had once been haute couture compared to the stitch-and-patch elegance of the regulars at The Ragged Bear. The velvet of his old coat had acquired a patina from sleeping in hedges and ditches. It was the only way to keep a step ahead of those who pursued him. He, who had always been the go-to man for the desperate, was now in need himself. The terms of the wager he’d made didn’t come to him. When he tried to recall it, his memory showed glittering and greedy eyes, the room lit with lamps so that all seemed golden, but the dangerous details were hazy, washed away by too much wine.
After the Knightstone Bridge incident, he had kept away from Havoc and Woodcastle and Hettie Way’s wrath. He was owed, but he was also afraid, and Nuala Whitemain was something desperate that he could keep for a rainy day. He was only sorry that that day had now arrived. It poured torrents, with favours being called in on all sides and, howling out above it all, the ill-made wager. Havoc had never welcomed him and would not welcome him now. He had always skirted the place. Today he had no other choice.
So it was a very ill-omened man indeed who walked the ridge at Crow Houses and saw the winking warning signals of Havoc Wood. As he tried to drop down at Wild Elm, the lights hung everywhere, showing the methodical progress of a lone Gamekeeper. Strong. Determined. Territorial. He gritted his teeth and stepped down the path.
He approached the nearest light, an intense glowing ball caught up in the higher branches of a tree, and felt the energy of it. The warnings were not deliberate. The lights showed the intent that this Gamekeeper, whichever of the Ways it was, was aware of keeping people out but had not consciously set the warnings. This was a footprint, left without thought. He smiled to himself and reached for a light further up the path, snagged on the hawthorn. It blinked at his touch, fading down to a low glimmer. He pocketed it. It might come in useful later. He headed on to the next and the next, tracking the Gamekeeper’s route the same way he would a fox.
There were stepping stones over the small brook that poured along the base of Crow Hou
ses. The water flowed wide and shallow here. In summertime it was little more than a bog but, after rain, almost a lake, deep enough to reach up to your knees, and so the stones allowed access.
The Way sisters had repaired and replaced these five large stones as the water cracked and shifted them during storms. There had been such a storm a week before, and Charlie had consistently forgotten to replace the stone that had shifted away from the far bank. The water level had taken a few days to wash out. Charlie had watched as the waters of the Rade, smoked brown beneath the creamy foam of the water, rushed over the tops of the stones. She’d detoured a few times but now squelched her way over the boggy edge and assessed the damage.
The stone at the bankside opposite was tipped and unstable. She’d need to heave it back over into its proper place. She hop-stepped out onto the first stone. Secure. The second had a newish wobble that she made a note of, and the third and fourth were sound. She stood on the safe haven of the fourth stone and looked down. She could see where the gravel bed beneath had been shunted forward by the storm water. It wouldn’t take too much to right it. How cold was the water? She might have to get her feet wet.
Her hands were instantly cold, a deep biting that made her gasp, but she persevered with her repair, scuffling about on the river bed. As she reached to the fifth stone, a bell sounded. It was a single note, bright and clear. It was familiar, and yet she couldn’t place it. She looked up. The bell sounded out once again, and, without thinking, she knew where it was coming from.
She turned, the water scurrying over her feet, and saw above her a winking trail of lights. The orbs were in trees here, there, further. Charlie hurried up through the trees. Everywhere she looked, the lights winked. What was happening? Her breath caught; her heart drummed like a woodpecker. She had to clear her head. What was this? She’d never seen it before. Had she?