The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  A male pensioner leaning forward on a walking stick, was next to have his upraised hand indicated. “Do you use farm machinery?”

  Constance motioned to the farmer. “Pete, do you want to take this one?”

  Messy, windswept, dark-brown hair was pushed back across a square head as the mid-forties farmer squinted thin, pale green eyes at the inquirer. “One condition the council placed on us, was a commitment to reduce our reliance on fossil fuels. We don’t use gas or mains electricity. While the occupants run vehicles for necessary journeys, we keep these trips to a minimum. The focus is sustainability. It’s one reason we’re allowed to erect low-impact dwellings on the site, which will be the subject of our next development phase. As regards farm machinery, we’ve two Suffolk Punch horses instead of a tractor. They pull a plough with ease. This last year we performed broadcast sowing by hand. You get mixed results because of depth and displacement variations with that. Next year we’re hoping to refurbish an old seed drill for a more even harvest.”

  The old man’s eyes watered. “I remember working on a farm with Suffolk Punches during my childhood summer holidays.”

  The farmer’s expression mellowed. “Well, if you’re ever out at Deeping Drove, I’ll be glad to introduce you to our pair.”

  An adolescent man with an unkempt bowl cut, was next to have his hand acknowledged. “What about the ghosts?”

  Constance took a deep breath and tried not to roll her eyes. “We’ve lived out at the site since late February. Halloween came and went. The worst crisis we encountered was some errant chickens who got out of their coop and were savaged by a fox. I’m sure you’ve all heard the urban legends about what happened to Fenland Free Saints - Celtic Christian Community. But, nothing bizarre has ever taken place on our watch, I can assure you. We’re also not a religious cult, in case anyone was about to ask. I hear that a lot. Our ethos is simple: an off-grid lifestyle, moving towards self-sufficiency and sustainability. There are no hard and fast rules. Each of us either has our own spiritual beliefs or none at all. That doesn’t come into what we’re about. We’ve no association with the former tenants or concrete details about why they left. To us, Deeping Drove is a haven of tranquillity in an out-of-control, hectic world. We love it.”

  Now Bob knew why the name Deeping Drove had sounded familiar. Eighteen or more years earlier, a religious group set up home in the fens. They refurbished a derelict church as the hub of their insular community. Tragedy struck when one child died and their minister/leader/shepherd suffered a heart attack. Beyond that, there were many freaky local tales about ghosts swarming out of the churchyard. The only thing he knew for sure, was the community split and dispersed their separate ways overnight.

  A plump lady with arms covered in bangles got picked next. “If you aren’t connected to the mains, what do you do for water?”

  Constance looked at the thatcher. “Martin?”

  Martin stood up. “Water is an obvious necessity to sustain life. We’re fortunate that the church renovated by the previous site occupants, includes an internal well. We had the contents tested for safety, and it’s of a high quality and an ample supply. It can be a chore drawing water by bucket each day. But, like so much in our slower lifestyle, forward planning is the key to success. If you want to survive without modern conveniences, you can’t lead a reactionary life. The river and other watercourses nearby also contain a source of fish. Our local authority licenses us to catch them along the community boundaries, or from any section of water that crosses our land.”

  Constance took his place. “Thanks, Martin. Any other questions?”

  Another hand shot up, belonging to a boy sat next to the scruffy adolescent. His t-shirt bore the logo of some local amateur ghost investigation club.

  Constance studied him for a moment, then looked across the crowd. “Any other questions not linked to ghosts, conspiracies or Fenland Free Saints?”

  The room remained still.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for your time and attention. If you’d like to learn more about what we do, or are interested in joining us, we’ll remain behind for tea and cake kindly provided by the community hub. Thank you.”

  A subdued murmur of appreciation and a few hand claps rose for a moment, then subsided.

  “That was an interesting presentation.” Bob sidled up to Constance, a plate of Victoria Sponge between his fingers.

  The presenter shook the hand of a vicar and his wife, then turned to face him. “Thank you. Did you have an interest in down-shifting before you walked in here tonight?”

  “Not as such. I’m at one of those important life junctions your farmer mentioned in his decision to pack everything in.”

  “Pete Leonard? Yeah, he’s a committed one. Great family. We could do with more of his sort. Tough choice they made.” One wispy eyebrow raised. “Are you in agriculture?”

  “Academia. At least I was. My tenure ended this afternoon. Disagreement over history and me not wanting to re-write it to please people.”

  “Wow. I see. History was your subject?”

  Bob nodded as he chewed some sponge.

  Constance leaned closer. “Don’t know anything about ancient domestic practices or historic building techniques, I suppose?”

  The historian swallowed. “Quite a bit, as it happens. I’ve always been of the opinion that history is a lot more than dates and major events. If you want to connect with the past, the best way is to learn what day-to-day life was like for ordinary folk.”

  Constance stared in sudden awe and surprise. “I agree. We’re not a historic community as such. But, much of our learning comes from old books we’re trying to translate into everyday life now. There’s so much our society used to know and has forgotten in the lap of luxury. Your knowledge could be of benefit, if you’re not doing much in the near future?”

  Bob examined her hopeful expression. “It is a big decision, isn’t it?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, and it’s not for everyone. I keep putting the word out. We’re hoping to grow the community organically, like our produce. But I’d rather have half-a-dozen committed people dribble in over the course of a year, than thirty immediate sign-ups who give up after a fortnight because they didn’t realise how hard the life is. This isn’t a soft option. But it can be rewarding. What was your name?”

  “Robert Mason.”

  “Robert, right.”

  “Call me Bob. And you’re Constance?”

  “Connie.” She shook his hand. “Listen. Why don’t I give you the location details?” She handed him a card. “This comes with an open invitation to visit anytime you like. The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. You might like what you see. And if you don’t, we'd appreciate any observations you're willing to offer on what we’re doing.”

  Bob placed the card in his pocket. “Thanks. Might do me good to get outside and forget things for a few days. Let me give it some thought.”

  Connie placed a delicate hand on his forearm. “Great. Well, I hope we’ll be seeing you soon. Glad you stopped behind to chat, Bob.”

  “Pleasure. Thanks for giving me something to chew on, along with the cake.”

  The woman delivered a half smile and walked off to engage with some patient but eager bystanders.

  5

  New Foundations

  “No, no, no.” Joseph Hargreaves gripped the arms of his study chair and gawped at the computer screen on his desk. A negative bank balance in the name of ‘Moreton & Hargreaves - Building Contractors’ reflected considerable debts owing and no resources to pay. The man’s broad, pointed faced displayed a brow creased with worry lines. Their frequency of appearance in recent weeks threatened to scar his countenance for life. He scratched a thin beard the same colour as his wavy, side-parted, ginger-nut shaded hair. One strong forearm with ample biceps swiped a telephone receiver from its cradle. Fat, sausage fingers stabbed in a number from the memory bank. He listened. Down-turned eyes that ended in crow’s
feet, continued the theme of his forehead. A ringing tone on the other end of the line, warbled in an unending loop. He slammed the phone down, grabbed a jacket hanging on the door and checked his pocket for van keys.

  “Coffee’s brewing, Joe,” his thin-framed wife with slender shoulders called up the stairs. “Joe?”

  Hargreaves pushed past her with a reddening face and paced towards the front door of their suburban home.

  The woman poked an oblong head - accentuated by shoulder-length, layered mahogany hair concealing somewhat over-sized ears - out into the hallway. A nervous smile crept across her face. Its emotion echoed in a pair of soulful, deep blue eyes. Windows of a rich inner life that had seen much in her forty-four years, and yet somehow never lived.

  Joe grabbed the door handle and paused with his back to her. “Andy’s emptied the bank account.”

  “What?” The woman let out a gasp and touched her neck.

  “We’ve bills due and he’s taken all the money. I can’t get hold of him at home, so I’m going round there.”

  His wife’s tone became shrill. “I always told you I didn’t trust Andrew Moreton.”

  “Not now, Naomi.” Joe ripped open the door and stormed out, slamming the portal behind him.

  Naomi Hargreaves sat alone all day, nervous fingers working at some needlepoint. She’d married Joe after several years working in the office of a building firm that once employed him. Naomi was the archetypal ‘little woman’ the builder had always been looking for. Attractive in a lithe but loving way, she possessed what could best be described as a reserved beauty. When the tall, muscular beefcake asked her out, Naomi couldn’t believe her luck. They tied the knot six months later. While Joe had done nothing to make her doubt his love, they had undertaken a rocky ride since he first left to set up his own firm with Andy Moreton. The recession hit them hard. Naomi agreed they could re-mortgage their home to cover the shortfall. If Joe’s business partner had done a runner with the company funds and left her husband holding the can… She shook back a tear and sniffed.

  Joe’s front door key sounded in the lock. He closed it behind him with a gentle click and appeared in the living room doorway. The empty expression on his face caused the forlorn, emotional woman to release her pent-up worries in a flood of tears. Joe knelt at the side of her chair. Naomi flung her arms around his neck and sobbed.

  The man’s voice came quiet but shaky. “He’s gone. Andy’s taken the lot and run off with his fancy woman from the bank. The house was deserted when I arrived. They must have been planning this for months.”

  Naomi’s tear-stained, worried eyes met her husband’s. “We’re going to lose the house, aren’t we?”

  Joe gritted his teeth to stop his chin wobbling, without success. “We’re going to be insolvent. The house will go. I don’t know what I’ll do without the ability to trade or get credit. Leon Haines might take me back, but he’s got so much young, cheap labour these days I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Where are we going to live, Joe?” She knew he couldn’t answer her. But Naomi needed to vocalise her worries and get them out, before she collapsed in a quivering heap.

  Joe was the polar opposite. He let go of his wife and rose with clenched fists. If Andy Moreton had walked through the front door at that moment, his aggrieved partner would have ended up on a murder charge. Without Moreton’s face to punch, the beefy construction contractor took out his rage on a nearby lampshade. The force of his blow sent the pleated, decorative white object flying across the room. The lamp stand swayed and toppled against a wall. Frosted glass from its sixty-watt bulb shattered on impact.

  Naomi yelped and recoiled, hands lifting on instinct to shield her head from the distress of it all.

  Joe stormed out. His van pulled away a minute later.

  * * *

  “Katy and Martin gave us that pasta maker for our wedding. Do you remember, Joe?” Naomi leaned back in a cheap garden chair. It rested beside a well-laden trestle table, adorned with all manner of household items. On either side, regular sellers at their local, outdoor boot fair were haggling with potential customers over the price of this or that they probably acquired for nothing.

  Joe sat on the rear floor of his work van, firm feet planted on the grass beneath like a statue. He didn’t respond, but downed a long mouthful of lager from a tin dwarfed by the size of his hands. The couple were trying to shift objects to raise some cash. Wherever they were going to end up living, space would be a premium without question. Plus, they needed money; and fast. Naomi’s insistence on reminiscing about her attachment to these bits and pieces, only made the situation more difficult.

  The woman tucked banknotes from their sale of the pasta maker into an old biscuit tin used as a float. Her gaze lingered on the can of lager. Joe always enjoyed a drink or two at the end of a hard week. But, since the collapse of their business and with little hope for the future, he’d acquired a bulk supply of cheap booze. She only hoped he’d kept this new habit under control today, lest their drive home end in disaster.

  An eight-year-old lad wandered up to the table. His eyes fell on a hand-high porcelain figurine of a pirate with a green coat, a flintlock pistol and cutlass. A black tricorn hat and matching buckled shoes completed his attire. The boy’s father joined him. “Looking at pirates again, Billy?”

  “How much is it, Dad?” Billy’s stare never left the figurine.

  His father smiled at Naomi. “How much for the pirate?”

  “It’s five pounds.” She remembered falling in love with the figurine on a summer holiday to Barnstaple as a child. Her heart ached to part with it, as the boy counted out some of his pocket money. At least ‘Old Jack’ is going to someone who’ll love him as much as I did at his age. Naomi took the money and wrapped the porcelain in some faded newspaper to protect it. One trembling finger stroked the figurine in a discrete rub as it disappeared beneath the newsprint. “There you go, young man.” She passed it to the boy.

  “Thank you.” He cradled the parcel in his arms.

  “Thank you,” Billy’s father repeated the phrase.

  The pair walked away.

  Naomi watched them go, then moved her head to observe Joe taking another morose chug on his lager. She twisted aside and wiped a single tear from one eye with her delicate fingers.

  “How did we make out?” They were the first words Joe Hargreaves had spoken in more than an hour. He loaded the last few items they hadn’t sold into the van and closed the doors.

  Naomi held up the biscuit tin for him to peer inside. “Not too bad. We’d better pay this in at the Post Office.”

  Joe tweaked one of his earlobes. “Yeah. Knowing our luck, the cash would get nicked otherwise.”

  The couple climbed into the van for a short drive to North Street in Crowland.

  Joe pulled up outside a combined convenience store and Post Office.

  Naomi handed him the biscuit tin and checked the contents of her purse. “You pay this in at the counter. I’ll see what I can find for supper.”

  Joe grunted and tucked the tin under one arm. After they entered the store, he joined a queue to wait his turn.

  Meanwhile, Naomi wandered up and down the aisles, scanning for something cheap but hearty to fill their stomachs. She was hungry after a day outside in the cold, November air. Some sausages on the brink of expiry joined a few spuds and a large tin of cheap baked beans in her basket. Not the involved, complex gastronomic delicacies she liked to serve her husband out of love, but it would fill and warm them up.

  Behind the checkout, Naomi spied a noticeboard adorned with fliers for local events and businesses. There was an advert for a personal trainer; some herbalist called Abigail Walters selling organic health remedies; and another announcing an upcoming presentation on off-grid living at the library and community hub. She studied the small print of this last one with rising enthusiasm. The organisers were looking for new members at their site. Especially people with construction experience. It was intriguin
g. A favourable alternative to sleeping in the van, washing at a gym and lining up at the food bank each day. That was the future staring down at them unless a miracle occurred. If they didn’t find a solution to their dilemma soon, she knew it was the way they’d spend Christmas and goodness knows how long afterwards. They had less than a fortnight left in the house, before it was gone.

  Joe was relieved when the female Post Office counter clerk called him forward. “I’d like to deposit this money in our current account, please.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  A boisterous roar broke the relative calm of the small commercial structure. Two men wearing black balaclavas, surrounded the queue on both sides. One waved a handgun at the compact, terrified crowd of customers. The other paced across to the counter, brandishing a sawn-off shotgun. He shoved Joe aside and swiped the cash from his biscuit tin. “Well, that’s a start.” Both barrels tapped against the counter glass. “Give me all the cash you’ve got. NOW.” The last word came out like a furious bark. The woman behind the counter jumped in her seat and struggled to keep from hyperventilating.

  Joe eyed the robber stuffing cash into a pouch at his waist. That was their money. The last meagre remnants from his wife sacrificing her personal treasures to keep body and soul together. His jugular pulsed and his eyes narrowed. The sausage-fingers clenched into fists. This criminal was stocky, but Joe was bigger. What about Naomi if this guy unloads his gun in my direction before I can grab him? What will we do if they walk away with our money? Got to try. His right foot came off the floor, ready to move. A loud, metallic click sounded in his ear on that side. A cold handgun barrel pressed into his cheek and a steely voice spoke across one shoulder. “Do you want to be a hero, big fella? You reckon we won’t use these?”

  Joe froze.

  The voice came again. “That’s better. Now get over there with the rest and kneel.”

  The builder hesitated.

  The handgun barrel pulled away from his face and pushed into his back. “I won’t ask you again.”