The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Joe caught sight of Naomi on the far side of the store, her face stricken with fear. He obeyed the instruction and shuffled forward to kneel beside several pensioners who had lined up behind him.

  The man with the shotgun stuffed more cash into his pouch as the whimpering counter woman shovelled it through to him. A car horn tooted three times outside. The robber with the handgun tapped his accomplice. “Time to go.”

  Outside on North Street, a slow-moving police car pulled into a parking space near the convenience store. Its front doors opened and an oblivious male and female officer from Lincolnshire Police climbed out. Both balaclava-wearing thugs raced from the store. The handgun discharged aloft into the crisp, November air with a sharp crack. The officers threw themselves to the ground and rolled over. A car engine flared and the squealing of tyres heralded its rapid departure.

  “Clive. You all right?” The female officer scrabbled up and checked her startled partner for obvious signs of injury.

  “Yeah. Send it State Zero, Amy. I’ll check for wounded in the store.” He staggered aloft and darted into the shop.

  Amy pushed a bright orange button atop the Airwave radio clipped to her stab vest. “North Street, Crowland. North Street, Crowland. Armed robbery at the Post Office with gunshots discharged.” Her transmission cut off another in progress. A clear-to-send tone signalled the ten seconds of grace had ended.

  The control room operator came back. “Emergency received at North Street Post Office, Crowland, with gunshots discharged. Over.”

  Amy continued normal transmissions with as many details of the escape route and vehicle as her shocked brain had assimilated.

  Inside, Joe gave as much information to the police as he could summon amidst the shock and anger. Naomi clutched tight to his waist, a shopping bag at her feet. When they were given the green light to leave, the man stared at his wife with vacant eyes. “We lost the boot fair money. I don’t bloody well believe it. Is there a God up there? If there is, does He hate us or something? What have I ever done that’s so wrong? Why do we deserve this?” The volume of his voice grew with each sentence.

  Naomi placed a soothing flat hand against his pectorals. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Joe. You’re a good man. Sometimes bad things happen, that’s all.”

  Joe shook her loose. He backed away and almost spat. “How can you be so passive?”

  The woman’s eyes reddened. “I…”

  Joe’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, love.”

  Naomi picked up the shopping bag and tried to lighten the mood. “Bangers, mash and baked beans for supper. Here, I want to show you something on the noticeboard.”

  * * *

  Naomi Hargreaves shifted on the spot from foot to foot. She and her husband availed themselves of free tea and cake after the presentation at Crowland library and community hub. It all sounded so exciting and hopeful. Naomi had never done anything risky or wild in her entire, reserved life. With homelessness about to strike, she found a long-buried bravado that took both her and Joe by surprise. At first the builder resisted going along to listen. He cited images of them turning into soap-dodging hippies, plus various other stereotypes associated with unconventional living. But the desperateness of their situation, a constant brick-wall blocking his every attempt to find regular work, and that intriguing flier mentioning a need for people with construction experience, won him around. When he listened to Pete Leonard relay his story about losing their mixed farm, he knew these were ordinary people who’d taken some hard knocks in the modern world. Decent folk looking for a better, self-determining existence. A fresh start on a level playing field. Upon further reflection, Joe realised he hadn’t been happy for a long time, even when the bills were paid with surplus cash to spare. Commercial construction had grown ever more cutthroat as a business. Much as he hated his ex-partner, Andrew Moreton, the scumbag might have done him a weird favour in some roundabout way. It startled Joe to observe how keen Naomi appeared over the whole venture. She was normally quiet and unassuming. A contented home-maker who vacuumed every single day and could conjure vol-au-vents from thin air whenever company called. He always thought he’d provided everything she needed: comfort and convenience. Now Joe suspected something had been missing all along. The pair hovered close to the lead presenter, Constance Creek. She was chatting with a well-built, grey-haired man around the same age as Joe. The woman touched his arm and said, “Great. Well, I hope we’ll be seeing you soon. Glad you stopped behind to chat, Bob.” The fellow responded in kind and walked off. Naomi caught Constance’s attention and the charismatic community founder drew closer to talk.

  “Hello there. Did you enjoy our presentation?” Connie placed a thoughtful finger beneath her short chin.

  Naomi bubbled over like a child relaying their antics from an exciting day out. “We did. My husband is an experienced builder who used to run his own firm. We’re looking at possible new starts, so we’re very interested in coming out to see your site.”

  Connie’s eyes lit up. “That sounds marvellous.” She indicated a small table and chairs. “Please have a seat.”

  The couple sat down.

  Connie waved at her companions re-filling their cups with tea. “Pete, Martin, come and join us for a minute.”

  The farmer left his wife and son to go with the thatcher en route to the table. The men each took a seat. Martin acknowledged the new couple and lifted an eyebrow to their female companion. “What’s up, Connie?”

  Connie sat down. “Peter Leonard and Martin Bradbury, meet… Oh, I’m sorry. In my enthusiasm, I’ve not even asked your names.”

  “Naomi and Joe Hargreaves,” Naomi replied.

  Connie looked from the couple back to her friends. “Joe here used to run a building firm. They’re considering a new beginning and would like to look around.”

  Martin stretched. “Great. We had quite a struggle to get the barn up. I know thatching, but general construction is new to me. Pete’s good at what goes on inside a barn, but he’d never built one before. Now we’re starting to erect dwellings so we can get out of those draughty caravans. An experienced hand or two would be welcome. I’d rather not get settled in a proper little home again, only to have it cave around my ears because I did something wrong.”

  Connie leaned close to Naomi. “Do you have a specialism?”

  Naomi thought. “I’ll have a go at anything. Sewing is a passion.” She pulled back and twisted her fingers.

  Connie read her body language and half-closed those big brown eyes. “Nothing wrong with that. Making and mending with a needle and thread is a lost art. My stitching is sloppy. Would you be willing to roll up your sleeves and harvest veg, pitch in with the chickens, collect water and so on?”

  “Of course.”

  Connie sucked her teeth. “It’s a tough life. In the grotty weather, things can get uncomfortable. Don’t get me started on the mud, or the constant battle to keep warm and dry at night.”

  Naomi stared back at her with pleading eyes.

  Connie’s gaze softened. “Okay. Well, we’d love you both to come out and see us.”

  Joe coughed. “We have little money to pool. I don’t know how your setup works in that regard. I’ve still got a van. It’s all we’ll have to live in, soon. My partner ran off with the company funds and left me saddled with debt and a re-mortgaged house I can't pay for, I’m afraid.”

  Pete and Martin blew out their cheeks. Martin clenched a fist and flexed it. “Man, that bites. I knew a bloke that happened to, once. They found him swinging from a beam. I take my hat off to you for trying to keep going. Takes courage and grit. Those are qualities you’ll need at Deeping Drove. Isn’t that right, Connie?”

  “True. To answer your question, Joe: we have a pot of funds to buy things we can’t source from the land. I’ve received confirmation that a guy who’s an expert smith and woodworker will join us soon. His skills should reduce our outgoings, as he can make and fix a whole range of items from raw materials. W
e’ll have some extra financial outlay putting up a forge for him. Your help would be brilliant with the construction. We pay any bills the community incur from the central pot. This was a crowdfunding venture at first. I figured once we got settled, the community could offer down-shifter try-out vacations for people. Anyone who donated a certain amount to the start-up, will get a free long-weekend with us. As new members, you won’t have to put in anything other than hard work to begin with. If you receive income from other work, we ask that ten percent be donated to the pot. Martin contributes after his odd, external thatching jobs.”

  Martin batted the comment aside. “It all helps. I’ve scaled everything back to focus on developing the site.”

  Connie continued. “We’ve some spare caravans left over from the group that lived there before. You could use one of those at first. Most are still watertight, if in need of TLC to feel homey. The sooner we get help to set up proper habitations, the better. They’ll be two or three room thatched shacks of wattle and daub construction. But at least we can have our own fireplaces and say goodbye to the camping stoves.” Connie looked from husband to wife. “So, when are you available to visit?”

  Joe read his wife's eager expression. This was a much needed lifeline, and they both knew it. “Is tomorrow morning okay?”

  The builder’s van turned right off a fenland tarmac road the next morning. Loose stones and dirt flicked up into the wheel arches as it crossed a single-track stone bridge and trundled beside a bank of thick trees on one side. On the other, a deep, v-shaped drainage ditch separated one land parcel from its neighbour. Open fields with hedge or water boundaries stretched away into the cold, grey November mist. About a mile further on, the trees on the right thinned to reveal the square stone tower of an old church. Ahead, a tributary of the River Welland rippled in the dingy semi-light of a miserable winter’s day. The track turned sharp-right into a clearing of dirty caravans parked beyond the churchyard boundary. Behind, stood an impressive, timber framed thatched barn with stone foundations.

  Joe wiped some moisture from the inside of his windshield. The van’s fan heater was playing up, and he didn’t have funds to get it fixed. He looked straight ahead as he applied the brakes and spoke to his wife. “It’s quiet all right. Not the most salubrious of accommodation.”

  Now Naomi had disposed of most items relating to their old life, she felt a curious sense of freedom. The pain of loss and attachment had faded. She took a slow breath. “This is what a land of opportunity looks like, Joe.”

  They slipped out of the van. Martin and Connie appeared from behind a hedge. Both waved at the couple.

  Connie ambled towards them with enthusiastic steps, extending both hands. “Thought we heard a vehicle approaching. Welcome to Deeping Drove, you two.” She twisted to glance back over her shoulder. “Martin, why don’t you show Joe the start we’ve made on the housing. I’ll give Naomi a tour of the church. Then we’ll see what Pete, Maggie and Tim are up to.”

  “Gotcha.” Martin took Joe around toward a cleared land parcel to one side of the barn. Several plots with rudimentary foundations had been dug into the dark earth.

  Naomi accompanied Connie towards the lychgate. She spied a carved cross section near its tiled roof apex and read it aloud. “2000. Is that from the church group who were here before?”

  Connie nodded. “That’s right. We’re lucky they did a thorough job on the old place. It means our wellhead is dry and secure inside the main building. Plus, we’ve always got a weatherproof structure with considerable space to use for whatever needs arise: storage, preparing materials we can’t afford to get wet, somewhere to meet rather than crowding into a caravan if the weather turns foul. It’s a versatile place we’re grateful for.”

  They opened the lychgate to pass through. Naomi spied uneven rows of higgledy-piggledy gravestones poking up from the verdant sedge. This spot summoned an odd, uncomfortable sensation, which she dismissed as nerves because of so many new things taking place at once. “I’d heard a couple of stories about this location. All the usual ghostly local legends, I suppose.”

  Connie snorted. “Yeah. Think I’ve heard them all myself, now. Have a good look at the place. What do you expect? Take a weird old church that’s been built upon over centuries, in a wild, semi-open and damp setting like this: et voila. It’s a creepy campfire tale’s dream.”

  “Did you ever run into somebody who’d lived on the site before?”

  Connie placed a reassuring hand on the slight woman’s shoulder. “Like I said during the Q & A: we’ve had nothing weird happen in all the time we’ve been here. Besides, many communities have lived on this spot, down through the centuries. These graves aren’t from the last group. Check out some dates on those headstones and you’ll see that people have always settled here.”

  Naomi’s shoulders unwound a little. “That’s a relief. So, Maggie and Tim are Peter’s wife and son?”

  “That’s right. Maggie’s a peach. Such a sturdy and hard-working woman with a good heart. Tim shames his modern peers with all the chores he does.”

  “What about other children?”

  Connie sighed. “We’re hoping to attract a few more families. It would be nice if Tim had someone his own age around here to play with or talk to, you know? At present, Pete or Maggie drive him into town for school during the week. With their commitments to our arable and livestock concerns, neither of them has time to home school him. My dream is to see Deeping Drove flourish and have its own school. We may even use this old tomb for its intended purpose again. Who knows?" She jabbed a thumb at the place of worship. "Our farmers are believers. I know they miss their former church. Martin and I had a chat about it. Thought we'd even give a service a go, if that happens.”

  Naomi pulled at her jacket with fidgeting fingers. “Are you and Martin…?”

  Connie grinned. “No. Nothing like that. He’s a guy who embraced the vision for this place when I was trying to get it started. We’re on the same page about a lot of stuff, I guess. No romance there, though. Believe me, I fall into bed exhausted at the end of your average day. I’ve no energy left for thinking about relationships. Not right now.”

  Naomi offered a timid laugh. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Ha. Don’t you worry about that. When you share a communal toilet and spend your life covered head to toe in mud with people, the barriers come down fast. I’ll show you the toilet last. Wouldn’t want to put you off before we’ve examined the plus points of life at Deeping Drove.”

  Another vehicle crunched to a halt beyond the churchyard. Connie placed a hand up to shield her eyes from a burst of low, winter sunlight.

  Naomi strained to clock the new arrival. It was a maroon Land Rover. A familiar, grey-haired man hopped out of the driver’s side. A slightly older woman with straight, white-blonde hair decamped from the other. “Isn’t that one of the people I saw you talking to last night?”

  Connie took a step back along the churchyard path. “That’s right. Bob. He’s a historian. Might help advise us on all manner of stuff. Looks like he’s brought someone else along for a tour. Excellent. Wait here, Naomi, I’ll fetch them over to join us.”

  6

  Humiliation and Holidays

  The main door into the male school toilet swung to on its self-closer. A shuffling of many feet caused Timothy Leonard to flick back the wavy shag of nut-brown hair that covered his ears. He twisted the sink taps shut. One raised, pointed eyebrow regarded a crowd of four boys from his class in the wall mirror.

  Their pack leader sneered. He cracked knuckles on both hands, then wiped the top of his thin, blond buzz-cut with a brash, preening self-confidence. “Oh look, boys. It’s Smelly Leonard the shit-shoveller.”

  A pair of junior feet shifted in uneasy twists beneath the door of one toilet cubicle. The cheek-strained squirt of wind and water emanating from its occupant’s backside, caused the new arrivals to wave away the stench.

  Their leader spoke again. “Whew. Hard to
tell whether that came from in there, or if it’s your usual smell, Leonard.” He peered at the small feet beneath the door and hammered on it with a sturdy fist that shook the barrier on its flimsy hinges. “Hey Kid, this is Brent Fuller. You know that name?”

  Inside a timid young squeak registered in the affirmative.

  Brent squatted to peer under the stall, causing the feet to flex in nervous rotations. “When you’re done in there, don’t flush. Just clear off. Got it?”

  “Okay,” the voice replied.

  One of the other boys chuckled. “Old Smelly’s gonna see The Blue Goldfish.”

  Tim edged round to the hand dryer and inserted his dripping fingers into the air gap. The device roared to life, masking a nervous sound of blood rushing in his ears. Big, pale blue eyes dilated. His small nose twitched in competition with a tiny mouth above triangular chin. Despite a life of physical labour and frequent chores, Tim was slight of build. Only a thick, masculine neck hinted at any kind of strength. If that strength existed at all, it was easy to miss behind the quiet, observant and easy-going disposition the fourteen-year-old projected. When his hands felt dry, he removed them and made for the door. The other three boys blocked his path. A taught, firm arm wrapped around his neck from behind, doubling Tim over. Brent Fuller blew a blast of hot, halitosis-laden air across his cheek; that snide mouth inches from his victim’s ear. “Where do you think you’re going, flower-power pansy pants?”

  The toilet cubicle opened. A shivering boy with black, thick-rimmed glasses shuffled out of the fume-heavy space.

  Brent twisted to face him. His eyes flashed. “Scat, kid. And keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

  The boy lifted one trembling hand to point at the basin.

  Fuller growled. “You can have dirty hands or a broken nose. Your choice.”

  The terrified child ran past the bully’s three companions and disappeared into the hallway.