The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Jason toyed with the idea of asking if she’d like to scrub his back. He held the urge in check. Constance Creek was the driving force behind this community. She'd given him a place to stay during a difficult period. If he pushed his luck and their intimacy ended the way such things always did for him, life here would become interminable. If she didn’t ask him to leave, long before. He turned and paced towards the mid-sized thatched barn, muttering to himself. “Some treats aren’t worth the risk.”

  “Darren, Marie, welcome.” Connie embraced the pair of new arrivals as they stepped out into the damp, grey December landscape. The rear of the car was crammed with clothing and other essentials.

  Marie held up her smart-phone and swept it around in a series of circuits. A pretty, petite nose wrinkled and coral lips pulled back over impossibly white teeth. She tossed her short, layered, white blonde hair with one tense hand, then fixed unblinking, dark blue eyes on her boyfriend. “My God, Dinger. I thought you said the lack of phone coverage was a fluke when we came out to visit before?”

  Connie stepped back with pursed lips. Darren Clements proved the initiator in their decision to join the group. His tall, rugby ball shaped head was a hot one. Connie sensed an impulsiveness to his nature, with a temper that bubbled not far beneath the surface. He might be a handful. But, if they could channel those characteristics into a passion for the vision, it seemed a worthwhile gamble. Another unskilled labourer - laid-off because of ‘cheap imports’ getting all the work - he had an anger for his old life that provided an opportunity in the new. If she could harness it.

  The man scratched a blow-dried black crew cut above thick, dark eyebrows. Tiny ears - too far down his head - made the guy’s noggin look like a double finger-looped candlestick or inverted demijohn. The stubble around his mouth suggested someone who’d run out of shaving gel after clearing both sides of his oblong jaw. He spat in the mud and glowered at his pretty girlfriend. “Give it a rest, Angel.”

  Connie took a slow breath. Their other former building labourer, Jason Saint, had turned out to be a good addition. Plus, he was eye candy, which made for a pleasant daydream or two when she could spare the time. Darren wasn’t as smart or well composed, but looked as though he could keep Marie in hand. Connie wondered how long the hairdresser and beautician would last in their back-to-basics existence. Not that someone who could cut hair was unwelcome. The community founder addressed Darren. “Dinger?”

  “A nickname. Stuck with me since childhood.”

  “How did you get it?” she asked.

  “By tumbling into scraps with the lads at school. Everyone said I was like the bell on a toaster oven. Get me wound up and hot enough, then ‘Ding’ - off I’d pop.”

  Connie laughed. “Well I hope you’ll get along with everyone here.”

  Marie jumped up and down, flapping the phone like a baby bird attempting to gain lift for the first time. “Fuck me. How am I gonna post pics on social media about our new life?”

  Connie cleared her throat. “That’s rather the point. We’re trying to remain off-grid as much as possible. That means leaving a lot of the ephemeral, insincere nonsense behind.”

  Marie baulked. “FM what? I’m not trying to tune in to a radio station. Do you even know what social media is?”

  Darren ripped open one of the Civic’s rear doors and grabbed a hold-all. “She didn’t say FM, Angel. She said ‘ephemeral.’ It’s… It’s another word.”

  Connie wiped her top lip with the middle finger of her right hand, masking the upturned corners. Darren had no idea what the term meant, but at least he was trying. That scored points in her book. “This way, folks. I’ll show you to your caravan.”

  Marie tucked her phone away and froze. “I thought you said we were going to live in some fairy-tale cottage or other?”

  “The walls are up on many of the homes, but they won’t be habitable until spring. Even then they’ll be drying out, so you might want to remain in your caravan a while longer.”

  Marie flushed. “Caravan? You mean I’ve got to squeeze into a mobile box like some bloody diddy?” She huffed at her boyfriend. “What the fuck are you playing at, Dinger? I thought you said this would be an adventure?”

  Darren slammed the rear door. “If you don’t shut your trap, the back of my hand will show you an adventure. Now pick up some bags and follow the lady.”

  Marie hesitated, shifting from Connie to Darren and back again. Nobody would give her sympathy or make her the centre of attention. Not unless it was the kind of attention that left bruises in its wake. Her lips quivered, and she fetched the smallest bag her dainty hands could find to help.

  Connie rotated on the spot. Why anyone gave that girl the nickname ‘Angel,’ I’ll never know. She pointed towards the rough collection of mobile homes. “Your place is over here.”

  * * *

  Pete and Tim Leonard hauled a felled conifer out from a patch of woods near the windbreak.

  “Hold up,” the farmer called from the tip of the dragging tree.

  “Whoa, Tyler. Easy, boy.” Tim calmed the Suffolk Punch as its head tossed from side to side.

  Pete made some adjustments to their load. “Okay, Tim. Next stop: the church. All being well.”

  Tim clicked his tongue. “Walk on, Tyler. Walk on.”

  The sturdy horse pushed against his harness, dragging the community Christmas tree behind through lush, wet grass.

  In the church, Connie, Maggie, Abigail, Naomi and Marie were busy brightening up the dingy old house of worship with some seasonal greenery and red berries.

  The hiss of an aerosol can discharged its cutting interruption to their quiet industry.

  Connie climbed down off a stepladder to investigate the noise.

  Marie Craven squatted at the end of a pew, wafting a cloud from the canister across some holly decorations they’d installed earlier.

  Connie placed both hands on her hips. “What are you doing, Marie?”

  The white blonde newbie shot her a dark stare. “Don’t say you’re going to get on my back about using up an old aerosol now? Jesus, I don’t know what beauticians worked with in days of yore, okay? Sorry I haven’t got an organic fucking canister.”

  Naomi Hargreaves stepped down from attaching a wreath to the altar. She twisted some split ends between uneasy fingers. This new, younger woman could fly off the handle with little provocation. Naomi suffered from overblown emotional turmoil whenever a conflict arose. “Easy, Marie. I don’t think Connie was upset with you. She just wanted to know what you’re up to.”

  Marie stood and rotated the container for them to see. “Spray-on Body Glitter. Since I quit my job to come here, I didn’t figure I’d have much use for it. Looks all right on the decs though, don’t you think?”

  Maggie and Abigail joined them. The farmer’s wife lifted one of the holly decorations to take a better look. “That’s a creative use for it. Nice.”

  The church door groaned open. Jason Saint and Darren Clements tugged at a heavy-duty chain. Further along its length, Joe Hargreaves, Martin Bradbury, Bob Mason and Daniel Charter all puffed in red-faced efforts to do what Tyler the Suffolk Punch had undertaken without breaking a sweat. The animal was too large to get through the lychgate. Their Christmas tree’s final journey up the churchyard path, was left to human muscle. Pete and Tim Leonard took the horse back to where he and his other equine companion Ned were stabled.

  Thirteen assembled voices rose in song amidst the candlelit interior of St. Guthlac’s church, Deeping Drove. They celebrated the midnight hour marking the turning point from Christmas Eve to Christmas Morning 2018 to the accapella strains of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’ ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ and many more carols blending spiritual and natural imagery. No prayers were said, but Pete and Maggie collected the hymnals afterwards with reverent affection. They stacked them in a cupboard at the back of the building, where Maggie discovered the books earlier that week next to a dirty old chalice.

  The community membe
rs exchanged handshakes, back-slaps and hugs, then drifted out to their temporary homes for some much-needed shut-eye. There were always chores to be done on site. Animals would still require feeding on the morrow. Plus, there was a group lunch to prepare in the barn, once sunlight graced the expansive skies of the South Lincolnshire landscape again.

  “What is that you’re smoking? It stinks.” Bob Mason coughed and choked in the cold night air.

  Abigail took a drag on a beefy roll-up. “Mugwort. I brought a sack of the dried leaves with me. Figured I couldn’t pop down to the corner shop for fags every five minutes.”

  Bob’s eyes watered. “Poisonous?”

  Abigail snorted. “Wouldn’t be much of a herbalist if that were the case, would I? The oil from it can be toxic in large doses.”

  “So, was it the right decision?”

  “To smoke mugwort?”

  Bob sneered. “You know what I’m talking about: following me out here.”

  Abigail blew a huge cloud of fumes straight into his face. “You’re a cocky, conceited bastard sometimes, Robert Mason.”

  The historian frowned and spluttered again. “You mean you didn’t follow me when you heard the news?”

  Abigail stopped halfway down the churchyard path. She and Bob were the last ones now. “If anyone had first dibs on an alternative lifestyle, I'd say I take the cake, don’t you? Besides, the housing rent on my shit-hole estate would have skyrocketed in January. I needed to do something. Can’t say I miss it. The muggers only left me alone, because they thought I was some sort of witch.” She finished her smoke, turned round and froze.

  Sharp fingernails dug into Bob’s right forearm. “Ouch. Abigail…” His voice trailed away at the uncharacteristic tension and fear gripping her normally hyper-relaxed form. He followed her agitated gaze into the mist. “What is it?”

  “I thought I saw something.”

  Bob strained to look. “A damp old churchyard with wonky gravestones. Sure there wasn’t a barn owl flying past?”

  Abigail shivered and cringed. “It felt like someone had walked over my grave. This is a weird place, Bob. I mean, I like the community and all, but the location is-”

  “Setting your psychic alarm bells ringing? You sure that mugwort isn’t messing with your head? Is it a hallucinogen?”

  “It has mild hallucinogenic properties, yeah. But I’m not baked.”

  “Go easy on that stuff.”

  The woman let out a long stream of warm, moist air and released her grip. “Let’s get going.” Her usual brusque demeanour began to resurface above the subsiding emotional turmoil. “Speaking of ringing my bell: does Father Christmas want to come down my chimney?”

  Bob let out a heaving, breathless chuckle. “You never change, do you?”

  Abigail sniffed. “You’ve been so busy since we both moved out here, I’ve not spent any special moments with you. Unless you’ve someone else tucked away in that caravan, the last time you got your carrot wet was that night we went digging in Peakirk. Halloween. Almost two months, Bob.”

  Bob blinked. “I suppose it was. So much has happened since. Time flies, doesn’t it?”

  Abigail fixed an unimpressed gaze on him. “Not when you’re horny as fuck and have a supposed arrangement with a history professor to address the matter. We could be sitting on the holy sodding grail right here and never know it because my senses are so dulled.”

  “Have you had any impressions about the place?”

  “Weird dreams. And yes, it could be the mugwort. Some people use it as a dream enhancer. Nothing solid has come through. Put it this way: I’m glad I don’t live out here on my own.”

  They passed through the lychgate and wandered back to their caravans.

  In the soft, still blackness of an unilluminated church, gentle pattering noises sounded one after another. They were followed by a loud bang and tinkling, then silence. The cacophony echoed distant enough from the community dwellings to not rouse anyone beyond the building’s thick stone walls.

  When Maggie Leonard opened up to collect some water the following morning, she found the wreath and greenery decorations lying on the floor. The Christmas tree had toppled sideways across the church aisle, like a coniferous roadblock; its homemade ornaments cast wide across the flagstones and tombs. A startled warble escaped her throat and fine hairs rose on the back of the woman’s neck. One or two decorations detaching were explainable. But this defied pure coincidence, didn’t it?

  When Connie arrived behind her, she stared at the mess with a tensing body. “What on earth?”

  Maggie gripped the handles of her wheeled container. “This gave me such a fright, Connie. Do you think one of the others is playing a prank on us?”

  “Has to be. Pretty sick joke. At Christmas too. No sense giving them the satisfaction, whoever it was. Help me fix the wreath and greenery back, will you?”

  “What about the tree?”

  “When we have lunch in the barn, I’ll tease the boys about what a shoddy job they did erecting it. We won’t mention the other decorations. Joke’s on them at that rate.”

  Maggie swallowed hard and picked up one of the glitter-sprayed holly pieces. “Okay. Oh, for a minute there, all those horrible old ghost stories leaped out and screamed ‘boo’ at me.”

  Connie twisted away to hide a mild but nagging tremor. “I’m sure it’s a prank. Come on, Maggie. It’s Christmas: the season to be jolly.”

  7

  Chop and Change

  Dean Claridge hung a brace of pheasants from a hook above the window of ‘J. D. Hawke & Sons - Family Butcher.’ His lopsided grin relaxed what might otherwise suggest a thug-like appearance: fat, square head; small, flat ears and a broad nose broken in a fight when he was a teenager. Couple that with almost non-existent, thin grey hair dusting an otherwise bald head, and you could be forgiven for believing yourself in the presence of a forty-four-year-old football hooligan or lager lout. But Dean was none of those things. He smoothed down the game bird’s feathers like a lover caressing the silky, intimate hairs of their mate. An old woman pushed her granny bag shopping trolley past on the pedestrianised brick tiles of the street outside. She struggled against the late January cold that agitated clicking, arthritic joints. Dean ducked beneath the pheasants and gave her an exaggerated wave, accompanied by the kind of smile one encounters upon reuniting with a long-lost friend. She didn’t tick that box, yet there was a genuine warmth to the gesture. Dean had worked at the shop since the age of sixteen, starting out as a Saturday part-timer cleaning the back room and progressing to serving customers pre-cut meat. When he left school, James Hawke took the lad on as an apprentice butcher. He never wanted to do anything else. Hawke had a simple philosophy: you attempted to greet everyone and brighten their day; you remembered regular customers’ names and addressed them upon arrival; and you gave anyone you recognised a wave through the window as they passed - irrespective of whether they were coming in to buy. It was this last aspect that drew Dean there. His parents always bought their meat from Mr Hawke. He’d grown up addressing the butcher (who knew him by his first name) as ‘Uncle James.’ No matter how tough a day he had at school, whenever Dean walked past the shop on his way home, James Hawke beamed and gave him a wave. It might not have solved his problems, but the world felt less dark and lonely afterwards.

  The old woman swivelled and wheeled her trolley through the open shop doorway.

  Dean leaned forward to rest his hands atop the chilled, glass counter above trays of assorted meat cuts, steaks, chops, sausages and chicken fillets. “Good afternoon, Mrs Hodges. How are you today?”

  “Cold. It gets in your bones at my age, Dean.” The woman rubbed two chapped, wrinkled hands together.

  “I know what you mean. It’s not my favourite time of year for working in the chiller either. Great on a scorching August day. At the end of January? Not so much. What can I get you?”

  Mrs Hodges peered through the glass frontage at the well-presented wares, then opened
a clutch purse to study a handful of coins within.

  Dean knew she’d been a faithful housewife to her husband until the moment of his death the year before. Now on half-pension and with rising fuel bills, she was careful about the cuts she bought. He’d never sold her so much offal when Mr Hodges was still alive. Yet, he hadn't heard her complain that life was unfair. Did she even have another living soul to talk to?

  The woman trembled. “Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes watered.

  Dean swallowed. “How about a nice chicken breast fillet?”

  Mrs Hodges counted her coins again. “I suppose I could have one of those. Your fillets are always plump and meaty.”

  “They stay moist too, if you wrap them in a few rashers of bacon while cooking.”

  The lady licked cracked lips but her face fell. “Just the chicken breast today, Dean.”

  “Very good, Mrs Hodges. Skin on or off?”

  “Off please.”

  The butcher retrieved a skinless breast fillet from one of the counter trays, weighed it and caught sight of the lady trying to peer at the readout. “Looks like you’ve got the right amount in your hand there. What a great coincidence.”

  The old woman’s countenance brightened.

  Dean reached back under the counter. “I'll tell you what. Why don’t I pop three rashers of back bacon in, too?”

  Mrs Hodges fidgeted. “Oh, but I can’t-”

  Dean held up one hand. “There now. You’ve been such a good customer all these years. No charge for the extra today. Have a little treat on us. I know James Hawke would approve, God rest his soul. Smoked or unsmoked?”

  The old woman pulled out a petite, embroidered handkerchief to wipe one of her eyes and blow a moist nose. “I’ll have green if I can please.”

  “Green it is.” The butcher wrapped up three rashers of unsmoked bacon along with the chicken breast. “Now you give me those few coins there, and we’re all settled up.” He passed the parcel across in exchange for what amounted to semi-payment.