The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Mrs Hodges placed the package in her shopping trolley as if it were a priceless treasure. “Thank you, Dean.”

  “You have a good day, now. I’m sure we’ll see you again soon.” He watched the woman wheel the trolley away, her shoulders hunched over but with less of a burden upon them thanks to his small act of kindness.

  The stern, familiar, intrusive bark of Henry Guest caused the butcher to wince. “A word with you, Claridge.” Dean finished observing the woman disappear from view. He twisted to confront the angry gaze of his new boss. After James Hawke passed away, his two sons took over the business. One of them soon changed careers. The other recently received (and accepted) a sweet offer to sell the firm to an out-of-town farming conglomerate: ‘Jansford Fine Foods.’ They’d purchased a large empty shop next door to the butchers and were knocking a connection through. Once work was complete, the larger premises would sell many high-priced specialist food imports, a selection of local organic produce from their farms, and leave the meat section to what had always been Hawke’s butchery. When everything was done and dusted, the name of the amalgamated shop would cease to be ‘J. D. Hawke & Sons - Family Butcher.’ Dean hated everything about the deal. Hawke’s had gone from a friendly, family firm who cared about their customers, to a profit-centred, corner-cutting outfit who only paid lip service to such notions if they brought cash cows through the door.

  “Henry,” Dean acknowledged the conglomerate’s middle-manager.

  “Step out back with me for a moment.”

  Dean didn’t like the look of this. “Okay.”

  When they got to the rear stockroom, the manager wheeled about and glared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Have a treat on us? Did you even charge that old bag the correct amount for the chicken, let alone giving her free bacon?”

  Dean bristled. “That ‘old bag’ has been a faithful customer at the shop for longer than I’ve been alive. She lost her husband last year and is struggling to make ends meet. Are we so cold and tight now, we can’t reward that loyalty once in a blue moon? I know you’re not a butcher, but we’re talking about a few pence in lost revenue for a gift that meant the world to Mrs Hodges.”

  Guest rubbed his eyes and shook his head in a few short motions. “Mrs Hodges? Why do you address these people by name? They’re customers, not your friends.”

  “James Hawke always treated them as both, whether or not he saw them outside the shop.”

  “It’s a waste of time and resources. As you’ve demonstrated today, it also leads to poor business decisions based on unnecessary sentiment. No wonder Hawke never expanded beyond this pathetic premises.”

  Dean’s fingernails buried into the palms of his clenching fists. “He didn’t want to expand. James was content with running a happy shop staffed by people who knew everyone.”

  The manager snorted. “Stupid fool. The day of the little man is over now, Claridge. We’re not running a charity. You work for ‘Jansford Fine Foods,’ not some sad, Dickensian Fezziwig wannabe. After you’ve settled up the difference from your own pocket on that last sale, you’ll go back to-”

  Henry Guest never completed his sentence. Dean’s fist connected with his jaw in a right-uppercut that knocked the slime-ball straight off his feet. Nobody spoke like that about James Hawke in his presence. Blood poured from the manager’s mouth. He blinked in shock and tasted the saltiness with his tongue, hands pressed against the tiled floor. For a moment the fallen foe made to get up. He thought better of it when Dean took a step closer with tensed meat hooks. The manager's voice bellowed in a rage. “Get out.” Guest cast an arm towards the stockroom door. “You’re fired. If I see you anywhere near this shop again, I’ll report you for assault.”

  Dean ripped off his butcher’s apron. “You won’t catch me or my family in here ever again. Count on it.” He screwed up the white fabric garment and tossed it on the ground next to Henry. There was scant time to take one last look at those familiar rooms that had formed the backdrop to his twenty-eight-year career. He’d come off the boil now, but the only emotion replacing it was a sense of loss rather than regret. Yet the reality of that loss was almost complete, long before he’d decked his arsehole manager. Dean had been holding onto the past with slipping fingernails for some time, desperate to keep James Hawke’s dream alive. Now the battle was over. He unhitched his coat from a rack and walked back into the main shop. A thirteen-year-old girl with long, flowing blonde hair that cascaded over her blossoming chest, skidded through the doorway. A harp-shaped, bright pink mouth above petite chin, angled down at the corners. An intense stare of brightest blue fixed on the departing butcher.

  “Dad.” She stopped to catch her breath. “Mum collapsed at school.”

  Dean gripped his daughter’s upper arms. “Again? Where is she now?”

  “They took her to A & E in an ambulance before lunch. Mrs Penfold followed along in a car to sit with her.” She noticed his jacket. “Are you off somewhere?”

  “Home.”

  The girl frowned. “This early in the afternoon? Is something else wrong?”

  Dean left the shop with his daughter close behind. He cast one final, heartsick glance at the sign over the door that would soon disappear forever. “I’ll tell you later. Where was your Mum when she collapsed?”

  “Teaching a class as usual. One minute we were listening to her introduce The Renaissance. The next she made a funny gargling noise in her throat and went straight down like a sack of spuds. The teaching assistant sent Kara Mills to the Head for help, while she held onto Mum.”

  Dean stopped in the middle of the pedestrianised high street. “Did she have another fit?”

  The girl nodded. “I’m worried about her, Dad.”

  “Me too, Sarah. It’s those bloody inspections that push her to breaking point, every damn time. She can’t go on like this.”

  The teenager pressed her lips together, never taking her eyes away from his face. “Language, Dad.”

  Dean pulled the girl close and kissed her forehead. “We’d better dash off home.”

  Michaela Claridge sat on the edge of a bed in the hospital Clinical Decision Unit. A group of junior doctors formed a semi-circle before her like a mini amphitheatre focused on the sick woman as a diva. Michaela’s bulbous grey eyes swelled in a head the shape of an inverted teardrop. Even in the care of medical professionals, her anxious posture and expression presented the image of a rabbit on high-alert for predatory danger. Long, straggly, light brown hair with blonde tints appeared more unkempt than usual after her stressful ordeal.

  “Can you stand, Michaela?” a senior specialist leading his juniors on early evening rounds, stepped clear to give the patient some space. His underlings followed suit.

  Michaela’s tall, pencil-thin form staggered aloft on shaky legs. She moistened her lips to speak. “I can stand, but my legs feel numb.”

  “Hmm.” The specialist drew an imaginary line towards the wall with one hand. “Could you try walking there and back? A few steps. Don’t worry, we won’t let you fall.”

  Michaela took one shaky step after another. At the wall she reached out for support, more psychological than physical.

  “And back again.” The group leader scribbled some notes on a chart. When Michaela reached the bed and turned around, he switched attention to offer a comforting nod. “Very good. So you’re a forty-one-year-old schoolteacher, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this isn’t the first time you’ve suffered such an episode, is it?”

  Michaela flushed. “No.” Her head lowered.

  “Come, come. No need for embarrassment. If you only knew how many people I see on the verge of nervous exhaustion from work stress. You’re in good company, though it pains me to say it." He cleared his throat. "The reason you collapsed and your limbs went numb, is the body forcing you to stop before it’s too late. I'd say we can let you go home.”

  M
ichaela rubbed her forehead and stuttered. “One of the nurses said I'd need to stay in for an MRI.”

  The specialist shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. The diagnosis is clear. You should go back to your own personal sanctuary and rest. Much better than hospital. No work for some time, either. I’ll write to your GP and ask them to sign you off for an extended period. But, unless you manage your stress or reduce the cause, it’s only a stay of execution.”

  His patient gulped. “Execution?”

  “You can’t keep doing this to your body without long-term, serious health consequences. Permanent ones. Today the ambulance brought you to A & E. Next time it could be the basement. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Michaela’s already bulging eyes almost popped out on stalks. She gave a slow nod.

  The specialist signed a release form and handed it to a passing nurse. “If I were you, Michaela, I would consider a new direction. You need a complete change. Get away from metrics and targets, if that’s what takes you over the edge. It is with most suffering teachers I speak to. I know that’s easy for me to say when you’ve invested so much into a career. But this is your health we’re talking about.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a safe journey home.”

  Five minutes after the crowd of physicians left, Dean and Sarah appeared in the CDU. Sarah ran to embrace her mother, who burst into spontaneous tears accentuated by her state. Dean followed along behind at a slower pace. Not the best day to tell Kyla I’ve lost my job. That’s all she needs to hear right now. I hope the doctors have some decent advice for her this time. She won’t agree to pop pills. He joined the girls and held them both for a long while in silence.

  * * *

  Smoke curled from chimneys above thatched roofs on a collection of single-storey, rustic abodes at Deeping Drove. Erected a short distance from assorted modern caravans and vehicles, the scene looked like a collision in time between Tudor England and the twenty-first century. The chattering whistle of the Reed Warbler and Lesser Whitethroat provided a welcome ambient backdrop to replace the dead, smothering emptiness of winter on the Fens. Their return from migrations to warmer climes, announced mid-April. The cheery birdsong was interspersed with the clang of a hammer on iron in the forge, as Daniel Charter worked with the quiet, self-contained industry that hallmarked his character trait.

  Bob Mason threw a fresh log on an open fire in one of the empty buildings. Dean Claridge waddled through the door clutching a large basket of seasoned logs. He plonked it down in the middle of the floor with a puff. “I suspect you’re going easy on me, my first day. These little single-storey cottages are neat. How long until everybody moves in?”

  Bob rose and rested against the sill of a thick window. Re-purposed glass allowed spring sunlight to filter into the structure behind him. “Not long now. We’re setting fires in all the hearths to help speed the drying process. Joe Hargreaves - our master builder - reckons we should be in by mid-summer. Though, these cute hovels will take a while to settle. We'll still have to use the communal toilet afterwards. Each place has a cooking/living area and a couple of extra rooms for sleeping. Space for a tin bathtub in front of the fireplace for washing. That's a bonus. Not perfect, but a sight better than living in the caravans."

  Dean closed the door on a wrought iron latch, to keep what little heat in that wasn’t shooting straight up the chimney. “Those log baskets are good and sturdy.”

  Bob studied the container resting on the floor. “One of Abigail Walters’ talents. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon, if you haven’t already.”

  “So, do you mind if I ask what your story is? Constance said you were a history professor.”

  “That’s right. I had a falling out over the new academic dean’s approach to learning. His predecessor was a lovely chap. Had time for everyone and fostered a great atmosphere at the university. Problem is, the picture didn’t appear too peachy elsewhere, by the time I left.”

  The butcher rested against a sill on the opposite side. “Doesn’t sound a million miles removed from my experience.”

  “You were a butcher, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I’m no academic-”

  Bob interrupted him with hands raised in a submissive gesture. “I didn’t mean that as some kind of insult. There’s nothing like a nice joint of meat. Stick an animal or carcass in front of me, and I would have no idea how to prepare it. We’re glad you came out to join us. So, what happened?”

  “Same story. An old-school, independent butcher mentored me. Top bloke. He passed away a while back. His last son recently sold out to a modern group focused on profit and expansion.”

  Bob listened. “I imagine being butchery manager at a supermarket didn’t appeal as an alternative, then?”

  Dean shook his head. “No. It would have been more of the same. Cold and impersonal.”

  “And your wife was a teacher?”

  “Yeah. That proved the clincher for us coming here. She’d suffered a few episodes of burnout. The day my job ended, Kyla had another serious one. Panic attacks followed. She couldn’t go anywhere with an association to her job or old life. Not without collapsing into a quivering wreck. So, I struggled to find work, she couldn’t go back to hers and the money was running out. It was our daughter who found an article on-line from some local paper about this place.”

  “Have you come far?”

  “No. Northamptonshire.”

  Bob shifted his buttocks for precious relief against the cold sill. “Has Connie asked your wife if she’d consider teaching here?”

  “Yes. Kyla and I decided she'd instruct our daughter, Sarah, on a one-to-one basis. Even driving her out to a new school each day could prove problematic for Kyla’s long-term recovery. For now, anyway. My wife was agitated about running a formal classroom again. She told Connie she’d think about it. I don’t want to push her.”

  “I can understand that. Though, I wouldn’t call St. Guthlac’s a formal classroom. At the moment she’d only have one other pupil: Tim Leonard. How old’s your daughter?”

  “She turned fourteen this week. Two days before we moved out here.”

  “Perfect. Tim is fourteen, going on fifteen. It’s a chore for Pete or Maggie to drive the boy to school each day and collect him. That and he’s been having a lot of trouble with the other kids. Came home with a proper shiner last night, as you and your family were settling in.” Bob prodded the fire with an iron poker. A flurry of sparks crackled up the chimney. “If your wife is amenable to holding a class for two, tell her I’ll roll-up my sleeves and help, whenever she needs it. Might ease the pressure. I'm sure I can handle a couple of teenagers. Consider history classes covered.”

  Dean stood up. “Thanks, Bob. I’ll see what gentle persuasion can do, if the moment seems right.”

  “Great. Toss me a couple more logs. Then we'd better check on the other fireplaces.”

  * * *

  “Tim. Tim, come on, you’ll be late for school.” Maggie Leonard rapped her knuckles against the slide to panel that separated their son’s tiny sleeping area of the trailer. Silence. She made a thoughtful clicking sound with her tongue, then pushed open the front door and stepped down onto some spongy ground outside. It was the firmest the earth had felt in many months, thanks to a patch of drier weather.

  Connie strode down the track towards her; a tall, slender woman and attractive teenage girl by her side. She called out to the farmer’s wife. “Maggie. Let me introduce you to a couple of our new arrivals. This is Michaela Claridge and her daughter, Sarah.”

  Maggie offered polite but flustered greetings to the pair.

  Connie peered through the murky trailer windows. “Is Tim about? I thought it might be nice for him to meet Sarah. She’s recently turned fourteen.”

  The farmer’s wife scrunched up a fist and pressed the knuckles against her mouth. “I’m supposed to be taking him to school, but he won’t come out. He took a terrible bea
ting yesterday. No matter how hard Pete and I badger him, Tim still refuses to go to the head about it.”

  Michaela Claridge studied the frazzled mother with soft eyes. “Could I speak to him?”

  Maggie frowned. “Are you some kind of child behaviour expert?”

  Connie grinned. “Michaela's a teacher. She'll home school Sarah.”

  Maggie’s demeanour underwent a startling transformation. She almost glowed as she reached out a cautious hand to the new woman. “Please tell me you would consider our boy as a pupil too?”

  Michaela shifted on the spot. “Connie asked if I’d hold classes in the church for any families with kids who come to stay. I’m still mulling it over.”

  Maggie touched her arm like a semi-hopeful sinner seeking redemption from some religious paragon of virtue. “He’s a quiet boy. He won’t be any trouble, I promise. Please. Pete and I are at the end of our tether over how to help him.”

  Michaela bit her lip. She motioned to the trailer. “May I?”

  Maggie nodded and opened the door for her.

  The teacher stepped inside and inclined her head to listen for any sounds from the boy’s sleeping area. “Tim? I don’t know if you can hear me, but my name is Michaela Claridge.” A gentle weeping drifted out from behind the sliding panel. “I’m a teacher by profession. Your mother was wondering if you’d like to have classes here at the site, rather than going back to school?”

  All crying ceased, and the panel slid back in two trembling hands. The tear-stained face of Tim Leonard with a swollen and blackened right eye, peered through the gap as if at an angelic visitation. He gulped. “Is this a trick to make me come out?”

  Michaela sat on a nearby bench cushion. “No, Tim. I know what it is to suffer anxiety over going back to a harmful environment. I promise you this: I won’t ever lie to you.”

  Tim shuffled a couple of paces forward into the main trailer body. “Will you really teach me from home?”

  Michaela’s face hardened into a business-like and authoritarian expression. “If I do, can you promise to apply yourself to your studies and work hard? There’ll be no games. I won’t waste my time on someone looking for an easy ride. I’ll also not tolerate anyone who distracts my daughter in class.”