by Mike Pannett
It wasn’t new – or certainly didn’t look as though it was. At first sight it had a decidedly abandoned appearance. Dilapidated, you might say. It may be that it had been hidden by the tangle of roses and elder trees that surrounded its particular corner of the field, and that the farmer had now grubbed out a bit of hedge, exposing it to view. Or it may have been the winter storm that swept across the north and took out so many old trees.
But whatever the case, the fact remained that for all the times we’d cut across the field on our way to the clifftop where the brambles would stop a tank, according to Billy, and the berries were the size of your granny’s thimble, we’d never spotted it.
‘Cor, look at that!’
Phil almost bumped into me as I stopped, dropped my basket in the grass and stared. All that was visible amongst the thicket of trees and bushes was a squat brick chimney poking through a low-pitched roof that appeared to be covered in felt rather than slates. But as we approached the overgrown thorn hedge we saw a low, squat building, built of wood and painted green – the dark green of a holly tree.
‘Hmm. Never seen that before.’
Phil put his basket down next to mine and set off across the field, leaping from one tussock to the next.
‘Come on,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘let’s have a look.’
As I approached it I saw that there was a faint path trodden in the grass. It was no wider than a rabbit run at first, but it broadened out slightly, as we drew near to the place, and led to an old iron gate, quite a small one, set between a pair of metal posts. One was topped with ivy. The other was bare, and rusty. A solitary crow was perched on it. As we hesitated, it looked at us, then flew from its perch and settled on the dead branch of a large oak-tree that loomed over the little enclosure.
Phil walked slowly towards the gate. I followed, several paces behind him.
‘You – you don’t think it’s haunted, do you?’ I said.
‘Nah,’ he said. But there was a distinct hesitation before he added, ‘Don’t be daft.’
Phil had reached the gate. Beyond him I could already see the door of the hut. It too was made of boards, but vertical ones, bare and sun-bleached. To either side of it was a small rectangular window, shaded by matching curtains.
‘D’you think anyone lives here?’ I whispered.
Phil didn’t answer. He was approaching the door, his hand out ready to grasp the hexagonal metal handle. I waited at the gate, my heart thumping. The crow squawked and flew off into the woods.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I don’t like this. There might be – you know, ghosts and things.’
Phil gave a nervous little laugh.
‘’S all right,’ he said. ‘Ghosts don’t come out until it gets dark. Midnight.’ Then he added, ‘It’s the zombies you want to worry about.’
But his jaunty air wasn’t very convincing. As much as trying to scare me he was also attempting to fortify himself. I looked around the field. Were we being watched? I had an awful feeling that we were. Turning back to look at the hut I found myself rooted to the spot, my mouth agape. I wanted to shout out a warning, but I seemed unable to speak. The curtain at the right-hand window had moved to one side and a face – a wrinkled face surrounded by a shock of white hair – peered through the murky glass. Then a hand appeared and four bony fingers started to wipe the dirt away.
We reacted as one, turning and running full pelt – out through the gateway, across the field and heading for home. We didn’t stop till we could see the farmhouse, and there was Petra running out to meet us. It occurred to me that we should’ve had her with us. Dogs can sense ghosts. At least, that’s what I’d heard. Somewhere.
Left to our own devices, we probably wouldn’t have gone back that way for the rest of the holiday. But we’d no sooner got home than we realised we’d left the baskets behind. And hadn’t Doris sent us out specifically to get some blackberries for a pie she was baking that afternoon? And hadn’t she reminded us that the best berries we ever got were from the hedges around that field?
‘What we going to do?’ I said.
Phil shrugged. ‘Looks like we’d better go back,’ he said. Then he laughed and added, ‘Better bring your bow and arrow, eh?’
I didn’t take the bow, but I did make sure I’d a got a few decent-sized stones in my trouser pockets. And I carried a stout stick. So did Phil. And this time we had Petra with us. Her presence gave us both a bit of extra courage. Even so, we made our way back in silence.
As we climbed over the wooden stile we could see the hut quite plainly, and wondered again how we’d managed to miss it in the past. We dropped into the field and stood there for a moment. I looked around, hoping to see the baskets, but the grass was too long. Petra had already scampered away to the far side, where the rabbits were.
I followed Phil into the field, one eye scanning the ground, the other watching out for any movement from the direction of the haunted hut, as I now thought if it. We edged cautiously forward, following the line of flattened grass we’d made earlier. So where were the baskets? We drew closer to the hedge that bordered the field. Had we gone past them?
‘Maybe somebody’s picked them up,’ I said.
I desperately wanted Phil to agree, so that we could go home. We could make up some excuse easily enough.
‘How about we tell Auntie Doris that some big boys came and stole them?’ I suggested.
Phil didn’t like that. ‘’S going to make us look a right couple of fairies, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Come on, they’ll be here somewhere.’
‘I say, are you looking for these?’
The voice sounded dead posh. But when I turned around the figure I saw looked like a tramp – or what I thought a tramp ought to look like. He had a grubby pair of leather shoes, one of which had a hole in the toe, a pair of loose-fitting khaki trousers with grass-stained knees, a baggy sweater with splashes of red and yellow paint down the front. In his hands he held our baskets. His fingers were long and thin. I looked up to see his face, framed by a straw hat and … the same untidy mop of thin white hair I’d seen at the window barely an hour previously.
‘It’s him!’ I shouted, and started running.
I’d got halfway to the stile when I paused to look back. Phil was standing where I’d left him. Petra was beside him, rolling in the grass at the stranger’s feet. If there was one thing we could always rely on, it was Petra’s sense of who we could trust and who we couldn’t. If that old man had represented any danger to us she would have circled him, hackles raised, growling, and even gone for his ankles. But there she was, picking herself to take some kind of treat from his hand.
‘It’s all right,’ Phil called, waving his arm. ‘Come back.’
I stayed where I was for a moment, trying to get my breath back. Then I made my way slowly towards him. The old fellow was talking to Phil. He reached down and ruffled the hair on Petra’s throat.
Then he turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Augustus Proudfoot, artist.’ With that he held out his hand and before I knew it I’d grasped and shaken it. ‘Artist and occasional hermit,’ he added. ‘But you may call me Gus. I live in the hut there. During my holidays, you understand.’
I looked at Phil, pulling a face that was supposed to reflect my confusion. Maybe the guy was still a maniac, but a very clever one. Phil seemed equally uncertain.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘me and my brother here were just – ’
‘Aha!’ The man handed Phil the baskets. ‘Brambling, no doubt. Now, if you care to follow me towards the rear of my rude shelter you’ll find some of the fattest, sweetest berries you’ve ever tasted.’
I looked at Phil. I was quite prepared to make a dash for it. Maybe this was one of those molesters we’d been warned about, a weirdo. But if so, why was Petra so unconcerned?
‘Ah,’ he said, looking us up and down. ‘I see. I dare say you think me a strange sort of chap.’ He gave a gentle chuckle. ‘Well, I’m a painter
you see. We’re all a bit odd. Take no notice of the garb. Wouldn’t do to wear your best clothes to work in, would it now?’
We didn’t answer. We just stared. Petra, meanwhile, had wandered towards the hut, her nose to the ground.
‘Look, if you come to the garden gate you’ll see my easel and oils. Then you can go round the back on your own and pick away to your hearts’ content. How’s that?’ He glanced at us, then tilted his head back and looked at the sky. ‘Meanwhile, I shall continue the eternal quest to capture on canvas the subtly shifting contours of the fair-weather cumulus.’
Phil and I looked at each other. He’d got us both in a flat spin.
‘Cumulus,’ he repeated, and pointed skyward. ‘It’s those puffy white clouds you see there. From the Latin, meaning pile. See how they’re sort of piled up, do you?’
Mister Augustus Proudfoot – it was some time before we learned to call him Gus – did indeed have an easel in his overgrown garden, and on it was indeed a painting of a cloud, just like the one that was passing over the hut as we stood there. And when we went around the back we did indeed find a crop of brambles that were huge, sweet and abundant.
We filled our baskets, shouted goodbye and hurried home. Doris was at the kitchen window as we walked into the yard. She came to the door to meet us.
‘I was beginning to wonder where you two had got to,’ she said. ‘I’ve been baking all afternoon. The oven’s ready, and the pastry.’ She looked into the baskets. ‘Ooh, my goodness aren’t they beautiful? All we need now is a few apples. If I add a few early wind-falls they’ll most likely make two pies. Well done, the pair of you.’
‘Sorry we took so long,’ Phil said, ‘but there was this – ’
‘Yeah, there was this old bloke,’ I said, ‘and he was right weird, all covered in paint and his fingers were like – like talons,’ I said. It was a new word I’d got from a book about birds of prey. ‘And he lives in this old shack in the woods.’
Doris had been frowning at me as I spoke, her face lined with concentration. Then it broke into a smile.
‘Oh, so you met our Mister Proudfoot, did you? Such an interesting man! A little eccentric, I suppose, but a lovely fellow all the same.’
‘You know him?’ Phil asked.
‘Oh, we all know Mister Proudfoot. He’s been amongst us for a long time now. You know, we really feel it’s a bit of an honour having him here. He’s a very well known artist. He’s exhibited in London. The Royal Academy, they say.’
She took the baskets from us and wheeled away into the kitchen. We followed her inside, drawn partly by curiosity, partly by the smell of whatever she was baking.
‘I could tell you lots about our Augustus.’ She pointed to the painting on the wall, a view of the country around Staintondale with sheep dotting the grass. ‘He painted this, and gave it to us. Years ago now.’
She sat us down at the table, poured us each a glass of milk, and went to open the oven.
‘Ah, perfect,’ she said, and pulled out a tray of flapjacks. ‘I’ll just pop them on the rack.’
While they cooled she told us Mister Proudfoot’s story.
‘He grew up around here, you see, and everybody knew he was gifted. He must have been about eighteen when he went off to the big city to make his fortune.’
‘Fortune?’ I repeated. ‘D’you mean he’s rich?’
‘Doesn’t look it,’ Phil said.
Doris smiled.
‘No, he looks more like a tramp – when he’s working. You see, he taught at an art school for years and then when he retired he bought that little place you’ve seen and uses it in the summer. There’s no electricity, nor running water. Wouldn’t suit me, but … Each to their own, as they say.’ She went to the counter and held the back of her hand over the flapjacks. ‘Ah, that’s cool enough for two growing lads,’ she said. As she laid them on a plate and brought them to the table she said, ‘But I’m surprised you’ve not met him before – although to tell the truth we hardly ever catch sight of him either. Sometimes on a morning, if we go out for mushrooms, we’ll see him with his easel. He’s always up early. In fact, many a night he sleeps out under the stars.’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘that must be fun.’
Doris shivered. ‘When you’re young, maybe. When you get to my age you prefer a nice feather eiderdown and a sprung mattress.’
‘But he’s old – same as you, I mean.’
As I spoke Phil kicked me under the table.
Doris laughed. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ she said. ‘Yes, he is indeed as old as me. Older, in fact, if you can imagine such a thing. We were at school with him, but he was a few years above us. So, quite ancient, I suppose. Thing is, he’s an artist. They’re not like the rest of us. As you’ll find out, if you get talking to him.’
Now that we knew he wasn’t a weirdo, or a murderer on the run – or a ghost – we did get to talk to Mister Proudfoot. In fact, we called on him again the very next day – supposedly to pick more berries, but really we were drawn back there because we wanted to know more about this unusual man. He knew by now where we came from, word having reached him on the bush telegraph, as it were, and he confirmed that he’d known Doris and the rest of them since he was a lad.
He showed us inside his little cabin. It was no more than a single large room. At one end was a table, all covered with paper and paints, brushes in pots, all except one corner. There sat a plate, a mug and a sharp knife. Looking around I saw no sign of a sink, a cooker or a bed, just more artists’ materials: books, canvases, drawings, paintings – some finished, some half-done and apparently abandoned – and a clutter of interesting instruments, including a telescope, a paraffin lamp and an old-fashioned bellows-type camera on a black metal tripod.
‘Yes,’ he said, as he shifted a pile of canvases from a rickety stool and invited me to sit down, leaving Phil to lean against the door-jamb, ‘it’s what you might call a shade primitive. The privy’s at the back if you need it. The little shed. There’s a pump out there too, for my water. As for cooking, I prefer to do that on a camp fire.’
He walked across to the far end of the room and tapped on what looked like a shutter of some sort.
‘And this,’ he said, ‘ folds down to make me a bed – when I’m not sleeping sous la belle étoile, as the French like to say.’
‘Sous what?’ I said.
‘In the – ah, in the open,’ Gus replied. ‘You should try it sometime, the pair of you. See if the good ladies can’t lend you an old blanket or two. We could light a fire, fry some sausages and watch the moon rise. Or set.’ He went and rummaged through some papers on the table. ‘I have a chart here somewhere with all the phases on it – and the tides. Anyway, I expect you’ll need what we used to call a leave pass, won’t you? From the dear old ladies. Or your parents.’
We asked Mum and Dad that same evening. Mum looked doubtful, but Doris and the others confirmed that Gus was a reliable and trustworthy fellow, and a couple of days later, around teatime, we set out with our supplies. We had a back-pack each, with sausages, bread, a newly baked cake and some bottles of pop. The sky was clear and, according to Dad, a full moon would rise just after sunset, which was around eight-thirty. We arrived at the hut just as Gus was cutting the grass, not with a lawnmower but with an old, long-handled scythe.
‘Good exercise, this,’ he said, pausing to lean on his tool and wipe the sweat from his forehead. ‘Builds up a fellow’s appetite.’ He looked at us and said, ‘Hungry?’
‘Yes,’ we chorused.
‘Brought any food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we’d better get a fire going, hadn’t we? No mod cons in the cabin, I’m afraid.’ He picked up an armful of dead wood from a pile he had lying in the grass. ‘You boys know all about lighting fires, I suppose?’
Phil laughed and pointed at me. ‘He does. He set the chimney on fire.’
‘Oh dear. Just trying to help, I dare say.’ He looked at me and
winked. ‘Eh?’
Then he set about laying the fire, building a latticework of straight twigs that he piled up several inches high before dropping some dry material into the centre.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘there you have the Proudfoot patent method. One match and she should be away.’
He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a red-top match and held it out.
‘So who’s to do it? Perhaps you, Philip. Being the elder.’ Then he nudged me. ‘Your turn next time, young fellow.’
Phil struck the match and held it to the pile. It caught immediately, and within minutes we had a good blaze going, with Gus piling heavier bits of wood around it to make a cone-shaped fire.
‘Now,’ he said, the trick is to be patient. We want to burn up a good lot of wood, then let it die down. Some people get too impatient and end up with their food all smoky. This way we’ll have a bed of hot coals, with no fumes. Just perfect for cooking – what is it you’ve brought?’
‘Bangers,’ I said.
‘Ah, perfect. And I have the beans.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ll have a rare old feast.’
We sat for a long time, stacking more timber on the fire, letting it burn, adding some more. Then, finally, Gus said we had enough. We’d let it die down. By the time he pronounced the fire ready, there was just this low mound of glowing coals. He pulled out three long sticks, each one sharpened at the end.
‘My home-made toasting-forks,’ he said, and handed us one apiece. ‘Now, spear yourself a sausage each – two if you think you can manage it – and start cooking. I’d better open the beans, hadn’t I?’
He poured them into a saucepan and set it beside the fire. Within a minute or two one side of it was bubbling. He picked up a green stick, peeled the bark off, and stirred. Meanwhile we tried to find the best position for our sausages, exclaiming with delight when the fat spurted out of them and ignited.