by Kit Cox
The pest controller of the orchards and farms of Whitgate was by far the greatest foe Rosalie had ever faced. He made a tidy little profit on the side, selling the rabbits he caught in the execution of his labours and he hated the Gypsies who took that profit from him. When he had been a younger man he would happily have taken them to task but now, with the years weighing heavy on his joints, he daren’t even face them.
Imagine Old Harry’s joy when he found the Gypsy poacher was not the strapping lad he had expected, good with his fists and quick with a knife. The one who had been taking money from Old Harry’s pockets was just a slip of a girl. Sure she was all fire and spirit, but Old Harry had been around the block he had taken feral cats from barns, a girl was literally child’s play.
The first time Rosalie even knew she was not alone. She had trapped a fine doe rabbit that was plump and heavy and her focus had been on getting it out of the trap cleanly.
She hadn’t noticed the darker shadow moving through the trees until Old Harry deliberately cleared his throat.
He was a broad man, almost as broad as he was tall, giving him a rather block-like appearance. He had a square head atop the rectangular body that was heavily jowled and wrinkled; a life of drinking had flushed his cheeks and nose permanently red. He had never grown facial hair well, so rough grey stubble was all that lined his face and he was dressed from head to foot in a drab, hardwearing, heavy-checked suit. Rosalie had not realised who he was; after all, this rabbit was caught on common land and she had no reason to be suspected of poaching. She thought she could talk her way cheekily out of the situation but Old Harry had her by the wrist before even a word left her lips. His grip was tight like a vice and his pale watery eyes were full of anger.
‘Taking my rabbits, girl?’ was all he said as Rosalie tried to break free. He dragged her to a nearby tree and, using the girl’s own snare wire, bound her wrists high above her head across a jutting branch. The moment she felt herself bound she fell still, steadied her feet and waited. She certainly was no fool and knew that any struggle would only hurt her more. All the same, she pleaded with the old pest controller as he rooted through the undergrowth, until he finally emerged with a suitable stick. Her pleading turned to name calling, but it all fell on deaf ears as the vindictive old man flexed the thin straight branch and swished it through the air. He bent down and looked through her pack, slowly removing her catch and placing what she had snared that day across the ground.
Old Harry leant in close to Rosalie’s face and grabbing her chin between his dirty fat fingers he made her look at the rabbits laid out on the grass before them, pointing with the strong, thin stick and in a voice like gravel, he whispered.
‘These are mine, all three of them, and so that you don’t forget who they belong to I shall remind you of each and every one.’
He retreated behind her.
The first strike came across her back so unexpected and hard that she wasn’t sure whether it had even hurt but then the pain started to seep through, deep into her muscles. The second strike brought a cry of pain that sent the early roosting birds back into the heavens. Tears ran down her face and she bit hard on her own lip until she tasted blood in her mouth. She could feel the trickle of yet more blood beneath her clothes, the strike having broken the soft skin of her back even through the fabric of her clothes. The third strike moved the throbbing waves of pain down into her legs. She stumbled and the wire at her wrists instantly bit tighter, bringing fresh pain.
She was so stunned that she hadn’t felt Old Harry take her down from the tree and lay her against its base. She just heard his words through the fog that now filled her head and blurred her vision.
‘Three rabbits, three strikes.’ And with this he hooked up the rabbits in his big hands and wandered off into the encroaching night.
Rosalie had kept the incident to herself, tending her wounds alone until they healed. She did not want to put fire into the soul of her mother or the men of the camp, and she certainly didn’t want to be seen as weak and unable to carry out the only task she had seemed capable of.
She couldn’t not hunt – it was her only contribution to the camp – so over the next months she played cat and mouse with Old Harry. He never caught her again but she would often find her traps damaged or stolen. One she found replaced by a long thin stick stuck in the ground as a warning.
The game was a dangerous one. She knew that for every rabbit she caught and wasn’t punished for Old Harry’s fury would be building.
What she didn’t take into consideration was that her friendship with Ben was becoming known. Buddy, naturally enough, had spoken well of the girl who helped his apprentice as the men of Whitgate drank jugs of ale in the local public house.
Harry remembered and waited one morning on the road from the woods to the oyster factory. He was rewarded by Rosalie coming down the path and as she passed he was on her. Like a fat farmhouse cat grabbing for a mouse.
She kicked and struggled but Old Harry was strong and numb to the girl’s little fists as she desperately tried to escape. ‘So many rabbits, girl. You should have taken your beatings over time. Chances are, you won’t pick yourself up from this one. So many of Old Harry’s rabbits!’
The pest controller was dragging her towards a tree. He had been busy selecting sticks with which to whip her and a coil of rope lay on the ground, ready to bind her tight. Again, Rosalie felt so alone.
The thing was that this time she wasn’t alone.
Uncle David had set off not long after the girl. Not to keep tabs – he had no interest in what she did during the day – he was just heading the same way. He had hoped to make it to Faversham by lunchtime where he’d been promised some goods from a canal man.
The angry words that spilled from Uncle David’s mouth were so heavily accented Rosalie herself could barely tell whether he was swearing or just enraged beyond all reason. Old Harry was stopped in his tracks and in shock let the girl go. It was his first and only attempt to escape punishment, for Uncle David didn’t have forgiveness in his heart that morning.
Ben realised that this story would have no conclusion that could or would be spoken about. What he could see was the fallout of the actions taken by Rosalie’s Uncle David, and already the camp was packed down and ready to leave.
‘Are you ever coming back?’ said Ben, the situation sinking in.
Rosalie solemnly shook her head. ‘I very much doubt it.’
The two sat quietly thinking the situation over.
‘You could come with us,’ she finally said.
It was Ben’s time to shake his head. ‘I’ve been running away all my life or so it seems. Before I was old enough to understand or choose I ran with my mother, and on her death I ran here. Now when people need me…’ He paused and realised that Rosalie’s hand was back in his and that a faint smile was on her face. He didn’t need to say any more; they were friends. Rosalie would have just gone without even a goodbye and she knew that Ben would have understood, and right now he had to stay and she understood that as well. She leant in and kissed him on the cheek before standing and walking back down the hill to the waiting wagons.
Ben watched them go. Rosalie waved from the back of her caravan, shouting. ‘We did good, Tiger. We saved the orphans from a monster…’
Her voice was lost as one by one the caravans disappeared into the trees. Ben stood to go. The last caravan was driven by Uncle David. He saw the boy waiting on the bank and nodded. It was a simple gesture that Ben was getting used to, a sign of a chapter closing on his life. He turned to face his demons alone.
Going Alone
As Ben walked away from the now-empty woods, he couldn’t help thinking of Nanny Belle’s warning of the loneliness that his chosen path entailed: was this where it started, saying goodbye to your friends while you looked after the ungrateful? He pushed his hand inside his jacket and felt the torn pages he had failed to show to Rosalie. This was his duty now: to face the creature that was mindlessly pr
eying on the children who took fruit from its orchard. He looked back to the woods and realised that he still needed someone, someone who would listen to him and not judge. He knew exactly where to go.
Ben sat on the sea wall looking out at the crashing waves, wondering how many monsters lay beneath its churning fury and how many more lay in the lands beyond. He had a freshly made sandwich on his lap and a steaming enamel mug beside him; it was the first cup of tea he had drunk in a very long time. Beside him, also watching the sea, was Buddy. The food he was sharing was from his employer’s own lunch.
‘I was certainly surprised to see you on your free day. I knew something was wrong the moment you walked through the door.’ He looked sideways at the boy, then back out to the sea. ‘High tide – little can be done except clean the shells. So when did she leave?’
It was Ben’s turn to look over at his employer. ‘That obvious?’
Buddy nodded. ‘I used to have a lady. She left.’ He took a big bite of his sandwich, grimaced, opened it up and looked at the content accusingly. ‘Now all I have is a sister-in-law who doesn’t seem to remember I don’t like lemon curd.’
Ben looked at his sandwich – its filling finally explained to him – and took another bite. ‘She’s not my girl; she’s my friend,’ said Ben through a mouthful.
‘Well, it’s not often you get both.’ Buddy threw his sandwich out on to the waves and watched happily as the gulls fought over it. ‘I traded good women in for good friends. I think I made the right choice.’
‘Apart from sandwich fillings,’ Ben joked.
Buddy laughed. ‘Yeah, the thing is I think I remember making the sandwiches myself.’
Ben joined in the laughter as Buddy looked again at his young apprentice, thinking he should maybe impart some well-chosen words of wisdom, rather than jokes. ‘Of course, that’s human nature – isn’t it? – we find ourselves being in situations we don’t like the taste of and often we’ve chosen the situation ourselves. The thing is, are you just going to accept it was your choice and stomach it, or are you going to throw it away and hope someone else clears it up?’
Ben fell into deep thought and Buddy was pleased he had imparted some wisdom. He smiled to himself – maybe he would have been good with women after all. Little did he know he had cemented the boy’s decision to follow a different path completely.
Ben bid Buddy a hasty goodbye and had run halfway back to the orphanage before his lungs burned so much that he couldn’t run any more. He sat down on the edge of the road and waited until his lungs found some puff again. The sun was warm on his back as he took the time to think about what he was planning to do.
It was then that he heard the coughing on the other side of the wall behind him. He stood up slowly and looked over.
It took him a while to recognise the figure slumped against the stones. It was the bruised and bloodied form of Old Harry, his check jacket torn at the collar. The pest controller opened his eyes, seemed to focus on the shadow before him, and began to squirm. Ben felt no sorrow for the battered figure. He might be old but he was a bully and would be till the day he died. Ben was just glad that that day hadn’t yet come, especially at the anger of Uncle David, although he was pretty sure that was the impression he himself had walked away with on the conclusion of Rosalie’s story and the departing Gypsies. The thing was with bullies that once they were beaten down they often didn’t get back up, cowards one and all that’s why they only picked on those they were pretty sure they could beat, stood to reason that’s why Harry had become a pest controller. Harry was no longer the threat but protecting others had made Uncle David the bad guy. Seemed in the real world doing the right thing didn’t always make you the hero.
Ben had been studying Harry for a while when Old Harry finally spoke. At first, his mouth just moved but no words came out. His bottom lip was badly swollen and dried blood was smeared through his grey stubble.
‘Who are you?’ Harry finally whispered.
Ben made a test lunge and watched Harry flinch. He felt bad about doing it – after all, he didn’t want to be accused of being a bully himself – but he had to know that the old man was going to be compliant to his questioning.
‘Tell me about the cherry orchard,’ began Ben, acting on a hunch.
‘What cherry orchard?’ the man almost whimpered.
‘The one the orphans scrump from.’ Ben was loath to use the word ‘steal’ although he knew that taking something that didn’t belong to you however you worded it was an action he didn’t agree with.
‘I don’t know. I don’t follow the orphans. There are lots of cherry orchards here about. It could be any of them.’
Harry didn’t like the shadow that towered over him. He could feel its anger and knew that anger could quickly turn to violence and pain. He believed, too, that the Gypsies had a hidden power and could even summon spirits. He had heard the tales told since he was a child and he had ignored them but this ghastly shadow with its clenched fists he felt could be one of the shades that protected the travelling folk – and now it stood ready to wreak vengeance, if he didn’t make amends by answering its questions.
Unaware of how the man’s broken mind was seeing him, Ben was racking his brain to find out which cherry orchard it could be, a hint he could give to jog the old man’s thoughts. Then he remembered the overheard words of Mrs Reed to her brother on the night of the fight.
‘It fruits out of season,’ said Ben with authority.
Old Harry’s eyes turned on the apparition before him. Truly it was a spectre from beyond the grave for no one spoke of the cherry orchard on the cliff. He swallowed before he spoke. ‘Are you testing me, demon?’ he said with terror in his voice.
Ben realised that the man was not seeing a boy before him but something far more sinister, Ben kept quiet and let the man talk. ‘Are you to be taking me there?’ Harry whimpered, his eyes glazing. ‘Do not take me there, I beg you.’
Ben was not sure whether he should play with the man’s broken mind but he needed answers. ‘I will not take you, Old Harry. You remember the way, though – for one day you will need to take yourself. Tell me now.’
Harry shuddered. ‘“Along the coast till the cliff rises high…”’ he said almost hypnotically. ‘“…No hares on the ground, or birds in the sky. / Where young Tom Granger was laid to rest / To tend his cherries as he knows best.”’ Old Harry had a haunted look in his eyes as he finished the poem, which seemed to be rooted in the depths of his soul. ‘He always said that if you took from the land with greed in your heart, Tom Granger would take back all that was owed to the old orchard on the cliff.’
‘Who said?’ asked Ben, caught up on the haunting poem.
‘My father. He never once ventured up to that orchard for all the days I knew him. He wasn’t scared of man or beast but he crossed his heart if his eyes ever fell on Tom Granger’s orchard.’ Old Harry closed his eyes as if remembering far-off days.
Ben for a moment turned his own gaze to look up along the coast. Of course, from where he stood he saw nothing, but that orchard feared by men and full of cherries was most certainly his spot.
When Harry opened his eyes again the Gypsy spirit had gone. He felt his heart beat faster knowing that he had been in the presence of a shade and he closed his eyes and wept until he coughed uncontrollably.
Ben ran along the paths through the fields until he could see the slope to the sea below him and he could cast his eyes again along the coast. To the east the countryside dipped gracefully down, but to the west it rose sharply until white cliffs appeared. There were still a few hours of daylight left and Ben wanted to be there while the light was still strong.
It was less than an hour before he saw the orchard up on the cliff and he couldn’t help but wonder who had thought to plant the trees there in the first place. It sat on top of the purest of white chalk outcrops, which rose almost eighty feet from the crashing waters below. No fence separated its edge from the sharp drop. The trees were twist
ed, their branches interlaced like a wooden web, but even this late in the year he could see how many bowed down heavy with fruit. As he approached, he could hear the buzz of insects and his heart skipped.
This was it. Somewhere among those branches, he knew, was the Bogle, already aware of his presence, watching his every move. His nerves tightened and his breath seemed to falter as if he was being smothered. He saw flashes of his mother’s face dance before his vision; he saw her body held aloft like a doll and thrown aside. His limbs felt like lead and he fell on all fours in the long grass. His stomach was in knots, waves of nausea passing through him.
Then he saw the coffin, the tiny coffin of Charity Poppy borne up in the capable arms of Mr Reed, and the tears of her friends worn without shame upon their cheeks. He could not let another monster of Whitgate take a young life so he stood up and forced himself onwards towards the trees until he was among them and in his heart he could feel it there, hiding and watching his every move. He stepped lightly over every fallen twig, keeping his head low to avoid the hanging branches, and never took his eyes away from the dark canopy above.
He already knew from its habits that the Bogle must be a blood-based type. It was ready to watch him take something from its domain and then to claim it back again under the cover of night. Somewhere in the trees with its cherry heart it waited, judging him.
Ben wanted to see it with his own eyes, but his fear was telling him to look away, to focus on the ground and not the trees, and it was lucky that he heeded its advice.
As he glanced down he became aware that the ground before him was a tangle of vines and fallen branches. To all intents and purposes, it looked like the big cat traps they built in Ceylon and he examined it for a while, wondering how on earth such a thing had come to be in an English orchard like this but it was simply natural growth and not the man-made traps of Ceylon. Then his attention was drawn to more raised vines at its far end, crawling over a stone that he recognised at once, despite the vegetation, to be a grave marker. The pit trap was in fact a grave!