* * *
Opening the bedroom curtains the next morning, he can see the patch of blue from yesterday has spread across most of the sky and the sun is bathing the landscape of hills and fields in a warm golden glow. A few jackdaws sit having a chat on the shed and a cow or two graze in the pastureland to the right of his garden. Matt opens the window and inhales a mixture of wet grass and cow pat. He feels so much better than he did yesterday and thinks the move down here was unquestionably the right one. It’s amazing what a can of soup, a hunk of fresh bread and a long sleep will do for your spirits.
After a quick breakfast of what remained of the bread, he’s ready to go to the local supermarket to stock up, then he’ll have a bit of an explore. There’s almost a week before term starts and he’s got that giddy holiday feeling in his stomach. A new house, new job and a beautiful new place to explore. A return to his Cornish roots. What more could he ask for?
Whistling, Matt steps outside onto the gravel path and points his keys at the car. As he turns to lock the door the whistle sticks in his throat and his stomach comes up. Right in front of him there’s a rustic plant barrel in the recess by the front door; inside it there’s a wooden pole with… He swallows hard and forces himself to look. To look and make sure he’s not hallucinating. No. No, it’s real. There’s a badger’s head stuck on the top of a pole stained red with the poor creature’s blood. Like its eyes, the mouth is open, showing a row of bloodstained teeth. Secured with twine further down the pole, there’s a white sign with red writing that Matt assumes is also blood. It reads:
FUCK OFF BACK TO LONDON!
Shaking, Matt releases a slow breath, leans against the wall and wonders what the hell to do next.
Chapter 3
Two hours later Matt’s still wondering what the hell to do next. He’s gazing out over the fields from the patio doors in his living room and drinking a can of beer, despite it being only eleven o’clock in the morning. He needs it after such a brutal start to his day. The police have been, taken the badger, asked lots of questions and said they will be in touch, if and when they have any information regarding the perpetrator. He thinks there’s as much chance of that as bringing the badger back to life and sending it scampering across the fields.
PC David Cross had chewed the end of his pen and sighed a lot. Matt thought he could have been the stereotypical village bobby in an episode of Miss Marple. He didn’t ask very many pertinent questions but cut across the nameless female officer when she did. Old school. Slow brain. Perhaps that was uncharitable, but right now he didn’t feel particularly generous towards his fellow man. Cross had in his infinite wisdom concluded that someone in the village wanted him gone. Matt had been tempted to say, ‘No shit Sherlock’, but managed to stop himself. Cross further divulged that some older villagers in particular resented those from up country coming down and stealing the jobs that should have gone to locals. The fact that Matt told him his roots were Cornish had no bearing. Cross said that people wouldn’t know that – they just saw a city lad coming into their school. However, the officer had also said that if he had to bet on it, that would be the end of the matter. Whoever had stuck the badger head on that pole had made their point with the hope that Matt would take the hint, because people round here were more bark than bite, didn’t he know? The female officer raised an eyebrow but kept her own counsel.
Matt takes a deep pull from his beer and sits down on the sofa. He has two options as far as he can see. Keep calm and carry on, or fuck off back to London. What would his gran do? Matt had always gone to her rather than his parents for advice. She and him were always very close – he was her ‘beautiful boy’ and could do no wrong in her eyes. She understood him completely and she’d always had a knack of making him feel better. Elowen grew up here in this village along with his grandad, Terry. They met as teenagers and had been inseparable ever since. They hadn’t wanted to leave Cornwall, but Terry was bright and ambitious, and when a job came up in a London bank, he’d seen it as too good an opportunity to miss. Elowen had taken some convincing, but in the end agreed it would be a good move for their unborn son, Matt’s dad. He was born in Cornwall, but moved to London not long after. Elowen in particular had never forgotten her roots though, and they had holidayed in Cornwall as a family as often as they could when Matt was growing up.
Reaching for his mobile phone, he scrolls down the list for her number. She’ll know what to do as she’d have a better idea of what the whole badger thing was all about, and what the local feeling might be. Okay, she’d not lived here for over fifty-odd years, but she kept her ear to the ground and what she didn’t know about Cornish folklore wasn’t worth knowing. Perhaps the badger had a particular significance? Matt remembers that she told him lots about country ways, herbs and nature and animals, when he was a boy. His finger hovers over the phone, about to dial her number, but he stops. What’s the point in worrying her? Because she would, wouldn’t she? Her ‘beautiful boy’ under threat as soon as he sets foot in her old home. No, he’ll have to sort this out himself. He’s thirty years old, hardly a boy any more.
Matt crushes the can in his hand and decides it will take more than a badger head and a nasty warning to change his plans. He has a right to be here as much as the next person; more really, given his heritage. He’ll stick to his guns, go down to the supermarket and act as if nothing has happened. As his gran was fond of telling him when he was unsure of something as a kid, ‘You’re a Trevelyar, my lad, remember that. Cornish and proud, afraid of nothing.’
* * *
The supermarket has no dead badgers or torch-wielding villagers storming up the aisles towards him, so his spirits start to rise a little. Once he’s got the shopping home and had a quick bite, he will set off on the cliff path for the afternoon. A brisk walk in the sea air will do him the world of good. He always feels better next to the ocean; it’s good for the soul. The last bag of shopping in the boot, Matt’s just about to slam the lid shut when his eye’s taken by a young woman walking past. She looks like she’s just walked off the set of The Lord of the Rings. Long flowing white-blonde hair, threaded through with wild flowers, blue and turquoise boho dress and shawl, a basket over her arm, her features sharp, yet delicate. Elfin is the word that springs to mind. That and beautiful. Stunningly so, because he’s never seen eyes like hers. If Matt had to describe them, he’d say they were violet.
The woman catches him staring and a furrow knits her brow. She bows her head and hurries into the supermarket. Great. Another villager who hates me. What does he expect standing there with one hand on the boot, gawping at her with his tongue hanging out? Must have looked like a right perv. He’s torn between going back into the shop to apologise and just leaving. After a quick scenario plays through his mind of him rocking up to her, trying to explain that he was only staring because he thought she was incredibly beautiful, and her backing away into the baked bean shelf, he decides to leave. Time to head for the hills.
The walk on the cliff path has done him good, as he knew it would and as he turns into the lane leading up to his cottage, Matt decides to go to one of the village pubs for dinner later. He’d much rather stay skulking at home, but instinct tells him that whoever wants rid of him would expect that. He needs to show no fear and get to know the locals. Once they know that his grandparents grew up here, it might change things too. Thankfully no more dead creatures are stuck on poles by the door and he goes inside feeling much more positive than he had that morning.
The Driftwood Spars is just the kind of pub Matt was hoping for. A seventeenth-century white stone building next to the sea with good beer, food and a jovial atmosphere. He’s got a snug table in the corner and from it he people-watches the locals, but surreptitiously. He doesn’t want to get a reputation for staring at folk. Putting down his knife and fork, he thinks the oven-baked cod wrapped in ham and creamy mushroom sauce is as good as any meal he’s had in a swanky London bistro and the beer is real Cornish ale on draft. They’ve even got a
little microbrewery across the road where it’s made. Heaven. Matt thanks the waitress as she takes his plate and picks up the pudding menu. He shouldn’t really after such a big meal, but what the hell. The walk on the cliff path has given him an appetite and he’d only had a sausage roll for lunch.
Matt decides on the ice-cream and is about to order it when another woman catches his eye. She’s very different from the ethereal beauty he saw earlier. She’s sitting at the bar nursing half a pint of beer and glaring at him from under bushy black brows. She looks to be in her late seventies, has long grey curls, lined walnut-brown skin, sharp hazel eyes and a mean mouth. Oddly, she looks to be wearing similar clothes to the woman he saw earlier. The colours are different however – browns, blacks and oranges like autumn leaves. The woman sees him looking at her and turns down both sides of her mouth in a clown grimace, then slowly looks him up and down as if he’s shit on her shoe before shifting her gaze away across the room. Nice. What the hell has he done now?
Taking a deep breath, he walks to the bar to order the ice-cream and feels her eyes on him again. She’s just a few feet away to his right and after he orders he turns to face her. ‘Good evening,’ he says with a smile.
‘It was until you got here.’ The old woman crosses her arms and fixes him with that stare again. What the hell?
‘Excuse me?’ Matt says and finds himself mirroring her body language.
‘You heard right enough.’ The old woman takes a swallow of ale and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘You’re that new teacher, aren’t you? Mr Trevelyar?’
‘Yes, that’s right. How do you know–’
A snort cuts him off. ‘I know everything that goes on round about. Born and bred here, unlike some.’
Matt bristles. What the hell is wrong with the old crone? ‘Actually, my grandparents were born and bred here. My dad was born here too. That makes me Cornish.’
She makes a sound like a concertina being thrown to the ground and begins to wheeze. Matt realises she’s laughing, or what passes for laughter from such a twisted old root. ‘You, Cornish? Well that’s the best I’ve heard in a long time.’
Matt’s about to repeat that his grandparents are from here, but she raises a twiggy finger and stabs it through the air at him, hatred burning cold behind her eyes. ‘And I know your grandparents were born and bred here. Don’t mean nothing. Your dad was only here a matter of weeks. Then they buggered of quick enough to bloody London, didn’t ’um? Main thing is you weren’t born here. Nobody wants you teaching our kids.’
A chill creeps along Matt’s spine. The air between them seems to crackle with malevolent energy and the short hairs on his forearms are raised. This woman is vile. Was she the one who put the badger head outside his door, wrote the warning in blood? She’s weird and nasty enough by the sound of her. ‘How very welcoming,’ he says, the ice in his voice unmistakable.
‘Just sayin’ truths. Nobody wants interlopers, especially not a Trevelyar.’
Interlopers? Has she just walked out of a nineteenth-century novel? He sighs. ‘Sounds like you knew my grandparents? What did they ever do to you?’
The woman snorts, drains her drink and bangs it down on the bar top. ‘What didn’t they do, you mean, lad. They’re evil, and all the Trevelyars afore ’em.’ She gives him a nasty sneer. ‘And all those who come after, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Matt’s had enough of being polite and raises his voice a little, although his nerves are taut as piano wires. ‘Now wait a minute, you can’t bad-mouth my family without an explanation–’
‘I can do whatever I like!’ she spits, her hazel eyes darkening with fury. Then she slips from the bar stool with surprising agility for her years. She takes a few steps towards the door and then turns, points a twiggy finger at him again. ‘I suggest you go back to London, before it’s too late.’ The woman glares at a couple who have clearly overheard and then back at Matt before sweeping out of the pub in a tumble of autumn leaves, like a villain in a play.
There’s a tap on Matt’s arm and he turns to face the bar. The barman who’d greeted Matt when he’d first come in leans across and says in a low voice, ‘Don’t mind her. She’s crackers. There’s only a handful of older ones who think like her. Everyone else in the village is happy we have a male teacher for once.’ The barman’s green eyes twinkle and he strokes his dark beard. ‘Mind you, some say you need a haircut.’
Despite the shock of dealing with the nasty old woman, Matt feels a smile play over his lips. ‘Well, I’m happy with it as it is, thanks.’ Self-conscious, Matt pushes his hair back. Even if it needs a cut, there’s no way he’d do it now. He nods as the barman questioningly raises his empty glass. ‘So what’s that woman’s name?’
‘People call her lots of things,’ he says with a laugh as he pulls Matt’s pint. But her name’s Morvoren Penhallow.’
Chapter 4
Two weeks into the new term Matt has almost forgotten the anxiety and worry of those first few days after he’d moved. The staff at Penhallow School are great, the villagers welcoming, and the pupils are just wonderful. There have been no more badger incidents and he’s not seen Morvoren Penhallow since the night in the pub. Betty in the newsagents was a mine of information thankfully, and explained that her family had lived here for generations. Her great-grandfather built the school, hence the name, and she ruled the roost in her small family unit. Even when she married, she kept her surname, unheard of back then. Her husband died a few years ago, but her son, daughter-in-law and family dance to her tune, by all accounts. She never has a kind word for anyone and wanders the countryside collecting herbs, and some say casting spells. At this point in the tale, Betty had lowered her voice and said, ‘A bit of a white witch on the quiet, some say.’
Matt had wanted to ask Betty if she thought Morvoren was the one behind the badger, but thought better of it. She might have been, or she might not. He just wants to put it all behind him now and get on with his new life. When he’d spoken to his gran on the phone the other night he’d been tempted to tell her in a jokey manner what had happened and about Morvoren, but decided not to at the last minute. His gran might not have found it amusing, and he didn’t want to cause her worry. Since he’d come to St Agnes, his mum had told him that his gran and granddad were contemplating moving back to Cornwall, and he didn’t want to put them off. His mum also said that if his grandparents moved, so might they in a few years, when his dad retired.
In the classroom, Kirsty Clark is drawing a picture of the Kremlin. They have been looking at major cities of the world and Kirsty is particularly taken by Moscow and the grand buildings. She says the domes on the Kremlin look like onions and turbans and Matt has to agree.
‘Sir, why do they call this building the gremlin? Can it change into a monster and kill people?’
He hides a smile. ‘Kremlin, not gremlin, Kirsty.’
She stops drawing, raises her freckled face to him, and wrinkles her brow. ‘Oh. So what’s Kremlin mean?’
Matt has no clue, but he says, ‘It’s where the Russian government business takes place and has lots of important offices. It has a palace and a museum too, I think.’
‘But what does the word mean?’
‘Well, it’s Russian, so I don’t know. I’ll find out for you if you like.’
Kirsty raises an eyebrow and turns back to her drawing. ‘Thought teachers were supposed to know everything,’ she says quietly.
Matt smiles. ‘We are always learning, Kirsty. The main thing is that we never stop asking questions, because if we do, our mind gets smaller and closed off. I’ll find out for you at breaktime, okay?’
Kirsty shrugs and doesn’t look up.’
Matt walks on to the next pupil, feeling like he’s failed some important test. At breaktime he’s in the staffroom googling the Kremlin on his phone, when a whiff of expensive perfume and a cool hand on his shoulder tells him that Jessica Blake is standing behind him. Close behind him. He can practically feel her breath
on his neck.
‘Nice that some of us have the time to play on our phones, Mr Trevelyar,’ she says with a giggle.
He turns round quickly, forcing her to take a step back. ‘Just finding out what Kremlin means for Kirsty Clark.’ He forces a smile and looks back at his phone.
‘There’s dedication for you.’ Jessica touches his arm lightly. ‘And may I say I think your hair looks great tied back. You remind me of that artist, can’t remember his name now.’
To his annoyance her unexpected compliment and direct gaze brings colour to his cheeks. He mumbles, ‘Oh, right. Thanks.’
Her red mouth stretches into a wide smile over perfect white teeth and mischief twinkles in her eyes. ‘I do believe you’re blushing, Matt.’
He gives a self-conscious laugh and swallows hard. ‘I believe you’re right. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, I need a quick coffee before class begins again–’
‘You’re working too hard.’ Jessica’s face has assumed a look of concern and she reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. ‘All work and no play, eh?’
Matt shakes his head. ‘No. I’m good, actually. I have been walking a lot, exploring the area. There’s a great pub I found–’
‘Oh, which one?’ Jessica’s eyes light up. ‘Perhaps we could have a drink or a bite tonight? I’d love to have a chat – get to know you better.’
Shit. I walked into that one. ‘Um, it’s the Driftwood Spars… But tonight?’ Matt looks up to the ceiling, pretending to think about it. ‘Er, I think I have some marking to do.’
The Feud Page 2