Local Artist

by Paul Trembling

  Not totally convinced, Graham set off, leaving strict instructions that I was to call him immediately if necessary and at lunchtime in any case. I settled down to do some work. Online research first, regarding the cleaning up of crime scenes and the possible cost implications.

  As I’d suspected, there were several companies offering specialist crime scene clean-up services, apart from the one recommended by the CSI. Some even offered a twenty-four-hour emergency call-out service. All of them included chilling lists of the possible dangers from inadequately cleaned crime scenes, especially those involving blood spillage.

  “Even a small amount of blood can release airborne pathogens…”

  There wasn’t a small amount of blood involved here, I thought with a shudder, and I was glad that Alison Kepple had given me a mask when I looked into the Memorial Wing.

  Armed with this information, I contacted Marilyn at County Hall, and persuaded her that this wasn’t something we could leave to the normal cleaners. I painted a lurid picture of our regular library visitors being wiped out by hepatitis B or worse, and she agreed that I should get some quotes for the work to be done as soon as the scene was released.

  Which, as it turned out, was going to be a little longer than expected. A call from a constable at the station informed me that DI Macrae sent his regards and apologized for not being in touch personally, but he was keeping the library sealed pending lab results from the envelope, note, and painting, in case they led to further work needing to be done.

  I could have mentioned my revelation about the picture then. But I didn’t. Better, I thought, to wait until I could speak to Macrae in person.

  I had a sandwich and sat thinking about things. About recent events, and events long past.

  Brodie wandered over to have a fuss made of him.

  “Brodie,” I asked as I scratched behind his ears, “how do you fancy a little trip out?”

  He signalled his agreement with a vigorous wag of his tail. Actually, I knew that it was a pretty safe bet. Brodie’s a brindle Staffie, past the first flush of youth and getting grey round the muzzle, but still ready for an adventure, any time but mealtimes.

  Ten minutes later, he was in the back of my Fiesta, barking happily at the world in general as we headed into the heart of the English countryside. Green fields, little woods, sleepy villages each with an ancient church and a pub or two.

  Narrow lanes, slow tractors, and missing signposts. I thought I knew the way, so I hadn’t bothered with the satnav. But it had been a very long time. After crawling along behind something large and agricultural for several miles, I came to a crossroads with no signs and realized that I hadn’t a clue where I was.

  And no idea, really, why I was even doing this. What could I possibly learn from revisiting a place I’d been trying to forget most of my adult life?

  I sat at the crossroads, looking out at high green hedges and overhanging trees, feeling lost and afraid and alone. I got out my phone to call Graham, but there was no signal. Perhaps just as well. It would be a bit hard to explain what I was doing, since I hardly knew myself. He wouldn’t be happy about it, that was for sure. He’d told me thirty years ago to forget it, and I’d told him I would. My being here was proof that I’d lied. To myself as much as to him, but it would hurt him.

  There was a satnav on my phone, though I’d never used it. I started flicking through icons, trying to find it. Perhaps it could get me home.

  I was still puzzling over the technology when a horn sounded behind me. I dropped the phone and fumbled in the footwell for it while simultaneously trying to look around. I failed at both, and the horn sounded again, closer and louder, and I sat up and looked properly, to see an immense tractor rumbling down the lane towards me.

  Panicked, I tried to get into gear and move out of the way but only succeeded in stalling the engine and rolling forward just far enough to block the crossroads in all directions.

  There was a squeal of brakes and another blast of the horn as the tractor came to a halt just behind me. Too close behind for my liking. A red-faced man leaned out of the cab and made waving motions at me.

  I started the car again, but still had no idea which way to go. There was a long sustained blare on the horn. Brodie, not wanting to be left out, was adding his bark to the noise, and my panic was replaced by a sudden flare of irritation. Whatever happened to countryside hospitality? I got out of the car and walked back to the tractor.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the driver shouted down at me over the noise of his engine. “This isn’t a car park!”

  Actually, he said a bit more than that, using words I considered inappropriate. I smiled sweetly back and put on my best helpless female voice.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m quite lost. I wonder if you could help me?”

  He frowned. “Where do you want to go?”

  That was a good question. I hesitated, his frown deepened. “Back to town, please,” I said quickly, before he could start swearing again.

  “Turn right. Three miles, left at the T-junction and that’ll bring you to Coren Hall Village. It’s signposted from there.”

  That name was familiar. “Coren Hall? Isn’t that where that orphans’ school used to be?”

  He shrugged. Didn’t know, didn’t care. He was younger than me, wouldn’t remember that far back. “Just move your f… car. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Of course. Thank you so much.” I gave him another smile, sauntered back to the car, and took the time to pick up my phone and wave at him before driving off. Childish, and not really very satisfying.

  The directions were accurate, at any rate. The junction put me on a better road and in sight of a rather grand house perched on the top of a hill.

  “I know that place!” I told Brodie. “It’s Coren Hall! Used to be a private school, and an orphanage.”

  He put his head up, looked round, then lay down again. The excitement with the tractor had tired him out, and he’d decided to rest until the next interesting thing came into his life. Ancient history didn’t do it for him.

  Nevertheless, lacking other companionship, I continued to tell him all about it. Dogs are good for that sort of thing.

  “I used to walk all round here. Got a bus out to Frayhampton then walked back. Lot of footpaths to follow. I mostly went along the top of the ridge, for the view, but it could be a bit windy up there.”

  Which was why I’d taken a different route the last time I’d walked here. A storm had been forecast, but wasn’t due until evening, so I had plenty of time, I’d thought. I could do a brisk five or six miles and be in the Dog and Duck on the outskirts of town before it arrived.

  A bright day, though. A lot of clouds, but they were racing across the sky, driven by the approaching storm front. The high paths would have been a struggle. So instead I went down into the valley, followed the river route.

  “Trouble was, Brodie, I didn’t know that path, and it just faded out on me. Left me in the middle of a field with barbed wire on one side, a bog on the other, and the woods in front. Of course, I should have gone back. But the storm was coming in faster than I’d expected. I thought I’d have some shelter under the trees.”

  And besides, I always hated going back. My stubborn streak showed itself: I’d set out to walk this way and so I would continue to walk this way, path or no path.

  “Of course, I soon got totally lost. I wish I’d had you with me to sniff a path out! But I just wandered round, tripping over things, getting scratched on brambles and branches, until the storm hit. Then I couldn’t even see where I was going.”

  It had gone very dark; the wind had increased and was making an incredibly loud noise as it thrashed the branches. Then the rain started, wind-driven and hammering down, a solid deluge of water forcing its way through the leaves and branches and through my coat as well. I was soaked and cold and wet and frightened. And annoyed with myself for being frightened; annoyed that I’d got myself into this.

 
; “Then there was thunder and lightning… I’ve never heard it so loud, Brodie. I was really scared. You would have been as well! With good reason – all those wet trees, and the lightning seemed non-stop. I expected to be fried at any moment.”

  I slowed down for a sharp bend, and Brodie whined.

  “No, I couldn’t phone for help,” I explained. “Didn’t have mobile phones back then. Well, I didn’t, anyway.”

  The country road continued along its winding way ahead, but a sign announced “Coren Hall Village” off to the left, down a much newer looking section of road.

  “I don’t remember that. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  A few minutes later we were passing some rather magnificent residences. Large, in extensive grounds, and none more than a few years old. I could practically smell the fresh paint.

  “This certainly wasn’t here before, though I had heard something about a new development out this way. Looks very upmarket, doesn’t it?”

  Brodie declined to comment. I drove on. More houses, some side streets – smaller residences, packed a bit closer together, but still looking new, and not cheap.

  “Someone made some money out of this lot,” I observed. “You’d need a lot of dog biscuits to buy one of those kennels!”

  We came to a traditional village green, clearly designed from scratch to be so. The road circled genteelly round the manicured central lawn with its newly planted trees and extensive car parking area, flanked by village hall, post office, and supermarket – all in keeping with the style of the place.

  A signpost indicated that the main road back to town was straight ahead. Left was Coren Hall Hotel and Health Spa. Right, past the village green, was the Farmer’s Rest public house. And a public footpath.

  I hesitated, then pulled into the car park.

  “I did promise you a walk, didn’t I?”

  Brodie confirmed that I had indeed made that commitment. So, with lead clipped on we set out to explore.

  From the far end of the village green the footpath ran off to the right, while the road to the Farmer’s Rest curved away to the left. A line of trees had been planted along the road. Fast-growing conifers: the estate was new, but already the pub was almost hidden. I could just make out the line of the rooftop. I stopped and stared at it, while Brodie did his best to drag me down the path.

  “Have a bit of patience,” I admonished. “That rooftop looks familiar.”

  Patience was not in Brodie’s vocabulary, nor his nature. He heaved on the lead again, whining.

  “OK, OK. I’m coming.”

  We set off down the path. It was a nice path, well gravelled and with neat wooden steps on the steeper bits. Overhead and on either side the foliage was sprinkled with autumn gold; the gravel was carpeted with red and yellow. I sniffed the rich scent of autumn woodland. Brodie, with far more interesting smells to investigate, strained at the lead, and since the path seemed deserted I let him have his freedom. He bounded ahead, occasionally glancing back to make sure I was still following.

  “This is a lot easier than it used to be,” I told him. “Even you would have struggled to get through here in those days.”

  Brodie snorted with derision at the thought that anything could slow him down, and left the path to prove it. He found his way back again after a few minutes, well sprinkled with leaves and small twigs.

  “See what I mean?”

  He ignored me and carried on.

  I thought about that roof. The way it had looked against the sky. Surely the building wouldn’t still be here, after all this time? It must have been knocked down to make way for the new village, if it hadn’t fallen down on its own before then.

  The path came out of the woods, and split. One fork ran straight ahead, wider than the footpath – perhaps a farm track – but also unsurfaced and muddy. The gravelled path turned left to run alongside the woods, with open fields on the right. We went left.

  Thirty years ago the woods had been more extensive, stretching right down to the river on this side. I’d struggled through them for what had seemed like hours. Or was that just in my memory?

  But then one of those terrifying flashes of lightning had lit up something that – thank God! (and I’d meant it) – wasn’t branches. A regular pattern, printed on my brain in that moment of dazzling light. A roof.

  A roof implied a house, a place of shelter, a place to find help. I’d fought my way through the woods, heading in the direction the lightning had shown me.

  The treeline curved left again, and the path followed it. I came to the corner, and discovered a small hole in the fence. Small, but getting bigger as Brodie forced his way through.

  “No! Brodie! Stop!” Fearful that he might be escaping into a field of sheep I raced forward and managed to grab a hind leg. He whined and growled but stopped moving, at least long enough for me to get a hand on his harness. With many complaints on both sides, I finally extricated him from the hole.

  “Bad dog! Stay on the path!” I told him severely. He licked my hand in a mock apology that I didn’t believe for a moment, then wandered away to sniff at a fence post, incident forgotten.

  Still breathing heavily from the exertion, I straightened up and looked at the path ahead.

  To our left, the woods continued, dark and ominous in my memories though it was a bright enough day now. To the right, fields – apparently sheep-free – stretched down to the river, with the main road back into town running along the far bank. Beyond that, the land rose up to the high and windy ridges that I had so often walked in the past.

  In front of me, the river valley, climbing steadily in smoothly flowing folds, fields dotted with trees and copses. At the head of the valley a grey spire stood in a cluster of houses, marking an ancient faith as in so many other towns and villages across the land.

  Conspicuously absent in Coren Hall Village, I thought. The façade was realistic, but had no roots.

  “I think that must be Frayhampton,” I told Brodie. He gave me a hopeful look, but I shook my head. “Too far to go today. But that’s the direction I came from. Following the river path until it ran out and left me lost.”

  We carried on, until the sounds of traffic alerted me to a road ahead, and I stopped to put Brodie back on his lead. We came out of the path onto another bit of fresh tarmac.

  “I wish this had been here back then! It would have made things a lot easier, I can tell you.”

  We turned left again, back towards the village. As we walked, I thought of the implications of that. If there had been a road here thirty years ago, I would have stumbled onto it, and followed it back, and… and many things would have been different.

  “What if, Brodie? What if?”

  We came to the outskirts of the village. More ginormous domiciles in landscaped ground where once was thick woodland.

  I must have come along this way, I thought. Coming down the valley, wandering away from the river. Somewhere very near here – perhaps in this very spot! – a younger version of myself had been struggling through the trees and undergrowth. Cold and wet and frightened but with no idea of the utter terror that lay ahead.

  “You should have stayed in the trees, Sandy,” I whispered to myself. “Better to have stayed there all night.”

  We reached the ersatz village green (too bad that hadn’t been the Word for the Day that morning) and the car park. I put Brodie back in the boot, gave him some water and a few dog biscuits.

  “You look after the car for me. There’s something I need to do.”

  He wagged his tail and settled down for a snooze. I cracked open a window for him, locked the car, and walked on to the pub.

  The walk had taken me from disbelief through denial to a dread certainty, without consciously thinking it through. It was no surprise when I came round the trees and immediately recognized the building.

  I didn’t understand why I should be so sure. When I was first here it had been just a looming darkness against the greater darkness. There had been no lights
on, of course. I should have noticed that, but I was desperate to find shelter and safety.

  The place had been cleaned up considerably. The derelict outbuildings that I had tripped and stumbled through were gone, giving way to another car park, well filled with big 4x4s and topof-the-range saloons. The main structure had been cleaned and whitewashed: it looked bright and welcoming, matching the pub sign with its image of a jolly red-faced farmer sitting at his ease with a frothing pint.

  It couldn’t have been more different from the memories I had, yet I knew at once that it was the same building. The recognition came from somewhere deeper than mere sight. My guts felt it and cringed away.

  I took a deep breath, crossed the car park, and went in the front door. All glass panels and brass furniture. My fingers remembered rough wood, the sharp prick of a splinter as I first hammered on the door then pushed and pulled at it. Another flicker of lightning – more distant now as the storm moved on down the valley – had both encouraged my efforts and shown me the latch. There had been a chain hanging from it, with a padlock – but the padlock hadn’t been closed. The chain fell away, the latch lifted, and I was inside, finally out of the rain.

  On that occasion I’d stepped into pitch darkness and had stopped just inside the doorway, unable to go further. This time I was stopped by a disdainful look from a waiter-type person.

  “I’m afraid we’re fully booked for lunch, madam.” He glanced at the muddy patches on my jeans, a legacy of my tussle with Brodie, and was clearly relieved he didn’t have to offer me a table.

  “That’s OK. I only wanted a drink.”

  “Of course,” he said, with only a moment of reluctant hesitation. “The bar is open. Through the restaurant, at the rear of the building.” He indicated the way.

  The old farmhouse had been completely rebuilt inside, internal walls replaced by occasional pillars to allow the entire ground floor to be opened up – right to the rafters in some places, with a mezzanine over the far end providing extra seating. All done out in rustic – whitewashed walls, dark oak beams and furniture, a real fire at one end.