We made several trips into Bunbury, buying a few pieces of second-hand furniture and the odd knick-knack or two.
Rumbo became a regular visitor and I often asked him why he didn't move in permanently. He was a great one for conversation and although we sometimes felt he understood us, his toothful chatter didn't mean a lot to Midge and me. We assumed, however, that somewhere in the woods was a Mrs. Rumbo, and maybe little Rumbos too, a family he was happy to go home to after each day's adventure. He enjoyed games, did Rumbo, chasing after rolling tennis balls, pouncing onto our shoulders when we least expected it, furiously nibbling books or magazines to pieces while we pursued him around the cottage in an hysterical form of household paper chase. There was something of the dog in that squirrel, a kind of dopey intelligence mixed with hints of craftiness that we found both amusing and often exasperating. He was good company.
Plenty of phone calls came in from friends and business associates, many of the latter ringing up with tempting offers of work—all of which we resisted. We'd decided upon a full month free of any professional engagement or commission and we meant to stick to it. At first the line was annoyingly crackly, as if the wires had gone rusty from lack of use, but the more calls we received the more distinct the voices became.
Our bird friend, whose wing we thought had been broken, came back (feathers on that particular wing were still missing, so we felt sure it was the same mistle thrush) and he had no reservations about flying straight into the kitchen to perch on the table or the back of a chair. Others soon followed his example, their wariness becoming merely alertness, and that eventually turning into trust. Birds and the squirrel weren't the only visitors either: mice, bees, a fox, came by; even a stoat looked in one day. We got used to the odd spider or snail inside the cottage, and these were carefully taken outside on newspaper and set down in the flowerbeds.
Our three new friends from the gray house kept to their word by calling in on us from time to time, usually bearing a small gift of some kind—food, a bottle of home-made wine, an inexpensive ornament; nothing fancy, just goodwill things. We were always too busy to chat with them for long, and they never imposed themselves upon us, never outstayed their welcome. They were pleasant and informative about the area, useful with certain tips on countryside living. They were okay.
After a few nights the noises from the loft ceased to bother me; in fact it was fascinating at dusk to sit outside on the bench and see the bats skittering from the eaves toward the nearby forest, a sight that became less eerie the more we watched. As we'd been advised earlier, they were quite harmless; they were unsociable creatures (thank goodness) who kept very much to themselves.
We ploughed on with the work, determined not to relax until we'd accomplished enough to be able to take things easy. There were only a few overcast days, the rest being brilliantly sunny, the air clear and revitalizing first thing in the morning, comfortably sluggish in the afternoon.
We made progress. Life was good.
ROUGH STUFF
I'D GONE TO the hardware store in the village to buy nails, special oil mix for the mower, electrical plugs, yet more white paint—general bits and pieces—parking the Passat in the small but adequate car park at the back of the high street. A few faces had become familiar to me because of my frequent sorties into Cantrip over the past couple of weeks, and one or two of the villagers even nodded hello as I walked around to the shops. I suppose that, as in all small communities, word had soon got around that Midge and I were the new occupants of Gramarye; I'd certainly become used to the occasional odd stare, so it was nice to be acknowledged now.
It was midmorning and the store wasn't very busy. Taking a metal basket from the stack by the door, I strolled down the short aisles between shelving, reaching for the items I needed as I passed and naturally dropping in other articles that I thought might come in handy at some later date (funny how they rarely do).
I was examining various "super" glues wrapped in plastic cocoons and suspended from metal prongs like chrysalids, wondering if the pupae would soon crawl out and take wing, when the gruffness of someone's voice broke through the daydream.
The cash counter was behind the shelf where I stood and I sauntered around, curious but ready to pay my bill anyway. The gruff voice belonged to the shopkeeper, a burly man called Hoggs, someone I'd always found very genial (I'd become a regular customer for my not-too-ambitious DIY enterprises), so it came as a surprise to find him in this brusque mood.
A girl stood at the counter with her back to me, her hair in braids and wearing a loose shirt and long patterned skirt.
The thongs of her sandals curled above her ankles, tying just beneath the hem of the skirt. A metal basket was on the counter before her and the shopkeeper was grumpily delving into this and totting up the price of each item on the cash register. The girl herself was holding aloft two items—I couldn't make out what was inside—and I think she must have been asking which one was best for the particular job she had in mind. His reply had been something like, "You'll have to find that out for yourself, won't you?" and I suppose I was mildly shocked, having found him so affable before.
To her credit, the girl merely handed him one of the tins and returned the other to a nearby shelf.
Hoggs caught my eye, then quickly looked heavenward to show me his vexation. As the girl came back I saw she was pale, almost sallow-skinned, with a blankness of expression that either masterfully disguised her chagrin, or was a true reflection of what lay beyond. She dipped into a canvas shoulder bag and drew out a purse, while the shopkeeper removed the remaining goods from her wire basket, clonking them onto the counter with obvious ill-humor.
I felt sorry for the girl when she meekly handed over money after he had all but barked the amount at her. Her purchases were transferred to a plastic carrier-bag and she hurried from the store, barely glancing at me as she sped by.
Planting my own metal basket on the wooden counter I regarded mine host with some trepidation.
"Morning, Mr. Stringer," he greeted me, and I was heartened by the resumed friendly tone.
I jerked my head toward the now closed door. "Problem with paying her bills?"
"Eh? Oh no, nothing like that," he assured me, a trace of irritation still in his voice. "She's one of that mob, that's all."
"Oh yeah? What mob is that?"
He stopped removing items from my basket to give me a puzzled look. His face was wide and toned a ruddy pink, as though he hadn't had enough time outside to catch the summer's sun properly. "No, of course you prob'ly wouldn't know 'bout them yet, would you?" He shook his head and a firm finger stabbed at a key on the old-fashioned cash register. "She's from the Temple, one of them . . ." the cling of the till again ". . . Synergists." Hoggs looked up again. "Bloody silly name, that."
I nodded a considered agreement. "What does it mean exactly?"
"Mean? Means they're a bunch of crackpots, that's what it means." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "We don't like 'em, Mr. Stringer, not their sort. Bringin' their funny ways and ideas down here. We don't want 'em."
"They belong to a religious cult of some kind?" I was already beginning to make the connection: the girl would have fitted in well with Hub, Gillie and Neil.
"Somethin' like that, don't know what, though. We just don't want their sort clutterin' up our village, beggin' for money."
"They beg?"
"Well, almost. Sell things, you know, things that people don't really want. Weave baskets and mats and such. Then they try to convert our youngsters, drag 'em off to their Temple so-called. Somethin' not right about that bunch, I'll tell you that for nothin'."
"And they all live out at that manor house I've seen tucked away in the forest?"
"Croughton Hall it used to be called, not no more though. They've turned it into some sort of church now, their bloody Synergist Temple."
I groped for my wallet. "I guess they're harmless enough."
The way Hoggs looked through me made me feel lik
e the world's biggest buffoon. He told me how much I owed, took the money, then turned away. "I'll find you a box for all that stuff," he said, walking to the end of the counter and reaching beneath it.
With my goods loaded, I bade him a simpleton's farewell and left the store, the cardboard box tucked awkwardly under one arm.
So my slight unease with our three newfound friends hadn't been totally unjustified. Even so, they appeared innocent enough and possibly it was only the poor image the media gave such cults that made me wary. The girl in the hardware store had certainly been innocuous, even though she'd had good cause to retaliate against Hoggs's blunt rudeness. I suppose it took many years for outsiders to be accepted in such a quiet and reasonably remote village as Cantrip, so an organization that appeared to be steeped in an obscure religion was bound to have problems. What the hell was a Synergist anyway? There were plenty of other strange religions floating around, but this was a new one on me. Was it genuine or lunatic? Or genuinely lunatic? Kinsella and his companions seemed sane enough, and hardly religious zealots (although their forceful sincerity was a little off-putting).
Well, Midge and I were no longer that young and impressionable, so what did it matter if they chose to drop by from time to time? Didn't matter at all.
I'd rounded the corner of the narrow turning that led into the car park, heading for the Passat which was tucked away at the far end, when I caught sight of the girl again. She was standing by the now familiar Citroen, and she wasn't alone. The hatchback of the car was open and she and Gillie Slade were loading up. Both were stony-faced as three youths paid them unwanted attention.
As I drew near, I saw that the boys—I guessed their ages at no more than fifteen or sixteen—were what could best be described as watered-down punks: spiked hair, torn and bleach-stained jeans, lace-up boots. Even in the hot weather, one wore a studded leather jacket, while his two friends had on ripped and can-sprayed T-shirts. Life down on the farm has changed, I told myself.
Leather-jacket was dancing around the girl I'd seen in the shop, tugging at her braids and chortling at his companions in the gormless way of his type. One of the others was snatching at the basket that Gillie was trying to put inside the car, while punk 3 was standing around picking his nose.
Now me, I'll run a mile from trouble any day, and ladies in distress cut no ice. I wondered if they would be too preoccupied to notice me. Had I forgotten to buy anything from the shops, giving me an excuse to turn back? Even for me, that was a little too cowardly. I walked on, pretending I hadn't noticed anything.
Punk 2 spoiled things by tipping the contents of Gillie's basket onto the ground and lunging for something lying there that took his fancy. Gillie pushed him away and he retaliated by shoving her back much harder, so that she sprawled on the ground. Her face had turned red and she was close to tears. Unfortunately, she saw me at that moment and relief and pleading stayed those tears.
I groaned inwardly. Caught. No way out. Shit! I strolled over, all nonchalance and quivery knees. Keeping my voice low in the best Eastwood tradition, I said, "You okay, Gillie?"
The punks looked my way, the idiot grin still on Leather-jacket's acned face. Oh God, I thought, this is a scene from a bad teen movie.
Gillie was picking herself up, the other girl watching me with interest.
"Yes, I'm all right, Mike," Gillie replied, and stooped again to retrieve the items she'd lost from her basket. Punk 2 kicked one of them away from her fingers, shrieking with glee at the fun of it all.
I walked up to him, glad he was shorter than me. "I think you'd better get lost," I told him. "About now, would do."
His cocky grin lost some of its substance and he glanced around at his companions for support. Leather-jacket sidled closer, and No. 3 maintained his interest in the contents of his nose.
"What you fuckin' gonna do about it?" Leather-jacket inquired, breathing heavily on my neck (this one was taller).
"You don't want to find out," I replied, annoyed that my voice had cracked slightly midsentence.
On close inspection I saw they really were only kids, not bona-fide toughies in the ghetto sense; they were acting the role, but I wasn't sure they'd convinced themselves. That encouraged me.
All the same, there were three of them and I was in deep. It was Leather-jacket's turn to speak and he seemed to be having trouble forming a sentence (or maybe even a thought). I saved him the trouble. "Either you leave these people alone, or I'm gonna flatten you." I did my best to look mean.
It frightened me, but seemed to have the reverse effect on him: he grabbed my shirt and tried to head-butt me. I ducked reflexively and his mouth and chin came in sharp contact with the top of my head. His surprised howl of pain cheered me considerably, although an area of my skull had gone instantly numb. When I straightened, he was holding both his hands up to his mouth, blood already seeping through his fingers, a one-note moan accompanying the blood.
"There's more where that came from," I warned, feeling elated and refraining from rubbing my scalp.
His pal, No. 2, may have been smart enough to realize Leather-jacket's injury had been more by accident than design; he charged me, bellowing a battle hymn that sounded something like, "Youuucuuuuhhhhnn . . ."
When pain might be involved, I can be pretty nimble: I stepped away from his outstretched arms and his stomach ran into my clenched fist. It was hardly a punch—his own momentum had provided most of the force—but he creased up, sucking air. I threw him across the hood of the nearest car and I think the metal surface, obviously having been boiling nicely under the sun for quite some time, must have scalded his cheek because he yelped and leapt up again. I was close behind him, though, and pushed his head back down, using my weight to hold him there and letting him sizzle.
No. 3 had finally stopped picking his nose and gone on to scratching his armpit, a bewildered expression striving to give his features some form of intelligence. Leather-jacket was still making muffled noises, his bloodied fingers like a red bandana over his chin.
I was slightly out of breath, but summoned up enough control to smile laconically. "Don't say I didn't warn you," I said, almost enjoying the moment and lowering my voice another octave.
To my horror, the other two began to close in, the injured one gurgling curses now, the body I held pinned against the car hood kicking out behind, trying to rise.
"Boys, boys, what is going on here?"
It was a new voice and belonged to a smallish head jutting through the open window of a car that had just cruised to a halt. I could have kissed that little head, which I noticed was mounted on a white, circular ring. The vicar, or priest, looked shocked, as though he'd just run into the overspill from Gomorrah.
"Miles Carver, is that you?" He was looking directly at Leather-jacket.
Miles? I smiled, beginning to enjoy myself again.
"What on earth are you up to, boy?" The cleric switched off the engine and stepped from the car, looking aghast at all of us. He was a short man with one of those youthful, unlined faces that put him in the sixteen-going-on-fifty age bracket; an indication that it was toward the latter end of the scale was his plastered-down hair, all neat rows as parallel as weavers' warp strands, pink scalp gleaming between the lines. He wore a tweed jacket over his black shirt and white collar, and his fawn trousers bunched around his ankles as though they were his big brother's hand-me-downs.
"Would somebody mind telling me what this is all about?" he demanded.
Miles mumbled something that none of us understood. Punk 2 had ceased wriggling under my grasp, although he strained to keep his face off the hot metal, and No. 3's hands had now sunk deep into his pockets in a conscious effort to keep them away from his nose and armpit.
It was Gillie who spoke up: "The boys were trying to steal from us when Mr. Stringer here came along and stopped them."
I glanced at her in surprise. "Steal" was a bit strong.
"My goodness," the vicar exclaimed. "Is this true, Miles?" He ignor
ed the incoherent protest, probably well-used to such denials. "Will you never learn? It was only my personal intervention that prevented you from being put on probation last time, and now I find you've let me down again. I'm afraid I'll have to have another word with your father."
Miles blanched visibly.
"No real harm done," I volunteered. "Things got outa hand, that's all."
The vicar turned his attention on me, sizing me up somewhat coldly I felt. "I should think it would be all right to let go of that boy now," he said, pointing at my charge.
"Sure." I released my grip and the boy sprang away from the car hood as if ejected. He regarded me morosely, rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Thomas Bradley, you too." The vicar shook his head in sad resignation.
Punk 3 hung his head in suitable shame—the vicar was probably on speaking terms with this one's father, too.
"I can only ask you to forgive these lads," the cleric begged the girls and myself. "They left school last term and with employment in this area so hard to find . . ." He left the excuse hanging in the air for us to deduce the reason for their misbehavior. Try as I might, I couldn't find the answer, but I let it go, glad anyway that I'd come through unscathed and looking pretty good at that.
"The boys are extremely sorry that they bothered you ladies . . ." (they didn't look that apologetic to me) ". . . and I'm sure this sort of thing will never happen again." The vicar gave each second-rate punk a baleful glare, then told them to be on their way, and "sharply" too. They lumbered off, Miles (Miles? Oh really?) leaving a blood-spot trail behind. I was amused that a little guy like the vicar could have such a subduing effect on them and, not for the first time, realized that village life was a lot different from the city's.
Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land Page 12
