The Villagers

by Gwyn G B

  She turned down the dirt track that led to their property and almost at once the cottage came into view. Despite the brightness of the summer afternoon it was shrouded in darkness. Walking through its front door was like walking into a cavern, cool, dark and slightly damp – only without the space. The tiny cottage was dwarfed by the huge trees which surrounded and almost smothered it. Most people would have cleared a skylight through the foliage, but not Robert West, he liked it dark and cool and besides he had neither the money nor the inclination to do anything about it.

  In Michaela’s memory, the cottage had been light and full of fresh air. Flowers had grown in window boxes and the scent of perfume not dampness had lived in her nostrils, but that had all been before her mother left. One day, Michaela had come back from school and she just wasn’t there anymore. Her china dog collection was missing from the lounge and all her clothes were gone from the wardrobe. Her father ranted for days, screaming at Michaela, telling her his wife had left him, because she couldn’t stand taking care of their whinging brat anymore. He knew this couldn’t have been further from the truth, but Michaela didn’t. She’d cried for weeks. Every morning she’d prayed for a letter, every afternoon she’d rushed back from school hoping to find everything the way it had been; her mother in the kitchen, her face powder and gold handled hairbrush back on the dressing table, but over the months as her prayers floated away unanswered she’d learnt to accept that her mother and God had abandoned her.

  Partly from guilt and partly because she’d been forced to, Michaela had gradually replaced her mother. She took care of her father and tended to his needs in all the ways his wife had done. She knew it wasn’t quite right, the way they lived, she guessed that from listening to the talk of her school friends’ home lives, but she had no choice. She did what he asked or she got a beating, eventually she’d become used to it, just like her mother before her.

  Entering through the cracked wooden front door, her heart immediately sank. The stale smell of bacon and fried food hung in the air and Michaela knew at once that her father must have returned home for his lunch. That would mean another pile of greasy pans and plates to wash. Poking her head into the kitchen her fears were confirmed. On the little melamine table, scarred from years of abuse, was his plate exactly where he’d sat, eaten and just left. There was ketchup on the floor, not that it mattered much, the vinyl tiles were so scratched and weary that the brown they had become looked like it had been their original colour, not the cream of Michaela’s memory. The draining board was stacked with the dried breakfast things she’d washed before she went to school, but he’d thrown the bacon rinds over them in one more act of callous disregard. She would have to rewash them, he’d hit her if he found a speck of grease on the plates and she knew that he would definitely go looking.

  Michaela sighed and left the tiny kitchen. She walked into the hall and up the stairs, the little faded flower buds on the wallpaper sighing with her as she passed. In her sparse room she bowed her head in reverence to the Pentacle above her bed and then changed out of her school things ready for the work ahead.

  10

  ‘Breakfast in bed for the lady of the house.’

  Alison opened her eyes to see Charlie standing over her, one of her silver trays piled high with tea and pancakes. He placed the tray on the bedside table and leaned over to kiss her gently, the smell of freshly cooked pancakes wafting from his clothes and a small splodge of batter on his T shirt, adding to his chef’s identification. She kissed him back carefully, conscious of her morning breath, their romance still in its early stages when bodily functions and odours are private and embarrassing.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked sleepily, suddenly aware that for some reason her voice sounded not dissimilar to Sophie’s.

  ‘About ten.’

  ‘Ten! Why didn’t you wake me earlier?’ She shuffled up the bed a little making as if to get up.

  ‘Because it’s been a long week and you deserve a Saturday lie-in. It’s your last chance for a while - I’m off tomorrow.’ He placed his hands on her shoulders to stop her from moving and turned to get the tray.

  ‘Well I suppose, thank you,’ she’d let him bully her into this one. ‘Is Sophie up?’

  ‘Nope, not a peep out of her. She’s had a busy week too.’

  ‘She certainly has,’ Alison thought about the hockey kit she’d just bought for her and the list of activities she’d brought back from school, placing neat little crosses by the various options to indicate her interest. She was also booked in for her first horse riding lesson next weekend and on Wednesday, it was hockey practice. Alison had put the tennis and Farm Management on hold for a few weeks, but had agreed she could help out with the school newspaper on Thursdays.

  ‘I’ve saved some batter for Sophie. Wake her when you’ve finished and I’ll cook her some fresh pancakes.’

  Alison sighed contentedly at his back as he headed out the doorway. Why some woman hadn’t snapped him up years ago, heaven only knows. Phil had mentioned abut some long-lost love once, she’d have to ask him about it one day.

  Alison tucked into her pancakes with an air of pure self-indulgence, reminding herself of how she used to feel as a little girl when her mother brought her breakfast in bed as a treat during holidays. Which reminded her, she must give her mother a call, let her know they’re settling in OK and find out when they want to come and visit her new home.

  The pancakes nestled together in a large comfortable mass in her stomach. She dozed for five minutes after the effort of eating, revelling in the luxury of not having to be up doing something. Then, with the clock at half past, she reluctantly left her bed and went to wake Sophie.

  Sophie had chosen the room furthest from her mother’s and indeed furthest from all the other rooms in the house. It stood on its own at the end of the corridor, three steps leading up to it. The door was slightly ajar already and Alison guessed it must be where Charlie had been to check on her. Inside, the sun shining through the curtains made the room glow pink. Sophie was fast asleep, but there was something else on her bed that made Alison jump. It was black and furry and as she walked in its ears twitched and two large green eyes appeared blinking at her.

  ‘What are you doing in here you naughty cat,’ she whispered. It was one of Martha’s and it watched her cross the room, bend over Sophie and gently call her name to wake her. The little girl stirred slowly, dragging herself into consciousness and giving a sleepy smile to her mother as reality appeared.

  ‘How did this cat get in?’ Alison asked Sophie, who let out a delighted squeal.

  ‘Beelzebub, where did you come from?’ The cat showed where its loyalties lay by getting up and walking across Sophie’s legs to her outstretched arms, giving Alison a disdainful look as it went. Alison felt a little miffed at its obvious dislike of her, she usually got on well with animals, but at least it made Sophie happy. She’d have to mention it to Martha, make sure she didn’t mind one of her precious cats spending so much time away from home.

  Alison left her daughter to get ready and returned to her own room to quickly shower and dress. The sun was pouring through the windows and the fresh air smelt so good she wanted to get out and into the garden as quickly as possible, to sit and sort out her paperwork.

  She beat Sophie downstairs and had time to warn Charlie of her impending arrival, so that a pancake was already sizzling away when she finally came searching for her breakfast. Sophie walked into the kitchen closely followed by Beelzebub, who trotted behind her heels and then sat waiting for her at the table.

  ‘Where did that cat come from?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘It’s one of Martha’s, he was on her bed when I went to wake her,’ Alison took the syrup from the pantry and placed it on the table.

  Charlie sneezed.

  ‘Bless you. He acts more like a dog than a cat,’ added Alison, bemused at the creature which sat looking adoringly at Sophie.

  ‘He’s very good, he won’t be any trouble. He
can stay can’t he?’ Sophie said, looking pleadingly at her mother, spoon poised over the folded pancake on her plate, which slowly oozed melted syrup.

  ‘He can visit us,’ Alison replied, ‘We mustn’t forget that he belongs to someone else and although he probably enjoys the attention you give him, Martha will miss him.’

  Charlie sneezed again before turning back to the stove and his sizzling pan. Alison got the distinct impression that cats were not his favourite companions.

  Alison finished off the cooking and clearing away while Charlie went up the loft where he’d cleared the dead bodies and was currently laying some boards across the beams to support the boxes and any people who chose to go up there.

  After Charlie had left them in the kitchen alone, Sophie asked to speak with her mother.

  ‘Yes darling, what is it?’ Alison put the mug she was holding into the dishwasher and went to the table and sat down opposite her daughter. The little girl fumbled with her t-shirt and looked a little embarrassed.

  ‘It’s the plastic thing. The plastic thing you put over my mattress. I haven’t needed it in ages and I don’t want it anymore.’

  Alison looked at her with pity.

  ‘Of course sweetheart. It was only for while we learnt to cope without daddy. I’ll take it off today.’

  At once, Sophie brightened.

  ‘And can I play out with Michaela later, we’re going to help Martha pick herbs and things.’

  ‘Yes sure, as long as you don’t go wandering any further than Martha’s garden.’ Alison smiled and Sophie sprinted off upstairs, hotly pursued by Beelzebub.

  ‘Poor kid,’ thought Alison. She’d been really embarrassed when she’d started wetting her bed. There hadn’t been any mishaps for a while and Alison guessed she might want to ask Michaela up to her room, but didn’t dare until the plastic thing had been exorcised.

  Once Charlie had finished the loft he joined Alison in the garden, exiting the house and pulling his dusty, cobwebby and batter-splodged t-shirt off as he went. With his muscles pumped up from the recent exertion she couldn’t help but think that his torso looked decidedly sexy. She was sat on a reclining chair, envelopes and cards precariously poised on the arms. Just before he reached her, the breeze managed to whip itself into a little gust and flipped the cards off one by one. Alison groaned and Charlie stooped down to gather then up. He put them onto her lap, allowing her to grab his wrists and pull him in closer.

  ‘I’m going to miss you Charlie Simpson.’

  ‘Yeah sure, nobody to pick up your cards or cook your breakfast.’

  ‘No, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well I’m certainly going to miss you Alison Swift.’ He pulled her to him now, pushing her face into his chest, which smelt very male and very sexy. ‘I do love you so much Alison. I want you to know that I’m not trying to replace Phil, I could never do that. I want you to love me for me and who I am.’

  ‘Charlie, I do care about you very much,’ Alison looked up at him, little tears squeezing out of her eyes. ‘We are all going to be happy together, I’m sure of it,’ and she meant it, there was no fighting the feelings she had for him.

  They kissed each other tenderly.

  Upstairs in the house they were watched by two pairs of eyes, one brown, one green.

  Sophie was slightly subdued over lunch. Alison noticed that she wouldn’t look either of them in the eye and wondered if maybe she’d been thinking about her father after their conversation that morning. She was wearing his old baseball cap again and had steadfastly refused to remove it, even to eat. When the doorbell rang she rushed off to play with her new friend without barely saying a word to her mother. Charlie commented on her quietness and Alison shook her head non-plussed.

  ‘Why don’t you go and relax in the garden for a bit, I’m going to nip into the village to post my letters,’ she’d said scooping Sophie’s unfinished meal into the bin. ‘Anything you particularly fancy for dinner while I’m down there?’ She walked over to where he sat at the table, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him.

  ‘Nope, not fussed, whatever you want,’ he’d replied, smiling back up at her.

  She decided to cook something special, this was their last big meal together for a while.

  Charlie sauntered into the garden reading the sports pages of yesterday’s newspaper and Alison flicked the dishwasher on. She bundled together all her cards and letters and headed out the door just as the churning labour saver began.

  She looked at the car, but decided to walk. It was a beautiful day and besides she needed the exercise. On the way she passed Martha’s cottage and could just about see the old woman and her two helpers sorting out baskets ready for their picking. None of them saw her as she passed and she didn’t disturb them.

  Beelzebub and his fellow furry companions were watching the basket choosing process with lazy indifference. The cats were stretched out on the hot stone path, twitching their tails and alternately opening and closing one eye, so as not to waste energy. Alison decided that she’d pop in on the way back, thank Martha for being so good with Sophie and ask if she minded about Beelzebub spending as much time with his young comrade.

  11

  The day was very hot and what little breeze there had been was gone. Alison suspected that a storm might arrive as the air was distended with a charged-up expectancy. She walked slowly aware that her pores were weeping in anguish at the heat. Several cars passed her on the road, all full of tourists. They were easy to spot, kids stuffing ice creams while nine times out of ten the wife would be in the front passenger seat with a map open, talking animatedly with her husband and driver.

  ‘How should I know which direction!’

  ‘You’ve got the map. Look at the signs for God’s sake!’

  ‘I would if you’d only slow down a bit so that I had the chance to read them.’

  There were generally two types of family. The ones who simply wished to get from A to B and took no notice of what was in-between and the ones who looked and remarked upon every inch of countryside having been starved of its beauty in some city or town. It was easy to tell which were which. The A to B-ers went twice as fast, plus they’d usually have their heads bowed down, except for the driver, playing with some pocket computer game or reading a magazine until they threw up.

  The country lovers would have noses pressed to the windows, or heads hanging out in the breeze squealing, ‘Look moo cows’ and ‘baa lambs’ or ‘did you see that bunny’. Alison watched them all pass by and felt very smug and privileged to actually be able to call such a beautiful place her home.

  She reached the Post Office come General Store at about a quarter past two. A travelling family were just exiting, their faces wrapped around rapidly melting ice creams. All of them looked like they needed their jaws wiring and Alison stepped back out of the way to let them roll past. Inside was now empty of people except for the thin, scruffy, greasy haired man behind the counter. She said good afternoon as she entered and a pink hole appeared in the stubble to return her greeting. Conscious that she was being watched, she marched straight up to the back of the shop where the Post Office sign was attached to a small, enclosed counter. A notice hung in its window, ‘Closed’.

  ‘Fraid we shut at twelve on a Saturday,’ said a voice from behind.

  ‘Damn, of course.’

  ‘It’s Alison Swift isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes that’s right,’ she said turning round in surprise, ‘how do you know?’ The thin greasy one had followed her up the shop and now stood just two feet away from her. He stretched out an arm and offered a large hand.

  ‘Neil Best. Martha Hurrell described you, said you was tall, slim, attractive and an auburn-haired lady with class. Not many of them round here.’ Alison laughed nervously, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Well thank you,’ she smiled into his face, but he held onto her hand just a little too long and she became conscious of its dry skin trapping the softness of hers. She looked down
and he quickly withdrew, aware that he had overstayed his welcome.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, slightly off-nerved now, ‘seeing as you’re new round here I’ll do you a special favour and get what it was you wanted from the Post Office.’

  ‘Oh could you?’ the smile returned and she looked him in the eye.

  ‘Of course I can. It’s my place after all and if I can’t do what I want then what can I do?’ he’d replied puffing out his chest.

  Alison was grateful when he turned away, she didn’t like looking into his eyes, they were dark, very dark, in fact almost lifeless. It dawned on her that they reminded her of the eyes of a shark. She wondered if he closed his eyelids as he ate.

  ‘So what was it you were wanting?’ asked the shark.

  ‘Actually just some stamps,’ said Alison breaking out of her trance, ‘twenty first class, two for Hong Kong and one for the States.’

  ‘Stamps, no problem, that’s easy,’ and the hunter of the deep bared his teeth in a smile. Alison handed over her mail.

  ‘Change of address cards,’ she’d explained needlessly. He nodded and after placing them on the counter, went to get his book of stamps. As he was sorting them out a stand of local guidebooks caught Alison’s eye and she wandered over to browse. Five of them were written by John Hurrell, the three she had at home were there, along with two others detailing churches in the county. Amongst the other books she picked out one on walks and places of interest on the Isle of Purbeck. As she wandered back to the counter with it, she grabbed a handful of sweets for Sophie.

  ‘Those for your little girl?’ asked Neil.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Alison rather abruptly, again a little taken aback that he already knew about her.