The Villagers

by Gwyn G B

  ‘It’s fab, you’ve got to come and see it, you wouldn’t believe how beautiful and peaceful it is here.’

  ‘How’s Sophie? Does she like her new school?’

  ‘She loves it. I can’t keep her away from school and she’s already made new friends.’

  ‘That’s good, children are much more adaptable than us. You certainly sound a lot happier and more relaxed.’

  ‘Yes I am… actually, I’ve got something else to tell you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, you know Charlie has been such a great help to us and that he was spending the week here to help us move in, well…’

  ‘I knew it. I knew this would happen. He’s a good man Alison I’m really pleased you’ve got each other. He’ll take good care of you and Sophie. How serious is it?’

  ‘Well you know, as serious as things can be at this stage. It’s still early days.’

  Well that’s great. When can we come and see you all and the house?’

  Alison felt a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘I don’t know how you are fixed with your promotional tour, but how about in a couple of weeks?

  ‘Sounds perfect. Your dad is here now, have a word with him. I’ll go and double check in my diary.’ There was a scuffling noise as the phone changed hands and Alison heard her mother whisper to her father about Charlie.

  ‘Hello little one,’ he said, ‘What’s all this about you and Charlie?’

  Charlie called around teatime and Alison was excited to be able to tell him all her news. He laughed at Martha’s silk sheet, but then added,

  ‘God, what a horrible thought.’ He pretended to be scared at the prospect of meeting Alison’s parents as her official boyfriend, but was secretly delighted because that meant they were officially an item. But, he was brought back down to earth again when Alison told him about Sophie’s question and he realised they weren’t out of the woods yet. Still he went to bed content, Alison had admitted she was missing him terribly and that was a good enough start for him.

  Monday found an excited Sophie ready for her school bus half an hour before it was due. Alison was all fired up as well, she’d been writing some initial contact letters to local radio stations and newspapers in the area and ideas for features were buzzing around her head. One of the issues she thought she might like to look into was the local history of witchcraft and the recent defiling of the church, but she knew she’d have to tread carefully – the opportunity to make an awful lot of enemies within weeks of arrival were blatantly clear.

  First things first though, after walking Sophie to the bus stop Alison would have to brave the shark at the Post Office. She needed to get some of her letters weighed and she wanted another look at the guidebooks.

  The tinkle of the bell on the door alerted Neil Best to her presence. He was serving a middle-aged women in a green felt hat, but looked up and smiled at Alison.

  ‘Morning Mrs Swift,’ she saw the flash of yellowed teeth and replied with the friendliest smile she could muster.

  ‘Good morning Neil,’ Alison retreated behind the protection of the guidebook stand which blocked his view of her. She chose slowly hoping that somebody else would enter the shop and then she’d have some support after the green felt hat had finished. Nobody came. The hat left and Neil Best swam up and down his counter like a restless predator. Alison stayed out of sight for as long as possible, but realising that at any moment he might make a break for it and come in search of her, she decided to head towards him hoping that the element of surprise would give her the upper hand.

  ‘Is the Post Office open?’ she asked, thinking that a straight forward question about business might just keep her in control of the conversation.

  ‘Most certainly is for you,’ he replied walking towards the back. ‘Did you have a good weekend Mrs Swift?’

  Damn it, she thought, her tactics hadn’t worked, now she would be forced to discuss, albeit superficially, the details of her private life and she hadn’t wanted to, not with Neil Best. Telling him about it was like letting him in and that gave her a very uneasy feeling.

  Ten minutes later she finally escaped. Clutching her new guidebooks as though her life depended on it, she’d made a break for the door when the shark had been forced to avert his attention to a shoal of tourist fish which had arrived desperate for refreshments. Feeling like the one that got away, she almost skipped down the High Street to do the rest of her shopping.

  In the greengrocers, Mr and Mrs Partridge were putting out some fresh apples. They did so with tender loving care, taking each one from the box, polishing it and then carefully placing it on the neat pile. Alison found their diligence so refreshing. In London, tattooed youths in the supermarket had poured the fruit out of boxes, bruising and gashing the skins in the process. The Partridges, a childless couple, treated their fruit and vegetables like precious charges and somehow it made one appreciate their produce that much more.

  Alison was just choosing a cauliflower when Sally Davidson walked in. She noticed her because she looked so ill and stressed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anybody look quite as pasty, no make-up obviously didn’t help but she looked like she’d been up all night for most of her life. She was so pale in fact that her skin was almost transparent, large dark veins could be seen in the area around her eyes and there were tension lines stretching from her mouth. Despite the lack of make-up she had obviously tried to make some effort with her appearance albeit limited with the resources available. She’d neatly tied her long hair back in a loose ponytail, the thick wiry grey barometers of her age streaking out from its centre to her temples. Her clothes looked old and slightly too large for her, but they were clean and neatly presented. The body enclosed within however, looked poorly fed and over stressed. When she spoke to Mrs Partridge it was with a voice that didn’t possess an ounce of confidence behind it.

  ‘Richard wants Shepherds pie for tea, I need some potatoes and carrots please,’ Sally Davidson’s eyes darted towards Alison and away again. She shuffled around a little so that her back faced the stranger, uneasy at the unknown and confident woman who shared the shop with her. Alison, by now would be prepared to bet that this Richard, whom she presumed was her husband, was also a bully. She got on with her business, not wanting to make the woman even more self-conscious and handed Mr Partridge her chosen cauliflower. Then she drifted off towards the front of the shop to pick one of the large honeydew melons whose sweet scent had captured her attention as she’d entered the shop earlier.

  Sally Davidson paid for her vegetables and then scuttled out, heading towards the Chemist for some ointment for Lucy. Alison looked after her and then at the Partridges who both guessed her unspoken question.

  ‘Sally Davidson, wife and slave to Richard. They live in one of the old farm cottages just outside the village, along with their daughter Lucy,’ said Mr Partridge.

  ‘Right bully he is, had a son once but he ran away years ago,’ added his wife.

  ‘Odd family…’ Mr Partridge looked as though his information was about to tail off, but Alison frowned and shook her head which encouraged them on.

  ‘Feel right sorry for her I do,’ said Mrs Partridge, handing Alison her change, ‘but what can you do? Can’t go poking your nose into other peoples’ business can you?’ and with that rhetorical question bouncing at them off the shiny fruit and neatly stacked vegetables, Alison left the Partridges and walked off to finish her shopping.

  15

  From the moment the children were born he ensured her obedience by never allowing them and Sally to leave the house at the same time. If ever she hadn’t returned when she’d been told, he would harm them. It had kept her enslaved for the last seventeen years, but at least Christopher had gathered the strength to escape. Two years ago he simply hadn’t returned from school. The dreams she had of his new life away from the evilness and beatings had kept her going. Richard hadn’t been able to find him and so she and Lucy presumed he’d succeeded in his new lif
e. It was about this time that her husband had joined the Clan and it was made very clear to Lucy that should she think of joining her brother, her mother would die a very painful death.

  None of them knew the sad truth, that Christopher may have run from his father but he hadn’t escaped the clutches of the Devil. Christopher Davidson died choking on his own vomit a year ago in a back street of London, another anonymous drug overdose victim with nobody to stand and mourn over his unmarked grave. Driven to his death by the torments of his childhood and guilt for his mother and sister, all that remained of his young life was a morgue photograph that lay waiting on police files for somebody to register him as missing and discover his fate.

  Sally Davidson was very tired. She’d only managed to get an hour’s sleep this morning. Lucy had been brought back body and mind raped and bruised. She gabbled for hours hysterically about seeing Satan and feeling his hot, putrid breath on her face. Sally had quickly taken her to the room as far from her father as she could, anxious that he didn’t lose his temper with her tears and anguish. He’d come back still intoxicated by the Sabbath, threatening her with the Devil’s power. But Sally was beyond threats now, she’d given up hope for herself, but Lucy – Lucy was a different matter. Sally had prised open her daughter’s mouth and looked for the tiny crucifix they’d attached to one of her teeth with bubblegum earlier that evening. Miraculously it was still there and she took strength from its presence. All was not lost for her daughter. The Devil may have breathed on her and ravaged her body, but he hadn’t marked her soul as his yet – he couldn’t have for he’d have to pass the crucifix and everyone knows that he cannot do that.

  Once she’d tended to her wounds as best as she was able, Sally just sat with her sobbing daughter, holding onto her small frame and rocking back and forth. Her husband had fallen into a deep sleep and for now at least they could have some peace. For a few seconds she’d even entertained the idea of escaping. Helping Lucy from the house and running away. But running to where? They had no family to help. Out there she knew nobody and nobody cared. She’d tried it once years ago before the children had been born. She was pregnant with their son Christopher at the time and they’d been married just eighteen months. The first six months had been good ones but then the violence had started. After one particularly bad night of beatings she’d left the house and gone to seek help from a woman whom she thought to be a strong Christian and who’d previously shown her kindness. She quickly learnt that Mrs St-Romaine’s kindness had its limits and her Christian faith was a blinkered one. She was told to pray for her husband and work harder at their marriage, then sent back to Richard with a home-made cake and the realisation that she was totally alone.

  16

  Margaret St-Romaine stood proudly at the front of the church like some great leader in charge of an army off on the Crusades to fight for Christianity and all that’s decent; her spirit steely with the thought of the worthwhile work they were about to perform.

  In front of her were five other brave crusaders, Alison Swift sat in the first row next to Trudi Partridge and beside her was Mary Leggett whose son Tom the barman at the Ferret ‘n’ Weasel, had brought along the equipment with which they intended to cleanse the church. Carol Woodford and Jean Masters were the other two, their practical clothes and hair styles, strong bodies and outdoor complexions giving them away as working farmers’ wives. The pair of them did everything together, that is when they can get time off from the farms. Their husbands are born and bred locals, who grew up together on their families’ adjacent properties. All four had been friends at school and basically nothing had changed much in their relationships since.

  Lee had started dating Carol three weeks before Nick and Jane, and both couples were married within months of each other. The men’s friendship had altered least of all – deep respect and genuine feelings made its base, but even in their thirties that hadn’t stopped their continuous game of macho competitiveness. There was always some little war in progress. Most recently it had been the local Farmers’ Union Go Kart evening which had caused the rift. They’d all gone along for what should have been a pleasant night out, except that when they got there they found that Lee and Nick had been put in opposing teams and that was it, the rivalry began. The girls watched them bombing around the circuit, the two of them oblivious to everything except the fact they had to beat each other. Then of course, as these things are apt to do, it all ended in tears. The two of them tried negotiating a really tight bend driving neck and neck and nearly broke their necks when the two karts knocked into each other and then shot off towards the barriers at tangents. Both men were thankfully unharmed, but their egos weren’t and they were also disqualified from the event. Lee then accused Nick of deliberately trying to sabotage his race because at the time he was one point ahead of him. Nick retorted that it was Lee who’d purposefully crashed into him because he’d been worried that he was about to be overtaken and was a bad loser.

  The two men didn’t talk to each other for a week after that, and it was only the plotting of their wives which brought them back together. They were both sent out to the same part of hedge adjoining their properties to check on some damage. On seeing each other the feud was conveniently forgotten and the pair of them decided to go down the pub for a pint. Of course once down the pub they started a game of darts and the competitive edge returned – each man desperately trying to beat the other. They were there all night throwing little plastic feathered spikes at a piece of painted cork, hoping to prove their supremacy. In the end they were both too pissed to keep score and had to call their wives to come and pick them up.

  The girls didn’t partake in any of this nonsense. They humoured their men and more often than not worked out between them ways to sort things out, which the men in their testosterone haze never cottoned onto.

  Both couples had yet to start a family for two reasons. The first was purely economic and the second was connected to the reason Carol and Jean sat in front of Margaret St-Romaine today.

  ‘Right,’ boomed Margaret, hands on hips, ‘there’s six of us and three buckets so I propose we split up into three pairs.’

  Brilliant, thought Alison, such tactical leadership.

  ‘Two can start on the church, why don’t Mary and Trudi do that, while the rest of us attack the graveyard.’

  Fairs, fair, she’s given the older ones the slightly easier task, noted Alison again. Carol and Jean had already stood up and were heading towards the bucket and wire wool with the determined air of two women used to doing hard, practical work.

  Well I guess that means I’ve got the gob on overdrive as my partner, thought Alison as Margaret flapped her way over to her.

  ‘Alison, you don’t mind being stuck with me do you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it will be a pleasure,’ she’d replied.

  ‘Wonderful, it will give us a chance to get to know each other better.’

  Alison wished she’d had the foresight to bring some earplugs.

  As it was though, she learnt a lot about the villagers that day. Kneeling amongst the gravestones, rubber gloves on, scrubbing at the graffiti which had defiled the memory of the dead, Margaret filled her in on all the gossip of the living. She heard all about Jean and Carol and their adolescent husbands, how the Partridges were childless and a very private couple. Margaret also had nothing but good words to say about Mary and Tom Leggett. Donald, husband and father had died three years ago. Mary, who as the community nurse, had been unable to continue running his Post Office. For a while she and Tom kept it going on a part time basis until Neil Best had arrived in the village and made her an offer. Tom was too young and still pondering whether to go to University and so she’d sold up.

  The distasteful way in which Margaret had mentioned Neil Best’s name made Alison feel safe to tell her about her own unease towards him.

  Her confidante had nodded, ‘A slimy little toad of a man. Never does a thing towards the village and he owns one of our most impo
rtant services. It’s a job to even get him to put up our Council notices’, Margaret shook her head. ‘His only friends seem to be Martha Hurrell and Robert West, he’s another distasteful man. Never seen him have a girlfriend either. Mind you, I doubt he could persuade any woman to get that close to him!’ Both laughed and then they both felt sick at the thought. Alison scrubbed harder at the black pentagon which was smeared over Laura Castle’s name. She’d died aged twenty-four in 1867. For a minute she concentrated on this person she’d never known, wondering about her life in an effort to erase the sickly thoughts of Neil Best.

  As they worked two men passed through their midst, tipping imaginary hats at Margaret and saying, ‘Good day ladies’ in broad Dorset accents. They continued up to the back of the graveyard where two shovels awaited their muscles. Alison watched them and must have been looking quizzically because Margaret answered her face.

  ‘Jack Cotterell.’

  ‘Who?’ Alison turned round even more confusion on her face now. She had been just about to ask Margaret about Michaela and her father.

  ‘Jack Cotterell, he’s due to be buried in two days’ time.’

  Alison nodded her head in a silent Oh I see

  ‘Out of respect for him I’d like to get this place cleaned up a bit.’ Margaret had continued, ‘I only wish we’d all thought about the old codger a bit more when he was alive. He was a sheep farmer up near the hills. Found him shot by his own hand.’

  Alison didn’t know quite what to say and left her for a few seconds. Then Margaret cleared her throat, ‘but they’ll give him a Christian burial’, she added, ‘least we can do’.

  Alison looked back at the two men preparing the ground for its latest offering. She didn’t know Jack Cotterell and as far as she was aware she’d never even clapped eyes on him, but she still felt sadness for his lonely departure from this world.