The Newcomer

by Fern Britton

  Robert opened the front door. ‘Go on, you two. Shoo and don’t come back until teatime. Angie and I have a lot of work to get on with and we could do without any interruptions.’

  Mamie handed Mike the keys to the Jensen with a flirty, ‘Would you like to drive?’

  ‘I’d be honoured.’

  Robert and Angela waved them off and were finally on their own.

  ‘Have you got a copy deadline?’ Angela said to Robert as she headed for her office.

  ‘No.’ He leant against the doorframe. ‘Have you got urgent stuff to see to?’

  ‘No. Not urgent. Why?’

  He held his hand out to her. ‘Come to bed.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the day …’

  ‘Which means that somewhere in the world it’s midnight and the stars are shining.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I do need a lie-down,’ she said provocatively, ‘and you,’ she pinched his tummy, ‘could do with the exercise so …’

  ‘Race you.’

  It was early in the morning before the Big Dig that the local TV crew rolled into the village.

  The reporter, a handsome, cocky young man called Brad, climbed out of the Land Rover Discovery with his cameraman and adjusted his tie.

  ‘You get the gear out, Nige, I’ll go and knock up a few locals.’

  His first pick was Candle Cottage, home to Polly, the white witch and paramedic.

  Polly answered the door in her dressing gown.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she yawned.

  ‘Hi, good morning. I’m Brad Taylor of Coast Atlantic TV. I’d like to talk to you about the Big Pond Dig.’

  Polly tightened her dressing gown around her and rubbed her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just coming up for seven.’

  ‘I haven’t had my breakfast yet.’

  Brad was not to be put off. He turned on the full beam of his telly persona. ‘I’ve arrived at a bad time. I can see that. I know it’s early. Nige, my cameraman, and I haven’t had a chance to have breakfast ourselves. But my boss is very keen that I capture the whole story of the Big Pond Dig, right from the start.’

  Polly looked over Brad’s shoulder to Nige, who gave her a cheery wave. ‘I’m making tea if you want some. And I could make some toast?’

  Brad put his hand behind his back and gave Nige a thumbs up.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Only, I prefer coffee.’

  Over breakfast, Brad drew a lot of information from an unwitting Polly. ‘So you work in the NHS but off-duty you are the village witch?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s always been one here. There’s talk that if the pond is there, they’ll build a ducking stool and drown me.’ Polly smiled at the idea. ‘It’s a joke, of course.’

  ‘Golly, I hope so. Lovely woman like you.’ Brad looked deep into her eyes. ‘Suppose Nige and I clear up these breakfast things while you get dressed and you can take us down to the pond site? Give us a little interview?’

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘It’ll be so interesting to our viewers and I can tell you’ll be a natural on camera.’ He started to help her towards the stairs of her tiny cottage. ‘Nige and I will get everything shipshape down here.’

  ‘I don’t have to put make-up on, do I? ’Cos I don’t wear it.’

  ‘A natural beauty, now off you go.’

  Half an hour later, standing in the bright morning sun, Polly was put in front of Nige’s camera.

  ‘Just look at me,’ said Brad. ‘Not at the camera. Forget it’s there. And if you could try not to squint.’

  ‘But the sun’s right in my eyes.’

  ‘All the better to light your radiant beauty. OK, Nige?’

  ‘Rolling.’

  Brad began, ‘With me now is a woman known as the White Witch of Pendruggan. Polly, you were telling me earlier that many people believe this spot to be haunted.’

  ‘I haven’t ever seen anything myself, but I remember my friend’s mum telling us when we were little that she had seen the ghost of a woman wearing an old-fashioned dress and a sort of mobcap on her head. She said it was Loony Lydia, a witch what lived here hundreds of years ago. She told us they drowned her. My friend and I used to come down here and scare ourselves half to death. Funny really.’

  ‘I understand that, on certain nights,’ Brad continued, ‘screams are heard right here in Shellsand Lane? The very place where the lost pond is supposed to be?’

  Nige slowly pushed his lens into a big close-up on Polly.

  ‘Yes, I have heard that said. There’s always someone who swears they heard something. Especially on Halloween.’ Polly laughed. ‘But it’s probably a gull on his way home.’

  ‘So, Polly, as a white witch, will you be on hand to channel any spirits, good or bad, that may be disturbed by the dig?’

  ‘Erm, I am interested to see if the pond is there and I will certainly cast a protection spell around the volunteer diggers …’

  ‘A protection spell!’ Brad almost wet himself with excitement. Polly the fruit loop was telly gold.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘So you think the disturbance of the land here could awaken some negative energy?’ He was almost rubbing his hands with glee. His editor was going to love this.

  ‘It’s possible that the earth goddess may be upset.’ Polly tried to pick her words carefully. ‘Which is why I will keep a vigil, camping out, and keeping an eye on any adverse happenings.’

  ‘What exactly are you worried about?’

  ‘Unexplained accidents, people falling ill or feeling unwell. Just the usual sort of thing when negative forces are released.’

  ‘Or a curse?’ He was hitting his stride.

  ‘Yes,’ Polly agreed. ‘A hundred years ago or so there was talk of a curse. We don’t know if this is true or not but there was a story of a farmer losing his entire herd after they had been watered at the pond.’

  ‘So it may be poisoned, even today?’

  ‘I don’t know about poisoned but—’

  ‘And who will join you for the vigil? I mean, there can’t be many people, who’d want to sit up all night, in the dark, next to a haunted pond.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be on my own. I will have my cat, Myrtle, with me.’

  ‘A familiar? Isn’t that the right term for a witch’s cat?’

  ‘Yes, but Myrtle is more a moggie.’

  ‘Does she sit on the back of your broomstick?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Polly laughed nervously.

  ‘Does Myrtle help in your spells?’

  ‘Of course not. No. Nothing like that. She is my friend. She likes to cuddle up to me. She will keep me quite warm in the tent.’

  ‘One last question. Will you be prepared to perform an exorcism if needed?’

  ‘Oh, no. That’s more the vicar’s line.’

  ‘Thank you, Polly.’ Brad turned to the camera. ‘Sounds like the vicar is my next port of call on my search for the Lost Pond of Pendruggan.’

  He was more than pleased. Dropping his professional smile, he said, ‘Cut there, Nige,’ before turning to Polly and shaking her hand. ‘Thank you for your time and good luck with it all. Rather you than me!’

  ‘Rev Whitehorn?’ He smiled as Angela opened the vicarage door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello. I’m Brad Taylor from Coast Atlantic TV. I’d love to talk to you about the Big Dig.’

  Angela welcomed him. ‘Do come in.’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if I could interview you, on camera, outside your beautiful church. Would you be free in, say, half an hour?’

  Angela checked her watch. ‘Yes, but I can’t give you very long. I have a meeting with the chair of the parish council. Do you know him? Mike Bates. You might want to interview him too.’

  Brad couldn’t believe how easily this was all falling into his lap.

  ‘Super. But I’d like you on your own first. My cameraman and I will have a look around
the churchyard and find the best spot to use.’

  ‘OK. Give me twenty minutes?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Standing with the church clock tower behind her, in a spot where buttercups mingled with the long grass and forget-me-nots, Angela took a couple of deep breaths to calm her nerves.

  ‘Just look at me, not the camera. Nige, are you rolling?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Angela Whitehorn is the vicar of Pendruggan Church.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Angela.

  ‘Where does the church stand on rumours that the pond might be cursed?’

  ‘I am not a believer in curses.’ She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘But I do believe that scary stories can feed the imagination.’

  ‘You mean people can believe that a curse is real?’

  ‘Without any proof whatsoever, yes.’

  ‘I have been talking to Polly, your village witch, and she firmly believes that the pond is haunted by the women who were drowned there as witches.’

  ‘Does she?’ Angela frowned.

  ‘Oh, yes. She has told me that she will cast protection spells in case of negative activity from paranormal energies.’

  ‘I don’t believe in spells but there are many ancient rites that are used today as a bit of fun.’

  ‘She seemed very serious.’ Brad rubbed his chin, hoping to look deeply intelligent. ‘She also told us that, if necessary, you would perform a service of exorcism. That doesn’t sound like “just a bit of fun” to me.’

  ‘What?’ Angela was thrown off-balance. ‘There will be no need for any exorcisms. This is nonsense. This is a family fun weekend.’ She turned to look straight down the camera lens. ‘Come and join us as we dig to discover the mystery of the Pendruggan pond. Thank you.’

  She held her hand up to cover the lens. ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor. That is quite enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing things to do.’

  Angela went back home and immediately alerted Mike Bates and anyone else on the Big Dig committee not to speak to Brad Taylor. She watched from her office window as Brad and Nige climbed into their crew car and drove out of the village.

  Then she picked up the phone and rang Polly and was relieved to hear exactly what she had said.

  At six o’clock that night all Pendruggan inhabitants were in front of their televisions.

  Polly invited Tony, who lodged in her old shepherd’s hut in the back garden, to watch the report. Tony didn’t like what he saw and heard.

  ‘I don’t want no ghosts and spooky things coming to find me. I will fight them but I will be scared,’ he told her.

  Polly opened the box of crystals she kept by her chair and gave him three. ‘Put one by the door, one in your pocket, and one under your pillow and you’ll be fine. And, just to be sure, I will draw a circle of protection around your hut. You won’t see me do it. I’ll do it when you’re asleep. Nothing will get you or me. I promise.’

  Tony felt a bit better. ‘OK. And the vicar said she’d make sure I was OK too. Going to say a prayer for me.’

  ‘Double protection,’ smiled Polly. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Are you sure you will be safe?’ he asked again. His deep brown eyes, as trusting as a Labrador puppy’s, melted Polly’s heart. ‘I don’t want the spookies getting you.’

  ‘Bless you, Tony. I am strong. The force of good always wins over evil.’

  ‘Like the Doctor in her Tardis?’

  ‘Exactly like the Doctor.’

  ‘That makes me feel a lot better.’

  Piran appeared at the vicarage with a couple of very old survey maps and spread them on the kitchen table.

  ‘Who doesn’t like an old map?’ Robert said as he pored over the sepia markings. ‘The vicarage looks a different shape to what it is now. Smaller.’

  ‘Aye,’ Piran said. ‘’Twas added to around 1912 and some of the land sold off to the farm, see.’ He pointed a thick-knuckled finger to the east.

  ‘How old is this map?’

  ‘There’s a date at the bottom. 1881.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Angela, getting in between the shoulders of the two men. ‘Where’s the pond supposed to be?’

  Piran pointed again. ‘There. The lane to Shellsand was only a footpath in those days.’

  ‘And where is the pond source coming from?’ Angela asked, peering at the faded lines and shading.

  ‘Probably diverted water from an old mine shaft.’

  Angela straightened up. ‘What’s your theory as to why it’s dry now, Piran?

  ‘Mebbe there’s a blockage. Mebbe the underground source found a different path to the sea or mebbe it’s still there, just hidden by undergrowth.’

  Robert rubbed his chin. ‘I thought you and Gasping Bob found signs of marshy ground?’

  ‘Oh, aye, we did. Which is hopeful. But we won’t be sure of anything till we dig.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Digger Pete,’ said Piran. ‘Sure you don’t mind him parking on your drive for the night?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Angela. ‘Robert, let him in and I’ll find some beers for you all.’

  Robert and Piran went out together to admire the old pale blue digger. Pete was only too happy to demonstrate its skills. ‘Stand back while I turn ’er on again. Can get a bit smoky.’

  He turned the key and a black plume of hot exhaust belched into the warm evening air.

  The three men stood rapt as the old digger rattled and chugged, changing its tune each time Pete adjusted the choke or revved the throttle.

  ‘How long have you had her?’ Robert shouted over the noise.

  ‘Since 1988. Second-hand. Had her rebuilt and fine-tuned. Lovely bit of kit.’ Pete turned the engine off.

  ‘Can anyone drive one of these things?’ Robert asked.

  ‘You’m want a go, do you?’ said Pete, jumping down from the small cab.

  ‘Course he does,’ Piran smiled. ‘Don’t we all?’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Robert stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling fourteen. He was desperately keen to have a go.

  ‘The answer’s no,’ Pete said in a way that brooked no argument. ‘You’m not insured.’

  Robert was disappointed. ‘Understood, understood.’

  Angela appeared at the front door and called them in. ‘Beers are in the kitchen.’

  While the men had been outside, she had made a pile of cheese and pickle sandwiches, which were now sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh, ideal,’ said Pete, rubbing his hands hungrily.

  ‘Take a seat, Pete,’ Angela offered. ‘And if you don’t mind, I shall leave you three to it. I’m going to have a bath and an early night.’ She gave Piran a pat on the shoulder as she walked past. ‘Have a lovely time talking about maps and diggers. By the way, there are three more beers in the fridge.’

  ‘Thank you, maid. See you in the morning,’ Piran said, reaching for a sandwich.

  Robert smiled lovingly at her. ‘You all right, darling?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She kissed his head.

  ‘I won’t be late myself.’ Robert kissed her hand. ‘Love you. And thanks for the beer and sandwiches.’

  Robert had been a model husband since the upsetting night of the garden party.

  Angela had fought hard to take the fantasy images of him and Helen out of her head, but every now and then a spasm of hateful doubt triggered a tsunami of anxiety through her.

  Robert came up to bed just as she was closing her book, ready to sleep.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, bending over her and pushing her short curls from her forehead. ‘I thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Almost.’

  He kissed her. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll join you.’

  Once in bed, he curled himself around her. ‘Piran’s a good bloke, you know.’

  ‘That’s why Helen is with him.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said smoothly. ‘Pete’s a good lad too. He’s giving his time
for free this weekend. Great, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘That’s life in a village, I suppose. Everyone mucking in to help. By the way, have you got your pond blessing all written?’

  ‘I’d like you to look at it in the morning. It was quite hard. I checked the internet for blessings of water, and although there are a few, nothing seemed quite to fit. I hope I’ve sort of got a good balance between the religious and the secular. I’m looking forward to the weekend. I wonder what we’ll find.’

  Robert didn’t reply. ‘Robert?’

  She lifted herself to see his face. His lips were slightly parted, eyes shut. Asleep already.

  He looked so handsome, sometimes she couldn’t believe he was actually her husband. ‘Night night, my love,’ she whispered and turned the light out.

  28

  The sun rose in a crystal-sapphire sky. Not a cloud or a breath of wind would spoil the day’s excavations.

  Around the village, Pendruggan families were having breakfasts, making packed lunches and rummaging for wellies and sun cream.

  They had been asked to be at the site of the pond by nine o’clock, for Angela and Polly to each bless the day’s work and workers.

  The television piece had attracted many sightseers. Cars and camper vans were arriving packed with fold-up chairs, dogs and excitable children. Soon, the outer edges of the village green were blotted out by a tight line of glinting windscreens and hot metal.

  The lane to the pond was clogged with pedestrians and pushchairs, picnic hampers and cool boxes. An ice cream van rumbled behind them, its painted bodywork covered in pictures of 99s, lollies and cold drinks, cranking the children’s excitement to beyond any warp factor known to man.

  By the pond, Pete was standing next to his digger. Hands in his overalls. Proud of his role. Next to him, Gasping Bob leant on one of Pete’s grave-digging spades, smoking.

  Piran had been collared by a group of French holiday-makers who wanted to know about the pond’s curse. ‘You need to speak to Polly over there,’ he grunted. ‘She’s the one believes in all that crap.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur. Merci beaucoup.’ They rushed to Polly, overwhelming her with questions and selfies.

  Angela stood quietly by with Mamie and Robert.

  ‘What a great turnout.’ Mamie patted Angela’s arm. ‘Queenie’s going to make a bomb on her pasties today.’