At Hawthorn Time

by Melissa Harrison

  ‘Ah . . . bottles plural?’ Howard asked, ambling over to the worktop and putting the kettle on for coffee. The sound of the blender subsided, so that he found he had spoken almost in a shout.

  ‘Apparently so. I mean, it’s one thing if it’s just some local kids, but we can’t have someone actually living there. Especially if he’s . . . not well.’

  ‘Terrorising the gentle folk of Lodeshill,’ said Howard, pouring hot water into his mug. After living in London there was something faintly ridiculous about the fear of crime out here in the sticks, and he’d sometimes read out the headlines from the local paper to Jenny over the phone, for comedy value: Connorville woman’s fears after statue stolen from front garden, Heartbreak for Crowmere dog owner, that kind of thing. It wasn’t as though he didn’t believe there was crime in the country – kids were kids all over, and every area had its black sheep – but you could hardly compare it to the gang territories and organised crime of a big city, with its sink estates and areas of genuine deprivation.

  It was strange, though: when he lived in Finchley he’d often joked about how middle class he’d become, especially to the drivers at work; it was a bit of a running joke, his holidays in Italy, shopping at Waitrose. But since moving to the countryside he’d found himself more than once talking about Finchley as though they’d lived in the bloody Bronx, exaggerating its dangers and confirming the locals’ impression of the capital as somewhere where law and order had broken down. He was aware of the hypocrisy, but the fact was, half the people who lived in the countryside didn’t know they were born, gossiping at church about some guy camping in the woods. Anyway, as for the empty bottles he had a queasy idea where they might have come from.

  ‘Not having breakfast?’ she called as he took his coffee into the living room.

  ‘No, I’ll just . . .’ He picked up the sports pages, subsided into an armchair and let the sentence trail away. Kitty stood and looked at him through the kitchen doorway for a few moments before continuing with the soup.

  It had rained hard during the night and the road surface remained dark where the hedgerows cast shade; where the May sun reached it, though, it steamed briefly and indiscernibly, and then paled to grey. Thrushes sang in the woods, trying out each note four times, five times, before moving on to something new.

  In the fields around the village the new grass had pulled the rain straight up from the soil, making each blade stand up tall, but the leaves on the sycamores and horse chestnuts hung low with the accumulated weight of water, shaking fat drops down when the breeze came. And the breeze, even brisker higher up, moved the clouds on quickly, chasing their shadows across the fields. The sun, in between showers, was clear and warm.

  Howard looked at it all through the windscreen of a cab on the way to the station. He’d decided to get the train down to London; petrol was expensive, and these days he drove as little as possible, anyway.

  He sat in the front seat of the cab; he couldn’t stand sitting in the back, and besides, he knew Charlie, the taxi driver; they’d had a pint together a couple of times in the Bricklayer’s Arms, they were practically friends. He only ever used Charlie, although there was a computer cab company in Ardleton with flasher cars; and he always tipped.

  Charlie had once been a tractor driver, hired out to drill wheat, plough, spread muck, whatever needed doing. He’d loved it, too; he once told Howard that he’d wanted nothing more since he was a little boy than to sit in the jouncing cab and look out across the fields all day. At first the taxi had just been a sideline to try and make up the shortfall; nowadays, though, it was all he did.

  Still, Howard reasoned, he couldn’t be far off claiming his pension; he probably only kept it up for a hobby. A way of getting out and meeting people, not getting stuck in the house; he could relate to that.

  ‘Keep the change, Charlie,’ he said when he got out at the station, slapping the roof of the cab twice before it pulled away.

  The path she was looking for was only about a mile or so outside the village, but Kitty took the car; the weather forecast said showers after about four and she didn’t want to have to walk all the way back if it started raining. She had consulted a map – it looked as though the easiest way to get to it was by parking up in one of the lay-bys and cutting across the fields. She had her walking boots on, and the camera, and a rain hat in her pocket just in case.

  Not that it was entirely clear where the path might be, or whether it still existed. According to her local history book it was one of a network of tracks, formed by long habit, that had once run out of Crowmere – to the church, to Lodeshill, and this one to one of the outlying farms – but the farm associated with the Puck legend had either disappeared or changed its name, and none of the footpaths and bridleways marked on her OS map looked right. Still, she knew it had once run through Copping Wood and forded a small stream, so she reasoned that if she could find the stream it might be possible to spot where a path had once crossed it.

  The big field next to the road was lumpy and uncultivated, and there were no cows in it; what little grass there was looked poor and weedy, and Kitty wondered if it was deliberately being left fallow. Here and there rooks stalked it, their brute grey beaks stabbing at the soil. They eyed her beadily and walked crabwise away as she approached.

  Copping Wood turned out to be quite hard to penetrate. There were clumps of brambles at the field’s edge, beyond which eglantine and honeysuckle, not yet in bloom, formed a dense barrier. Eventually, ducking and using her arms to protect her face, she simply pushed her way in.

  Once under the canopy she found it was relatively easy to move between the trees. Much of the ground was carpeted with dog’s mercury, but apart from a few stunted hollies the shade kept most other things down.

  The wood seemed trackless, quite unlike Ocket Wood with its well-trodden footpaths and dog bins. There were no trails on the ground leading her towards anything, nothing to say which was the best way to go. Here and there were fallen trees, rotting where they lay; low branches barred the route between trunks in most directions. It was trackless, like virgin jungle, and somehow disquieting. Kitty stood still and listened for a moment: nothing. It was as though even the birds had fled.

  The stream had to be at the lowest point, so she decided just to try to move forward and down. It was slow going, and she frequently had to duck under branches or climb inelegantly over dead trees, clutching the new camera anxiously to her side. But after a few moments, there it was: a channel cut into the wood’s floor, the suggestion of moving water. She had found the stream.

  On the bank Kitty stood and looked down at it critically. Only a very few gleams of sluggish water caught the light, and there was nothing picturesque about it, nothing at all: no sunlit rills or fern-shadowed pools. It was a muddy channel in a dark wood, and it was becoming clear that the path wasn’t going to make a good subject either – even if it still existed. Still, she had come this far.

  Rain began to patter on the leaves overhead, although for now the forest floor remained sheltered and dry. Kitty turned right along the dark rivulet, wondering if she’d even be able to recognise a path crossing it, disused for all these years.

  After a hundred yards or so it began to seem as though more sunlight was filtering down between the trees ahead, and Kitty wondered if she was about to emerge from the wood into the field beyond. The canopy overhead began to thin, and then, miraculously, the ground underfoot was transformed into a shallow pool, the tree trunks rising from it like pillars, moored to their own reflections. It could only have been a few inches deep but it lay there like mercury, incongruous, baffling. Kitty reached for the camera, unclipped the lens cap and framed a shot. Then froze.

  On the other side of the little flood crouched a bearded man, looking directly at her through her viewfinder. Kitty’s heart banged, and she lowered the camera. He was less than twenty yards away, but seemed impossibly remote.

  Slowly, the man straightened, letting water fall from his cupped
hands back into the pool. The ripples reached Kitty’s boots, making her step back in a wash of panic; she hadn’t realised that she had stepped into the shallows.

  Her eyes were locked to his, but after a second he dropped his gaze. She realised she had expected him to crash away through the understorey as a deer will once startled; but he remained.

  She groped for the reassurance of the nearest trunk. Her momentary panic had started to ebb, and she recognised him as the man she had seen on the road, although without his gaudy-looking pack this time. She took a breath, looked at him carefully. He didn’t seem menacing, or even mad. He looked ill, though, or damaged in some way.

  ‘Hello,’ she called out. ‘I’ve seen you in the village, haven’t I? Lodeshill.’

  He looked briefly at her, then away.

  ‘Don’t go. I just – what’s your name?’

  ‘I’m not – I’m just – I’m on my way somewhere.’ He gestured vaguely. From high above them both, a thrush repeated its phrases.

  ‘In here? Look, I don’t mean you any harm. I just – I wondered if you needed anything. Are you – can I help, in any way?’

  ‘No. I – I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Your name, then? I’m Kitty. I live in Lodeshill, you know, just up the road? I’m trying to paint, I’ve been looking for places, I don’t suppose you know if –’ Kitty could hear how it was coming out, and it was all wrong. What on earth was the matter with her?

  Between them the water had resumed its glassy stillness. A plastic bottle hung, half submerged, at one of its margins, its cap very blue where the sun struck it.

  ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t go. To tell you the truth, I think I might be lost.’ She gave a little laugh, then smiled apologetically, wondering if it was true.

  ‘You’re not lost,’ the man said, with sudden directness. ‘You’re just not looking properly.’ He turned and began to disappear between the trees.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Kitty, hearing her voice become strange and shrill. She felt ridiculous somehow; something had gone wrong, something had been turned on her, when all she had wanted to do was offer help. It was like one of those nightmares when things slew out of your control, where reason is somehow not enough; something else is required, but you don’t know what.

  ‘Please!’ she called; but he was gone.

  17

  Meadow foxtail: first inflorescence. Increasing heavy rain.

  The shower that fell on Copping Wood that afternoon fell on Lodeshill, too, although it wasn’t heavy enough to send the swallows back into their nests. It fell on Crowmere and Ardleton, and on Connorville’s retail parks and roundabouts; at Mytton Park it pattered on the grey roofs and drove the smokers back indoors.

  The rain formed part of a weather front that had slid in overnight to bisect the country west to east; below it skies were blue, and in London the afternoon wore on warm and humid, the sun flashing off office blocks and car windscreens, and the air, by the afternoon rush hour, humid and still.

  Howard was in the Royal Oak in Camden waiting for Geoff and the others. He wasn’t sure how many there’d be, which had made choosing a table a bit tricky; in the end he’d gone for one with four places, putting his jacket on the back of the seat opposite his own; they could always pinch a couple more stools if necessary.

  The jacket had been a mistake, he felt now; not only was it too warm, but now he was back in town it looked wrong. It wasn’t as though it was a wax jacket or anything, but something about it struck the wrong note. He’d bought it in Connorville; it had looked fine there.

  He checked his phone again and took another swig of brown ale. They’d be here soon – if they left on time, that is. He wondered if Geoff had mentioned to Chris that they were going for a few jars; he couldn’t exactly have asked him not to. Not that he didn’t want to see his son; they were going to meet at the depot in the morning to go over a few things, and Howard thought they could go for lunch together. It was just that it might be odd for Chris; he might feel caught between acting the boss and being Howard’s son. It would probably be easier all round if he didn’t come out tonight.

  The afternoon had gone well; he’d sold the Hitachi, the Murphy’s Pocket Portable and the Hastings table radio, all to the guy in Harrow, and another collector had shown interest in a couple of the 1960s ones, too, based on photos Howard had on his phone. He hadn’t bought anything apart from a little lead solder, not this time; he didn’t want to be lugging anything about. But there had been a real pleasure in being the one holding the cards: the one who had discovered the old shop – pretty much – and had made such a brilliant find. Collectors could be a funny bunch: so cliquey, so guarded about their secrets. Not that he really counted himself as one, of course.

  Howard had nearly finished his drink and the pub was getting busier; he hoped they wouldn’t be too much longer, as he didn’t really want to abandon the table to go to the bar. It was Geoff he was mostly looking forward to seeing; they’d worked together for nigh on twenty years, and you didn’t do that without getting to know someone really well. Though it had been a surprise a couple of months back when Geoff had phoned to say they weren’t coming for the weekend because he and Anne had split up; he’d never said anything about problems at home, and Howard had always thought they were pretty solid as a couple: three grown-up kids, decent enough house, trips to Spain every year. But he wasn’t one to pry, and anyway, other people’s marriages were like foreign countries: you could never have any idea of the territory, not really. Take him and Kitty: Howard was pretty sure that nobody would suspect that they slept in separate rooms. All of which just went to show: appearances could be deceptive.

  ‘Howard!’ – there was Geoff now, grinning affably down at him. Howard stood up and shook his hand, unable to prevent himself looking past him for a moment. ‘Geoff. Good to see you. The others not with you?’

  ‘Just me, I’m afraid. You know what it’s like. I see you’re still on the Brown –’ he took off his jacket and put it on the chair with Howard’s – ‘I’ll be right back.’ And he grinned at Howard and went to the bar.

  Howard sat back down, feeling unaccountably and briefly foolish. He drained the last flat, warm mouthful of beer from his bottle and pushed it to the side of the table, picked a little at a bit of loose veneer with his thumbnail. Ah well. And at least he hadn’t brought Chris out, that was the main thing. They could get on the beers, the two of them; have a bit of a laugh.

  Geoff came back with the drinks and sat opposite. ‘So how’ve you been?’ he asked, clinking his pint glass on Howard’s bottle before leaning in to it for a long pull.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Howard, grinning and taking a swig. ‘Good, you know. Well. How about you? Hope that son of mine isn’t being too much of a tyrant.’

  Howard hadn’t meant to bring Chris up so soon; they’d never really discussed the fact that he’d put him in charge of the business, and Geoff had found out at the same time as everyone else – a month before Howard retired. But he’d had a sudden fear that Geoff might start talking about Anne, or say he was lonely or something.

  ‘Chris? No, he’s . . . I’d say he’s settling in well. No complaints.’

  ‘Good, good. And how’s everyone else? What about that new . . . Chantelle, is it?’

  Geoff exhaled through pursed lips, shaking his head a little. ‘Yep, Chantelle. She’s something. She is something. Smart girl, too – doesn’t take any shit off the drivers. They don’t dare, you know?’

  ‘Your type, is she?’

  ‘Twenty years ago, maybe. You know she’s having a drink with your son tonight? I’d say he could do a lot worse.’

  ‘I did,’ Howard lied, leaning back in his chair and looking out towards the bar; ‘it’s why I didn’t ask Chris to come out tonight. Good luck to the lad, I say. You’ve got to get while the getting’s good, and all that.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. Though it’s never too late, you know. You wouldn’t believe how many divorced wom
en there are on the Internet, just looking to put it all behind them. Makes me wish I’d done this sooner.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Howard, trying to keep his expression neutral. From what he’d heard, Anne had thrown Geoff out of the house and it had been nearly a week before she’d even let him pick up clean shirts for work.

  ‘So you’re living in . . . what is it, Harlow now?’ Howard tried to line up a couple more questions; he didn’t really want to hear Geoff’s dating anecdotes – not yet, not until they’d had a few more beers, anyway. He’d always liked Anne, for one thing, and while he and Geoff had been out drinking many times, previously he’d always been the boss, which was probably why the conversation hadn’t ever got really personal. Now, though, they were equals. He eyed the level in Geoff’s pint glass and wondered if it was too soon to get another round in.

  The pub was really filling up now; the level of conversation around them rose, and as Geoff began to tell him about the flat he was renting, about his plans, the two of them gradually became hemmed in, the spare chairs carried off, other people’s drinks left in sticky rings on the unused end of their table.

  By half ten they were both fairly drunk, though Howard could feel himself battling against it. When he got up to go to the Gents he was careful to stand up cleanly and walk purposefully; before leaving the toilets he looked at himself briefly in the mirror and assumed a steady expression.

  On the way back he stopped at the bar for another round. He wasn’t sure why it had been necessary to start in on the shots, but it had been. And he was having a good time, wasn’t he? It was good to be back in London, having a few drinks; it was all good. He felt like his old self, or something. Not quite, though; not the boss, not that old self. But more himself than in the countryside. Was that right?