Fearie Tales

by Fearie Tales- Stories of the Grimm

  “Moth-er,” Gerry complained, but Trudy had already moved on to other things. She picked up a bunch of papers and started sorting through them, frowning.

  “Hmm. Oh well, it’s been closed up a while. Maybe that’s it.”

  His “injury” forgotten, Tom got to his feet and looked first at his mother and then up at the cupboard.

  Trudy placed her papers on a chair. She slid up the lip of wood at the bottom of the cupboard and magically, as she raised it, a similar piece came down to meet it.

  “Hey, look at that!” Tom exclaimed. “Little doors … and up and down instead of side to side—cool.”

  “It’s a dumbwaiter,” Trudy said.

  “What’s a dumb waiter?”

  “It’s like a little elevator between floors. It’s designed just to carry food from the kitchen to the upstairs rooms.” Trudy looked at the piece of wallpapered plywood standing against the wall to the side. “Was this over it?”

  Gerry nodded. “I was banging the wall and I noticed that this section”—she pointed to the cupboard—“sounded hollow. And it moved.”

  “Moved?” Tom’s eyes widened.

  “Not by itself, soil-brain. It moved when I pressed it.”

  “How did you get the plywood out?”

  Gerry looked down at her feet. “I ran a coin along the gaps that I felt behind the paper.”

  “Hmm, well, there’s some immediate decorating needed before we even start.” The words were sharp but the delivery was soft, so Tom and Gerry skipped further comment, and anyway, Trudy was now dialing a number on her cell.

  “I’m going down to the kitchen,” Tom announced.

  As she listened to the phone ringing on the other end of the line, Trudy stared at the dumbwaiter and the piece of plywood leaning against the wall. That certainly was a big dumbwaiter just to carry food. Bloody hell, it could carry an entire—

  “Hello?” a voice said in her ear and she turned away.

  Geraldine was checking her texts.

  Neither of them noticed the two thick ropes that ran through the roof of the dumbwaiter and continued down through its floor.

  II: The Scarecrow

  Tom turned quickly and rushed out of the room. His two-steps-at-a-time descent could be heard dwindling away into the distance. As he reached the downstairs hallway his feet clacked on the tiled floor they had exposed beneath the threadbare carpet. He called up to his sister, “I’ll shout up to you. Stay there. By the dumb waiter.”

  Gerry tut-tutted and shook her head at her mother.

  Such exasperation, and still only fourteen years old. Trudy smiled and rolled her own eyes before turning away quickly. “Yes, hello. It’s Trudy Cavanagh here, Grainger Hall?” She waited. Then: “On Honeypot Lane, just off Clifton Road?” Another pause.

  A distant voice called up to Gerry, “I’m in the kitchen, but I can’t find the dumb waiter.”

  Trudy stepped out of the bedroom, explaining to the person on the other end of the line that she was still expecting delivery of their new wardrobes even though it was now almost dark and night was fast approaching.

  As her mother left the room, Gerry glanced out of the window across the field toward the main road behind Kindling Wood. A solitary figure stood in the middle of the field, one arm raised and stretched out, with the wind clearly blowing its clothes. She leaned forward, shielding her eyes from the reflected glare of the room lights behind her. Just for a moment, it seemed as though the figure was doing exactly the same—copying her.

  “Ger, come on!” Tom shouted.

  “Yes, I’m still here,” Trudy was saying into her cell as Gerry passed her on the landing. “No, I’d rather wait.”

  “There’s a scarecrow in that field,” Gerry said as she started down the stairs.

  “Hmm?” Trudy moved back into the bedroom and looked out of the window. “Whatever’s that doing there?” she muttered. “That’s a grazing field, so why—Yes, hello?” She moved away from the window. “Yes, it’s Mrs. Cavanagh. Grainger Hall. Honeypot Lane? Off the old Clifton Road?”

  In the kitchen, Tom was running a hand over the section of kitchen wall that was directly below the opening to the dumbwaiter on the floor above, but he couldn’t feel anything. He rapped on the wall repeatedly, listening to the sounds his small knuckles made. “There’s deffo a shaft behind here,” he said, emphasizing the statement with three echoing knocks followed by a trio of dull raps on a section of wall that was clearly concrete or brick. “But I don’t think there’s a way to get into it.”

  “Let me see,” Gerry said, pushing her brother out of the way. She ran her fingers slowly over the smooth wall, searching for the tiniest hint of something hidden beneath the painted-over wallpaper, but there was nothing.

  Trudy appeared at the kitchen door, her face a mask of frowns. She saw the children with their heads against the wall by the sink and leaned over for a listen.

  “What are we listening for?”

  “Oh, God,” Gerry said, rolling her eyes as she straightened up.

  “I suggest you employ a little respect, young lady. Or you’ll be spending the evening listening to the walls in your room.”

  Gerry grunted and glared at Tom when he stuck out his tongue at her.

  “Tom?”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “I saw that.”

  “I know. Sorry, Mom.”

  There was a brief moment when the three of them stood their respective ground at the kitchen entrance and then Trudy gave a sigh. “Okay, shall we have takeaway?”

  “Yay!”

  “Not fish and chips,” Trudy said. She was riffling through the pile of papers the estate agent had left them, looking for the menu for the only Indian restaurant in town.

  “Boo,” Tom countered, adjusting his expression accordingly.

  Trudy found the menu and asked for requests.

  “Chicken tikka,” Gerry said, “and a portion of tarka dal.”

  “And Bambie potato,” Tom added excitedly.

  “Bombay, not Bambie,” Gerry whined. “Philistine,” she added under her breath.

  Tom ignored her. “Mustn’t forget the Bambie potato,” he said.

  “You haven’t said what you want for your actual meal yet,” Trudy replied. She was still frowning, though the exasperation in her voice was pretend.

  “Korma,” came the response. “Chicken.” He rubbed his stomach and made yum yum sounds as he walked across to the high stool by the breakfast counter. Clambering up, he looked out into the darkening sky. “Hey,” he said.

  Trudy finished pressing the buttons on her phone and almost immediately started to speak. “Oh, good evening, I wonder if we might order a takeaway? Do you deliver?” She moved away from the children as Gerry reached the counter next to her brother and hissed, “What?”

  Tom pointed at the field across the road that ran between Cherryfield Road on the right and Kindling Wood on the left. “The field,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “Grainger Hall,” Trudy was saying. “Yes—oh?”

  “I thought you said there was a scarecrow in it,” Tom said.

  Gerry watched her reflection lean forward in the window glass and she shielded her eyes. “There was,” she whispered.

  “Whatever for?” Trudy wanted to know.

  “Someone’s taken it, then,” Tom said.

  “Well,” Trudy was saying, “I’m very much obliged to you, in that case.”

  “Why would anyone want a scarecrow?” Gerry wanted to know.

  “How odd,” Trudy said as she killed the connection, speaking to nobody in particular. “They didn’t want to deliver.”

  Tom groaned.

  “So what are we going to—”

  “It’s all right; they’re delivering now, after I expressed my disappointment. But they didn’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  Trudy tousled Tom’s hair. “Too far out, maybe,” she said.

  Tom didn’t answer his sis
ter for a few seconds and then he said, “Well, it didn’t just stand up and walk away, did it?”

  The front door opened with a crash, and everyone jumped.

  “Sorry,” Charles said, bending down to retrieve the papers strewn on the steps between the pillars on either side of the double front doors. “Bloody wind took it out of my hand.” He kicked it closed with his foot and started along the hall.

  “I’m starving,” he said, dropping the papers and briefcase on the counter.

  “Hello, Charlie-mine,” Trudy said. “Indian food is on the way. Busy day?”

  III: The Doorbell

  While they were waiting for the food to arrive, Tom worked out in foot-lengths just where the dumbwaiter elevator should open up in the kitchen. Only it wasn’t there.

  “It’s not here,” he informed his mother again.

  Outside, gloom had stolen what little remained of the daylight. Inside, the house sat somnolent and apprehensive, secretive even … with the susurrant whisper of floorboards settling. Rain lashed the windows in sheets.

  “What’s not where?” Trudy asked.

  “The dumb waiter thingy. It’s not in the wall, where it should be.” He frowned and chewed his lip. And then: “Hey, do we have a cellar?”

  “More than one.” Charles was putting the finishing touches to his paper on Nathaniel Hawthorne. “Door’s over in the corner.” He gestured toward the pantry door.

  Trudy didn’t say anything at first—she was busy poring over a newspaper—but then she remembered that her son was waiting for a response, for she suddenly looked up directly at him and removed her glasses from the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, sweetie. What?”

  “The dumb waiter,” Tom whined. “It’s not there.”

  “Dumbwaiter,” his father corrected. “One word. We’ve got a dumbwaiter?”

  “I found it,” Tom said proudly, adding, “and now it’s gone.”

  “It can’t have gone, Thomas,” Trudy said, getting up from the table.

  “Actually, I found it,” Gerry announced. She had spent the past few minutes jiggling the keys of her phone, oblivious to what was happening around the dinner table.

  “Hey, why don’t you go and get ready for bed?”

  “But we haven’t eaten!” Tom protested, his right hand on his hip. “And nobody has explained where the dumbwaiter goes to.” He hung his head in disappointment.

  “I didn’t mean you were going to bed before you ate. Just trying to save time.”

  “Are we still having a story?”

  “Of course!” Charles placed his own hands defiantly on his hips, smiling at his son. “As though you wouldn’t have a story.” He tsked. “The very thought.”

  “Don’t be too long, sweetie,” Trudy said. “I want you to give me a hand looking through some of the boxes and at least putting them into the correct rooms.”

  “Can we have a grim story?” Tom wanted to know.

  “He means one of the fairy stories in that Brothers Grimm book,” Gerry said. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Charles stood up from his chair and stretched. “Don’t you like them?”

  “She’s scared,” Tom said with a sneer.

  “I am not scared.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  “The food’s here, the food’s here!” Tom did a dance. “I’m ravishing.”

  Trudy turned from the sink and reached for a towel. “I’ll get it.”

  “Ravenous, stupid.” For a second, Gerry wanted to tell her little brother to piss off but she felt it might impact on her life for the next few days, so she bit her tongue and pulled a face. Tom pulled one back.

  A blast of cold air ran along the corridor.

  Charles walked to the door of the kitchen and shouted, “Is it the food at last?”

  Trudy leaned out into the darkness. As Charles reached her, money at the ready, she said, “Nobody here.”

  Charles lifted his wife’s hand from the doorjamb and sidestepped her out into the night.

  “I hate that,” Trudy said, not to anyone in particular.

  The children reached her and pushed past onto the step. Charles had replaced the money in his pocket and was already at the gate. He leaned over and looked each way along their lane. There were no streetlights, but the moon was full so they could all see quite easily.

  Charles shrugged as he turned around. “Nobody there,” he said.

  “Well, I heard it ring. Did you hear it ring?”

  “I thought it was a little fast for the food,” Gerry said. “They said half an hour and it’s barely been fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, look.” Tom pointed. “Your scarecrow’s back.”

  The moth-eaten hat on the thing’s head ruffled in the slight breeze, and just for a second it looked as though it had been caught in the act of spying on them … standing there in the field directly across from them, its arms outstretched, glove-fingered hands hanging from the ends of its jacket sleeves.

  Gerry backed away from the step and knocked over the umbrella stand, the one Mrs. Finch had given her parents when they left Manchester. “That wasn’t there,” she said, shaking her head.

  Tom looked at his sister and then back at the scarecrow, which stood proudly in the field across the lane, about ten or twelve yards from a rather straggly hedge.

  Charles frowned, not sure what to say.

  “It wasn’t there,” Gerry repeated.

  “I did hear the bell,” Trudy said.

  They all stared at the scarecrow.

  It looked as though nobody was going to say anything—in fact, Tom wondered whether his family would ever speak again. His sister could be a total pain at times, but seeing her cowering in the hallway made him feel sorry for her. But then, watching his mother pulling the collar of her blouse together as though it were some kind of armor suddenly made him feel a little nervous. Somebody had to deal with the situation.

  “I heard it,” Tom said. “I heard it—the bell.”

  Charles turned to look at the scarecrow. He looked sideways, trying to keep the moonlight from his eyes. Then he stepped forward. Tom followed that step and quickly moved alongside. “Go and stay with your mother.”

  Your mother! Things must be bad. Tom started to protest, but the next instruction clinched it.

  IV: Not Exactly Sartorial

  “You heard me, Tom. Back in the house,” Charles snapped. He was not a man given to flights of fancy, but there was something that did not feel altogether right. The lane itself looked strangely deserted, though why the lack of movement and cars on a country road at night should give cause for alarm or suspicion was beyond him.

  He kept hold of his son’s shoulder and glanced back. In his wife’s eyes he saw concern and the unspoken plea for him to turn around and flee back to the house, back to where lights shone through windowpanes, and a politician was locked in civilized argument with one of Radio 4’s finest.

  He pushed at Tom. “Go on now,” he said, neatly stopping just before adding: and why the hell don’t I come with you, keep you company on your journey?

  “Tommy, come back to the house,” Trudy called in the no-nonsense voice that she had skillfully developed over fourteen years of parenting.

  When he saw his son reach the doorstep and get unceremoniously bundled into the house, Charles felt dual senses of relief and isolation. With a deep breath, he turned to face the road, the hedge at its side and the peering scarecrow, still standing slightly askew and angled in the field, those dangling glove-fingers moving slightly with each small gust of wind.

  He stopped at the hedge, now a mere two or three feet from the scarecrow’s upper torso and be-hatted head (a head which he now saw to be a pair of tights jammed with rags). Two buttons were stitched in the place of eyes, a strip of black felt for a slightly wrinkled mouth and a clothes peg affixed to the center of its “face.” He almost laughed, but managed to stop himself. Why, there was not the slightest thing strange about this “creature of the night.” What
had he—

  And then he caught sight of the field in which the scarecrow had been planted. It was grazing pastureland: no need whatsoever to scare birds from this piece of land, because there was nothing planted there. There probably had never been anything planted there.

  As his eyes scanned the field behind the scarecrow, he had a sudden sense that he was being watched. He turned quickly so that, instead of being on the periphery of the vision in his right eye, the scarecrow was now in the same position with regard to his left. Charles squinted. What he was about to ask himself was so totally ridiculous that he wanted to dismiss it entirely. But he asked it anyway, silently, deep under his breath where none could scoff behind their hands: Is the scarecrow watching me?

  He turned to face it full on.

  “Are you all right?” Trudy called.

  “Dad, come back into the house,” Gerry shouted.

  Tom didn’t say anything. There was something about this night, he knew, in that way that all children know there really is someone or something hiding under your bed when the lights go out; or something that relishes the closing of the bedroom door after parent-checking so that they might silently step into the quiet room, tiptoeing (if, indeed, they have toes the way we have them) across the moonlit carpet, casting wrong-shaped shadows.

  Charles reached the hedge and moved sideways so that he was straight in front of the scarecrow. He pushed his way through the hedge so that he was standing in the pasture.

  The scarecrow was spindly, listing to one side as though caught doing a pirouette. The thing was tied up on a simple cross, the stake jammed hard into the packed grassland. It wore a tweed jacket, a collarless shirt and a battered fedora whose edges were crinkled and misshapen. Not exactly sartorial. Perhaps it was the wind that set the thing to moving slightly, but Charles saw now, instead of buttons for eyes, little furrows of black—a careless slash of dark crayon that seemed to have the tiniest flick of moisture on the lower corner. How, he wondered, could he have mistaken that for a button?

  And in the middle of this ruin of a face—a face, truly, that only a mother scarecrow might love (or even bear to look at for too long)—a protuberance held malignant sway: a veritable knuckle-joint thrust through the material and twisted itself at odd angles to the gash of mouth below, a gash that sloped up to Charles’s left and down at its other end.