Bone Harvest

by James Brogden

  ‘Oh, now if you do that he’ll be your friend for life.’

  She disappeared inside and came back a moment later with some plain biscuits that Viggo made short work of.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Dennie, throwing her hands up in mock despair. ‘I may as well leave him here now.’ Maybe she had got the wrong idea about this young woman after all.

  Ardwyn led her through the back door and into the kitchen, which was clean and orderly, though quite old-fashioned. There was a heavy wooden table, lots of mixing bowls and ceramic jars, and pots and utensils hanging from the walls, but no microwave or even an electric kettle; Ardwyn put a metal one with a whistling cap on the hob of a large black-leaded cooking range to boil. It smelled of flour and lard and pepper, and reminded Dennie of her grandmother’s kitchen. She supposed it was the fashion amongst the younger generation to go for ‘retro’ things – in other words the clapped-out stuff that her generation had thrown out decades ago in favour of things that did the job better.

  ‘This is all very embarrassing,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d come during the day this time, and in clothes. Honestly, what must you think of me?’

  ‘Actually, what I’m thinking is would you like some walnut cake?’

  ‘Very much so, thank you.’

  Ardwyn took down and opened a square tin, and cut them each a slice of walnut cake that was heavy, loaded with walnuts, dried fruit and ginger, and easily the best she had tasted for a long time. Fair play to the young woman – she could bake.

  ‘I used to sleepwalk when I was a girl,’ Dennie admitted. ‘I’d wake up in the living room with no idea of how I’d got there, and once or twice I was even found outside, miles away. One time I scared the life out of our poor old milkman who was doing his rounds early in the morning, when he found me sitting in the back of his little electric cart drinking one of his pints. My parents were at their wits’ end. And then one day it just stopped as suddenly as it started. I’m really so—’

  ‘If you apologise to me one more time,’ Ardwyn interrupted, ‘I’ll take your cake away.’

  ‘You monster!’

  Ardwyn laughed again. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious – unless you find yourself obsessively washing your hands to get rid of imaginary bloodstains, that is.’

  ‘That was Lady Macbeth, wasn’t it?’

  Ardwyn nodded. ‘“Out, damned spot”, and all that. I don’t know, I had a lot of respect for her up until that point. She had the spine to do what she thought was necessary, but then of course Shakespeare has to go and have her lose her mind like some typical feeble woman.’

  Sarah is staring down at Colin’s body on the blood-slicked floor of her kitchen. Her hands and arms are red to the elbow. She raises eyes like screaming black holes to Dennie and whispers, ‘What are we going to do with him?’

  Dennie jerked back into the present, shaking her head to clear it. For God’s sake, not now.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ardwyn was peering at her in concern.

  ‘Yes, I, uh…’ Dennie faked a small coughing fit. ‘I think I might have breathed in a piece of walnut or something.’

  ‘Oh no! Let me get you a glass of water.’

  While Ardwyn was busying at the sink, Dennie hunted around for something to change the subject. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’ve been living in Dodbury for nearly forty years and I had no idea this place was here. I love what you’ve done with it.’

  ‘Thank you. The countryside is full of odd little corners and forgotten gems like this. We were lucky to find it.’ Ardwyn returned with a glass of water, and Dennie sipped.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why do you need an allotment if you’ve got a whole farm?’

  ‘This place was so badly run-down when we found it that we worked out it’d be cheaper to level it and start again from scratch, but farming’s a long-term investment and we just don’t have the kind of cash to jump-start this place to make it a going concern. The allotment’s the next best thing – a bit more manageable.’

  ‘I’m impressed that you have time for both. If you don’t mind my asking, what does Everett do?’

  ‘He’s a security consultant,’ Ardwyn replied smoothly. ‘He works from home a lot and can pick and choose his hours. We’re both so lucky not to have to deal with the whole nine-to-five rat race.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, I manage this place, which is more than enough of a full-time job, believe you me.’

  ‘It must get lonely, though.’

  ‘Well, I do have plenty of visitors!’ she replied with a little laugh that was meant to sound playfully teasing. ‘And the village is only just down the road. Plus, I like my peace and quiet. It gives me plenty of time to read and draw.’

  ‘Oh! Is that one of yours?’ Dennie pointed to a pencil sketch that had been pinned to a noticeboard next to the fridge. ‘It’s very good.’ The image was a statue of a woman with loose robes draped over the shoulders of her otherwise naked form, with a crown on her head, a necklace about her throat, her right hand on her hip and holding a staff like a shepherd’s crook in her left. She was gazing off to one side in imperious disdain, and there was nothing as far as Dennie could see to distinguish it from a thousand other similar classical statues except that the woman’s right foot was resting on the severed head of a boar.

  ‘It’s Circe,’ said Ardwyn. ‘The statue of Circe at the Louvre, actually, sculpted by Charles Guméry in 1860. Do you know the story?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ Dennie replied, surprised – this wasn’t the kind of conversation she’d expected to have in a farm kitchen in rural Staffordshire.

  ‘Circe was a sorceress, the daughter of the sun-god Helios, and Hecate, mother of all witches. She lived on an island called Aeaea where she perfected her skills in magic and herb-lore, bothering nobody, until Odysseus came sailing on his way back from the Trojan War. Faced with a crew of battle-hardened Greek sailors who were likely to gang-rape and then kill her, she used her powers to turn them into swine – all except Odysseus, of course, who had to resort to help from the god Hermes to defeat her. Hermes gave him a magic herb called “moly”, which we know as the snowdrop, that would make him immune from her magic. And so basically he raped her at sword point, made her restore his crew to their human forms, then lived on her island for a year, forcing her to bear his children while he was supposed to be trying to find his way home to his loyal wife in Ithaca. Meanwhile Circe, of course, has been written as the enchantress and temptress in all of this.’

  ‘No big surprises there,’ said Dennie.

  ‘No. But here’s an interesting thing. The transformation of men into swine has been interpreted by some as a parable of the way that drink and drugs can degrade a person’s capacity for rational thought. The bulb of the snowdrop contains a substance called galantamine, which is prescribed by doctors for the relief of certain forms of mental dissociation such as Alzheimer’s.’

  Dennie felt her blood run cold and did her best to cover it with a laugh. ‘That’s incredible! How do you know all of this?’

  ‘I told you, I like to use the peace and quiet to read as well as to draw.’ Ardwyn went over to a Welsh dresser that was crammed with bottles and jars of every shape and size, selected one, and brought it back to the table. Rattling around inside were what looked like a handful of dried peas. ‘These are dried snowdrop bulbs. Now I don’t want to interfere – I’m not a doctor and I’m certainly not judging – but, if you don’t mind my saying so, there have been a couple of times like Friday night when you seem to have been a bit, oh, I don’t know…’

  ‘Off my trolley? Gaga? Ready for the men in white coats?’

  ‘I was going to say “confused”. These might help with that, is all I’m saying. Dennie, the last thing any of us wants is to see you hurt or in hospital because of another incident like that. I mean we nearly ran you over! I feel terrible!’

  When had Ardwyn come to be one of ‘us’ along with Lizzie and the rest of Dennie’s
friends and relatives, she wondered, instead of ‘them’? It was all said with such solicitude and care, but Dennie couldn’t help feeling the iron of a threat lurking under the fleece of her soft words.

  What she actually said was, ‘That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll trust to the traditional remedy of tea and gardening for the moment.’ She finished her tea, pushed her plate away with a sigh of satisfaction and got to her feet. ‘I’d better be on my way,’ she said. ‘I feel like I’ve imposed on your time too much already. That cake really is wonderful. Enjoy the veg, and don’t worry about the box.’

  Ardwyn saw her out of the back door where Dennie untied Viggo from the clothes hoist. ‘Just out of curiosity,’ she said, as she wrapped his leash around her hand. ‘Which estate agent found this place for you? I have a sister; she lives in London and the big city’s not healthy for her and she’s been looking for something a bit more rural. Somewhere like this would be perfect for her.’

  Ardwyn gave a breezy smile and flapped her hand. ‘Do you know, I’m so useless at that sort of thing? I left it all to Everett to sort out, so I don’t actually know their names, but I’ll ask him when he gets home and be sure to pass it on to you.’

  ‘I’d love that.’ She waved and set off down the track towards the gate and the road. ‘Thanks again for the cake!’ she called.

  Ardwyn waved back. ‘Any time!’

  * * *

  ‘Snowdrop bulbs my arse,’ Dennie muttered to Viggo as they walked. ‘What does she think I’m going to do, crush them into a line and snort them off a mirror through a rolled-up banknote?’

  Viggo grinned at her and licked her hand because she was talking to him.

  ‘Don’t try that one, you traitor,’ she grumped. ‘What was all that about, anyway – letting her fuss over you like that? Bloody shameless, you are.’

  He whined and licked her hand again.

  Dennie sighed. ‘Come on, my furry Viking boy, we’ve got a phone call to make.’

  * * *

  Early that evening, Farrow Farm had another unwelcome visit from another of their neighbours. Everett, Ardwyn and Matt were sitting down to supper when there came a thundering knock at the front door.

  ‘Little pigs, little pigs,’ said Everett, getting up. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘I’ll give her this,’ Ardwyn replied. ‘She doesn’t hang about.’

  ‘I’ll get Gar,’ he said, and headed for the back door.

  ‘Matt,’ said Ardwyn. ‘Get your phone out. Record everything.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  She stood, drew herself up a little taller, and went to open the front door – putting it on the latch chain first.

  ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

  The belligerent glare of a man she didn’t recognise pressed close up against the gap. He was jowly and swivel-eyed. Behind him there were two more – one bearded, and one wearing a snapback with the logo of an agricultural supplies company pulled down low over his eyes as if he didn’t want to be recognised, as well he might not. It also sounded like there was at least one dog out there, maybe two.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ snarled Farmer Jowl. Leaning against the slope of his shoulder was the long barrel of a shotgun.

  ‘I don’t think I want to tell you that,’ she replied. ‘You don’t seem very friendly.’

  ‘Friendly? I’ll give you three seconds to open this door and get the fuck off my property, or I’ll show how fucking friendly I am!’

  ‘Just so you know, my friend here is videoing all of this, aren’t you?’

  Behind her, Matt held up his phone in one hand and gave a little wave with the other. ‘Hi, Daz,’ he said.

  The kid in the snapback slumped even lower.

  She turned to Matt. ‘You know these people?’

  Matt nodded, and pointed them out. ‘Darren Turner. His dad, Mark. And I think that’s Rory, his foreman. Their farm’s just on the other side of Drake’s Hill from us.’

  She turned back to Mr Turner, beaming. ‘Oh, well then we’re neighbours! How lovely! Well, Mr Turner, as I was saying, Matt here is recording this in case you were thinking of doing anything violent. Three big men threatening to hurt a woman in her home? With guns and dogs? I don’t think the police would like that.’

  Turner thumped the door, but not as hard as he could have done. He seemed to be getting the message. ‘This is my property, and you’re trespassing. Squatting, that’s what you are. I’ve got every right to turf out the lot of you.’

  ‘Actually, no you haven’t. And no, it isn’t. When we moved in, there was a helpful sign in the window that said this property was secured by bailiffs under order from Staffordshire County Council until court proceedings regarding ownership were resolved, and I don’t think that’s happened, has it? When it does, if it does, whoever the eventual owner is can start proceedings to have us evicted. In the meantime, I’m going to finish my supper. Good night.’

  She started to close the door but his fist slammed it open again as far as the chain would allow.

  ‘Smarmy bitch!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t give a fuck—’

  She never did find out what Mark Turner didn’t give a fuck about, because that must have been the moment Everett and Gar appeared behind them. There was a lot of scuffling, shouting and barking, then the barking turned into whines and yips of pain. She took the chain off and opened the door fully to watch. Turner’s four-wheel drive was parked in her yard and his bearded foreman was sprawling on his arse next to it. The boy Darren was on his knees with one arm stuck straight out at an angle that could not have been comfortable, his hand twisted in Everett’s grip and Everett’s knee in the small of his back. Gar had a dog’s throat in each fist, pressing them to the ground; they whined and scrabbled helplessly while he snarled, every one of his tusk-like teeth on display.

  ‘You’re welcome to try and evict us, as and when,’ said Everett. ‘But in the meantime, we’re all going to be nice neighbours and you’re going to leave us alone to get on with our lives. Otherwise my brother is going to kill your dogs and your boy here is going to end up in a wheelchair.’ He twisted Darren’s arm a little and dug his knee in a bit further, and the boy howled.

  ‘Of course,’ added Ardwyn, ‘you can be all pig-headed about it and call the police about us “trespassing”, as you call it, but they won’t intervene in a civil matter like that. And I’m certain that you don’t want them to know you came here threatening violence.’

  ‘Plus, you’ll still have no dogs,’ Everett said. ‘And young Daz here will still be eating through a tube and shitting in nappies. What do you say, neighbour?’

  Turner’s eyes swivelled and rolled in panic, and his mouth chewed on curses that were too terrified to utter themselves. Eventually what emerged was a strangled, ‘I’m… you can’t…’ and then a terse, resigned nod.

  ‘Good, then.’

  The boy and the dogs were released, Turner collected his wounded little vigilante mob together, and they helped each other into the four-wheel drive. He started the engine with a roar and zig-zagged down the track to the open gate, out onto the road, and was gone. Everett and Ardwyn strolled down in its wake, with Matt and Gar behind. She picked up the ‘Farrow Farm’ sign which had been ripped off and thrown into the mud, and brushed off as much of the filth as she could.

  ‘This place is ours,’ she said, with an intensity that surprised even herself. ‘This is our home. Do you think he understands that?’

  ‘In all honesty?’ said the deserter. ‘No. He’s had a shock, but a shock isn’t a lesson. He’s been the big man around here too long, and he’ll do what all big men do when they’re beaten. He’ll make excuses for himself – how it was unfair, how we cheated and so on – and once he’s a got a few drinks in him he’ll decide that he needs to hit us harder next time.’

  ‘It’s all very tiresome,’ she said. ‘Frankly I’ve got more annoying people to worry about. I want this resolved as soon as possible. This place is ours,’ she repeate
d. ‘Do you feel that, Matt? Do you feel that this your home?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And what would you do to protect it? To protect me?’

  ‘Anything, Mother.’

  ‘Anything is a very big word, Matt. I wonder, can you live up to its promise?’

  He squared himself. ‘I can, Mother. You can count on me.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She turned back to the deserter. ‘A poet once said, “good fences make good neighbours”. Everett, I would like you and Matt to please show Mr Turner where the boundaries of acceptable behaviour lie, and demonstrate to him what happens if they are crossed.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  PART THREE

  PLANT OUT SEEDLINGS

  1

  BOUNDARIES

  ‘ARE YOU SURE THIS IS A SHORTCUT?’ SAID KATE.

  ‘Of course, I’m sure.’ Suzie threw her rucksack over the wall.

  ‘I don’t think this is even a proper footpath.’

  ‘Look,’ said Suzie, pointing at the map. ‘We just follow this fence line here. It cuts off this big triangle here and saves us a good hour. We can be at the Laughing Goose by lunchtime.’

  ‘But what if there’s a farmer?’

  ‘Then we just claim that we’re a pair of idiots who got lost because they can’t read a map properly. Which in your case is true.’ Suzie glanced up and down the lane to make sure that there weren’t any passing cars to see them, then climbed over the wall and into the field on the other side. ‘Come on, twinkle-toes!’ she called.

  ‘We are so going to get arrested,’ Kate grumbled, and tossed her rucksack over the wall too.

  ‘Hey! That nearly hit me!’

  ‘Did it? Oh, I’m so sorry, must be because I’m an idiot.’ She climbed over the wall and dropped down next to her friend.