by Liz Trenow
That made me laugh. ‘How can you tell which ear you’re hearing it with?’
He ignored my question, cocking his head and concentrating hard. ‘Ah. Now here’s a new ’un. Listen to them whistles and clucks.’ He listened some more. ‘Is a barley bird,’ he declared triumphantly. ‘First of the year. You’re mighty honoured, my little friends.’
‘Barley bird?’
‘Cos it come with the first heads of the barley. Most call it a nightingale. Listen.’ Now I could hear it, a series of ticks and gurgles followed by a few rising liquid phrases, not really a song in the proper sense.
‘I thought they only sang at night.’
‘Thass only cos most birds stop arter dusk, so at night you hear just the nightingale. Best sound in the world, when the woods is silent.’
He sat back, closing his eyes, to concentrate. I tried it too, and it was remarkable how much clearer the sounds became. When I opened them again I watched Eli, his face peaceful, pipe resting in his hands. Even the deepest wrinkles seemed to flatten out and he appeared younger, the most contented man in the world.
‘You love it here, don’t you, Eli?’ I said.
‘Who wouldn’t, with an orchestra like that on me doorstep every day?’
‘What about the winters? Don’t you get cold?’
‘There’s plenty of wood for me little stove and we gets by well enough, doesn’t we, Sarge?’ he said, rubbing the dog’s scraggy neck. It groaned appreciatively. ‘Well, we woodda, if they’d ruddy well let us be.’
Something in his tone alarmed me. ‘Who’s they, Mr Eli?’
He shook his head. ‘Ach, you don’t want to know. Besides, he says if I talks about it, that’ll be the worse for me.’
‘Who says that? Is someone threatening you?’
‘Not exactly. But they wants us off of this land.’
‘But why? I don’t understand.’
He offered no explanation. But even though the sun was still shining and the sky perfectly blue, the peaceful mood of the woodland had disappeared.
‘Look, Mr Eli, I know Pa thinks highly of your work in the churchyard. And I’m sure he’d come to your aid, if you need it. You only have to ask.’
‘Thank you, my dearies,’ he said, simply. ‘Come see me again, won’t you?’
‘Hello, we’re back,’ I called. ‘Anyone home?’
Mrs D’s face appeared round the kitchen door, finger to her lips. ‘Your father’s in a meeting with Mr Blackman. Says they mustn’t be disturbed.’
My heart sank. I took a book into the garden, hoping for a few moments of peace, but after about five minutes Jimmy came outside, pestering me, so I gave up the idea of revising and suggested we did some weeding. Mr D did his best with the garden, mowing the lawn every few weeks and cutting back the more unruly shrubs, but his artificial leg made it hard for him to kneel, for reaching into the flower beds. Earlier that week I’d found Pa walking around the garden, pulling ineffectually at the weeds strangling the rose bushes.
So, taking a trug and a couple of pairs of gardening gloves from the greenhouse, I showed Jimmy how to identify and pull out the bindweed, and how to avoid getting pricked by the roses. He loved to feel useful and proved to be surprisingly careful in his task.
We’d been at work only a few moments when I heard the latch of the dining-room window and saw Pa’s hand pushing open the casement a few yards away. Then, as clearly as though we were in the same room, I heard him say, ‘. . . and are you telling me that this money has just disappeared into thin air?’
We should have moved to another part of the garden, but the longer I dithered, the more difficult it became. Henry Blackman seemed to emphasise every syllable with a series of vocal hammer blows: ‘The church has three bank accounts: current, revenue and capital. The previous incumbent and I were signatories to the current and revenue accounts, but because of a mix-up at the bank, they failed to change the signatories for the capital account. I have only recently been able to gain access to one of them to check out how much is in it.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And it’s empty.’
‘Empty?’
‘As I said, empty.’
‘How much was supposed to be in it?’
‘Five thousand pounds. Or thereabouts.’
I nearly dropped my trowel. Five thousand pounds. Enough to buy several houses.
After a moment of silence, I heard Pa again: ‘Well, there has to be a rational explanation. We need to go to the bank together to sort it out.’
‘Of course,’ Blackman said. ‘But I need to add that, should we not be able to resolve this issue, Vicar, the church will be in dire financial straits. It will be very difficult to get the diocese to help us at the moment, with so many damaged churches needing restoration. And with a small population, raising funds is a very tall order.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that, Henry.’
‘But I think I know a way to solve it.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘My proposal is that we should consider selling some of our land.’
In the silence that followed, I imagined Pa tugging at his earlobe. ‘We don’t have any land, do we?’ he said. ‘Save that small piece of woodland behind the church. That can’t be worth much.’
‘That is where you are wrong, Vicar. I’ve been advised that land could raise several thousand pounds. But not with an illegal tenant in place. You are aware, are you not, of the illegal encampment in the woods?’
‘I haven’t seen any tents down there,’ Pa said.
‘Not tents. But an old shepherd’s hut appears to be continuously occupied, and with no lease, which is entirely irregular and contrary to village by-laws.’
A shepherd’s hut? He was talking about Eli’s hut. My heart began to thud, crashing inside my ribs.
‘How do you know that it is continuously occupied?’ Pa asked.
‘Because I have been keeping notes,’ was Blackman’s reply. ‘If you want to check, they are all here in my file, dated and signed.’
The longer I listened, the more angry I became. Had he really been lurking in the woods, spying on the old man and his every move? Eli had gone to live in the hut when his house was bombed and his wife was killed, for heaven’s sake. He was an old man, and he loved it there. But something else was also becoming very clear. Mr Blackman was clever, he knew his way around property law and he clearly hated to be challenged.
‘Look here,’ Pa said, more firmly now. ‘I’m all in favour of making things regular. And I’m certainly in favour of sorting out our finances. But we need to be mindful and humane in the way we do it. Surely we must follow Christian principles? Hounding people out of their homes is not the way to do it.’
‘Just one last thing, Vicar.’ Blackman’s voice went so low that I had to strain to hear it. ‘I recommend that this matter should remain confidential between you and me. It would not do for people to start suspecting any irregularities, so early in your incumbency. Are you agreed?’
Irregularities. So early in your incumbency. In these few short phrases, Blackman had made his meaning perfectly clear: Do as I suggest, or you will get the blame.
My father was being blackmailed.
Later, when I knocked on the door of his study, Pa managed a weary smile. ‘Hello, sweetheart. How was your picnic?’
‘Fine, thanks. Jimmy and I have been doing some gardening.’
‘Good, good,’ he said, distractedly shuffling papers.
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ I said.
‘Spit it out, sweetheart.’
I told him what I’d overheard through the window.
He frowned. ‘This was a confidential matter, Molly. You shouldn’t have been listening. It is none of your business.’
‘Has five thousand pounds really gone missing?’
He looked up sharply. ‘So the bank says. But I’m sure there’s been a mistake, somewhere. Don’t worry, my love, we’ll sort it out soon enough.’<
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‘By selling the woodland? And kicking out Eli? That’s so unfair. He’s not doing anything wrong living there. His house was bombed in the war, you know, and his wife was killed.’
Pa nodded. ‘Bad business really, poor old fellow.’
‘You won’t evict him, will you?’
‘Not if I can help it. I won’t support the sale of the land. But I can safely say that my honeymoon period is well and truly over.’
‘Mr Blackman’s trying to blackmail you, isn’t he?’
He looked genuinely surprised. ‘I wouldn’t use that word, exactly . . .’
‘But that is what he meant: suggesting that your conversation should be confidential, for now.’
Pa’s shoulders seemed to slump and he sank back into his chair. ‘I suppose you’re right, my dearest. I suppose you’re right,’ he murmured again.
‘I’m so sorry, Pa. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.’
His hand on mine was warm and reassuring, but his eyes were full of confusion and worry. ‘Thank you, dearest. I appreciate that. I remain confident that a visit to the bank will sort out the problem of the missing money. But there are other battles to be fought in this village, and I’m not at all certain of winning. Right now I think I’ll go over to the church, to pray for guidance.’
I truly hoped that his God would step up to the mark this time and show Pa the way out of this horrible mess.
Using the excuse of returning the few undelivered newsletters, I checked that Mrs D could keep an eye on Jimmy and went up the street to see Miss Calver.
‘My dear, what’s happened? Has there been an emergency?’ She was not one for small talk.
‘What do you know about Eli Chadwick and his hut, Miss Calver?’
‘How long have you got?’
‘As long as you have the time for.’
‘Then you’d better come in.’
Once settled with her whisky glass and a lit cigarillo, she asked, ‘So, Miss Goddard, what do you know about Mr Chadwick?’
‘I know he’s one of the few people in the village who’s shown any kindness to my brother,’ I began.
‘And . . .’
‘And we’ve been to his hut and we can see how much he likes it.’
‘And . . .’
‘And I’ve heard that some people want to get him off the land, because it belongs to the church. There’s a proposal to sell it, to fill the hole in the church’s finances.’
‘Some people?’
I was beginning to understand how she was employing her interview skills and decided to try turning the tables. ‘I think you know who, Miss Calver.’
She gave a loud guffaw. ‘Very good, Miss Goddard. You will go far.’ She sucked on her cigarillo. ‘I do indeed. Could it be the person we spoke about a few days ago?’
Even though I barely knew her I felt, instinctively, that I could trust her. ‘Apparently Eli’s hut is on church land and he hasn’t got a lease.’
‘Go on.’
‘I haven’t got any more to tell you,’ I said. ‘But I’d love to know why Blackman seems to have it in for Eli.’
‘Goes back quite a few years,’ she said. ‘I’ll not trouble you with the details, save to say they’ve had their differences in the past, these two men. Eli knows more about Mr Blackman and his dealings with the previous incumbent than he’s ever divulged – of that I am sure. Which is probably why Blackman fears him. But as I said before, and as I learned to my cost a couple of years ago, the Blackness is not a man to be trifled with.’
‘To your cost?’ I was shocked. She’d had her differences with him, too?
She shook her head. ‘Don’t press me, Miss Goddard. Water under the bridge and all that.’
‘But is there anything we can do to help Eli?’
She emptied her glass. ‘My advice would be to watch and wait. Tell your pa to be very careful, if possible. And come back to me if you hear any more, won’t you?’
When I got back to the house Mrs D had gone home, and a note said that Jimmy was with Pa at the church. But when I got there, I found Pa in the vestry, looking through some old ledgers.
‘Have you seen Jimmy?’ I said.
He stood up unsteadily, his breath sickly with the sweet smell of communion wine.
‘For heaven’s sake, Pa. He’s supposed to be with you.’
‘He was here a moment ago,’ he said, his voice slurred.
‘What are you doing with those old account books?’
‘Trying to work out . . . to make sense . . .’
‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ I said, taking his arm. ‘You need to eat some supper and get a good night’s sleep.’
Soon afterwards Jimmy arrived back, beaming from ear to ear, clasping a bunch of daisies. ‘Love you,’ he said, presenting them to me with a little bow. I tried to smile, and arranged them in an eggcup as the centrepiece for our supper. How could I feel cross with my brother when it was Pa who’d been the irresponsible one, who had failed to take care of him?
Once they had both gone to bed I sat out in the garden for a while, listening to the evening bird chorus, which I usually loved. But even that could not soothe the worries churning in my head. Through all that had happened to us, Pa had always been the single strong and reliable person in my life. If he weakened or cracked, where would that leave Jimmy and me?
Nothing happened at once, of course; it never does. It’s only when you look back on it – weeks or even months later – that you realise it was the start of the horrible things that followed.
It was a village of just a few hundred people, and everyone knew everyone else. What we innocent new arrivals hadn’t yet discovered was that, in some people’s minds at least, knowing someone does not mean you owe them any loyalty, or even kindness. Some people have other priorities, although heaven knows it’s sometimes almost impossible to work out what they are, and why.
What we had also failed to understand is that in a small community it is almost impossible to stay neutral. You have to take sides and, as in medieval times, when the leaders of your side fall out of favour, you are bound to fall with them.
THE UGLY DRAGON
by Molly Goddard
Chapter 3: Not everything is always as it seems
This time it was the dragon’s turn to look sad. Her scales seemed droopy, her tail flopped to the ground and she was barely showing her teeth at all.
Jimmy opened up the bag of flapjacks that he had with him and she cheered up a little.
‘Who’d have thought dragons would like flapjacks?’ he said, as they munched.
She didn’t reply.
‘There’s still something wrong, isn’t there?’ he asked. ‘You can talk to me, you know?’
She shivered her scales and said nothing.
‘You really cheered me up, last time we met. Talking helps.’
At last she began: ‘The thing is, Jimmy, I feel like a fraud. I hoped to grow up into a proper dragon, but it’s been hundreds of years now and I still haven’t got any wings, I can’t blow fire and I’m afraid of knights and swords.’
‘You’re still quite scary, though,’ he said. ‘All those teeth.’
‘You’re very kind. But you must have noticed that I’m green, my legs are short and I’ve got knobbly skin instead of scales. It’s no wonder they called me ugly. But if I’m not a proper dragon, what on earth am I?’
Next day Jimmy and his sister went back to the lake, with his copy of his storybook about Peter Pan. He opened the page they’d marked and showed it to the dragon.
‘What on earth is that?’ she asked.
‘It’s a crocodile,’ he said. ‘It’s green, has short legs, knobbly skin and lots of teeth. But it hasn’t got any wings. And it doesn’t breathe fire.’
‘Heavens, it’s just like me,’ she said, crawling forward to the edge of the lake and tipping her head sideways to peer at her reflection in the water. ‘So you think I could be a crocodile – not a dragon after al
l?’ By now she was smiling with all her teeth.
‘I think it’s a definite possibility. And if it’s true, then you are definitely the most beautiful crocodile I’ve ever met,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that better than being an ugly dragon?’
‘Much better,’ she said, nudging him affectionately with her snout.
11
It was the last day of the summer term and anyone observing our weepy farewells would have believed us to be parting forever, not for just a few weeks.
On the bus home, even with Jimmy at my side, I found myself feeling bereft and empty, staring at the unending stretches of countryside going past. There was still no news from Kit, and I was tired of reading trashy romances. There were only so many happy endings I could take, when there didn’t seem to be any prospect of one for me. To hell with Kit! He didn’t deserve me anyway, that’s what Dinah said. ‘There’s plenty of fish in the sea,’ she said breezily. Except that in terms of boyfriend choice, Wormley was more of a puddle than an ocean.
And now six long weeks of summer holidays yawned ahead, with nothing to do except look after Jimmy and try to make sure he didn’t wander off or get into trouble. Pa seemed increasingly distracted and was often away at meetings, or at the church. I tried to suggest he should come for walks with me and Jimmy, now that the better weather had arrived, but he put on that falsely jolly smile and said he was sure we’d enjoy ourselves better without a boring old adult coming along. I watched for any further evidence of him drinking too much, but either it was under control or he’d got better at hiding it.
That first week of the holidays Mrs D kept us busy, helping make cakes for the church fete. They needed dozens of sponges, loaf cakes, fairy cakes, scones and biscuits. ‘My stall raises more money than most of the others, and it’s the most popular; we usually sell out within minutes,’ she said with a glow of modest pride, taking another batch of raisin scones from the oven.
