by Liz Trenow
‘His new girlfriend,’ someone explained.
‘Not girlfriend,’ Rob said quickly. Even from this distance, I could see him blushing. ‘She was here a minute ago.’
‘I know her. Rather pretty, isn’t she?’
My heart flipped. Kit thought I was pretty.
And yet he hadn’t answered my letter. He must have been home from boarding school for well over a week and hadn’t bothered to get in touch, or come to see me. What did he really think of me? How could I find out what was going on in his mind?
12
It hadn’t rained for weeks and according to Mrs D the farmers were becoming fretful, concerned that the heads of their corn might fail to fill out in time for harvest. I was learning that every kind of weather felt like a threat to their crops: too cold and the seed might not germinate; too wet and it might rot; too windy and the crop might be flattened; too dry and it might not grow or swell. In all the months we lived in the village I never once heard a farmer declaring that the weather was ‘perfect’.
My freckles merged into blobs across my nose and cheeks, resisting daily applications of lemon juice that made me smell like a citrus pudding. Poor Mrs Diamond huffed and puffed as she dusted and swept, complaining that it was altogether the wrong weather for housework.
‘Why don’t you leave it until it cools down?’ I suggested.
‘Whatever would the Reverend say if we let standards slip?’ she grumbled. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, my mother would say, and she never let me forget it.’ I felt sure Pa would barely notice if the house wasn’t cleaned for a year, and I doubted that God – even if He existed – would care about the odd speck of dust, but I held my tongue.
Jimmy and I were sitting on a shady bench in the churchyard, trying to find some air, when Eli ambled up.
‘Mind if I joins you?’ he asked, sitting down anyway with a groan. ‘Rest me weary old legs.’ Despite the heat, he was still dressed in the same clothes: green canvas trousers and a tattered tweed jacket. His only concession to the weather was shedding his old oiled gabardine raincoat.
He lit his pipe and we were sitting there in companionable silence, while Jimmy went off searching for daisies to make a chain, when Henry Blackman drove past in a brand-new open-topped sports car, gleaming red. He was wearing one of those peaked caps, like a naval captain. Two minutes later came another sports car, in exactly the same red, with Blackman’s wife Melissa at the wheel, her hair tied back with one of those film star scarves, a white wisp of silk trailing out in the wind behind her.
‘Well, blow me down,’ old Eli muttered, sucking his teeth.
It took me a moment to work out why the sight of those two cars, one after the other, struck me as slightly absurd, even comical. On one hand, there was nothing really wrong with showing off a bit, was there, if you had the money? There was no law against it, after all. But to buy matching sports cars? In red? After a war when everyone had been required to tighten their belts? Did the Blackmans have no idea how others might judge them? Did they even care? It wasn’t just ordinary showing off; it was the equivalent of shouting, ‘Look at me! Look at me!’ in the loudest, most vulgar way. Like spoiled children.
I watched Jimmy destroying the daisy chain I’d made, as he tried to add more flowers to the links. ‘I can hardly believe what we’ve just seen,’ I said at last.
‘Nowt so queer as folks,’ Eli commented drily.
Jimmy brought his broken daisy chain back to me and I told him we needed ten more flowers, ones with long, thick stems, to mend it.
Eli relit his pipe. ‘Shall I tell you a story, Miss Molly?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘there was a little boy whose father was killed in the war.’
‘The last war?’
‘One afore. The Great War.’
‘Is his name Henry Blackman?’
‘Mebbe. Why don’t you decide, when I’ve finished? Well, his ma’s got problems – you know, up here.’ He tapped his temple. ‘Took her off to Severalls, they did, the asylum in Colchester.’
‘What happened to the boy?’
‘Got sent to a children’s home.’ He sighed. ‘But ’e never could get round the shame of it all, you know. Never went to see his ma – not once, as far as I know. She could be dead by now, of course. And he claims his pa died a hero in the first war but us old ’uns knows better. He was a travelling salesman, far as I know. Disappeared off the face of the earth. Anyroads, when the second war comes by, our lad turns out to be no hero, either. He got off the fightin’, claiming he’d poorly lungs.’
‘Did he? Have poorly lungs, I mean?’
‘Who knows, dearie? He gets himself a good little job trading cars, but when that falls flat, cos of petrol rationing, he borrows a bit of money and begins buying up bits of what everyone else thinks is wasteland. What everyone else doesn’t know, and he does, is that under that land is tons and tons of gravel. And gravel is what they’ll be needing. D’you know why?’
I shook my head.
‘Airfields, Miss Molly. Runways. The Yanks built hundreds of ’em round here. The man sells the gravel and buys more land, and so on, till by the end of the war he’s got more money than he knows what to do with.’
‘Was it illegal?’
‘Nah. He’s too clever to do anything illegal. Never underestimate a fellow like that, Miss Molly. It buys him what he’s always wanted: a fancy house in the village where he was born, but he always wants more.’
‘You are talking about Henry Blackman? He was born here in the village?’
He nodded. ‘So after the war he starts a property company, buyin’ and sellin’ and whatnot, managin’ houses for letting, and the rest. Employs quite a few locals, so they’s on his side anyway. And sets about becomin’ Mr Wormley, the life and soul of the village, buyin’ everyone rounds in the pub of a Saturday night.’
‘But why?’
He shook his head. ‘Who knows? To prove he belongs or summat? Because he don’t have a father, p’raps?’
‘You’re saying he’s illegitimate?’
Eli shook his head and took a puff on his pipe. ‘Well, that’d be tellin’, wouldn’t it? Who knows, but I have my suspicions. Anyway, he joins them committees and all. Pillar of the community, he becomes. Best pals with the previous fella.’
‘The previous vicar?’
‘Ran rings around him, he did.’
‘What do you mean – rings?’
The old man shook his head, relit his pipe and puffed on it silently for a few moments.
But he’d opened the door to the topic, and I couldn’t let it pass. ‘But he’s upsetting people. You included.’
‘Thass true, Miss Molly,’ he said, exhaling smoke into a cloud of gnats. ‘We never did hit it off, him and me. It’s what I knows about his dealings with the previous fella what irks him, I reckon. And he’s tryin’ to get me off of that land cos he wants to build houses on it and make even more money.’
‘Build houses?’ He’d never admitted that to Pa. ‘In those beautiful woods?’
‘That’s what they say. Been after it for years.’
I wanted so much to ask Eli more, but right then Jimmy returned, wanting to crown me with his daisy chain. After we’d said goodbye and were heading back to the vicarage, I glanced back.
Eli was still sitting there, pipe in hand, staring into space with an expression of such desolation that it broke my heart. He’d always seemed as old as the hills, but there was such a strong spark of life inside him that you never really noticed his age. Was it my imagination, having heard what I’d just heard, or did that spark really seem to be fading? Something had to be done to save Eli’s home.
I had to raise it again with Pa, even if it meant adding to his burdens.
‘Have you thought any more about the plan to sell the woodland?’ I asked him after supper. In the heat, none of us had any appetite, but we’d tried hard to do justice to Mrs D’s efforts. ‘El
i is convinced Blackman wants him off the land so he can buy it and build houses on it.’
Pa gestured to the chair beside him. ‘Look, my darling, as far as I know, no one wants to build houses there. But there is a level of concern about Eli’s safety in that old hut, as he grows older. The idea is to offer him one of those new council houses instead.’ I knew what he was talking about – a new development of neat little semi-detached houses being built along the main road a couple of miles away.
I began to protest, but he silenced me with an upheld palm.
‘Listen, Eli wouldn’t even be considered for a council house unless he was actually in danger of becoming homeless. Think about it for a moment. An old boy like that can’t go on living in a hut with no water or electricity. Surely it would be for the best if he was moved into a house with all mod cons?’
I heard myself shouting now. ‘How does the church have the right to decide where Eli should live? Surely it’s up to him? He loves the woods and having all the nature around him, and he’d hate it in a house up on the main road. Doesn’t what he wants count for anything?’
‘Hold on, sweetheart,’ Pa said, startled by my outburst. ‘I think you might be getting the wrong end of the stick. We want to help.’
‘Then why doesn’t anyone actually ask Eli what he wants?’
He became thoughtful for a moment, pulling at his earlobe. ‘All right, my dearest. I will ask him. You and Jimmy could take me there. Tomorrow afternoon?’
As we came in sight of the hut, Sarge leaped to his feet, growling menacingly, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
Pa stopped in his tracks. ‘That animal looks as though it could eat us alive.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s perfectly friendly when you get to know him.’ I called out, ‘Good boy, Sarge. It’s only us.’
At the sound of my voice, the dog’s demeanour changed completely and his tail began to wag. Eli appeared at the doorway, doffing his moth-eaten hat. ‘Afternoon, Vicar. To what do we owe this honour? Come on up, please do. Don’t mind old Sarge. He won’t hurt a fly.’
Pa was given the honour of Eli’s best chair, while I sat on the bench and Jimmy got the milking stool next to Sarge, who loved to be petted.
‘Cuppa tea for you folks?’ Eli asked.
Pa was about to refuse, but I jumped in. ‘Yes, please.’ With Eli, I’d already come to learn, the gentle formalities of hospitality must always be followed before he could feel at ease.
Mugs in hand, and with Jimmy now happily munching on a biscuit and sharing a few crumbs with Sarge, we exchanged pleasantries about the weather – ‘too ruddy hot’ – and the beauty of the woods – ‘some of these trees’ve been here hundreds of years, Vicar. Make you wonder what they’ve seen, don’t it?’
After a few minutes Pa seemed to decide that the time was right. ‘So you live here all year round, Eli?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I loves it here. Been here near ten year, since me old cottage got bombed.’
‘I’m so sorry. And that was the night your wife died, too?’
‘A bad night, it was.’ Eli shook his head and then took his pipe out of his pocket. He offered the tobacco pouch to Pa. ‘Smoke, Vicar?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
We waited as Eli filled and lit his pipe, puffed it into life and sat back, as I’d seen him do so many times before.
‘Was there no chance of saving the cottage?’
‘Nah, it’d cost too much to rebuild. So oi come down here.’
‘Don’t you get cold in the winter?’
‘I’ve got me little stove, and there’s plenty of wood around.’ He waved his arm expansively. ‘And there’s the old mutt to cuddle up with.’
‘It must be tough, though. Wouldn’t you prefer a nice house, if we could find you one?’
Eli’s reaction was sudden and frightening. He put down his cup with a clunk and his whole body seemed to tense, the sinews on his neck standing out. Sarge stood up, ears pricked, and gave a low rumbling growl. After a few moments Eli appeared to steady himself. He relit his pipe with a trembling hand and took a few long draws on it.
‘Forgive me asking, but is it that Mr Blackman what sent you here, Vicar?’
‘No, it was me,’ I jumped in. ‘I asked Pa to come. They’re putting your name forward for one of those new council houses up at the top.’
‘I knows all about that, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I don’t want it, and that’s that. But that bast— Sorry to swear, Vicar, but that man is the very devil, spreading poison through our village. He ’ont take no for an answer.’
Eli rose to his feet and disappeared into the hut, returning with the box-file marked ‘Land’, opened it and took out a sheaf of letters, at least twenty.
‘Look at this lot, sir. All from that man and his solicitor fella. Sayin’ that if I don’t get out, they’ll get the bailiffs onter me.’
I tried not to gasp. In London we’d once watched, powerless to help, as the bailiffs arrived at the door of a neighbour and taken almost everything, leaving the poor woman and her two children virtually destitute. Blackman had never mentioned bailiffs. What else was he not telling the rest of the committee?
‘He can’t do that, can he, Pa?’
‘I tell you here and now, Vicar, I ain’t going nowhere – and certainly not to no council house. I’ll chain meself to this hut before anyone takes it off of me. That, or them’ll have to carry me out of here in me coffin. And that’s the end of that.’
He plonked down the file and brushed the legs of his old trousers, as though ridding himself of any taint of Blackman troubles. ‘More tea, anyone?’
On the way home I remonstrated with Pa once more.
‘Did you know about this bailiff thing? All those letters?’
He shook his head. ‘Must have been before we got here.’
‘But don’t you see, now? We have to do something.’
He walked on, saying nothing.
‘Well?’ I pressed.
‘My darling, I’m not sure what I can do.’
That evening I found him slumped in his office chair, bottle of beer in hand and another empty bottle beside it. He looked exhausted and old. Coming to the village was supposed to have been a new start, a chance to recover from his war experiences and his grief, to get back to normality. But he was already being beaten down by apparently insuperable problems.
I recalled Eli’s phrase about Blackman: spreading poison through our village. It made me shiver.
THE UGLY DRAGON
by Molly Goddard
Chapter 4: The dragon hates the taste of human beings
The next time Jimmy and his sister went to call for the dragon, she appeared immediately.
‘Hello again,’ she said, hauling herself onto the bank. ‘Now I’ve been wondering,’ she went on, ‘why you don’t seem to be afraid of me? Most people are terrified.’
Jimmy didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t entirely sure himself.
‘Didn’t they warn you about how I used to eat people?’ she asked.
Jimmy told her that he’d heard all kinds of stories, but he didn’t believe what everyone said. For example, they said the dragon was killed by a knight called George, which was plainly wrong, because she was still here. The dragon laughed. Deep rumbles from her enormous belly seemed to make the ground tremble, and fountains of water spurted from her nostrils.
‘Ha-ha-ha. They sent plenty of brave men with spears and swords, but I hate fighting. I just disappeared underwater for a while, so they could claim they had killed me, and everyone praised them as heroes.’
Jimmy took out a bag of teacakes and offered her one, placing it on the ground rather than risk being nicked by her sharp teeth. She munched it down in a single gulp.
‘Got any more?’
He gave her his last one.
‘Delicious,’ she murmured, twisting her snout to one side to pick up the crumbs.
‘Tastier than human beings?’ Jimmy a
sked.
She snorted. ‘I don’t eat them any more, gone off them completely – don’t think I could even stomach a virgin these days. Some human beings are so wicked it makes them taste terribly bitter, which is why I won’t eat them any more. But don’t tell anyone. I have my reputation to keep up. If people are afraid of me, they leave me alone.’
13
I was sitting on the wide windowsill halfway up the stairs rereading The Man in the Dark Coat – ‘he was like a bright star that seemed to tug at all her senses’ – when I spied Kit speeding towards the vicarage on his bicycle, long hair flying out behind him like a dark charger. For a glorious moment I imagined he was coming to visit me, but he rode past with scarcely a second glance.
My head was still filled with contradictory emotions: I longed to see him, but didn’t want to seem too desperate; and he hadn’t replied to my letter, so should I assume he wasn’t interested in me? But then hadn’t he told Rob I was pretty? The thoughts went round and round in my head, until I could stand it no longer.
He must have returned later when I wasn’t looking, because that afternoon we found on the mat an envelope addressed to me and Jimmy and, inside, an invitation in neat, elegant script on a small card:
Kit Waddington, Esq.
Requests the pleasure of your company
To celebrate his 17th birthday
At: Wormley Hall
On: Tuesday 15th August, 3 p.m.
Bring swimmers
RSVP
Tuesday: just a few days away! Questions crowded my mind: who else would be going? Despite being handwritten, the wording of the invitation – ‘requests the pleasure’ – sounded terribly formal. Yet we were told to bring ‘swimmers’, which I took to be boarding-school slang for bathing suits.
Pa found me a blank postcard and showed me how to write an RSVP. My handwriting was nothing like as neat as Mrs Waddington’s (for I assumed she had written the invitations – it was surely not a boy’s hand), but it looked reasonable enough to me.
Molly and Jimmy Goddard
Thank Kit Waddington, Esq.
