by McNeir, Leo
“You wouldn’t. It’s just behind those trees.” Anne looked down at the map, but it did not give enough detail to show where they were. The old man continued. “‘Course, years ago you could have seen it from anywhere round here. In Cromwell’s day these were all watercress beds, no trees this side of the church.” Marnie wondered if a Mr Cromwell was chairman of the Parish Council or something before the war. The old man noticed their confused expressions.
“Oh, no, not the Cromwell you’re thinking of.” His face broke into the kind of smile reserved for the backward and stupid. “No. You’re probably thinking of Thomas Cromwell, the old Chancellor to Henry the Eighth. It’s the Protector I mean. Oliver Cromwell.”
“Right,” said Marnie, as if they were talking about a recent occurrence. “Er, is the church near the shop?”
“Just round the corner, over from the pub.”
“Very handy,” said Marnie brightly. The old man chuckled. “Well, thanks very much.” She pushed the stubby gear lever over towards first and smiled up at the old man. He smiled back.
“You can’t start from here, mind,” he said, still smiling. Marnie thought she vaguely recalled an Irish hitch-hiker story like this and pulled the gear lever back to neutral.
“Is there a problem?”
“There wasn’t in them days, but there is now.” He pointed across the open land that seemed to be divided into vegetable gardens or allotments. “No road.” Marnie heard Anne splutter in the background.
As they made their way back along the winding road, they waited until they were well out of sight of the old man before bursting into laughter.
“Is there a problem?!” Anne mimicked Marnie.
“You can’t start from here,” said Marnie in a crackly, ancient voice that did less than justice to the man’s sprightly tone. “Now in Cromwell’s day, you could wade through the watercress beds. No problem!” Anne shrieked, but kept tight hold of the atlas, determined that this time she was going to guide them onto the right road, whether Cromwell would have recognised it or not. They reached the main road and turned right, continuing for another half mile to a signpost indicating Knightly St John, Village Only. It was a narrow road but they soon found themselves among houses, with a glimpse of the church tower as a backdrop. Rounding a bend, they saw the sign of the pub, The Two Roses, and Marnie pulled up outside the village shop. Anne pushed the atlas towards Marnie so that they could both see it.
“It makes more sense now. We must be about here,” said Anne.
“Yes. I see the problem you had, apart from the join in the page. We could really do with a bigger scale.” She looked up. “The canal must be in that direction. Shall we walk it?”
They set off on foot past the church, looking up at the honey-coloured stonework. The afternoon was overcast, cold and still, with thin cloud through which the sun was trying to shine but with little force. It was a small village of stone, some of the houses thatched, others under slate roofs, with smoke rising vertically from the chimneys. The air smelled of log fires. Soon they came to a gated field where a green sign pointed the route of the public footpath down a gentle slope. Marnie surveyed the land in all directions.
“This could be it.”
“Isn’t there a proper road?” said Anne.
“Once upon a time maybe. It’s only a ruin. Don’t expect too much.”
*
Marnie and Anne followed the track for a few minutes scanning the terrain for a sight of roofs or chimneys. At one point the trail divided and they hesitated before choosing the path to the right, as the other seemed to cut across open land for as far as they could see. Underfoot the earth felt hard. Here and there the dead grass formed tussocks up against the edge of the track. Suddenly a loud bang made them jump backwards. A pheasant, startled by their approach, flew out from under their feet, speeding away towards the spinney that lay ahead of them. Anne pointed. Among the trees they saw the outline of a chimney stack. They had arrived.
“Something has happened here,” said Marnie, standing in the middle of the ruined buildings.
“That’s an understatement,” said Anne.
“I mean since I was here last summer. I’m sure the place was in better condition than this.” Glebe Farm had once been a substantial property, its buildings forming an almost complete square around a broad farmyard. The farm house itself was L-shaped and tall with stone mullions to the windows and it extended round two sides of the yard. Across the doorframe someone had nailed strips of old floorboard, with a sign saying “Dangerous Structure - Keep Out”. Attached to the main house were cottages, though it was difficult to see if there were two or three, for they were in a desperate state, with roofs collapsed, windows and doorways rotted. On the other sides of the yard were barns, only one of which boasted a roof. The others had exposed timbers, blackened by fire, pointing at the sky. The yard was cobbled and uneven, with tufts of dead grass where there were gaps in the paving. Anne picked her way carefully across to the barn with the roof and stuck her head inside the opening, while Marnie remained in the middle, trying to remember what she had seen from the spinney that hot day the previous year when, trying to find shade, she had collapsed under the trees.
“It’s similar to your drawings, but more dilapidated,” said Anne. “This building’s all right, though, for the time being.” Marnie took note of the ominous undertone and strolled over.
“For the time being,” she repeated. Anne nodded and walked into the barn, scuffing the ground with the side of her shoe.
“Kids have been smoking in here.”
“What makes you think it was kids?”
“Who else could it have been?” said Anne. She pointed at the ground. “Adults would not have any reason for coming here and there are too many butts for them to have just been waiting for a shower to pass. Look at the cigarette ends. They’re smoked right down to the filter tip. That’s just like kids.”
“Tramps, perhaps?” suggested Marnie. Anne inclined her head to one side while she considered this and inspected the barn thoughtfully, looking down at the dusty floor. She shook her head slowly as Marnie watched her from the doorway.
“See these footprints?” Anne squatted in the far corner and Marnie walked across. She squinted in the gloom and followed the line that Anne traced with her finger. “Trainers. These are Reeboks like mine, but a bigger size. Do you see the tread? And these are a different make. Oh, look. This one is damaged at the edge.” She studied them for some moments. “Yes. There are two pairs like this, one of them with a damaged right sole. Perhaps they were two brothers. Like me and my brother. We always had to have the same or we’d get jealous.”
“I don’t think you should become an interior designer, Anne,” said Marnie in a tone that was meant to be jocular, but had the effect of making Anne jerk round in surprise, so that she lost her balance and sat down with a bump. Marnie helped her to her feet. “I was only going to say you’d make a good detective.” Anne dusted off the seat of her jeans.
“I think I’m right, though,” she said. “I reckon they stood over here in the corner as far as possible from the entrance, out of sight. That’s why the prints are clear in this part of the barn.” Anne gave Marnie a speculative look and added in a serious voice: “I think there were three of them, two brothers and a friend who was bigger. Well, he had bigger feet.” Marnie nodded. She could understand the reasoning and it seemed logical enough. “Also,” said Anne slowly, “the oldest one was left-handed. You can tell by the marks on the cigarette ends.” Marnie was bemused by this and stared down at the butts, while Anne continued. “The two brothers were both right-handed, and one of them … had a wooden leg.” Anne snorted. Marnie suddenly felt skittish.
“Well I’m just as sure you’re quite wrong,” retorted Marnie. “This was really the place where Cromwell and his two top generals came to have a quick drag after wading through the watercress beds!” Laughing wildly, the two of them charged out of the barn like children into the daylight
and almost ran into a tall man in a tweed jacket holding two large black dogs on leads. The dogs, surprised by the onslaught, barked and strained forward on their leashes, while the man struggled to hold them back. Marnie skidded to a halt and composed herself quickly, but Anne, defying all reason, threw herself down on her knees in front of the dogs and opened her arms out wide. Their reaction was to lick her face, jumping around her and rearing up on their hind legs as if they had found an old friend. The dogs’ owner stared at the scene. The girl had her arms round both dogs, holding and patting their sides, rubbing their ears, twisting her head from side to side to avoid their tongues.
“Well, as guard dogs go these are a bit deficient,” said the man in a light, pleasant voice. “I’d better get them put down and swap them for Rottweilers. What do you think?” Marnie smiled at the man, hoping to have regained some of her dignity.
“I’m sorry if we’re trespassing,” she said in as cultured a tone as she could muster. “We just happened by and thought we’d take a look.”
“Free country,” he replied with a slight shrug. “As far as I know it’s still on the market and you don’t look like the yobos who came and burned down the other parts.” His manner was amiable and his smile friendly. He was about six feet tall with dark wavy hair visible from under a tweed cap. The dogs were now calmer and he pulled them back to sit panting on either side of him, their tongues lolling from their mouths, their eyes bright with pleasure.
“Yobos?” said Marnie.
“Kids, three boys,” said the man. “They used to come here to smoke, apparently.” Anne looked up briefly to exchange a glance with Marnie. “Then, about three or four weeks ago, the place mysteriously caught fire. The whole lot nearly went up.”
“What happened?” said Marnie.
“Oh, the real Dunkirk spirit.” He made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “The whole village turned out with beaters and buckets. A human chain, bringing water from the canal. It’s just over there.” He pointed over their shoulders. “It was like something out of the Middle Ages.”
“Or Cromwell’s time,” said Anne. The man stared at her.
“This place has a strange atmosphere, rather cut off,” said Marnie.
“That’s true of the whole village. In fact, part of it was cut off and that was in Cromwell’s time. There was so much feuding between villages in the Civil War that the old road was closed off to help keep them apart. To this day, you can’t get down that way.”
“Can’t it be opened up again after all this time? said Marnie.
“I suppose so, but nobody likes change round here. No-one now could tell you where the old road went. It’s lost without trace.”
“And even the watercress beds have disappeared,” said Anne casually. The man narrowed his eyes and looked at her.
“Did you say the place was on the market?” said Marnie.
“That’s right.”
“It was for sale the last time I came here,” she added.
“That can’t be right.” The man seemed puzzled. “The farm has not been outside the same family for over three centuries.”
Marnie laughed. “I’m not quite that old,” she said. “It was last summer, actually. By the way, my name is Marnie Walker and this is Anne.”
“Your daughter?”
“My friend. I’m not quite that old, either. We were just looking round out of curiosity and Anne was telling me about the place. She has rare insights.”
The man frowned. “Sorry, I’m being rude. My name is Frank Day. This is Cassius and this is Bruno.” Hearing their names, the dogs became restless and began to pull forward again. “I think I can recognise a hint when I see one. If you’ll forgive me I’d better get on. We have a fair way to go before we’re home. The agents are Blackey and Johnson, if you’re interested in putting in an offer. I gather the price is rock bottom,” he called over his shoulder.
“Hang on a minute,” Marnie said to Anne and jogged after the man, catching up with him by the corner of the barn.
“Blackey and Johnson?” she said.
“In town. Market Square. Could be a real bargain.”
“Thanks, though I’m not really in the market. I hope our being here hasn’t bothered you. We seem to have given you rather a surprise, especially Anne,” said Marnie. Frank Day shrugged.
“She did surprise me in a way. You’ll have to keep an eye on that one. In Cromwell’s time, a girl who had rare insights and power over animals, especially black ones, might have been suspected of being a witch. That could be dangerous.” He paused. There was a twinkle in his eye and a smile in his voice. “Only joking. It’s been nice meeting you. Hope to see you again some time. Sorry if I don’t raise my hat. Bye!” Marnie turned back to Anne and, for the first time noticed the sour odour of burnt wood in the air.
Standing in the farmyard had made them shiver and they huddled into their jackets, collars pulled up round their ears, as they wandered towards the canal bank. It was closer than Marnie remembered and she easily found the track that she must have taken the previous year.
“I think I probably came through this way and ended up under a tree over there.” They carried on for a short distance until they stood on the towpath. The canal was smooth and deserted, glinting in the afternoon light. They caught sight of water voles further down on the opposite bank among tangled branches at the water’s edge. A pair of moorhens paddled by.
“You really like the canal, don’t you Marnie?” Anne was smiling at her. “You look happy.”
“Yes. It took some time, but it grew on me after a while.”
“It was your freedom,” said Anne.
“Is that another of your special insights?” They began walking slowly along the towpath, the only movement in a still landscape.
“Not really. That’s what you told me when we first met.”
Marnie looked down at the water beside them, saw that there were traces of ice between the reeds at the edge where the canal was shallow like a natural stream.
“It’s going to freeze over again tonight,” she muttered. “Are you getting cold, Anne?”
“Yes. So are you. Your nose has turned pink.” Arm in arm they began the walk back to the old farm and the track beyond. It felt as if they had known each other a long time.
“How long will it take to get to our house from here?” said Anne as they walked back to the car.
“Half an hour? Depends on the traffic, I suppose. I don’t know what it’s like in these parts on a Sunday afternoon at this time of year. Sensible people will be sitting at home in the warm.”
“You’d be in the warm doing something interesting like designing a colour scheme or making something exotic in the kitchen.”
“Peasant food,” said Marnie. “It’s my favourite.”
“Exotic peasant food,” said Anne. “You’d be listening to Bach or Mozart.”
“Or Palestrina.”
“Or Palestrina. And you’d be burning joss sticks.”
“You make me sound like something out of a colour supplement in the Sunday papers!”
“But that’s your lifestyle, Marnie.”
“I don’t have a lifestyle,” said Marnie in mock indignation. “I just have a life. More or less. Same as everybody else.”
“Not the same as I’m used to,” said Anne. Marnie began to suspect where this conversation was leading. She shrugged.
“We all have to live as we think fit,” she said. “My way is my way, that’s all. No better or worse than any other way.”
“My family are very different from you, Marnie.”
“So are mine.” She thought of her own parents, now retired, living more or less permanently in the south of Spain, coming back once a year to hold on to some sort of connection with their friends and family. She wanted to tell Anne that families are a lottery, that you have to accept people as they are, but she knew that whatever she said, Anne would take it to mean that she should not feel ashamed of her parents for not
living like she did.
*
It was an ordinary street in an ordinary suburb, semi-detached houses built in the fifties boom years, with small, tidy front gardens and a concrete drive up the side leading to a garage. Anne pointed to a house with a white front door and Marnie pulled up outside. She was more subdued than usual. In fact, she had hardly spoken all the way back from Knightly St John.
“Before we go in,” Marnie began. “Will you open the glove box in front of you.” Anne pressed the catch and it sprang open. “Inside you’ll see a small package. Take it out.” Anne did as she was asked. The package was gift-wrapped. Marnie was already out of the car, winding her long scarf round the collar of her leather jacket and simultaneously pushing the door shut with her knee. By the time Anne was out of her seat, Marnie was getting the overnight bag from the boot.
“What’s this?” said Anne, holding up the box.
“Don’t open it till Saturday. It’s a little something for your birthday.”
“But …” Anne started to protest.
“Come on,” said Marnie. “We can’t stand arguing in the street.” She closed the boot lid and picked up the bag.
“I’ll carry that,” said Anne, taking the handles from Marnie. “You really shouldn’t. You’ve bought me more than enough things as it is.” Marnie smiled and shook her head as they walked up the path. Anne’s mother appeared at the front door, all smiles and welcome, shaking Marnie’s hand and leading her into the living room. Her father was just switching off the television and Marnie caught a glimpse of football teams.
“Oh, please don’t let me interrupt. It’s awful if you miss the end.”
“No, no. No problem. Anyway, I know it was a goalless draw. Not a great match.” He laughed and held out his hand. “I’m Geoff. You’ve met Jackie.”
“What about a cup of tea?” said Jackie.
“I could murder one,” said Marnie, and Anne went out to put the kettle on. She returned almost at once with a tray laden with biscuits and sliced cake. Jackie was helping Marnie to take off her scarf and jacket. As Anne went back to deal with the kettle, she heard her mother telling Marnie they had heard a great deal about her and Anne was glad to be out of the way for a minute or two. It was less embarrassing.
