by McNeir, Leo
“Oh no. It’s not you.” He had a faraway look. “It’s all the other changes coming in the village, changes that nobody needs, all unnecessary.”
“Would this be to do with the church, perhaps?”
He sighed. Anne, who was standing beside the entrance to the barn, turned her head and looked inside. Marnie, feeling similarly out of touch, followed her friend’s gaze and was surprised to see an ancient tractor standing in the middle of the barn. It looked like new and she made a small sound of admiration.
“Is that an old Fordson?” she said.
A raised eyebrow from Mr Fletcher. “Yes, it is. 1948.”
“Someone’s worked hard to restore it to that condition.”
“It’s beautiful, Marnie,” said Anne. “Look at the seat. It’s got holes in like a colander!” The farmer grunted and smiled at her. The three of them walked in and stood round the machine in the cool, shady barn. A piece of sacking was spread out on the ground under it, partly covered with tools, rags and boxes of parts. The air smelt of oil and diesel, not unlike the engine on Sally Ann, but the tractor was clean down to the grooves on the tyres and had been freshly painted a dark red.
“I’m getting it ready for the County Show in September. This is how I spend my time now, bringing back the past. Only, you can never bring things back, really.”
“That’s what I shall do when I’ve finished Glebe Farm,” said Marnie. “If I survive the experience!” She laughed gently.
“Restoring tractors?” said Mr Fletcher.
“Not tractors, no. I’ve got an old sports car partly dismantled, in my sister’s garage. MG TA, 1936 model. I’ll have a lot to learn, but I’ll get there in the end, I hope.” Anne turned and looked at the other things in the barn. Over by one wall was a wooden plough, also restored, and bits and pieces of equipment and machinery that she could not recognise. Another wall was covered in hooks on which implements had been hung. They shone dimly in the half light of the barn.
“People don’t usually come in here. No-one ever sees these things.”
“That’s a great pity,” said Marnie. “But I hope we’re not intruding into a private place.”
“You’re very welcome here,” said the old man looking directly at Marnie. They crossed over to the wall of hand tools, sickles, scythes, shears and a host of others that were beyond the recognition of the visitors. Each had been restored, sharpened and oiled as if they might be needed at any moment. Mr Fletcher gestured towards the implements.
“Some of those are nigh on a hundred year old. That hand scythe was my grandfather’s.” Marnie pointed at one of them. “No, the one below it. You can hold it, if you like.” She took it carefully down from its hooks, uncertain how heavy it might be or how it was balanced. The blade was long and curved, well-worn but very sharp, and tapering to a fine point. The handle was smooth and comfortable to grip. She weighed it in her hand.
“Is it all original? All of it the same age?”
“Of course.” He seemed puzzled by the question.
“I was just remembering a story,” said Marnie. “I heard of a farmer’s wife sweeping the yard with a broom, telling someone what a good broom it was. She had had it for thirty years and in all that time it had only had three new heads and two new handles.” The old farmer laughed throatily and shook his head. Marnie passed the scythe to Anne who touched the side of the blade and pulled a face. She held it away from her and was glad to give it back to Marnie, hoping she had not given offence to Mr Fletcher.
“That’s right, my girl. You do right to treat it with respect. There’ve been plenty of accidents with those, some bad luck, some caused by stupidity.” He took the scythe gently from Marnie and hung it back in its place. Anne liked the old man and felt pleased to have been admitted to his inner sanctum. She smiled at him and he put his arm on her shoulder as they walked to the entrance and out into the daylight, where the air was warmer and the smells of the farm took over from the tang of the machinery.
On the way down the drive, Marnie looked at her watch. “We stayed longer than I expected. We’d better get a move on.” They strode out, breathing in the good air, enjoying the rolling countryside, the sheep and cows, the trees on the horizon and the broad ridges extending across the meadows, remnants of medieval strip farming, centuries old.
“I thought Mr Fletcher was nice,” said Anne. “I wasn’t sure at first, but he liked showing us his tractor and all the tools.”
“He must be a very good engineer. I’d like to have seen photos of that tractor before he started work on it. I bet it was a pile of junk. There’s hope yet for my old MG!”
“That scythe was really scary,” said Anne. “I thought if I dropped it I might cut my leg off!”
“Yes. Certainly not something to be handled too casually, especially when it’s kept in full working order like that. Still, it’s not dangerous in the right hands.” Anne pulled a face, still imagining the injuries the scythe could cause. Marnie laughed at her. “I wasn’t sure what he was talking about when we arrived. Hidden depths in Mr Fletcher, I think. Something on his mind.”
“To do with the church,” said Anne.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps he was at the meeting last night, the one we saw advertised. He may have fallen out with the vicar over something.” Marnie stopped suddenly. “That’s funny. Why advertise a meeting of the PCC? I don’t think their meetings are public.” They set off again, Marnie trying hard to recall the exact wording of the notice.
“It wouldn’t be to let people know it was on,” said Anne. “The person who arranges the meetings would just phone round.”
“Yes. Unless it was to let everyone else know it was on.”
“What for?” said Anne.
Marnie shook her head. They reached a turning in the road and headed towards the shop. The top of the church tower became visible. “Perhaps as a sign that something was happening. Like lighting a beacon in olden times to alert everybody. Who knows?”
*
“Hallo again. Settling in all right?”
“Not bad. I’m greatly helped by having Anne around. She keeps me organised.” Marnie turned to look at her friend and found her already working her way down the shelves, list in one hand, basket in the other.
“I see what you mean,” said Molly Appleton and called out to Anne: “If there’s anything you can’t find, just ask.”
Anne’s face peeped round the corner. “I’m looking for the eggs, actually.”
“If there aren’t any on the end there beside you, we must have run out again.” Molly lifted up the counter and went down to join her. “Oh dear. I didn’t notice they’d all gone. Did you need them for today?”
“Don’t worry. I can make something else,” said Marnie.
“Sorry about that. I don’t like to let you down. I’ll ask Richard to pop over to Mr Stubbs and drop them in on you later.”
“I can go for them, if you like,” said Anne. “I know where to go. Just up the road.”
“Well, if you’re sure, my dear. I know he’s there now, making up an order. Will you tell him we’ll collect some more later on?”
“All right. Shall I go now, Marnie?”
“Sure. I’ll see you back at the office.”
Anne had not been along this part of the high street before and enjoyed the walk, looking at the old cottages. Most were of light cream stone under slate or thatched roofs, some set back from the road behind small gardens crowded with flowers. Others fronted onto the pavement and she glanced sidelong in at the windows, catching sight of comfortable sofas and polished tables. It was a far cry from the dilapidation of Glebe Farm, but Anne saw all this as a taste of things to come.
The Old Farm House stood at the far end of the road, larger than the cottages and set at right angles to the street. Anne walked up the drive past a herbaceous border that hummed with bees in the afternoon sun. The front door was of heavy oak and she pressed the brass bell set into the wall. The air was scented by an abundant red rose
that climbed across the front of the house. She rang the bell a second time and waited in the still, warm air that seemed to become heavier, making her drowsy and lethargic, her limbs unwilling to move. She took a deep breath and, looking round, saw neatly trimmed lawns, everything meticulously tended, with a path of slabs like stepping stones leading to a group of outbuildings beyond the house.
Side door. Of course. He had told her to come to the side door. Anne made her way along the path. Passing a window, she caught a glimpse of a large room with French windows on the far side, the light pouring in across armchairs and carpet towards an inglenook fireplace. The path turned the corner and brought her to a small stone barn, covered with a climbing rose of delicate pink. It looked so inviting that Anne wanted to throw herself into the restoration of Glebe Farm with every ounce of her strength to restore it to this condition. For a moment her patience deserted her, she could not bear it that they had only arrived two days ago. It had to be done now. It had to be just like the Old Farm House.
She came to a door, wide, heavy and studded. Over the lintel hung a tin plaque, weather-beaten and peeling, a skull and cross-bones, like an old pirate flag. She struck the door twice with her clenched hand and it was so hard, the sound she made was almost imperceptible. She was on the point of trying again when the door opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. Mr Stubbs recognised her and smiled.
“Good afternoon, young lady.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” It was an automatic reaction, like speaking to a teacher at school. She bit her lip. “I’ve come from the shop. Mrs Appleton has run out of eggs and we need a dozen, please.” Mr Stubbs stood back and held the door open. Slip of the tongue or not, she had evidently pleased him.
“Of course, come in. I won’t be a minute. I’m just making up an order for Molly now.” He returned to his table and picked up a knife. His apron was immaculately white but streaked with red across the front. The barn was spacious and clean with large refrigerators along the back wall, joining a range of kitchen units with worktops of stainless steel and white marble. The floor was of quarry tiles, scrubbed and shining. A fastidious man. On the table in front of him, a huge wooden block with sturdy legs, he had laid out on greaseproof paper a row of joints and steaks and was carving and weighing the last of these. Anne swallowed and tried to look away without revealing her distaste. The smell of the meat was beginning to make her feel nauseous.
“Mrs Appleton said they’d come for some more eggs later on.”
“Jolly good. I’ll be with you straight away. This is the last of the steak. Just look at this. You won’t find better produced beef anywhere in the county.” Anne forced herself to look as he cut it from the full piece, taking a knife from the block, slicing through the red flesh with ease. “What do you think of that, now?”
“Wonderful,” said Anne, swallowing again. “I was noticing the skull and crossbones over the door when I knocked.”
“Oh, that. I put that there when I was a boy, still at school.” Anne smiled, relieved to have turned the conversation away from the bloody steaks on the bench.
“We used to slaughter in here in those days. That’s why I put the sign up. The animals came in through that door. You see those hooks up there on the beam? We hung them there to bleed into the gully and collected the blood in a vat over there.”
Anne could feel her face change colour as if her own blood was running out and the room began to sway. In some dim recess of her mind, she knew she had to hold her ground and not show weakness. She wished she could breathe in deeply, but knew that would be the end of her resistance. She wandered as casually as she could over to the wall units, as if she was following his story. When she was sure she was out of his direct line of vision, she closed her eyes and breathed in slowly through her mouth, trying not to smell the meat and the blood, trying to shut out the vision of what had gone on in that place for generations. The movement was enough to steady her.
“Are you enjoying it here?” The question could scarcely have been more unfortunate.
“Yes, thank you. It’s very nice. We like it very much.” Her voice was steady.
“You her little girl, are you?” Anne could not decide whether the tone was friendly or mocking. She took it straight.
“No, I’m her assistant, her colleague.” Anne hoped her tone would be taken as matter-of-fact. She strolled nonchalantly back to the table.
“Right now. That’s that.” Mr Stubbs put the last steak into its bag and smiled at her as he licked his fingers, the blood making a red ring on his lips. “Shall we see about those eggs? A dozen?” Anne could not speak. He wiped his hands on a damp cloth, walked across to a cupboard, from which he deftly selected the eggs from a tray and put them into a box. Returning, he handed them across the table to Anne.
“Thank you. What do I owe you?” She put them in her bag, glad to be able to look away.
“Nothing. The large free range are one pound twenty a dozen. That’s so you know for the future. These are with my compliments. To welcome you both to the village. I hope I’ll often see you in here.”
“Thank you very much. That’s very kind of you. Are you sure it’s all right?”
“Of course.” He opened the door and wished her good afternoon, watching her until she turned the corner. Anne heard the door close behind her and took a deep, deep breath. Roses had never smelled so sweet.
*
After leaving the shop, Marnie had set off home at a brisk pace. Walking down the field track her mind was filled with the impressions of her new way of life. She stretched her vision to the horizon where trees and meadows gave way to a hazy sky. In the nearer fields crops were ripening and it seemed incongruous to her, a Londoner, that she could be in this setting earning her living, risking everything she had in an enterprise that had been conceived the previous summer while suffering a mild sunstroke. Oh my God! Do serious people really do things like that?
The sight of the farm ruins (she was determined from now on to think of them only as farm buildings) felt like home. She walked undaunted across the yard, past the office-barn and through the spinney towards Sally Ann to dump the shopping on board. From the edge of the buildings to the canal was about thirty metres and the docking area came into view when Marnie was halfway through the wood. But something had changed. The outline of the boat looked different, somehow larger and darker.
The reason for the difference soon became clear. Moored against the bank behind Sally Ann, and completely blocking her in, was another boat. Confident that she would discover a neighbour from Little Venice who had recognised Sally in passing, Marnie advanced towards the bank. She dropped the bags of shopping on the deck and stepped off to take a good look at the newcomer.
It was a handsome boat, with the low hull, long fore-deck and tall superstructure known as tug-style. The new paintwork was an attractive dark sage green with deep gold linings and the hull a semi-gloss black. The brass mushrooms on the roof were brightly polished and matched the surrounds of the port-holes. The chimney had bands of shining brass against the glossy black funnel and the tiller handle was brass with a grip of dark polished wood. Marnie had a feeling that she had seen this boat before.
Her thoughts went back to Little Venice and the boats she had seen there. And quite suddenly she knew beyond doubt. She moved nearer to inspect it. Yes. This was Old Peter’s boat. A boat she had seen many times passing by, on which she had once sat talking to the old man who had bequeathed to her the original papers and drawings of William Jessop that now hung in the museum.
Because Old Peter had died during Marnie’s summer-long trip, she had not had the chance to see him again, though she had blundered into his funeral cortège in thick mist on her return journey by the cemetery at Kensal Green. Invited to his mooring to receive her bequest, Marnie had found his boat gone and had suspected it had been ‘taken over’ by one of the other boaters. She had her suspicions about who that person might have been.
“Hallo! Anyone at home?”
She knocked firmly on the door and waited. “Gary! Are you there? Come on! I know you’re on board.” She noticed the name on the stern. It was not what she expected. Whatever she had expected to find there, she did not expect the boat to be called Thyrsis.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Marnie.” The voice came from close behind and she started in surprise. Marnie looked up into the face of Ralph Lombard, who kissed her gently on both cheeks. “Aren’t you going to tell me this is an unexpected pleasure?”
“I will when I get my breath back! This is certainly unexpected. I thought you might be someone I knew from Little Venice.”
“Gary, yes, so I gather. Why did you think that?”
“Well, this boat. It belonged to someone I knew, and I thought Gary …”
“Restored it?” suggested Ralph. “A marvellous job, don’t you think?”
“Wonderful. You’d scarcely recognise it.” Marnie suspected that was part of the plan and she wondered how much Ralph had paid Gary. She did not like to think that Gary had stolen the boat then sold it, taking advantage of Ralph. And she liked even less the thought that Old Peter’s boat, in which he had spent so much time and cared for so lovingly, should become stolen property.
“Would you like to see what I’ve done to her? Have you time to come on board?” Ralph led the way down the steep steps into the cabin and offered Marnie a hand as she followed him. He pointed to a door behind them. “That’s where I sleep, typical boatman’s cabin. I’ve left it much as it was, apart from redecorating. It’s even got a cast iron range.”
“You had it decorated?”
“I did it myself. This is the dining area, linking up with the galley.” Marnie liked the style, light coloured wood finishes, a sage green carpet and tiles like terra cotta in the galley, everything neat and well ordered. They looked in on a shower room that made her envious, sparkling new with white tiles, shining chrome fittings and folding glass screens. No flapping, wet curtains here. The built-in units were of beech and mahogany with glass shelves. By now, Dolly had joined them and was rubbing her flank against Ralph’s trouser legs.
