by Peter Benson
I left the shed and stood in the yard. I stared at the sky. A single star was shining directly above me. The cry came again, but twice this time, through the trees to where I stood, like a breath.
I wasn’t going to be fooled again, so I walked towards the noise. I crossed the vegetable garden and stood by a fence at the edge of the forest.
Although there were no trees behind me, as I stood with trees in front of me it felt as though they gathered me in and I was surrounded on all sides. The tops rustled in the wind, but the air in front of me was still. I hopped over the fence - the cry came again. This time, it was closer - somewhere to my left.
I stood absolutely still. Suddenly, a rushing sound came from the branches above me - I turned. The lodge seemed further away than it should have been. I got a prickling on my neck, and then a rush of blood that travelled from my feet to my head in a second. The rushing stopped and the cry came again, directly above me, like it was at me, or hated me.
I ran and heard it once more before I stumbled towards the kitchen door.
‘Marjorie! Quick!’ I dragged her outside. Her arms were covered in flour, but I made her listen. It came again, closer this time. ‘There! Hear it?’
One of the cats joined us on the doorstep. It looked at me as if I was less than a plant.
‘Owls,’ Marjorie said. ‘Protected species, owls.’
4
After supper Marjorie let me off washing up, and when she’d done it said, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’
We went to the pub.
We drove for twenty minutes through the narrowest and most winding lanes I’d ever seen; over hills, down again, through woods, around blind bends and across tiny crossroads. I knew that if I was outside the car, walking home, I’d never find my way, but I felt safe. The Alfa was a dream. The heater was quiet, and warmed the car quickly. I relaxed, and when I reached out and turned the radio on, Marjorie didn’t mind listening to rock ‘n’ roll.
The pub was run by a man who didn’t bother to serve us straight away. No one talked to us.
The other customers were farmers; the buzz of conversation quietened when we walked in. I had a pint of lager, she had a whisky. We sat by the door, with a view of the bar. There was a notice on the wall about a fun run, and a piece of green tinsel hanging from a corner of the ceiling.
The farmers got used to us, and carried on drinking. Some played darts, but mostly they huddled in a group and pointed at each other as they talked.
‘They don’t like you,’ I said to Marjorie.
She nodded, and poked at her hair. A piece of it stuck out like a finger. ‘They don’t like a woman on her own. I make them nervous.’
‘Why?’
She scratched her face. ‘Are you always this stupid?’
‘No.’
‘So you admit—’
‘No! I don’t! I meant that I’m never—’
‘Stupid? That’s a rare accomplishment!’
‘No!’ I shouted.
The farmers looked up. I looked at them and waved my hand. Marjorie smiled.
‘We’re meant to be looked after,’ she said. The farmers looked away. ‘They don’t like the idea that a woman can look after herself. It makes them think they might be dispensable.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘Of course. They think I’m going to steal their wives or something. But they can think what they like. I’m the local witch,’ she said, and smiled.
It wasn’t the smile of a witch.
‘You’re not,’ I said.
‘Once’, she said, pointing, ‘I came in here wearing a German surplus shirt. It had ENGEL printed on the front, and little German flags sewn on the shoulders,’
‘I know them.’
‘Warm. Cheap too, but I got this abuse about the war!’ She laughed again. Her laugh disturbed the farmers. It wasn’t manic but it was loud and loaded with direction. ‘I told them about the Common Market.’ She raised her voice. ‘They don’t mind the subsidies, but nothing much changes around here. They still eat babies…’ She finished her whisky and fetched another and a lager for me.
She was telling me about the next day’s work (pruning) when a car revved into the car-park, doors banged shut, young people laughed and shouted. There were three of them, and they tried to get through the pub door at the same time.
‘Look out,’ said Marjorie.
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
The woman was Sadie, the bigger bloke was her boyfriend - Nicky - the other bloke was Jack. Jack was small and agreed with everything Nicky said. Nicky was taller than Sadie.
Sadie had long wavy brown hair and a slim, pale face. Her nose, eyes and mouth were small. When she smiled, she showed a dimple in her right cheek. Her lips were thin, but when she opened her mouth they seemed to grow, like a flower opening. I heard her say, ‘A dry Martini.’ Her voice was like a stage whisper. I wanted to spend at least two weeks with her.
Marjorie noticed my look. She shook her head and said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘Why not?’ I said. The lager was warm.
‘He’s a big boy…’ she pointed at Nicky, ‘and he’s not too clever…’
‘She looks bored,’ I said.
‘Well spotted. But maybe he’s a good lay.’
‘Marjorie!’ I said.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to speak my mind? Afraid of a bit of truth?’
‘Saying that maybe Nicky’s a good lay isn’t the truth.’
‘Granted. But that doesn’t stop me speculating.’
‘Do you speculate like that about everyone?’
‘No.’
‘It’s…’ I said.
Marjorie leant towards me. The whisky had given her a mellow, abandoned look. ‘Don’t you like the idea of an eighty-two-year-old woman with a dirty mind? Too much for you?’
‘Eighty-two?’
‘Yes. That’s the other thing they don’t like.’ She waved at the customers.
‘You’re not eighty-two!’
‘Don’t give me that.’
‘But you look—’
‘I know. Remarkable, isn’t it?’
She didn’t have to be facetious with me. ‘Yes,’ I said. She believed me. ‘It is.’
Nicky noticed us, but didn’t move. He was mean-looking with broad shoulders, fat hands and a paunch. Jack had a nervous twitch; he looked at me quickly, then looked away, as if I wasn’t worth it and he hadn’t looked in the first place. He had long greasy hair, and a shadow of hair on his top lip. Sadie carried on looking beautiful. All the farmers gave her sly glances, and then leered at each other. She held her arms across her chest. She looked at me.
I’d had a bath before coming out, and washed my hair. My army surplus clothes gave me a dangerous, angry air; sitting with a witch gave me some mystery. More important, I’d shaved. This gave my face a bone-white sheen. My pores were closed.
I smiled at Sadie. She sipped her drink and then ran her fingers through her hair. Her eyes widened for a moment, and I thought she made a move towards me, but she turned back to Nicky and I heard him say - about his car (a Capri) - ‘It’s got Macpherson struts. Smooth as silk. It’s a bloody miracle.’
5
The sheep coughed again that night, and were joined by the wind as it whined through the forest. Marjorie had lent me an Observer’s Book of Trees.
‘Those are sitkas,’ she’d pointed out. ‘But there are Scots pine, larches and birches too.’
All the trees looked roughly the same to me, but I wanted to educate myself while I was there. I read in bed.
‘Bristle cone pines in the Arizona deserts live as much as 4000 years…’
‘…this process, called photosynthesis, can only occur with the aid of the marvellous chemical substance called chlorophyll.’
The book was perfect for carrying in the pocket.
When I’d read about sitka spruces ‘every needle has a sharp point. This makes
sitka unacceptable as a Christmas tree’, I turned the light out and waited for a thought to occupy me for an hour before I fell asleep.
I sneaked off to walk in the forest with the Book of Trees. I’d spent the morning cutting dead wood out of apple trees in the orchard. The sheep stood and watched me, but were very nervous. I tried to soothe them by talking, but they didn’t listen.
I hopped over the fence that bordered the far edge of the orchard, and followed a line of trees until I reached a track. I followed this down a hill and found myself in a hollow.
The ground was soft and springy, the peace framed by the gentle swish of the trees’ top branches. One or two birds screeched alarmingly; I walked out of the hollow. The track narrowed and passed through a rough coppice.
Beyond this, a small area of cleared ground had been planted with saplings. Each was marked with a white stick, and protected by a plastic bag. Suddenly, two RAF jet fighters appeared from nowhere and swung across the horizon, dipping their wings and dropping quick dark shadows across the plantation. Then they were gone and I was alone again. I turned back into the forest.
I headed towards a hill planted with taller, greener trees than the rest. They were easy to identify as Scots pine. ‘A reliable tree’. As I headed back the way I’d come, but taking a different route when I reached the turning back to Marjorie’s, I enjoyed the tangy air, and picked up a pine cone. It was fresh. I put it in my pocket.
I got a good sense of smell from my dad. He never said he wanted to live anywhere but town, yet he loved the country for the memories it had given him. Mum had a green vision of England too, connected to an idea of plenty of food - eggs, milk, cheese, fresh meat and home-made bread. She could do wonders with a pint of water, three turnips and an onion, and cultivated a window-box until cats got at it.
I was sitting beneath one of the Scots pines, watching a lane a mile away. There was a farm between the trees and the lane. Some sheep were grazing the field beyond the edge of the forest. Someone came from the farm, whistled for a dog and began to head towards the sheep. The sun was setting.
The trees faded as the light faded, so those I could focus on two hundred yards away began to blur and then merge into closer ones. The brightest patches of sky turned pink. I stood up and began to walk back the way I’d come.
I’d been going for ten minutes when I realised I was lost. I found myself on a path bordered by tall shrubs with glossy green leaves. It was muddy and after a few turns in the path I couldn’t work out if I was heading in the right direction. The ground rose and I walked into a small grove of scrubby trees.
I was trying to be sensible and keep calm when I heard a dog barking behind me. The light was fading very quickly; I retraced my steps, hurrying through the glossy shrubs. My rubber boots kept my feet dry, but my legs were tired. Suddenly the dog appeared and was rushing me when a voice yelled, ‘Rusty!’
The dog stopped in its tracks but didn’t take its eyes off me. It lay down and guarded me like a sheep until Sadie came around the corner and said, ‘Stay!’
‘All right?’ I said, calmly.
‘Yeah. You?’
‘I was. I’m a bit lost though, I think.’
‘A bit?’
‘Only in this wood. I’m OK otherwise.’
She thought that was funny. She was fascinated to learn that Marjorie had someone helping her. ‘No one from round here would go anywhere near her.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t mind her. Everyone needs a bogeyman.’
‘She’s not mine.’
‘Nor mine.’
She wasn’t spooked by the darkening forest or me; I kept close to her. I didn’t like the feel of the trees but liked the sound of her footsteps on the needles on the path. When it was wide enough for us to walk side by side we did.
She remembered me from the pub. When I asked her about her boyfriend Nicky she said, ‘I suppose you could call him that. I’ve known him all my life. He likes to think he owns me already.’
‘Already?’
‘Everyone says we’re the perfect couple.’
‘Who’s everyone?’ I said.
She didn’t say anything, but looked sadly at the ground.
Why was Sadie confiding in me? I have an open, honest face. She had confidence in the woods, but I didn’t get mine back until we reached the road. I didn’t recognise it. ‘You’re just down there,’ she said, pointing. She had slim, delicate fingers.
We walked another half-mile before we reached the lodge. We watched Marjorie through an uncurtained window. She said, ‘I’ve got to get back.’ She had milking to do, calves to feed and bales of hay to carry to a barn in a field of sheep.
‘I’ll see you again,’ I said.
‘Maybe,’ she said, meaning ‘Good’. I could see it in her eyes.
‘Maybe?’
‘I don’t get much time off.’
‘Make time.’
‘Make time…’ she said.
‘Yes. Treat yourself…’
We were standing a couple of feet apart. ‘Treat myself?’ She moved towards me, reached out and touched my hair. ‘You need a trim.’
‘No, I don’t.’
She looked at it. ‘You’ve got a streak of red in it.’
I reached up and touched her hand. ‘It’s always been like that,’ I said.
She laughed. Rusty barked and jumped up at her. She stepped back and brushed her clothes down. ‘He gets jealous,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘He’s a good dog though, aren’t you?’ She patted his head, like she’d done with me.
‘My mum had a bull terrier.’
‘They’re all right.’
As she walked away, I thought she looked bored, and that there was nothing worse than feeling trapped. Since leaving school, she’d worked on her parents’ farm. She had green eyes. Marjorie opened the window and called, ‘Gregory?’
‘Hello, Marjorie!’
After supper, I did the washing-up and confirmed to her that she was a witch. ‘Sadie told me no one round here would go anywhere near you. You scare them.’
‘Them?’
‘Yes.’
She laughed and told me to be careful with Sadie. A boy she’d really liked had been beaten up by Nicky and Jack.
‘Sod them,’ I said.
‘They know all about sodomy.’ She stoked the Rayburn. ‘Buggery, sodomy,’ she said. ‘They went to private schools.’ She told me which ones. They were in the West Country.
I told Marjorie the name of my school. She told me the name of hers, and for a while, reminisced about it.
6
When I was at school I was kicked in by a boy (Derek) who thought I’d kissed Sandra Wilkins the librarian’s daughter. She had red hair and big lips. She lived away from the estate, but the librarian voted Labour and insisted that they live like everyone else (except in a bigger house).
Sandra had seen books you had to ask for in writing if you wanted to borrow them; she passed me a note in class. It read, ‘I’ve got the book. Meet me after. Love Sandra.’
The book was called Love and Teenagers.
After we’d read enough she said, ‘Give me sixpence and I’ll show you my knickers.’ She hitched up her skirt and showed me her knees for nothing. They had little spots of blood on them.
‘I haven’t got sixpence,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘I’ve got thruppence.’
‘Is that all? Thruppence?’
‘Yes.’
I watched her think about it for a while before she decided to show them to me for thruppence.
She lifted her skirt as Derek lurched around the corner and caught us. He’d seen Sandra’s bottom, and was upset to see me there. I was eight, he was ten. I lived in a terrace, he lived in a semi, Sandra lived in a detached. She had fat thighs. He had big fists. I got a black eye. I told Mum I’d fallen over in the classroom and banged against a d
esk. Dad agreed that it was a shiner; I wore it like a badge. Sandra, proud that I had been hurt for her, told her friends I was a hero, took her clothes off for me, and said Derek had a prick no bigger than a fag end.
Colonel Hilary Franklyn drove a twenty-eight-year-old black Rover 95. He parked it in front of the lodge and when the smoke had cleared, climbed out. He spotted me immediately. I was mending a fence, but stopped to say hello. He said, ‘At ease.’
‘Morning,’ I said.
He walked with a stick. He had an acute limp, a red nose, a pipe in his mouth and a bald head.
‘You’ll be the chap who’s mucking in with Marjorie.’ He took his pipe out and pointed at the fence with it. ‘It’s high time someone straightened the old place out.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You look just the ticket.’
‘I’ m—’
‘Good show!’ He patted me on the shoulder, said, ‘Carry on,’ patted his chest and went to see Marjorie.
I joined them an hour later. They were playing cards on the kitchen table, but didn’t offer to deal me in. I had a cup of tea instead. They’d opened a bottle of whisky.
Marjorie laid her cards down and introduced us. The Colonel was down twenty matches, and not in the mood for small talk, but this was normal. ‘She’s giving me a run for my money,’ he said.
‘If it was money,’ she said, ‘I would be giving you a run. But matches…’ She waved at them. ‘I’m just fooling, really. Playing.’
‘See what I mean?’ The Colonel looked at me. ‘She’s playing with me! She thinks I’m a child!’
She smiled, fiddling with some matches.
I wasn’t any help, so I drank my tea and left them to it.
Marjorie had given me a special tool for stretching wire tight, but it was rusted. I improvised with an iron bar, and made sure that all the posts were upright. The weather was cloudy, with sunny intervals. When I hammered the staples, the noise echoed through the forest and startled some birds that had been watching.
