The Making of Gabriel Davenport

by Beverley Lee

  ‘Thanks, Alan,’ he replied out of politeness. In his head, he wondered how Alan had come to be such a little ray of sunshine.

  Stu called the lift and joined three other people with their heads bowed, studying the flickering screens of their phones. This was one day where leaving the rat race and becoming a bee keeper seemed incredibly appealing.

  He had every intention of getting in the car and attempting the journey—until the view from the lobby stopped him in his tracks. It was snowing so heavily, he could barely see to the other side of the road.

  Chapter Eight

  Nothing tasted like freedom. But freedom laced with the sting of failure was a bitter pill to swallow. Wheeling and racing like a flock of birds at dusk, the box demon vented its frustration at anything in its path. A patch of orchard, protected by the side of a barn, lay scorched and broken in the snow. A tractor overturned in a ditch. A small pony huddled by a hedge for shelter sent careering off into belly-deep snow. It stood, wide eyed and sweating, its off side hind leg dangling uselessly. Birds watched from the safety of their roosts in nooks of trees and eaves, crawling creatures remained motionless in the undergrowth.

  For decades, it had waited—incarcerated inside the box—waiting for a man such as Stu Davenport. The child had almost been its host. It had got so close it had tasted the flesh and blood, the innocence waiting to be tainted. Too many years had passed since it had been in control of a bone-filled vessel. Too many years since it had used that vessel for its own needs.

  The priest would pay for his interruption. But for now, it had to rest.

  Curled up, blackly, in the hollow of an oak tree, it seethed and devoured its hate.

  Chapter Nine

  The sound of a baby crying pulled Noah from a fitful sleep. Childhood nightmares had haunted his dreams. The memory of his father sweeping the contents of the altar table to the floor. The rolling clink of metal hitting metal. The smell of dust and beeswax as Noah huddled behind a pew, too frightened to move. A metallic taste clung to the roof of his mouth as he opened his eyes. The crying notched up another level and he raised himself from the chair where he’d slept, his back aching in protest. Gabriel was wide awake. Beth, still in the same position Noah had left her in, seemed soundly asleep.

  Early morning sunlight pierced through the kitchen window. Noah glanced at the clock. 8.55 a.m. Gabriel had woken once in the night and taken half a bottle before drifting back off. Thank God Beth had left some in the fridge, although Noah thought even he could follow the instructions on the formula drum.

  The sun bounced off the snow’s surface, making him wince at its ferocity. A glacier-blue sky smiled down, as though yesterday’s blizzard had been a momentary lapse. Looking towards the road, he could make out the trench he had pushed through last night. New snow softened the scarred edges of his struggles. A robin perched on the lower branches of the apple tree, waiting for anything that might be willing to surface.

  He put the bottle inside the microwave, ignoring his reflection mirrored in the glass door. God, he could use a cigarette—even though he’d given up five years ago. The microwave pinged and he retrieved the bottle, shaking it as Gabriel’s voice went into overdrive. There didn’t seem anything wrong with him, but Beth, she was a cause for concern. Something spooked the robin and Noah paused mid shake—somewhere on the lane came the lumbering sound of heavy wheels.

  He ran into the living room and scooped Gabriel out of his pram. He was bright red from crying, but hungry enough to settle as soon as the bottle teat hit his lips. He was also soaking wet. Noah hadn’t thought much about nappies.

  The noise outside became louder, a definite chugging of a diesel engine. Relief flooded his limbs. With Gabriel still sucking noisily, he unbolted the door. He tried to compose himself, but all he wanted to do was jump up and down with elation.

  An icy chill met his face as he swung the door open. Across the top of the hedges, puffs of black smoke curled up, into the air. For a few seconds, his breath caught in his throat. Then, he realised the smoke was coming from a tractor stack. The loud chug from the diesel engine split through the silence of the snow-capped morning, but Noah thought he had never heard such a sweet sound. He waited until the top of the cab came into view, and started waving furiously.

  ***

  Tom Jacobson hadn’t wanted to get out of bed that morning. It had been unusually warm and comfortable under the covers. Downstairs in the kitchen, his wife, Betty, made the usual morning sounds. Soon, the smell of bacon would drift up the stairs and tempt him to move.

  He was a fourth generation farmer, but the getting up early gene had passed him by. His great grandfather had purchased the farm, keeping beef cattle and a small flock of sheep. His father had diversified and swung to arable, which Tom had inherited, but Tom had bought a small herd of Gloucester Old Spots because he liked pigs. Now, he was nearing sixty and everything got that bit harder each year. When Betty had suggested they renovate the old cow barn and turn it into a farm café selling jams she made in the kitchen, he had jumped at the chance. His great-grandfather would probably turn in his grave, but Tom had every intention of being around for a few years yet.

  ‘Thomas Jacobson! Get yourself down here and eat this before you go out and clear that lane!’ Betty’s use of his full name meant there was no room for compromise.

  As if on cue, the aroma of bacon filtered upstairs. Grumbling, Tom swung out of bed and eased himself into thick clothes.

  In the kitchen, Betty dried her hands on a tea towel, and then set down a hearty sandwich and a large mug of tea. She was a small woman with long, grey hair, roughly plaited. They had married over forty years ago, and Tom loved her as much now as he did then. She had never let him leave the house without breakfast in all of their married years.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the bald spot on the top of his head. ‘It’s neighbourly to clear the lane. You know we’ll be waiting till next Christmas for a snow plough. They divert them all to Lower Grassendon, where the councillors live.’ She wrinkled her nose in disgust. She had no love for county politics after the run-in they’d had trying to convert the barn.

  An hour later, Tom sat in his tractor cab, turning left onto the lane and into the village. Only a few houses dotted the sides, the main hub of rural life being at the other side of the river. A couple of new housing developments had swelled the head count to nearly three thousand. Tom could remember when it was below five hundred, but that was back in the days when the river would burst its banks during any prolonged rainfall.

  Meadowford Bridge was an odd little village, nestled atop the slope of a hill range, which made its roads steep in places. When he was a boy, Tom’s father had told him the sheep all had two legs shorter on one side from grazing the hills. He surveyed the countryside from his viewpoint, smiling at the remembrance; it was a grand day to be out, even with the cold.

  The tractor made easy work of the deep snow, and it cut through the white powder like a knife through soft icing. Occasionally, it hit a frozen mound where the wind had blasted across the fields. Tom pulled his scarf over his mouth and hummed. At least he was sure he wouldn’t meet anything coming the other way. Not like in summer, when the tourists glowered up at him for daring to be on the road during their holiday time.

  The thatched roof of the neighbouring farmhouse came into view as he swung around the bend. It had been the old dairy farm when his grandfather had been alive. Tom remembered helping with the milking as a small boy and drinking milk straight from the churn, scooped out by a metal jug. There was none of that pasteurisation nonsense then. And he wasn’t dead yet.

  The farmhouse was still a pretty building. The new couple from the city hadn’t ruined it by adding modern bits and bobs. Yet. His eyes ran over the snow-covered thatch and wide windows. He felt a sudden pang for the people he had known in those halcyon days of never-ending summers. But it was chased away in an instant.

  In the doorway, someone was waving frantica
lly at him with a red-checked tea towel.

  Chapter Ten

  Noah and Tom stood in Beth’s farmhouse kitchen drinking mugs of strong, hot tea.

  ‘I never had you down as being particularly techie, Tom, but thank God you had your phone.’

  Tom raised a bushy eyebrow and looked at Noah through the steam hovering over his tea.

  Noah made a mental note to try and cut down on his less-than-perfect language.

  ‘Betty wouldn’t let me out of the house without it. What would you do if you ended up in a ditch, she says. I say that I’d dust myself off and walk home like I’ve always done, but you know women...’ He tailed off, and Noah hid a smile. Older people didn’t know how to talk about priests and women in the same breath.

  Noah glanced out towards the window as heavy machinery sounded down the lane. He squinted against the low sun. ‘Well, would you believe it? It’s a snow plough. Better late than never.’

  ‘That will be Betty’s doing. She’s got a hotline to that councillor woman. They have run-ins at least three times a year over something or other. I think they both enjoy it.’ Tom’s wife had gone up in Noah’s estimation since Tom had made his first phone call home. On hearing that a mother and baby were in trouble, she had been at the door in less than twenty minutes, bundled up in a blue parka and an Icelandic-style blue-and-grey hat with woollen plaits—a Christmas present from one of her granddaughters.

  Gabriel was swooped up, changed and fed, and then Betty had left him with the two men whilst she gathered extra clothes and toys from the nursery in case she had to take charge of him. But Beth worried her the most. Noah had left out the details of the phantom smoke and said he had found her in the doorway.

  ‘I’ve rung Doctor Hardcastle and explained,’ she said, packing Gabriel’s formula and a few jars of baby food from the cupboard. ‘Beth doesn’t seem to be physically hurt, but he asked if I could run her down to the surgery in about an hour. That’s why I got right on to Joanne Daley about clearing the lane.’ She swung Gabriel expertly onto one hip and he grabbed for one of the plaits, stuffing it into his mouth.

  ‘I’ll get this little boy checked out, too, whilst I’m there.’ She wiped the drool from Gabriel’s chin and he buried his head into her coat. ‘Can one of you men find Beth’s car keys and get the car seat out? Once you’ve finished your tea, of course.’

  Noah smiled to himself as Tom gulped down the last dregs. That last comment from his wife was a definite command.

  ***

  Noah found Beth’s car keys in her bag, by the side of the bed. He also found Stu’s business card in the back of her wallet and decided to ring the main office number first. In minutes, he had got through to SK International. A man named Alan answered the extension Noah asked for.

  ‘Sorry, he’s not here. You can try him on his mobile, but he’s driving home.’ Alan offered. ‘I hope there isn’t anything wrong?’ His tone suggested that if there was he would grab it with both hands and spread it around the office before the phone went cold.

  Noah decided to err on the side of caution. He was going to ask Alan to get Stu to ring back in case he didn’t answer unknown numbers, but Betty was having no such nonsense. She took charge of the mobile and confirmed Stu’s number in less than ten seconds. Noah almost felt sorry for Alan; the woman was a true force of nature.

  After Beth and Gabriel had been loaded into Betty’s estate car and Tom had cleared the gateway with his tractor, Noah found himself alone in the house. Betty had left her phone and strict instructions to stay put and told him that she would call later.

  The strange stillness of an unfamiliar house pressed against him. Noah’s ears were fine-tuned to each rattle and creak. From upstairs, a clock ticked far too loudly. The fridge and freezer clinked and whirred and the tap dripped slowly in the kitchen sink. He found his thoughts wandering back to the events of last night. They seemed unreal.

  He tried to put comforting words together in his head before he rang Stu’s number. Trying to find the right balance of truth and reassurance, he clutched Betty’s phone as he paced the living room, mentally rehearsing. A tuft of orange fur caught his eye under the chair where he’d spent the night. He bent down to pick it up. It was half of a toy lion—the tail end—and the head was nowhere to be seen. Noah’s mouth dried up. As much as he wanted to categorise what had happened last night into a neat little pigeon hole, he knew something beyond his scope of understanding had occurred. No sane explanation existed.

  He pressed the green dial button.

  Stu answered after three rings, his voice formal and slightly cold. The buzz of traffic sounded in the background.

  ‘Mr Davenport. It’s Noah Isaacs here from St Jude’s in Meadowford Bridge.’ He wondered if Stu even knew the name of his local church. ‘I’m at your house. Beth’s not well, but she’s on her way to the doctor as we speak. Please don’t worry. Her phone isn’t working and I’ve only just got your number.’

  ‘What happened? Is Gabriel okay?’ He had Stu’s full attention now.

  ‘Yes, Gabriel is fine. Betty Jacobson has him. He’s in good hands.’

  Stu swore under his breath. A blare from a car horn bore into Noah’s ear.

  ‘Sorry....Reverend...the roads are hell.’ Noah imagined his hands tight on the steering wheel. ‘Is Beth hurt? Damn it, I knew I should have tried to make it home yesterday!’

  ‘Please don’t blame yourself.’ He wanted to add that even if Stu had got home, there was nothing he could have done to prevent Beth’s condition. It wasn’t in any medical dictionary.

  ‘I’ll be home in about two hours, if the roads give me a break. Tell Beth...’

  There was a sudden terrible sound of screeching brakes. A horrible, ear-piercing cry, and the heavy crunch of metal. The phone in Noah’s hand went dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Noah sat in the formal study of Meadowford House, which had the distinction of being the oldest house in Meadowford Bridge. No one from around here ever called it by the name engraved in stone by its grand door—it was, simply, The Manor.

  He felt as if he had aged ten years in one day. Had it been fewer than twenty-four hours since he had trudged up the hill in the snow?

  A knock at the door interrupted Noah’s thoughts, and before he could say anything, the door swung open and a plump woman with red cheeks and a shock of pinned-up, grey curls entered, carrying a tray. Ella Rodgers smiled and set it down on the desk.

  ‘Now you look as if you haven’t eaten all day, so I took it upon myself to make you a sandwich. I hope roast beef is okay. If you had arrived an hour or so earlier, you could have joined us all for dinner. Mr. Carver doesn’t get that many visitors.’ She busied herself pouring Noah tea from a china teapot and handed him a linen napkin.

  ‘Really, you shouldn’t have—’ he began but was immediately shushed.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all. I can’t have a half-starved man in the house. Where would my reputation be?’ She smiled and offered Noah sugar. ‘Mr. Carver sends his apologies. He’ll only be a few minutes. If you need anything else, just ring the bell.’ She motioned to a brass bell on the desk. It looked as if it had been stolen from a 1930’s hotel reception.

  Now, it was Noah’s turn to smile. Edward Carver hadn’t changed at all. They had met at a funeral (not one Noah was officially part of) and instantly bonded, even though Carver was older by a decade and their passions poles apart.

  Noah picked up his plate and attacked his sandwich with gusto. He wondered if he should get himself an Ella, someone who would make sure supper didn’t consist of a cheese omelette and two fingers of whisky, someone who would make sure he never came home to a dark house. It all seemed so clichéd though, a Reverend and his housekeeper. And Noah wasn’t ready to be compartmentalised, though he knew his meagre flock wanted to mould him into his predecessor.

  A voice that he recognised came from the outside hallway. Noah stood as the door flew open.

  ‘Noah! My God, man, ho
w are you? I thought your parishioners had eaten you.’ The imposing man with slightly greying hair and a short beard clapped him on the back, causing Noah to cough. Edward Carver—impeccably dressed and groomed, as always. Noah had rarely seen him out of a suit or smart jacket.

  ‘Yes, I know. I am horrible at keeping in touch.’ He grasped the man’s hand tightly. Where to start? Suddenly, his words dried up and stuck at the back of his throat with the crumbs from his sandwich. Though the two men lived only miles apart, it had been months since his last visit. And that was Noah’s fault. The invitations to supper had been numerous, but he had always made the excuse that church life kept him far too busy. But he knew the truth of it was this house and what they did here.

  Carver studied his face and the laughter died in his eyes. ‘Come through to the parlour. The fire is lit. We won’t be disturbed.’ He ushered Noah across the hallway and into a much larger room at the front of the house.

  A wry smile played on Noah’s lips. It could have come straight off the set of the latest Sherlock Holmes movie. An ornate cast iron fireplace housed a log fire, which blazed a welcome. Two wing back, green leather chairs sat at either side of the hearth, the leather shiny with age and use. Heavy, red velvet curtains screened the window, and on every surface, there seemed to be a book or stack of books. A small marble bust looked down from the mantle. Whoever it had been had a large wart on the side of his nose and Noah felt his eyes drifting back to it.

  He sat, grateful for the heat from the fire. Since last night, he’d had trouble keeping warm. A large aspidistra loomed over his right shoulder. Carver placed a crystal tumbler in Noah’s hand, half full with brandy.

  ‘I assume you still drink? And if you don’t, you do tonight. You look hellish, Noah.’

  Noah gazed into his glass, swirling the amber liquid around. He pursed his lips and a chill crawled along his spine, despite the strength of the flames.