A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  Lucy felt the sodden ground leech into her trainers, but other things were now more important than wet feet and the few scratches which had spoilt the Rav’s blue metallic paint. Namely Ravenstone Hall. It was evident from the building’s lichen-covered stone to the crumbling window sills that the place had been neglected and unloved for years. Equally, a palpable aura of sadness clung to it despite the presence of a huge copper beech tree whose colourful crown nudged against its end wall. Here also a rusted truck and a battered old Renault van were parked together near a wheelie bin, camouflaged by a premature fall of golden leaves from above.

  That wasn’t all, because as she stared at the row of stained steps leading to the Hall’s main door, a tall good-looking young man appeared from beyond the beech tree, his two red clay hands dangling at his sides and both knees of his jeans stained the same colour. Without any word of greeting, he fixed her with a brooding stare, while every nuance of his body language spelt out “You, trespasser. Get lost.”

  ‘Hi,’ she began, despite her nerves kicking in, as an older greyer man tottered with the aid of a stick down the Hall’s steps. Either he was disabled, she thought, or had been hitting the bottle big time. Her instinct was to go and help him, but the dark stranger now stood firmly in her way. ‘I’m Lucy Mitchell,’ she volunteered brightly, already judging how far she was from her car and a possible escape. ‘Has the estate agent arrived yet?’

  ‘He’s coming straight from Cae Harris and the river’s flooded up by Gaufron,’ said the other man whom she assumed must be the ex-copper, in his late fifties. He gripped the end of the iron balustrade and announced, ‘I’m Hector Jones, and this is my son Mark. I must say, young lady, I’m damned pleased to see you. Now then,’ he moved forwards and tapped his son with the stick on his wet shoulder. ‘What did I tell you, eh? Get that bloody muck off your hands and leave us be.’

  ‘He won’t be coming.’

  ‘Who won’t?’

  ‘Griffiths. I told him Wern Goch was off the market. Didn’t want to waste his time, see.’

  She looked from one man to the other as her stomach turned over. She’d been in dodgy pubs before now and knew a bad atmosphere when she saw one.

  ‘Indoors you and no messing.’ Hector Jones ordered, his unshaven face the colour of the sky, every inch of his long-abandoned body trembling. With a backward glance at her, Mark advanced towards his father and prodded a muddy finger into his chest, leaving a noticeable smear on his already shabby donkey jacket.

  ‘I’ve got a witness. Miss Mitchell,’ he pointed at her. ‘Wern Goch is not for fucking sale.’ With that he disappeared round the side of the Hall and, in the ensuing silence she recognised that same weird croaking sound which she’d heard on the phone only yesterday.

  ‘Corax . . . corax . . . corax . . .’

  She looked towards the old beech tree and realised that the soil underneath matched that on the son’s hands and knees. Something very odd was going on, yet she felt as if an unseen force was drawing her inexorably into these two people’s lives. People she’d only known for a matter of minutes. Was this to be her new start? The place of her renaissance? She hardly thought so now . . .

  ‘Ravens,’ the man suddenly interrupted her thoughts. ‘Damned things. For a start, they shit everywhere. He encourages them, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mark.’

  ‘Is that why this Hall’s called Ravenstone?’

  ‘Ten out of ten to you, my dear. Right,’ he eased himself away from his support and without further ado, took her arm. His sudden weight nearly made her topple over. ‘Let’s go.’ Together this unlikely couple reached the point where the hardcore ended and the muddy track began. Hector Jones looked at her trainers and tutted. ‘Didn’t that Griffith idiot tell you to bring boots?’

  She cursed inwardly that she’d forgotten that particular suggestion, aware that all the while they were being watched from the Hall.

  ‘I just forgot. It was such a rush getting away . . .’

  ‘Getting away?’

  ‘I mean, getting a car, all my gear organised.’ She glanced sideways at her companion who, although clearly the worse for wear and reeking of gin, wasn’t stupid. He kept his head lowered, taking care not to slip on any of the loose stones partially hidden under the mud. ‘Look, Mr Jones,’ she paused, blocking his way, reluctant to go any further without some questions answered. ‘Mark obviously doesn’t want you to sell Wern Goch. He could make things difficult, surely?’

  ‘The Deeds are in my name, not his. Besides, I don’t intend starving in my old age.’

  Or dying of thirst, she thought, smelling his breath.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said suddenly, looking at her out of the corner of a liverish eye. ‘But let me tell you, he’s all mouth and no trousers that one. Harmless as a puppy. Just so long as he can dream, he’s happy.’

  ‘We all need to do that,’ she said with feeling.

  ‘Indeed we do.’ Then Hector Jones looked away. It was clearly time for a change of subject. ‘So, you want to grow organic fruit and veg here? That’s what Griffiths said.’

  ‘I’d give it a try, anyhow,’ she replied. Except that as she scoured the bleak surroundings and saw how the land sloped down to a lake of standing water she realised this was more like cloud-cuckoo land. Barbara Mitchell was right again. And what would her father be saying? She dared not think. ‘Would there be someone round here to help me sort things out?’ she asked finally.

  ‘No problem. Lots of folks I know’d be glad of some extra cash in their pockets.’

  She remembered the tiny run-down cottages along the first track she’d taken off the A44. The collapsed barns and piles of corrugated junk. What was she to believe? The teacher’s warning words or his?

  ‘Is that the truth, Mr Jones?’

  ‘I am an ex-copper you know. In my book, lies are like moles. They hide for a while then up they pop and God help you. Get my meaning? Which is why nothing’s been tarted up here. What you see is what you get.’

  Indeed it seemed so.

  The rain slowed up and the smell of lanolin from the sheep hung in the air. There were hordes of them, not taking the slightest bit of notice as she and the drunk progressed downhill. This lot didn’t resemble the creatures she’d once pored over in Magical Tales – white and fluffy with cute black noses. These were ugly. Brown-faced with larger than usual ears and where they’d been scouring beneath their tails, the fleece hung black and reeking. What had RS Thomas written about the fluke, the foot-rot and the fat maggot being too far to see? Here, reality was far too close.

  She stopped again to consult the land plan and frowned. So where was the actual boundary to the three acres? Because up to now, there was no demarcation visible, never mind the house itself.

  ‘I can’t see any fencing,’ she peered ahead into the gloomy afternoon.

  ‘You’d have to put it in.’

  Her heart sank, and not for the first time that day.

  ‘That’ll cost an arm and a leg. Why didn’t these particulars say none existed?’

  ‘Wood is everywhere,’ Hector Jones let go of her arm to wave his stick at their surroundings. ‘Anyway, Mark can knock you up posts and pig wire in an afternoon.’

  Doubts about the whole project were multiplying apace, but asking Hector Jones’s surly son for help wouldn’t be her priority. ‘So, where’s Wern Goch?’ her finger rested on the Hall’s familiar oblong on the map. ‘It should be here.’

  ‘It is. Follow me.’

  She let him slither and slide ahead of her until the watery track which they were on opened out into sheer mud which in turn led down to a clot of red-brown mire upon which stood a tiny tumbledown house. She held her breath as she registered the glassless windows, the decrepit roof and how the building was totally dwarfed by its surroundings. Her one wish was slipping away . . .

  ‘My God. Is that it?’ she gasped.

  ‘A gem and a bargain, all
rolled into one.’

  She felt her already queasy stomach take a wrong turn inside her. This was nothing like the photographs which had shown a normal-sized dwelling. She stood stock still for a moment, her thoughts awash with the nearby sounds of running water, then she showed Hector Jones the agent’s pictures.

  ‘That Lloyd Griffiths is a bloody liar,’ she said, as tears welled up. ‘This is more like a doll’s house.’ She crumpled the offending sheets into a ball and hurled it into the air, whereupon it fell into the mulch. ‘What did the couple from Birmingham say about it?’

  ‘They’re keen. Mentioned getting planning for an extension. Main thing though was somewhere for the kid to have a pony. Never mind one, I told them. They could have ten here.’

  ‘Have they made you an offer yet?’

  Hector nodded and, although at the moment, this was the last place she’d consider, she nevertheless sensed a stab of disappointment.

  ‘Fifty. Ten over the asking.’

  ‘Fifty? You’re joking!’

  ‘Honest to God I’m not. Anything with land’s on the up and up. I’m frigging giving this away at forty, excuse my language.’

  She turned in the direction of the running water and saw spray leave the nearby bank in a silver arc and add itself to the rising pool in which both she and Hector Jones were standing.

  ‘Surely it all needs draining. I mean, the whole lot’ll be under water if this keeps up.’

  ‘Bad summer, that’s all. Usually dry as a camel’s arse, believe me.’ The former policeman waded towards the old barn, using his stick to prod for hidden stones. ‘And here’s some perfect storage space.’

  She followed, her mind in turmoil. Was the house too small or wasn’t it? Maybe it could be quite snug, she thought, as long as there was room enough for a spare bed. At least it would be cheaper to heat than some rambling pile. At least it was suitably old.

  Soon all cautionary thoughts on the costs of new pipework and reroofing were sabotaged by the notion that with goodwill and determination it all might just work, and this imagined scenario propelled her onwards with a growing sense of inevitable loss. Why should someone else enjoy the peacefulness of this spot? The closeness to real nature? Why shouldn’t she, after all she’d gone through? And the more she dwelt upon this nameless faceless couple from the Midlands and their offer, the more possessive of Wern Goch she grew.

  Hector Jones pushed open the barn’s old stable door into a dank darkness – a distillation of wildlife smells and rotting organic matter, where ancient farm machinery and layer upon layer of iron wheels lay against its sagging walls. Heaps of sacking and empty feed bags vied with every kind of detritus imaginable. There was scarcely room to move.

  ‘Will all this be cleared if I decide to go ahead?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Because it could be an ideal area for seedlings.’

  ‘So what are you offering me?’

  ‘Hey, I’ve not seen inside the house yet.’

  ‘Suivez-moi.’

  Out of the barn where the curtain of indigo cloud had finally parted to reveal a shaft of iridescent brightness, Hector Jones stumbled towards the scullery door and let her enter first.

  She gasped again. That barn was like the Ritz next to this squalor. There wasn’t one level flagstone or one dry wall and she stubbed her toe several times as she went over to the one kitchen window, under which lay a crude granite block perched on two large stones. It not only exuded the smell of stale liver, but also bore what could be fresh bloodstains. Added to this was an inexplicably overpowering malevolence. A housefly landed on her hair, then another. She swiped them both away, whereupon they promptly settled on the stone.

  ‘What on earth’s that thing?’ she asked, pointing at it yet at the same time recoiling from the growing smell.

  ‘A salting slab. Where the meat used to be preserved.’ Hector replied from the doorway deliberately keeping his distance.

  ‘What meat?’

  ‘Pork mostly. My folks kept a few pigs around the place and every Easter, Bryn Evans’s father would bring his knife for the slaughter. Clean but slow. Quite a performance.’

  ‘So what’s this blood doing here now? I mean, it’s foul.’

  Hector stepped forwards then stopped in his tracks when he saw the stains. A hand went to his head in despair. ‘I told him to clean up here. He promised.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Yes. He’s been tending an injured bird. Look,’ he dipped a finger into a patch of dark liquid and sniffed it.

  ‘No thanks.’ She shivered before moving towards the inglenook and its old hobs and bread oven, blackened by age and a million flames. She fingered the dusty iron cauldron suspended from a rugged beam over where the original fire must have been and found herself wondering who else had lived in the house, died here . . .

  She peered into the vessel’s mysterious heart and saw a night with no stars.

  ‘They say never buy where people have been poor or unhappy,’ she announced, making her way to the one glazed window at the front which had a northerly aspect overlooking the marsh.

  Hector snorted his contempt.

  ‘That would mean a lot of empty houses, now, wouldn’t it? No, this place hasn’t been lived in since the Hall was built and even when a certain Frau Muller took it all over just before the end of the last war.’

  ‘Muller?’ Lucy frowned as she repeated it. The name rang a faint bell from somewhere.

  ‘Was she German, then?’

  ‘Yes. And I don’t think she ever bothered putting furniture in here, mind. Probably too busy. She was into all kinds of things, so I heard. Philology – especially the Celtic language, oh, and ravens. Which explains her renaming the Hall.’

  ‘What name did she give it?’

  ‘Rabenstein.’

  ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘The locals thought so too. In fact they didn’t like it. Apparently it means – and I quote – the old stone gibbet of Germany, so called from the ravens, damned souls which were wont to perch on it . . .’

  ‘Ugh.’ She shivered again. ‘So, what became of her? Did she ever return to Germany?’

  Hector Jones hesitated, his red hand rubbing his rough chin.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. Something truly terrible happened. Right out of the blue.’ He turned to her. ‘I really don’t want to put you off any more . . .’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘Well, she was shot, then left for the birds to eat.’

  Lucy gulped. ‘That’s totally disgusting. Where? In here?’

  ‘Up by the ruined Abbey over there.’ He pointed in a vague easterly direction. ‘Bryn Evans’s grandfather was part of a local militia. A Dad’s Army kind of outfit. Anyone with a German name round here fell under suspicion and although there was no proof, to them she was a traitor.’

  ‘Poor woman. So no refuge for her, then?’

  ‘She wasn’t the only one in this county. Zealous lot, those bunion breeders. Trouble is, give a man a gun and a uniform . . .’

  ‘But you were a policeman? Lloyd Griffiths told me.’

  ‘I was indeed.’ Then Hector asked in a darker tone, ‘what else did he say?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  She drew aside the rag which passed for a curtain and saw the woodworm damage to the window frame and its sill. Orange dust trickled from every tiny hole.

  ‘Go upstairs if you like,’ he said, clearly glad of a diversion.

  But on reaching the top step, her heart seemed to sink inside her chest. Here was worse. A real and tangible melancholy where layers of floral wallpapers scrolled from the two bedrooms’ walls leaving patches of soot-black plaster from which sprouted clusters of fungi. Where a grate set in a once pretty fireplace lay stuffed with twigs and assorted feathers.

  ‘Any bathroom?’ she called out from the landing.

  ‘Bucket and chuck it. Always has been, though God knows where . . .’

  She laughed and the sound seemed almost sac
rilegious. Yet she couldn’t stop till she noted Hector looking anxiously towards the Hall as if something was bugging him. Then she remembered Mark.

  ‘We’d better go,’ he said. ‘Talk on the way back, eh?’

  The old stairs sighed under each of her descending steps and soon she was heading outside, convinced that the smell of stale blood still followed her. By the time she and Hector Jones had re-convened by the scullery door, the sun’s brightness had widened and lengthened to cast the house’s old bricks, the rotten wood and fractured guttering in a haunting uneasy glow.

  Suddenly, as he shielded his eyes, a body of ravens lifted from the alders by the river Mellte and drew nearer, hovering for a moment before encircling the one chimney until perching in an ominous row above the scullery door. Unkindness came to mind. The collective noun for these birds which she’d read in a recent Hellebore book. Now that and the rest of the literary world – in fact any world – seemed aeons away. Even Anna.

  ‘See. This is what he does.’ Hector interrupted her thoughts with a mood change. ‘Encourages the fuckers. Normally they’re solitary, but not this lot. Oh no. This a bloody war cabinet.’ He bent down to pick up a wet stone and none too steadily positioned himself to throw it at them. However, she put a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, unnerved by his words, wary of their stillness, their intense gaze. ‘I think they’re here for a reason.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Another voice sabotaged Hector’s planned riposte. She spun round and heard the intended stone drop into the mud, whereupon Mark Jones raised both freshly washed hands in the air. He then made a strange but familiar noise in his throat, whereupon all the ravens left their perches and briefly touched his fingertips with their beaks before winging away once more towards the river. His smile was the strangest she had ever seen. A mixture of triumph and sadness. But now wasn’t the time to quiz him about this or the blood-red email and the weird croaking phone call to Hellebore just before she’d walked out of her job. For who else could it have been? And for God’s sake, why?

  ‘I told you to stay out of the way,’ barked Hector to his son. ‘this is my business with Miss Mitchell.’