Beneath the Boards

by David Haynes

  Stokes’s body jerked violently, sending him hurtling back into the world of the living. His eyes took a moment to focus and his brain even longer to play catch-up. He felt cool, not cold, just a little bit on the wrong side of comfortable. He stretched his back and rotated his neck. It looked suspiciously like dawn was breaking over the lake. He checked his watch. It was just after six-thirty. Had he really slept the whole night through on the recliner? In the half-light he could see dark shadows darting across the surface of the lake as the birds caught their breakfast. He knew the answers to the questions. It must have been the fresh air that sent him into such a heavy sleep. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d managed three hours unbroken rest, let alone a whole night.

  He needed a cup of tea and he cursed himself for not unpacking the box labelled ‘unpack me first’ last night. He slid off the recliner and stretched his back again. It didn’t feel as bad as he’d feared, not as stiff as it should feel anyway. He grabbed the oversized box and hauled it into the kitchen. He’d only brought two boxes with him and one contained clothes. This was the only one with anything of value in it.

  He untucked the flaps and grabbed the kettle, the milk, the tea bags and the single mug from inside. There was also a toaster, a four-pack of baked beans, a pack of butter and some bread inside. That would all come later though. Right now he needed a good strong cup of tea and then he’d see about some food.

  The cottage was no poster-boy for a modern homes magazine, but it had electricity and a grubby-looking fridge and that was just about right for Stokes. In fact he’d paid extra to keep the fridge because it looked like it might become an icon at some point in the next couple of years.

  He poured boiling water into the mug and looked across the open-plan space. It wouldn’t take much to turn it into a real stunner and in winter the wood burner would kick out enough heat to warm the place through, if he could find a source of logs. Although it might be therapeutic to chop his own logs. He pushed at the carpet with his feet and stamped down. Once the carpet was up, the floorboards, if they were still serviceable, would need sanding down and waxing. He’d done it before, it was laborious and time-consuming but so what? He had all the time in the world.

  He finished making the tea and took his mug back to the open doors. It was absolutely idyllic. Maybe he would get used to leaving doors open after all. Not just yet though. He pulled them closed.

  It was only about twenty feet to the shoreline and as a gaggle of Canada geese waddled across in front of him, he held up his mug. “Morning ladies.”

  The bird at the front of the troupe stopped and all the others followed suit, stopping in a neat line behind her. The brown and black feathers of the birds fluttered in the breeze.

  “Can I help you?” Stokes asked. Perhaps he might start throwing bread out for them now and again, they were quite appealing as long as they kept their distance.

  One by one the geese slowly turned their slender black necks and looked at him. He counted them. There were fifteen in all and they were all staring at him. Their chatter had stopped and for a moment it seemed so surreal that Stokes thought he was still dreaming. Then all hell broke out.

  The lead goose turned on the one behind and grabbed its neck, twisting it so the goose was forced down onto the sandy foreshore. The others rounded on the prone bird and started driving their beaks into it. Stokes watched open-mouthed as the bird was tossed into the air, not once but several times. Blood sprayed in a fine mist and then showered the birds, turning their feathers a deeper shade of brown. Plumage fluttered through the cool morning air like autumn leaves and fell silently onto the lake.

  The geese honked triumphantly as their fellow flock member lay dead at their webbed feet. Slowly, as one they turned their dripping beaks toward Stokes and hissed, sending an aerosol of blood toward him. He instinctively stepped back although there was no danger of it reaching him.

  What the hell was that all about? It was almost as if they wanted him to watch the carnage, as if it had been a show especially for him. They turned away as one and waddled off along the shoreline and out of view. Stokes grimaced. Was it some sort of territory thing? Or perhaps a show of strength? Whatever it was, ‘hideous’ came close to describing it. The dead bird’s blood, what was left of it, leaked slowly into the water and spread across the lake like an oil slick.

  He looked down at the bird. A fox would probably come along and take care of it and if it didn’t then he’d just have to go down and push it into the lake. It was just a natural incident and things like that probably happened all the time, he’d just never lived out in the sticks before. Nevertheless his heart was beating a lot quicker than it ought to and he recognised anxiety when it crept through his veins. He looked away. It had unnerved him, that was all.

  Now, what was the first job? Unpacking probably, but that would only take as long as it took to plug the toaster in and put the milk and butter in the fridge. He might stretch to carrying the box of clothes upstairs but tipping them onto the floor was a step too far. What was it the ex-Mrs Stokes had said? “Jim, one day you’ll get home late from work again and all your clothes will be in a box on the front lawn.” But she’d left long before Natalie had slipped a knife inside his guts, long before he’d packed his own clothes inside a cardboard box and left.

  The bedroom was as bare as the rest of the house and he dropped the box in the middle of the room. Two skylights had been cut into the roof, affording a view of the far side of the lake and the thick covering of pine trees beyond. There was not another house to be seen. It was the same country but it felt like another world from the one he’d just left.

  The sound of fist on wood stopped any chance he’d had of slipping into a daydream. Someone was at the door. He didn’t have to answer it if he didn’t want to, there was no requirement to be friendly or welcoming.

  “Hello!” a voice called. “Are you in there?”

  Stokes bit his lip.

  “Hello? Mr Stokes, I’ve baked you a cake!”

  How did, whoever it was, know his name? That was all he needed, some busybody poking about in his business. He walked slowly downstairs and opened the door. To his relief there was nobody there. They must have got fed up with waiting.

  A loud tapping came from behind him and he jumped. “Hello!”

  Stokes turned to see a small plump figure standing at the French Doors. She was grinning like a Cheshire cat and holding a cake tin in her hands.

  “I’ve baked you a cake,” she said superfluously.

  Stokes smiled and walked over. He opened the doors. “Hello?”

  “Oh how nice to finally meet you, Mr Stokes! My husband said I should wait a day or two but I’m afraid I couldn’t contain myself.” She handed the cake tin to him. It felt as heavy as a rock.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  She peered around his body. “Not unpacked yet, I see.”

  “Not yet,” Stokes replied a little curtly.

  “Oh I am sorry. I’m Ina, Ina Gauchment and I’m your neighbour.”

  He put the cake tin down by his feet. It would act as a barrier to discourage her from coming in, he hoped.

  He held out his hand. “Jim Stokes, pleased to meet you.”

  “Ah Jim is it? Short for James, I assume? We were all wondering what your first name was.” She tried to look over his shoulder but Stokes shifted his weight. “And Mrs Stokes, is she in?”

  “No, she popped out for bread,” he lied.

  A moment of awkward silence followed. Ina Gauchment clearly thought the cake would secure her entry. Stokes had other ideas.

  “Well, Mrs Gauchment, I’ve got a lot to be getting on with. As you’ve seen I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  “Ina. It’s Ina.” She looked disappointed and for a second Stokes considered inviting her in. It was only a second though.

  “Well, it was lovely meeting you and thanks again for the cake. I’ll see you again sometime.” He started to close the door but she thrus
t her hand inside.

  “Oh but you’ll see us all at the gathering tonight, won’t you?”

  What the hell was the gathering? “Sorry?”

  “You’ll be coming, of course.”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll still be unpacking. Some other time.”

  “Unpacking two boxes won’t take long, Jim. Besides if you don’t come and meet everyone, I’ll bring them here to meet you. Seven o’clock sharp at the hall.” She pointed over his shoulder. “Five minutes down the road there.”

  This was his worst nightmare. No that wasn’t right, he’d lived his worst nightmare for the last year but this came a valiant second.

  “I really can’t, Mrs... Ina. I’m not one for things like that. I’m antisocial to be honest.”

  “Oh what rot! Of course you can. Mrs Stokes will love it, I’m sure.”

  “Mrs Stokes?” He forgot his lie.

  “Your wife?” She turned away. “Seven o’clock sharp or we’ll be marching up here to bang on your door.” She started toward the side of the house and suddenly stopped.

  “What happened to that goose?”

  Stokes shrugged. “A domestic, I think.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “Want it? No.” He was confused.

  “Waste not, want not.” Ina marched toward the shoreline and grabbed the goose by its bloody neck. She examined it briefly before slinging it over her shoulder. She waved with her free hand and walked along the shoreline.

  “Everyone’s really looking forward to meeting you, Jim!” A crimson smear painted the rear of her smock.

  Stokes stared at the space where Ina had been a few moments before. He felt like he’d just been caught up in a whirlwind. At least she’d got rid of the goose, she’d thrown it over her shoulder as if it was an everyday occurrence.

  “Waste not, want not, Stokesy.”

  He’d have to go to this gathering, whatever it was. It was either that or have a whole gaggle of busybodies turn up at his door demanding to meet him. He would show his face for half an hour and come away. Mrs Stokes might be having a bad turn tonight, a migraine or something, and he couldn’t possibly stay any longer.

  3

  Stokes followed the lane into the village, such as it was. There were no more than five or six houses spaced evenly along the lane and although Ina had said she was a neighbour, there were no houses closer than a ten minute walk away from his own. Knowing that made him feel a little better.

  “Mr Stokes?”

  A man waved to him up ahead. He was standing in the middle of the road, beaming. Stokes held up his own hand and tried to smile. The man walked toward him with his hand out.

  “Mr Stokes, great to meet you. Peter Gauchment.” He took Stokes’s hand and pumped it hard. His untidy mop of curly, steel-grey hair wobbled with enthusiastic vigour. “Have you come for the gathering?”

  “Jim Stokes. Your wife more or less threatened me. I can’t stay long though, I’m afraid.” He was already making his excuses to leave early.

  Peter Gauchment dropped the handshake and patted him on the back. “Well, we better get you inside to meet everyone then!”

  Peter led him along the road to the last building in the village. A neat wooden sign hung at the apex of the roof: ‘Stormark Village Hall’.

  “Here we are.”

  Peter practically shoved him through the door. Immediately Ina was upon him, grabbing his shoulders and planting a kiss on his cheek.

  “How lovely to see you, Jim. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  Stokes pulled away. “Did I have a choice?”

  Ina took his arm. “Choice? No of course you didn’t.” She peered over his shoulder for the second time that day. “And Mrs Stokes?”

  Stokes was on the verge of lying again but he decided truth was a better option, particularly if he intended on staying in Stormark.

  “I’m afraid I told a little fib about that. Mrs Stokes, at least the former Mrs Stokes, is living somewhere in Derbyshire with her new man. That is to say there is no Mrs Stokes, not any more.”

  Ina waved her hand dismissively. “Oh I know that, Jim. I know everything about our little village.”

  Stokes didn’t doubt it for a minute.

  He was shown like an exhibit to everyone else at the gathering. They were a harmless but enthusiastic bunch of middle-aged characters and Stokes found their company to be relatively undemanding.

  A pint of warm beer was thrust into his hand by Peter with the exclamation, “I made it myself!”

  Stokes sipped it and was pleasantly surprised. “It’s very good.”

  “It ought to be, I’ve had enough practice. I’ll bring some up to you if you’d like?”

  Stokes nodded. “Thank you.”

  Ina pushed Peter out of the way. “Have you tried my Victoria sponge yet?”

  “Not yet, Ina.”

  Her face dropped, she was clearly disappointed.

  “But I plan on having a large slice for my supper tonight.”

  Ina turned away. “Supper? You won’t need supper, Jim. Not after you’ve eaten a Stormark buffet.” She disappeared through a door at the rear of the hall.

  “I hope you’re hungry. She won’t be happy if you don’t stuff your face, Mr Stokes.”

  Stokes turned around. A man he hadn’t been introduced to yet held out his hand. He looked older than any of the others.

  “Edward Willis.”

  “Jim Stokes. She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

  “Oh yes, she’s something all right. Quite what though...” Willis trailed off.

  Both men looked about the room in the awkward silence. Stokes sipped his beer.

  “Settling in well?” Willis finally asked.

  “Only been there just over a day but yes I think so, thank you.”

  “Good to have someone living up there again. It’s been empty too long and a place like that needs someone living in it.”

  Willis had emphasised the word ‘needs’ and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Needs?” Stokes asked.

  “Like any house, Mr Stokes, it needs a soul and the soul is provided by the people who inhabit it. A house without anyone living in it is just an empty box, right?”

  “Right.” Stokes nodded. “It’s been empty a while though, at least as far as I know. I’ve been coming up here looking at it and making my mind up. I’ve been lucky no-one snapped it up before me.”

  “Lucky? Perhaps. Only you’ll know that though.”

  “What do you mean?” Stokes was puzzled by the man’s cryptic response.

  “It’s been too long, Mr Stokes. Too long,” Willis replied and walked away. After meeting such a friendly and positive group of people, Edward Willis had been quite a bump.

  “You’ve met old grumpy-guts then?”

  Peter stood to one side. He smiled but it was thin and without humour.

  “He did seem a bit down about something.”

  “Oh take no notice, he’s just a grumpy old bugger.” Peter put his arm around Stokes’s shoulder and looked around the hall. “Now, who haven’t you met yet?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve met everyone now.” There were one or two faces he wasn’t entirely sure about meeting.

  “I was thinking about heading back up the road in a minute or two.”

  “Come and get it!” Ina shouted from the back of the room.

  Peter gave him a shove toward Ina. “Oh you can’t possibly leave just yet. Ina has made goose pâté!”

  *

  Two hours later Stokes did the rounds again, shaking hands with everyone and saying his farewells. Everyone with the exception of Edward Willis, who had clearly managed to make his excuses more effectively than Stokes and left earlier.

  “Same time next week, Jim!” Ina shouted from the doorway.

  Stokes smiled and waved before walking away. Every week? It seemed excessive but now he’d met everyone he wouldn’t have to make an appearance that often. Twice a year seemed about right.