Cherringham--Cliffhanger

by Matthew Costello

  “Um, er, thank you, Mr Klein,” said Will.

  “Hey — it’s Danny please? Capiche?”

  Will nodded. His estimation of how easy this group would be had been a bit off the mark.

  “Right then. We’re already running a little late so I shall be brief. Today’s itinerary: first a ten-minute drive to rendezvous just at the foot of Winsham Hill. That is marked point ’A’ on your individual maps. From there, we proceed on foot up through the woods to the top of the hill, where we shall walk the famous ’Green Lane’, for approximately two miles—”

  “Two miles?” said Julie. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Walk in the park,” said Danny, laughing. Then, turning to the others: “Get it? Walk… in the park!”

  “Ha, love it, Danny!” said Melissa, patting him on his shoulder.

  Will saw Steve shake his head and frown.

  “No park that I know,” said Julie, stuffing her purple waterproof back in her backpack. “And you said this was going to be all easy hikes!”

  Will ignored the interruptions and carried on: “So, two miles, crossing the ancient Fosse Way, stopping to explore Knap Barrow, and climbing Clevedon Ridge for lunch on the crag at approximately one pm.”

  “Two miles in four hours!” said Julie. “That’s crazy!”

  “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” said Heidi. “I’ll help you out, Julie, if you get tired.”

  “Me too,” said Stephanie, slinging a camera bag over her shoulder. “We’re all in this together.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a holiday, when you put it like that,” said Steve. “All in it together. In what exactly?”

  “Come on, Babe,” said Melissa, rolling her eyes. “Re-lax! It’ll be fun. And look at that sky! A perfect English spring day!”

  “Yeah, but rain’s forecast for later,” said Steve. “And my phone never gets that wrong.”

  Will looked at the group — hardly a merry band. Then back at his list. He had more to say but at this rate it would be lunchtime before they left.

  I can catch up with the info on the way, he thought, putting his clipboard back into his backpack.

  “Right then!” he said. “All aboard! No allocated seats, just sit where you like.”

  And he watched as they clambered into the vehicle, then slammed the doors shut.

  One last look around — making sure nobody had left a bag — then he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine.

  “Nine eighteen,” said Susan from the seat next to him.

  He looked across at her and was about to say something — then held his tongue.

  “Plenty of opportunity to pick up time later,” he said with the best smile he could muster.

  Then he pulled out across the village square and headed for the road to Winsham Hill.

  *

  Susan Braithwaite stood at the muddy edge of the trail, next to the parked minibus and watched the other walkers, arguing and jostling.

  They seemed to have got the backpacks mixed up, so all the lunches and jackets had come out and been swapped back again.

  And not surprisingly, the two men — Danny and Steve — had taken on the role of supervisors, lining people up and telling them what to do.

  So predictable how men always did that, in a group.

  She could, though, see resentment simmering in the other women. Shaking heads, rolling of eyes.

  For now, they said nothing. But that wouldn’t last, for sure.

  She’d spent the short journey listening to the conversations behind her. Working out the relationships.

  Analysing.

  Goes with the territory, she thought.

  So far, everybody seemed to be who they said they were. Which was always reassuring.

  She was looking forward to setting off. But just as it seemed they might be ready to start — Julie decided to change from her trainers to the boots she’d brought along ’just in case’.

  “Look at that all that mud,” she said, seated at the open rear doors and gesturing up the wooded path. “It’s disgusting! And what if I slip?”

  Susan pulled the straps on her backpack tight and waited for Julie Klein to get her act together, wondering now if this last-minute holiday — at least with this lot — had been a big mistake.

  Never one to enjoy holidays, she’d been given no choice about this one. Her boss had told her in no uncertain terms that she couldn’t clock up any more untaken leave.

  She was taking a holiday — no arguments accepted.

  And this week — he’d hinted — would be a very opportune week to do it.

  Signing up to the walking tour had been a whim: she’d seen Will’s ad in the parish magazine and thought — it’s this or spend the week gardening.

  “Nearly there, Ms Braithwaite,” called Will, as Julie stepped away from the minibus and levered her backpack onto her back.

  She watched Will lock the doors, then turn to the group.

  “Right then! Here we go! Up the trail here for about a mile, then into the open and across farmland.”

  He grabbed a walking stick and marched ahead, speaking as he went.

  Susan watched the walkers line up in a loose formation and follow him into the woods, the dense oaks on either side blocking out the light.

  “These woods — Winsham Woods — were famously the refuge of Royalist troops fleeing the village after the disastrous Battle of Cherringham in 1646, when hundreds of King Charles’s men fought a desperate retreat in the main street. Just outside your hotel, actually.”

  “How about that?” said Melissa. “Must be tons of ghosts.”

  “Imagine, if you will, the scene here that night,” said Will, striding up the wooded path, his walking stick punctuating his tale.

  “Tired, bloodied, demoralised soldiers, huddled around camp fires in the surrounding fields, knowing that perhaps, after four years’ struggle, the Royalist cause was lost and the country would soon be in Parliament’s hands.”

  Susan waited for the group to pass and slipped into the middle between Heidi and Stephanie.

  She smiled at the two women and matched their step.

  She always felt more comfortable in the middle of a group.

  Safer.

  They walked together in silence, taking care on the slippy, muddy trail, listening as Will continued his commentary ahead of them.

  After a minute or so, some instinct made Susan turn quickly and look down the muddy path behind them.

  A small silver hatchback had pulled up by the minibus down at the foot of the trail.

  Strange.

  In the shadow of the trees, it was too dark for her to get a proper look at the driver — just a pale orb in the open window.

  But someone clearly staring up the trail.

  After a few seconds the car drew silently away.

  Probably just a dog walker, thought Susan, turning. Or someone perhaps lost, checking a map.

  Nothing to worry about.

  And she carried on up the track, determined to find out more about Stephanie and Heidi.

  Knowing exactly who she was with was always so very important to her.

  3. Lunch Interrupted

  “This it?” said Steve Arnold, as Will led the group through the gate and then halted in front of the famed Knap Barrow.

  “It is indeed,” said Will, proudly. “Absolutely one of the finest examples of a Neolithic burial ground in England!”

  Will watched as the group stared at the grassy mound, seemingly perplexed.

  “And — look around — such an amazing location too,” said Will, pointing to the valley which stretched away for twenty miles or more. “From here you can see all the way to Wales!”

  “When it’s not raining, yeah,” said Julie.

  Will peered into the distance — he could just see a distant sliver of dark against the low cloud. “And there,” he pointed again, “those are the Malvern Hills. And yes — a few clouds do seem to be gathering.”
<
br />   He turned back to the little group huddled together. Most seemed uninterested, enjoying the break after the tricky climb.

  “Anyway,” he said, “the barrow’s the thing — not the view.”

  “But — excuse me — it’s just a bump in the ground, isn’t it?” said Steve. “More of a mound. Hardly the pyramids.”

  “I think you’ll find the Egyptians never quite made it to the Cotswolds, Mr Arnold,” said Will, trying hard to keep his tone pleasant.

  “As far as we know,” said Susan Braithwaite.

  Will watched her walk away round the side of the barrow.

  “Hmm, yes, well, of course,” he said.

  “So where’s the way in?” said Julie.

  “There are entrances at each end,” said Heidi. Then, turning to Will: “But I imagine there’s no access to the inner chamber, is that right Mr Goodchild?”

  “Exactly — and thank you Ms Blake,” said Will. “Please everybody — do walk around the barrow. You can climb on top too — but be careful. With all the rain recently, it’s very slippy up there. Best leave your bags here too, I think.”

  Will leaned against the information sign and watched as Danny took off his backpack, grabbed Melissa Arnold’s hand and pretended to haul her up the side of the barrow.

  He saw her husband sitting on one of the entrance stones, still catching his breath. Will watched him take out his phone from his bag, tap the screen and start typing.

  He looked across at the opposite end of Knap Barrow: Julie sat on a stone with her shoes off, massaging her feet.

  Which meant they’d all have to wait for her to put her boots back on again when it was time to move on.

  Glancing the other way, he spotted Heidi and Stephanie walking slowly around the barrow together, taking pictures, those two, clearly interested in the great ruin.

  At least they appreciate the place, thought Will.

  He noticed that Stephanie was using an old Canon — a proper SLR — and made a mental note to ask her later in the week if he might have one or two prints.

  Another look around.

  Now where’s our “dabbling historian” got to? he thought. The mysterious Ms Braithwaite.

  But he couldn’t see her anywhere. He looked back towards the gate and the field they’d just walked through to get up here.

  No sign.

  Damn. Don’t want to lose someone before we’ve even had lunch, he thought.

  Surely she couldn’t have got lost? No. As a local, she must have been up here many times.

  Perplexed, he made a complete circuit of Knap Barrow, looking down the hill into the valley, checking she hadn’t decided to walk off on her own.

  But apart from the odd sheep and a herd of cattle dotting the fields below, there was no sign of movement.

  Only another walker a few hundred yards behind them, following the tree line.

  He hurried back to the information panel — and saw her, standing with a small pad in her hand, sketching the barrow with a pencil.

  What the—?

  How did she turn up there? he thought.

  “There you are, Ms Braithwaite!” he said.

  “Yes. Indeed I am,” she said, not taking her eye from the sketch.

  Before Will could ask her where she had been, Steve approached.

  “It’s raining,” he said. “I said it would rain. And it is.”

  Will looked up — and yes it had started raining. Gentle now, but from the menacing dark clouds to the west, it didn’t look like a quick shower.

  Oh dear.

  “Waterproofs on, everyone, please,” he called.

  He watched as the walkers returned to the backpacks and pulled out the brightly coloured waterproofs — each with the Cotswolds History Tours logo embossed on the front. Will had chosen bright purple to ensure he didn’t lose track of anyone.

  No chance of that, he thought, seeing them in the wild for the first time.

  He waited while they put away cameras, pads and phones, and pulled their coats on. Then, when it seemed they were all ready, with hoods up: “Jolly good everyone! Let’s keep walking — there’s shelter just a mile ahead where we shall stop for lunch. We’ll be walking along the very top of the Clevedon Ridge with some rather steep drops, so do please stick to the path. Follow me!”

  And off he strode.

  *

  The rain turned heavy, stronger than forecast, and, as he walked, Will could hear mutterings and complaints from the group behind him.

  More arguments, it seemed. The two American couples, constantly getting at each other as they trudged over the muddy, wet ground.

  Why did they come all this way from the States if only to bicker?

  At least the other three got on: he could see Susan, Heidi and Stephanie marching steadily, chattering away like old friends.

  Perhaps Ms Braithwaite wasn’t so formidable after all.

  He tightened the toggle on his hood, shutting out the rain and the other voices.

  This morning’s walk was not turning out at all as planned.

  Up here, he would normally be pointing out the distant landmarks — country estates, castles, the old droving routes from Wales, the Roman roads.

  But now, as he scanned the horizon to the west, all he could see was low grey cloud through the driving rain.

  He looked south: at least the sky was a little brighter there. Perhaps by the time they reached the crag — where various rocky outcrops provided cover — the sun might come out again and they could enjoy lunch in the sunshine?

  *

  “Here we are,” said Will brightly, putting down his backpack in the shelter of Clevedon Crag and turning to face the group of hooded walkers as they shuffled along the ridge towards him.

  God, they look miserable, he thought, as they came to a halt and stood lifeless in the rain.

  Pink-faced from the walk, muddy and soaked through, they looked back at him like he was a drill sergeant who’d just forced them to take a five-mile run.

  Keep smiling, he said to himself.

  “Well done, everybody! Now, after that bracing climb, it’s time for lunch!”

  Again, no discernible reaction.

  “You’ll find a number of dry, sheltered areas all around the crag here; perfect to sit and enjoy the delicious lunch provided for you today by our very own Cherringham bakers — Huffington’s!”

  He pointed along the ridge. The crag rose ten or fifteen feet from the grassy strip that ran along the escarpment, jagged and uneven, but with little hollows worn flat by hikers resting after the hike up the hill.

  “All you have to do is pick a spot and admire the view!”

  Though, in this rain, the “view” extended no more than a few hundred yards on either side of the hill.

  “Just be careful not to climb onto the rock of course. There’s quite a drop on the other side and, as I said earlier, with all this rain it is rather slippy up here.”

  “How long we got?” said Julie.

  “An hour,” said Will. “Then we’re going to head down into the valley, just there.” He walked over to a gap in the rock and pointed towards the distant fields. “And explore Edgecombe Villa, a fine example of a luxurious third-century Roman dwelling complete with bath-house and mosaic pavements—”

  “Just an hour?” said Julie, before Will could go on. “For lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “One hour, then more mud and rain!” said Julie, visibly wilting.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Danny rolling his eyes at his wife and looking round at the group in their bright coats. “Any longer out here — we’ll all dissolve! Gotta love this English weather!”

  Will saw Danny waiting for laughter but none came.

  “Um, there’s also a bit of shelter in the woods,” said Will, pointing to the tree line that ran along the other side of the ridge. “Though if you do venture over there, please keep track of the time, and don’t go too far.”

  He watched the walkers discuss
ing their options, then: “Right then,” he said, picking up his backpack. “I’m sure the rain won’t last much longer. I’ll see you all back here in one hour sharp.”

  He gave them all a big smile, then backed away, leaving them to it.

  *

  After a morning being “on duty” Will enjoyed the solitude that the lunch hour provided.

  And he always made sure that each day’s tour provided a quiet place for him to retreat to and eat his lunch alone.

  Recharge, as it were.

  Now, he walked around the crag and picked his way carefully down through the rocks until he reached his own favourite picnic spot about thirty feet below: a cleft in the stone that provided a natural armchair, always sheltered, whichever direction the wind or rain came from.

  Seated here — invisible from above — he imagined himself the latest in a long line of warriors, installed upon his throne, looking out upon his kingdom.

  Those reveries — one of the reasons he so loved sites like this!

  He opened his backpack and took out his plate, sandwiches and flask of tea, laid them all on the flat stone to one side of the “throne”.

  Bliss.

  “Mind if I join you?” came a voice from behind him, making him turn quickly.

  Steve Arnold stood just a couple of yards away, clutching his back pack.

  Oh God! Probably complaints at the ready.

  “Um, well, to be honest—” said Will, but too late: the man had already put down his pack and sat on the adjacent stone.

  “Quite the little hideaway, hmm?” said Steve. “Keep this to yourself, don’t you.”

  “Not at all,” said Will. “I just like a little peace and quiet to plan the afternoon, you know?”

  “Sure,” said Steve, clearly not believing him.

  “Mrs Arnold not joining you?” said Will.

  “Oh she and Julie’ll be eating together. Inseparable, those two.”

  “I see.”

  Though Will didn’t. The unfit and whiny Julie, and the, well, quite different and flirtatious Melissa.

  “High school friends. Go back a long way.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “When we go on vacation — Melissa always likes to have Julie along.”

  “And Mr Klein, too?” Will realised his words could be misconstrued, so hurried on. “Enjoys the four of you travelling together?”