Day Five. Sunday
On Sunday morning Claudilia was up and showered by half past seven. She and Max went out to say good morning to Pumpkin and Merry who were still in the field. Then she visited the shop for her Sunday paper, some milk and fresh bread.
By a quarter to ten she had been home, enjoyed a simple breakfast of coffee and toast. She made sure all the downstairs windows were firmly closed. Max was secure inside the house as she walked the short distance to the Wimplebridge church with sufficient milk, biscuits and cakes for the expected congregation.
On the stroke of ten thirty Stuart Hamilton, the local Pastor, welcomed his flock, read out a few housekeeping notes and invited them to stand and sing. Although the congregation was small, just thirty or thirty five most weeks, they were in good voice. Claudilia was in her customary seat, at the front by the aisle. Hubert was on her left and his wife and children filled the pew.
Her family had sat in these seats for decades, possibly for hundreds of years. Although they were not reserved, it was just accepted that was where the Belchers sat. One Sunday, soon after Maggie became Mrs Macintosh, there had been an awkward moment. Claudilia and Hubert had entered the church and found their pew was occupied. She was right there, in the very seat normally occupied by Claudilia herself. The Belchers had waited at the back of the church. One of the elders was sent forward to tell the interloper she was in the wrong seat. He explained that the pew was traditionally occupied by the Belcher family, and he asked her to move somewhere else. Mrs Mackintosh didn’t want to move, but the service was being held up and people were beginning to fidget. Eventually she got up, and giving Claudilia a filthy look she moved to a row further back.
Today Claudilia went through the service on autopilot, the sermon was not very interesting and the songs were dull, she made a note to speak to Stuart about his choice of music. She did perk up when the Pastor asked them to pray for Gus Barker, who he said was tragically taken from them far too young, by an unfortunate accident at work. Claudilia thought it wasn’t tragic at all, in her mind he’d got what he deserved, but she bowed her head in prayer none the less.
At last the Pastor invited them to stand and sing their final song, “How great is our God.” Claudilia took that as her cue and slipped out of her seat and back to the church’s small kitchen. The urn was hot and the cups ready. Pastor Hamilton blessed the congregation, thanked them for coming and invited them to stay for tea or coffee and conversation. Claudilia folded away the hatch doors and was open for business.
As usual there was a rush of children from the Sunday school. Claudilia made sure they all got a drink and a biscuit or cake before she started to serve the adults. Tea for Hubert, coffee for Jeff Green and coffee for Sandy Lewis. Everyone wanted to talk to Sandy, to find out what had been happening at the building site. To the best of his ability, and without too much embellishment, he told them what he knew. Most people had already heard how Gus had died but they still wanted the details, gore and all if they could, without seeming too disrespectful in a house of God.
Claudilia kept one ear on the conversations with Sandy while she served hot drinks and cakes. When flemmy Alison approached, one of the last because she had gone for a smoke as soon as the service finished, Claudilia rotated the cake stand, which put her special one at the front.
Alison asked for coffee, and spooned in two sugars, then took the closest cake to her, the one on the yellow paper coaster. “We must book another appointment for your hair Claudilia,” said Alison, “it’s growing out of shape and we don’t want that do we? When I get a moment I’ll sit down with my diary and see when I can fit you in.” Alison coughed then bit into the cake. Claudilia thought the demon hairdresser would pretty soon have plenty of time sitting down, but she doubted Alison would be concentrating on her diary. “Lovely cake Claudilia,” said Alison as she licked her fingers. “You must show me how you make them one day.” With that she was off to the little graveyard at the back of the church for another cigarette.
One by one the congregation returned their cups and Claudilia filled the dishwasher. By the time the chairs were stacked, the floor swept and the collection counted, her duties in the kitchen were finished and Claudilia was ready to go home.
“Are you going for a swim later?” Asked Pastor Stuart as he locked the old oak door behind them.
“I would think so.” Replied Claudilia. “The water is warming up but I’ll still wear a thin wetsuit, it’s quite pleasant really.”
“Don’t you worry about swimming in the Wimple, are you sure it’s clean enough?”
“It’s fine, I’ve been swimming in the river since I was a little girl. I swam in there with my mother, and my grandmother for that matter. I’m perfectly happy about how clean it is. Just look at the fish we pull out, the trout have never been better than in the last few years.”
“I’d forgotten how good the fishing is here,” said Stuart. “I must renew my licence and see what I can catch one Sunday afternoon. Maybe I’ll hook you Claudilia,” he laughed.
“You’re going to need a big landing net in that case Stuart. Maybe you could borrow one from a trawler at Grimsby,” she laughed as they closed the church gate and went in different directions.
Back at the cottage Claudilia arranged lunch and took it out to the garden. A light breeze moved the leaves on the trees and a solitary bumble bee dipped in and out of the fuchsias. Claudilia wondered if flemmy Alison had found the time or the need, to sit down yet. She thought about her niece and how Marie would take her news, maybe she was just going through a phase or exploring possibilities. And she thought about Gus encased in concrete from the waste up. What a surprised look he had on his face. She didn’t regret what she’d done, but she did wonder who’d do the odd jobs at the fete this year.
Chapter Seventeen
Claudilia woke with a start. She was sitting in the garden with Max. Helen and Emma had just come around the side of the house. Max had barked and that’s what woke her. “Hello you two,” she said. “I must have dropped off, it’s very nice here, sitting in the sun. Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks auntie, we just came to say we’re going to walk Merry back to her stable, we didn’t want you thinking she’d escaped or something.”
“Are you riding this afternoon?” asked Claudilia.
“No, we’ll just walk her back and then we’ve got homework to do.”
“Well hang on a moment,” said Claudilia as she got up and went into the kitchen. “There are a few cakes left from this morning, take a couple to help you study. Can I trust you to only eat them if you’re working?”
“Of course,” said the girls in unison. They took the small plastic box containing two cakes and headed off to collect Merry. Claudilia thought they looked comfortable together, but she also felt restless, and decided it was time for her swim.
Wild swimming had become quite popular, although she’d been doing it for years and thought of it as just swimming. Claudilia had even bought a book detailing some of the best natural swimming spots around the country. She’d like to visit some if she ever had the time. She got her bag with a towel, goggles and short wetsuit as well as a book and a bottle of water. Claudilia locked Max into the house. “Sorry boy, you’ll just run along the bank barking, you’ll spoil the peace of it,” she said as she turned the key and dropped it into her bag. Turning left out of her house Claudilia passed the church, a few houses and the Bridge Inn before going through a gate on the riverbank.
A few minutes walk along the bank and just around the first corner was a small boathouse. It had been there forever and was home to Puff, the family’s ancient rowing boat. A short jetty stuck out into the river. It was just long enough to tie up Puff and wide enough for a comfortable bench. The boathouse was down stream of Wimplebridge and the Belchers owned the fields and fishing rights on both sides. From the village to where the Wimple flowed into the river Avon was all Belcher land and Belcher fishing.
Claudilia crouch
ed and removed a key from its hiding place under a root, she unlocked the boathouse and went in. To her right was her rowing boat. thirteen feet long, clinker built and beautifully varnished, Puff hung on strops just above the river. She could easily be lowered into the water and sculled out in moments. To her left there was a small room where Claudilia kept her fishing gear, tools and a small solar powered fridge for bait. She also used it as somewhere to change into her rowing gear, or swimming costume and wetsuit. Claudilia never wore a swim cap …I’d look like a coot’s nest floating along, anyway it’s a cheap way of washing my hair…
Claudilia walked out onto the jetty and eased herself into the water using the ladder put there for the purpose. The first few moments were always the worst, as the water made its way around the inside of her suit and reached all her giggly bits. Claudilia let go of the ladder and eased herself away from the jetty, she let the current draw her gently down stream.
Swimming with a relaxed stroke Claudilia passed trees who’s branches dipped into the water. A kingfisher perched on a stump, it watched her float past before darting away in a flash of gold and sapphire plumage. Occasionally Claudilia felt the smooth form of a fish on her foot or brushing her hand. It always made her jump. She reminded herself there was nothing in the river that could hurt her, and she tried to be brave. She continued along for about twenty minutes. The swim back would be against the current and harder work. She was about to turn around when she saw a fisherman, he was some hundred and fifty meters ahead of her. Claudilia didn’t recognise the young man in waders and nearly chest deep, so she thought she’d investigate.
“Good afternoon,” she said as she floated towards him.
“Hello” is all she got in return, followed by “I expect it’s you who’s scaring away all the fish, I haven’t caught a thing.”
“I’ve not seen you before,” Claudilia said to the man. On closer inspection he wasn’t as young as she’d thought; he was maybe twenty eight or thirty she guessed. Heavily built but mostly fat not muscle, and she estimated a about five foot six inches tall. To Claudilia he looked as if he needed a shave and a haircut.
“I normally come later in the day, just before dark is best,” the angler said in a Mancunian accent. He cast his line again and swore when it only went half way across the river.
“Are you a regular here, I hope you have a licence, this fishing is private you know.” He didn’t have a licence to fish on the river, she administered them from the Belcher office and knew everyone who did. …If a scruffy looking sod like him came to buy a licence I’d say we were all sold out.
“I don’t need a licence; I’ve been fishing here for years. I come late in the day and take home whatever I catch. If I’m lucky I’ll get enough to sell a few in the pub.” He said as he cast again. “The licences around here are doled out by some silly old witch from the village, I’m not worried about her.” he laughed. “I go all over this river and take whatever I like.”
Claudilia trod water and held herself against the current for a moment. Her first thought was to shout at the imbecile and chase him out of the river. She decided against that. Running along the bank in her wetsuit, chasing this scruffy lardball wouldn’t be dignified. “Have you caught anything today,” she enquired.
“Nothing, and having you splashing around doesn’t help, so be a good granny and sod off.”
“I fish here quite a lot too,” said Claudilia, seething at being called a granny but not letting it show. “And there’s always a good catch across the other side, under the trees there.” Claudilia pointed across to where the willows dipped towards the surface of the shining water. “They come near the surface for flies, have you tried casting there?”
“It’s too far across. Now piss off and leave me alone.”
“There’s no need to be rude,” she snapped back. “But I know this area and if you step forward a little further you’ll get to a group of rocks you can stand on. I’m sure you’ll reach from there.”
The man inched forward, and just before the water reached the lip of his waders he found the rocks and stepped up. It wasn’t a big step but it gave him about six inches of wader above the surface of the water. “Okay, thanks for that,” he said begrudgingly, “now where will I find these fish?”
“Just cast above of those trees and let it drift down,” said Claudilia gesturing across to the far bank where a willow dipped its branches towards the water. “I’ve never failed in that area.” The man brought back his arm and flicked his rod in the direction of the willow. Claudia swam around behind him, closer to the bank, and put her foot on the river bed for balance.
Fishing on my river without a licence isn’t right, she thought, and he says he’s been doing it for years. He called me a witch, which is rude. But worse, he thinks I look like a granny, I don’t think I can ignore that.
After two or three more casts the fisherman was getting the hang of it, he had worked out the angle and distance and was dropping his fly in the right place each time. He’s not bad at this thought Claudilia. “What’s your name” She asked.
“Gary, Gary Wood. Who are you?”
Claudilia thought for a second, she couldn’t say she was Claudilia Belcher, the fat old witch who handed out the fishing permits, so she came up with something else. “I’m Helen, Helen Mackintosh” she said, “do you come from around here?” Why had she chosen that combination of names she wondered. …Just the first thing that came to mind, It’s not important, move along.
“No, I live in Warwick, I drive a forklift truck at B and Q.” He was concentrating on casting and Claudilia could see him leaning forward to get his fly a few extra inches under the tree. Quietly she swam closer up behind him.
“Don’t stretch too far, you don’t want to come off that rock, it’s quite deep in front of you.” There was no reply, Gary was concentrating on fishing and oblivious to everything else.
Claudilia took a deep breath and sunk below the surface, through her goggle she could just make out the angler’s legs about a meter and a half in front of her. Ahead of them she could see just the darkness of deeper water. For a moment she felt like the shark in Jaws. Then she braced her feet on a rock and forced herself forward. She hit her target with a massive force and exactly where she’d aimed, right in the back of his knees.
Garry wasn’t expecting the blow, his knees buckled and he fell forward. Claudilia saw his head level with hers and she grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to stay under as she came up for breath. Claudilia pushed him down further, his waders had flooded and restricted his movement in the deep water. A true fisherman, Garry had one hand still grasping his rod while the other thrashed around. He was trying to fight off the thing that had attacked him. It all happened so fast, and the shock of cold water straight down his waders meant he didn’t know what was going on. All he could be sure of was that he was going down, down into the cold dark water. His chest was bursting and he needed to breathe, Oh God. he needed to breathe. He needed to get to the surface and fill his lungs with air. But Claudilia was on top of him, she was forcing him down with all her strength. He felt the rocks hard and sharp against his back as they hit the river bed.
The silly old witch from the village had come for payment. Claudilia’s hand scrabbled among the rocks for something of sufficient size and weight. Got it, a rock like a man’s fist, smooth from years of rolling along the river bed, forced forward by the winter floods. She lifted it from where it lay and brought it down on the side of Garry’s head. Even underwater it hit the man’s skull with a loud cracking noise. She did it again, crack, and a third time, crack, but now she felt less resistance, as the rock crunched through the splintered remains of his temporal and parietal bones it crashed into the soft tissue of his temporal lobe and set off fireworks inside the angler’s head.
Garry’s final thoughts were not his life passing before his eyes, nor were they a vision of his mother weeping for her son. Instead he wondered who’d drive his forklift on Monday, and if th
ey’d manage the temperamental key. A final crash, and a spark like a million flashbulbs, then everything faded into darkness, nothing but darkness.
The angler had stopped struggling, all resistance was gone. Still holding his arm Claudilia gave a strong kick against the river bed, she burst through the surface into the fresh air. Claudilia trod water, taking deep breaths, before manoeuvring herself and her load into the shallows where she could stand. Upright and more composed she looked down at the body of the forklift truck driver. It bobbed in the water beside her, floating face down with his feet and legs beneath the surface. There was blood leaking from a hole in the side of his head, blood and something else, a gooey white substance which clotted in the cold water and made spindly tendrils as it was drawn away by the current. Slightly shocked Claudilia realised she was watching Garry Woods cerebrospinal fluid, the lining of his brain, as it flowed away down the river Wimple.
Claudilia looked around for witnesses. There was no footpath along the riverbank …let’s add trespass to his list of transgressions shall we, so apart from a few sheep there wasn’t a soul in sight. …Do sheep have a soul?
Claudilia turned the body around, and keeping his face in the water, she let him float off. It was about two miles to where the Wimpole joined the Avon and there were no villages or houses along the way. He’d pass under a solitary bridge and with luck he wouldn’t get caught. Once the body was in the Avon it would be much harder to determine where it had gone into the water. With Garry well on his way she began to swim again, she was going against the current, all the way to the boat house, her dry clothes, then she’d go home for dinner. Perhaps some fish she thought, as she felt something brush against her foot.
The Village Fate Page 8
