(5/20)Over the Gate Page 19

  She advanced militantly upon the stone vase with yet another spray of the offending plant. Mrs Mawne's mouth took on a grim line, and I deposited my armful thankfully on the chancel floor and fled outside.

  I get quite enough sparring with Mrs Pringle from Monday to Friday. On Saturdays and Sundays I like a little peace.

  Mr Willet was working in the churchyard. He was armed with a bill-hook and was taking vigorous swipes at the long grass which grew beneath the hawthorn hedge dividing the graveyard from the vicarage garden.

  He straightened up as I approached, resting one horny hand on the smad of his back.

  'Not so young as I was,' he said, puffing out his stained walrus moustache. 'Bending double, after three helpings of my wife's treacle pudden, don't seem as easy as it used to.'

  The sun was warm. It was a mellow September day, with the elm trees turning a pale gold against a pellucid blue sky. Mr Willet's ruddy face was beaded with sweat. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves, and his muscular hairy arms were smudged with grass stains and blotched with pink where the nettles had stung him. Nevertheless, he appeared unperturbed.

  He seated himself on the low flat lid of a tomb, and I sat down beside him. It was comfortable and warm with the sunshine which had been pouring on it since daybreak. Among the moss and lichens which covered the stone was the inscription: 'Jno Jeremy—Gent of this Parifh.' I felt sure that he would have no objection to our presence.

  'Fred Hurst's grave's coming on a treat,' said Mr Willet approvingly. He had put the bill-hook flat on the stone beside him, and his two tired hands drooped between his knees. His eyes, however, were bright as they surveyed his domain.

  I followed his gaze. Certainly, a fine strong growth of green grass, neatly clipped, covered poor Fred's resting place. But it was the older grave beside it that caught my eye.

  'What's that on Sally Gray's mound?' I asked.

  Mr Willet looked a trifle shame-faced.

  'Well, to tell you the truth, it's a little rose-bush—one I took as a cutting from ourn in the garden. Seemed a pity for it to go to waste, and the poor old dear hasn't got nothing' growing along her. I put it in soon after I told you the tale about her. Remember?'

  I nodded. The tale of Fairacre's flying woman had certainly intrigued me.

  'Funny how we all likes a story,' ruminated Mr Willet, watching a red admiral butterfly settle on some Michaelmas daisies. 'Don't matter if you ready believes it or not—as far as I can see. I mean, half of you believes, let's say, but the other half doubts, and in the end it's the half that wants to believe in the story that wins.'

  'What's put this in your mind?' I asked lazily. A pigeon cooed from a tree nearby, and the air was so soft that I found the two together peculiarly soporific. If Mr Willet's sturdy bulk had not been beside me, I should like to have stretched out dat upon Jno Jeremy's warm stone, and had a gentle doze.

  'That business of Joe Coggs,' answered Mr Willet. 'I bet he ready knew that little chap under the pier was a midget. Yet you see, he sticks to it it was the Lord of the Seas, or some such.'

  'It's difficult to know,' I murmured.

  'When you're that age,' continued Mr Willet, 'these 'ere fairytale ideas get hold of you real strong. Witches and that.'

  He stopped suddenly and there was a pause. I felt myself slipping from reality to the world of sleep. The pigeon's cooing sounded fainter and fainter.

  'We 'ad one in Fairacrc,' said Mr Willet's voice, startlingly close at hand.

  'A pigeon?' I asked, struggling to sit upright.

  'Tch! Tch!' tutted Mr Willet. 'A pigeon! Who was talking about pigeons? What I said was—we 'ad a witch once in Fairacre. At least they said she was.'

  'And when was this?' I asked, now fully awake.

  'When I was a nipper. Same age as young Joe, come to think of it. Proves what I was saying. You want to believe anything out of the ordinary when you're a kid. Take me, for instance.'

  'Did you believe she was?' I queried, scenting a story.

  'Me? I was positive. And I went out to prove it, what's more.'

  He took out a short-stemmed pipe from his trouser pocket, and a small tin of tobacco.

  'May as well 'ave one as I ted you the tale,' said Mr Willet, with mischievous sidelong glance. 'You ain't busy, I suppose?'

  'Never too busy for a story,' I assured him, watching him fill his pipe.

  Within two minutes, with the fragrant blue smoke wreathing his head, Mr Willet began.

  Mr Willet was about seven at the time, he told me. He and his brothers and sisters lived in a cottage on the way to Springbourne, and walked daily to school at Fairacre.

  There were four children of school age, and a baby of two at home. The four Willet children carried a rush basket with them, containing a substantial midday meal. A large proportion of it was bread and butter, but a finger of cheese apiece, a hard-boiled egg, or a slice or two of cold fat bacon, added relish and nourishment and old Mrs Willet made sure that fruit in season and a mammoth bottle of buttermilk accompanied her little family daily.

  The schoolmaster at that time was Mr Hope. He was a clever, rather sad fellow, who wrote poetry, and occasionally read it, too, to his pupils. They were not, it seemed, particularly appreciative, and, in fact, looked upon their headmaster as 'a bit loopy.' Tragedy touched the Hope family when their only daughter, much the same age as young Willet, died at the age of twelve. After that Mr Hope found consolation in drink, and before long was asked to leave the district.

  But while young Willet was in his class, Mr Hope taught wed. He read many stories to them, chiefly the classic tales of adventure, the myths of Greece and Rome, some stirring passages from Scott or Henty, and so on. But now and again, conscious that the younger members of his class were finding difficulty in following some of the excerpts chosen, he took down the fairy boob of Andrew Lang and read them a tale of enchantment and fantasy.

  It was thus that young Willet—Bob to his family—became acquainted with the supernatural. He had heard of ogres and giants, of wizards and witches, before, but now they became much more real to him. He entered, it seemed, into a knowledge of their ways, became conscious of their powers and of the infringement of such powers upon an ordinary mortal's life. He began to look at grown-ups with a slightly suspicious eye. Could it be that among them was a wizard? Or a witch? Circumstances combined to persuade him that there was such a one—and very near at hand.

  About a quarter of a mile from the Willets' cottage, the road to Springbourne dropped suddenly downhill into a hollow. The ground here was marshy, and trees and dowers, foreign to the surrounding downland, made it seem a strange and slightly eerie place. Here, at the foot of the hid, was a small ramshackle cottage known as 'Lucy's.'

  Lucy had lived there for many years. At the time of the story she was a bent old woman in her eighties, a fearsome sight with sparse grey locks and one formidable eye-tooth which had grown so long that Lucy had difficulty in accommodating it comfortably in her mouth. It protruded over her lower lip and gave the poor old crone a most sinister appearance.

  Fairacre was not at all sure about Lucy, and never had been. She and her husband, Seamus Kelly, had been brought from Ireland by Sir Francis Hurley who lived at Springbourne Manor. The Kellys had been brought to his notice one day when he was visiting friends in Ireland. He had mentioned that he was in need of a coachman with a real understanding of horses, and Seamus Kelly was warmly recommended.

  The couple were duly installed in rooms above the coach house at Springbourne and gave great satisfaction until one sad day when Seamus was involved in an accident. He had taken the carriage and pair to Caxley Station to meet Sir Francis who was returning from London, when one of the magnificent bays took fright as the train drew in, and bolted. Seamus was thrown, the wheels passed over his back, and his spine was permanently damaged.

  Everyone agreed that Sir Francis behaved with the utmost generosity. Ad medical care was lavished upon the unfortunate man and he spent many months in a
convalescent home by the sea, at his employer's expense. Finally, he was given a pension and the small cottage in the hollow for the rest of his days.

  Lucy, who had been a somewhat scatter-brained lady's maid, also had to retire from service to look after her crippled husband. Lucidly, she was a strong woman, more than able to tend the garden and look after hens and two goats, as well as running the house and acting as nurse.

  Seamus's temper, always violent, grew worse as he grew older. Lucy gave as good as she got, her Irish tongue uttering the most blood-curdling oaths, which scandalised the Fairacre worthies whose swearing was limited to a paucity of curses of Anglo-Saxon origin. Lucy, they agreed, was a wild one! To hear the way she went on made you wonder if she was right in the head! I mean, they said, we know she's Irish, but even so—.

  One winter's day, when the mist from the hollow shrouded the little house, Seamus gave a great cry from his bed. Lucy, milking the goat in the nearby shed, set down her pad and ran in. There, his face tipped towards the smoky ceding, lay her husband, his blue eyes wide open in death.

  After that dreadful day, Lucy had lived alone, with only her pets for company. Three cats had lived inside the cottage, and their numerous progeny had been dealt with by Seamus, keeping the numbers within bounds. Many a Fairacre cat had started life at Lucy's, and very fine specimens they were.

  Now, with Seamus gone, Lucy did nothing about the kittens, and the number grew to a score in no time. It was true that she still gave one away, now and again, to anyone in need of a cat, and gratefully received the basket of plums or bowl of chitterlings which might be given in return, but the fact remained that there were far too many cats in the house.

  Lucy did not seem to worry. She did not seem to worry about anything after Seamus's death. It was as though, with her sparring partner gone, she lacked the will to live. She neglected the house and her person, and Fairacre tongues wagged even more feverishly about Lucy's feckless ways.

  'A dirty ol' saucepan on the kitchen table, as large as life, and her eating out of it with a wooden spoon! It's the truth, my dear! I saw it with my own eyes!'

  'And it's my belief she hasn't had a good wash since her poor husband went. She don't waste much on soap, I'd be bound!'

  'As for that black skirt she wears, it's time it was burnt. She bought it up the Jumble a good eight years ago, that I do know, and she's had it on, day in and day out, ever since!'

  So spoke the good wives of the village, and among them was young Mrs Wilier. As Lucy's closest neighbour she particularly felt die shame of such a slut in the neighbourhood. Newly married, with a cottage as spruce as endless scrubbing and polishing could make it, Mrs Willet was already spoken of as a paragon of cleanliness. She was to be honoured as such ad her days.

  Time passed. Lucy continued to exist on the pension granted by Sir Francis, and now administered by his heir Sir Edmund. Only the minimum repairs were done to the cottage to keep it weatherproof. Lucy neglected the property to such an extent that it was hopeless to do more.

  She was seen very little in the village. She now began to mutter to herself and her animals, emerging when dusk began to fall and when she would not be bothered by the sight of any neighbours or casual passers. It was at this stage of Lucy's decline that young Bob Willet became convinced that she was, without any doubt, a witch.

  He had said as much to his older brother Sidney as they walked home from school one summer's day. Mr Hope had read them a Russian folk tale with a description of Baba Yaga, the witch, which seemed to young Bob a faithful portrait of Lucy Kelly who lived so perilously near them.

  Perhaps he half-hoped for a decisive denial from his brother. If so, he was disappointed.

  'Might be,' was Sidney's perfunctory comment. At that moment he was engaged in swishing the heads from a bed of stinging nettles, and was clearly too engrossed to give the matter of Lucy Kelly much attention. Bob did not press the point, but it seemed to him that Sid too considered it a possibility. It was alarming, to say the least of it.

  In the days and nights that followed, Bob listened with growing terror to any conversation about their elderly neighbour. He did not like to speak of his fears to Sid, but he did mention it, as casually as he could manage, to another boy of his own age.

  Ted Pickett, Bob was relieved to find, took his remarks quite seriously.

  'She might be,' said Ted slowly. 'You see you can't tell, unless you know she flies on a broomstick.'

  'Well, she don't do that,' said Bob flatly.

  'Or has a black cat.'

  'She's plenty of they,' said Bob, feeling a little shaky.

  They sat in silence for a little while. Then Ted began again.

  'The way to find out is to go down her place when the moon's full. That's when witches dy. I know that for a fact, Bob. I read it in a school book.'

  'What time?' asked Bob practically.

  'Any time it's real bright,' replied Ted, 'on the night it's true full moon.'

  'Come with me?' asked Bob.

  'Not likely!' answered his friend. 'I'm real frightened of anything like that,' he added with disarming honesty. A playfellow rushed up at this point, carrying the limp body of a long-dead grass snake. In the pleasurable few minutes following, Ted forgot the witch for ever.

  Not so Bob. He could think of nothing else. He was frightened of the idea, but none the less fascinated. In school, when his mind should have been on the intricacies of punctuation or the problems of fractions, it roved instead to Lucy Kelly's cottage. What spells could she weave? Could she ready dy? How could he find out if she ready were a witch or not? Was Ted's test the true one?

  As the month wore on towards the night of the full moon, the boy's tension mounted. He had made up his mind that he would go alone, if the night were fine and bright, to see for himself just what went on at Lucy Kelly's cottage.

  Full moon, according to the almanac pinned on the kitchen wall, was on September 17th. The day was cloudless and still. From the hot schoolroom young Bob could hear the harvesters working away under ideal conditions. Already many of the corn fields bore rows of stooks, the sheaves sagging together with the weight of a fine harvest.

  The boy half-hoped that the weather would change, and that nightfall would bring such rain or tempest as would mean a postponement of his plans. But the weather held. At half past eight, he mounted the creaking stairs to the bedroom under the thatch, which he shared with his brother Sidney. Outside, the world was still bathed in golden light, and the swallows and swifts dived joyously through the air, snatching the flying insects that hung in the sunshine.

  Bob had intended to stay awake untd all the household was abed, but fresh air had made him drowsy and he was asleep before he knew it. Luckily, he was roused by the sound of his father and mother going to bed. It was nearly dark, but a great golden moon, low on the horizon, gave promise of a bright moonlit night.

  Bob's heart thumped at the thought of the adventure ahead. He was not quite sure what he was going to look for. Certainly a broomstick, and perhaps evidence of actual flight by old Lucy. If she did fly, as Ted Pickett had said, then this was just the sort of night for her jaunting.

  He listened to the sounds of the household. Sidney lay on his back, as always, snoring slightly. Bob knew that he had nothing to fear there. Once Sid was asleep, nothing—short of screaming in his ear—would wake him. The two girls, in the tiny slip room at the back of the cottage, slept as heavily as his brother. Only the youngest child roused occasionally. He slept in his parents' room, and if he should wake up, it was reasonable to suppose that his parents would calm him without having to leave the bedroom. Bob reckoned that he could leave the house and return without much trouble.

  He heard the clock at St Patrick's, across the fields, strike eleven, and waited a little longer. Midnight was supposed to be the time that witches chose for their flying operations, as Bob well knew. Then he slipped from his warm bed, dressed with shaking fingers, and crept fearfully downstairs.

  Th
e creaks and groans from the ancient staircase brought his heart into his mouth, but no one stirred. He made his way through the kitchen and let himself out by the back door.

  The night was mysteriously beautiful. It was scented with corn, warm earth and garden dowers. The moonlight was so bright that young Bob could have read by it, had he been of such a mind.

  He slipped through a gap in the back hedge, out of sight of his parents' bedroom window, and gained the lane. It was white in the moonlight, and dropped away to the hollow which was his destination.

  His boots seemed to make a dreadful amount of noise on the gritty road. A cat shot across his path—one of Lucy's, he guessed-and frightened the wits out of him. By the time he reached Lucy's, he was bathed in sweat.

  There was no gate. Bob crept on tip-toe up the overgrown path with one wary eye upon the upstairs window. It was tightly shut, as indeed were ad the others downstairs, Bob noticed. It was as quiet as the grave, and in the light of the moon, the little grey cottage seemed to merge into the crepuscular background of the silvery willows and rank dead grass surrounding it.

  At the side of the house was a lean-to shed made of wood, which had once been tarred, but was now weathered to a ghostly grey. If Lucy really had a mount then this would be its stable, Bob decided. He crept quietly towards it, intending to enter, but froze in his tracks long before he gained the lean-to. For there, propped outside the door, as large as life, was a stout broom, or besom, made of birch twigs.

  Bob was almost sick with fright. Was it waiting there for Lucy to ride shortly? Or was it simply an innocent garden besom, such as bis mother used to sweep their garden path? Who could ted?

  He decided to creep right round the cottage, listening for any movement of Lucy's within. He passed by the broomstick, almost expecting to see it pulsing with hidden life, and was relieved to gain the shelter of the side wad. Here was crouched a tabby cat, sitting sphinx-like and motionless—only the glittering of its moonstone eyes showing that it was alert and wakeful.