Three Mile Drove, Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Endleberry had been working on his sermon for Sunday’s gathering when the phone rang. He exhaled, slapped his pen on the old writing desk he’d used for the last thirty years, the sudden intrusion having pierced his fragile concentration like a sharp dart.
After thirty years plus of writing sermons he really shouldn’t have a problem, but finding subject matter pointed and pertinent was something he was having increasing difficulty with. It wasn’t due to the pressing demands of his parishioners, he knew that, he just couldn’t seem to get his thoughts concentrated for a few minutes before they went off track, and in the very direction he didn’t want them to.
He took the phone in his right hand, stifled a sneeze, the remnants of a cough that wouldn’t go away.
‘David, David we need to talk…’ before he’d a chance to reply he heard Claire’s voice repeat itself. He frowned at the urgency of it as his mind spun to McPherson. A short time ago she’d seemed dismissive of him, not so now, this was a worried voice if ever he heard one. ‘Look, I need to complete tomorrow’s sermon, give me an hour and I’ll come over, is that alright?’
‘Yes, yes it’s okay.’
But the anxiety bit into him, ‘What is it, what’s happened?’
There was a pause, he heard the clock’s monotonous tick, ‘Just something I want you to do, that’s all.’
Endleberry grunted, he felt uneasy, ‘Give me an hour.’
Rain was falling steadily as he fetched his cycle from the shed behind the vicarage. Cycling was part and parcel of life for a village parson. You needed to be seen, people needed you to be accessible and the cycle enabled you to be just that. But the desire for accessibility had dwindled along with his parishioners over the years; in times of increasing population the number of inhabitants was actually falling in Bramble Dyke. He could well understand that and in doing so Endleberry felt the afternoon chill bite into his bones.
So what had caused the concern in Claire Summerby’s voice?
Leaning forward into the wind he pedalled along the street to a point where the road branched off to the right, revealing the small development of modern houses that he’d regarded as a blot on the landscape when they’d been built.
Claire had the door open for him when he arrived, stepping away on his approach and leaving Endleberry to close it behind him.
‘What is it, McPherson?’ he asked edgily, hardly bothering to wipe his feet on the mat, ‘I told you he’d cause problems.’
‘No,’ Claire shook her head and closed the door he’d left open, ‘oh he’s been back to the house of course, he’s managed to discover the house belongs to me but that doesn’t cause concern,’ Claire bit on her lip, she hadn’t mentioned the newspaper cuttings or about the intruder, it was better he didn’t know that and in any case it wasn’t why she’d called him.
‘He’s a policeman Claire,’ Endleberry snapped, ‘he’ll find more than you bargain…’
‘I’ve told you to stop worrying,’ her voice rose at the alarm in his eyes, ‘It isn’t Tim we should worry about.’
Endleberry stiffened, his heavy brows meeting in the middle, ‘So what is it then?’
She sighed, ‘You’d better come through, would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Endleberry unbuttoned his black coat, treading heavily on the pile carpet as he followed her through.
Claire turned and faced him, arms folded, she nodded towards a chair but he declined the invitation. ‘You’ve heard there’s a newcomer in the village?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard as much,’ Endleberry felt the tension rising within him and shuffled uneasily, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that, he’ll probably do up and sell up, strangers don’t tend to stay long in these parts.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, I’ve got to know him a little,’ Claire turned away, running her hands along the tops of her arms as she spoke, ‘he says he’s seen and noticed some strange things in the drove. He seems the curious type, I think he might get involved and if he does go prying he’ll get Tim’s backing, after all he’s getting precious little assistance from anywhere else.’ Claire turned back to face Endleberry, it seemed his complexion was turning more grey by the second, ‘David, you’ve got to go and speak with him, I’ve tried warning him off but I don’t think he’ll listen to me.’
Endleberry was on his feet now, he didn’t like the way things were developing, he didn’t like it at all, it seemed that forces were conspiring to bring simmering matters to a head in Bramble Dyke, he’d had that uneasy feeling for some time. A seemingly innocuous newcomer might just provide the trigger.
‘David, go and speak with him, try and make him see reason, he doesn’t realise what he might be getting himself into…’
‘He – he?’ Endleberry widened his eyes, the worn creases around them turning into minor crevasses, ‘Spare a little thought for us, why don’t you?’ He shot her a glance, angry or perhaps just desperate, ‘He can’t have been here for more than a few days and yet already…’ he stopped, lowering his gaze directly at Claire, ‘is this concern something more than what might befall us, is this chap personal perhaps?’ He saw the look in her eyes, the intensity in them as they narrowed, and dropped his tone, ‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘You’re the parson David, it’s your job to get to know people, to be the pillar of the community…’ she saw him flinch at that, she saw the resentful look in his eyes, ‘you know people around here, put him at his ease, make him see there’s nothing unusual about Three Mile Drove other than local customs, which he as a newcomer isn’t familiar with. If he’s going to listen to anybody it’ll be you, but make yourself convincing.’
Endleberry drew a deep breath, ran his fingers across his chin, perhaps if her could make this newcomer see some sense, and in so doing make him see the interminable boredom and bleakness of the place he’d salvage the situation, cut off McPherson’s support and they could all go back to their hollow existence.
‘Where will I find him?’
‘He’s having the bungalow renovated by Ted Jackson; I think the work’s going to start on Monday morning. I’ve no doubt Darren will be there to receive him so there’s your chance, be there bright and early before Ted arrives…’
Three Mile Drove – the one place he’d never venture, not since he’d witnessed what he had and been sworn to silence, and he, a man of the cloth – but then he’d had no other choice had he? What else could he have done and now the thought of returning both revolted and alarmed him –
Endleberry nodded, ‘I’ll try.’ He wrapped his cloak around him and stepped out into the cold.
Claire closed the door behind him, and with a sudden recollection that struck deep into the pit of her stomach she recalled Darren’s words –
“I thought I’d shop around a little, see what I can come up with that might help,” and then the crucial words, “tonight perhaps…”
tonight perhaps –
Those were his words now she thought about it, and despite her firm stand she doubted he’d be put off that easily. It might be too late, David seeing him on Monday, trying to convince him that all was normal, God knows what he might stumble across tonight or what fate might befall him. Why hadn’t she thought it through properly before she’d called Endleberry? But it was too late now for recourse on that, the more she did think about it, the only alternative lay in her own hands.

*

Darren had no real course of action, other than he’d pinpoint the Tomblin household as a starting point. His encounter with the big bloke had unnerved him, but not enough to dissuade him from his mission, nor for that matter had Claire’s words had any effect other than to make him question the reason for her chagrin.
So here he was, approaching dusk on an increasingly windy afternoon, preparing to play snoop for McPherson. He wondered what the copper was doing now, he doubted that he’d be sitting around idly strumming guitar chords and getting more bored by the minute, a half empty can of drink on the floor beside the chair. Somehow he pictured McPherson preparing for a night at the theatre, or maybe even contemplating some operatic performance, adjusting his tie carefully in the mirror before setting out onto a smart residential street. He just seemed that type somehow.
Darren sighed, raising himself from the easy chair opposite his bed, a quick glance outside as the wind howled around the corners of the building. He made his way down the stairs, through the main bar and out into the car park. The place was quiet, it wasn’t quite dark but it wasn’t quite dark but it wasn’t evening either. That part of the day when standing at, or occupying a seat in the bar labelled you in the “sad” bracket, in just the same way it did the bloody shopaholics who rambled around town centres carrying a single bag of shopping, not intending to buy anything else but then not willing to call it a day.
He couldn’t understand that either.
So what would these people think of him now? He didn’t really care.
Darren edged his car onto the road that led to the centre of Bramble Dyke, the general store was closing down as he passed. He checked his watch, strange that, general stores in his experience stayed open until eight, perhaps ten. Business wasn’t too bright in this place, obviously.
Not difficult to understand, really.
He thought about leaving his car in the lay-by outside the post office, he didn’t want to expose himself to any prying eyes in the drove itself, but it was a hell of a long walk from here and the straight monotony of the road made it seem even worse.
But in any case there were a few items he’d bought for the bungalow after leaving Claire earlier in the day, necessities, particularly with Jackson arriving Monday morning. There was an oil lamp, a small gas fire, a couple of old camping chairs and table he’d picked up from a second hand shop close to the market. He felt he ought to offer Jackson some degree of cordiality, no matter how small, after all the man was doing a job for him at a reasonable price.
Darren continued until he reached the head of the drove, then swung into it, the wind beating against the side of the jeep competing with the sound system in the volume stakes. Just past the bungalow, the one that McPherson had told him belonged to Tomblin’s father, a truck had been left in the road causing a partial blockage. He could get by but only by coaxing the 4x4 along the verge on the bungalow’s side, bringing it perilously close to the dyke that ran the length of the drove. A dyke still swollen by recent rain.
He cursed, edging his vehicle closer to the dyke, feeling the wheels sinking into the squelchy mud and grass bordering the drove.
‘I’ll move it for ya fella, if that’s what ya want.’
Darren pressed the control pad, craned his head, and lowered the partly opened passenger window to its rim. He saw an old man with weather-beaten face approaching the jeep: of course that’s what I want, what sort of question was that?
‘I’d be obliged,’ Darren said curtly, his eyes fixed on the old man.
‘Only there’s some around here feel it might be a bad idea.’
Darren cringed, though it wasn’t the man’s words, but the smell of his breath that did it. He’d figured out for himself that he wasn’t exactly favoured in these parts.
‘Oh,’ he said coldly, ‘and who exactly might these people be?’
‘Folks that don’t appreciate newcomers prying into their business I expect,’ the old man hitched up baggy trousers tied by a cord around his waist, Darren felt a wave of nausea at that breath. He stared, the old chap didn’t flinch, just met his look with unreadable eyes. Why was everybody from Claire down so concerned about his actions here? What was it that made them all try to warn him away? Only McPherson stood apart in attitude, and that obviously because it suited his purpose.
What motivated these people?
Darren sighed, thumped his hand on the wheel, the bloke was still gazing at him, ‘Are you going to move this truck?’
There was a grunt, a shrug of the shoulders, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.’
It took him what seemed an age to shunt the truck into his drive and Darren seething now at the old man’s warning, had to reverse the jeep to avoid a collision.
The wind flung spots of rain onto his windscreen as he drove on, passing a few minutes later the lone tree with its withered shape, bending in the wind, with its branches more than ever resembling a fossilised figure warning him away. The jeep’s headlights on the grey bark gave the tree an odd shimmer as it bounced over the uneven road, while behind it the old house seemed just an outline against the darkening sky. But then in the corner room above just the faintest glimmer of light - his imagination or just a rogue reflection through the clouds of the setting sun?
He couldn’t tell, because in a moment he was past, passing the bank of trees that shielded Tomblin’s house, only one upstairs window was partly visible from the road, unlit in the approaching dusk, it seemed.
But his thoughts centred on the derelict house and intensified as he approached his bungalow at the foot of the drove. Had he seen light, just the faintest flicker in that split second? And if so why? Did it somehow tie in with this conspiracy to deter him, perhaps from stumbling on whatever it was they were afraid of?
The missing kid?
Some imagination he supposed. But something was up. And as soon as he’d unloaded his stuff he’d trek back and check on that house for sure, that and the whole surrounding area. No threats, whatever their nature was going to deter him this time.
Darren unlocked the gate and pushed it open, its rusty hinges creaking into a whine. The willows in the yard moaned in the wind but beyond that, there was nothing untoward he could see in the light provided by his headlights.
Drawing up outside the bungalow he unlocked it and pushed the door open, the foul smell hit him just as bad as it had the other times, hanging around, creating a heaviness that pressed on his chest. He’d have to do something about the stench and soon. He couldn’t expect Johnson to work with this revolting odour.
Darren lit the oil lamp in the corridor and watched it throw orange shades on the walls, shadows thrown by the willows creating dark moving patterns on the closed lounge door.
He shivered momentarily in the draught before collecting the stove, the camping table and chairs, and setting them up in the kitchen. The place needed ventilating badly and he decided to leave the front door open, allowing a few minutes for the fresh air to help alleviate the smell and fighting back temporarily his pressing need to return to the area of the derelict house.
The wind blew strongly around the bungalow, creating a vortex of dust and soil driven off the fens, swirling and hurling it against already filthy kitchen windows. For a moment he pictured a monumental daily task of struggling to keep the yard dust free of all the loose soil blown from the flat landscape.
Was that the sound of a car engine he heard amidst a lull in the wind, before it suddenly blasted with renewed energy extinguishing the oil lamp? Darren cursed his ignorance in leaving the lamp directly in the path of the draught; he cursed his imagination too. It was almost totally dark now, he strove for the corridor hitting his knee hard on the doorjamb, feeling it crack and sending a delayed wave of pain that seemed to connect all the way to his aching back.
He’d forgotten about the engine noise he’d thought he’d heard, at least for a few painful seconds, until the initial onset of pain began to subside, whereupon pushing out into the darkened yard he shone his torch in all directions.
Nothing. Nothing except the howl of the wind, furious and angry, and its deep roar through the willows.
That must have been it, what he’d heard.
He’d left the gate open, as he neared it he could hear it creaking back and forth, creak, whine, creak, whine, he could just make out its black rusty railings through the darkness. But he was set now, set on his mission, an eye on the derelict house, an eye on the Tomblin’s house. He’d lay low; he’d watch and wait.
He’d tread the soft grass that bordered the dyke all the way. Straight as a dye, it’d take him ten minutes, perhaps fifteen he estimated.
And then a shuffling behind, becoming more rapid. Dust carried on the wind. No, more solid than that. More organised. Too late he realised in alarm. Quick feet, running feet. He half turned but he saw nothing. Nothing apart from a sleeve and a gloved hand, clasped around his mouth, something white inside its palm clashing with the darkness, dazzling his eyes, sending daggers of light through them as his lids closed. The smell of something sweet, of floating, - and then falling.