NORMAN'S DOG - Part 1 (of 2)

 

 

NORMAN'S DOG

by

Albert Woods

PART 1

Some locals used to say that there were peculiar goings-on around the gibbet on Cormley Crag. The gruesome apparatus had been there for nigh on two hundred years, and had first been erected to hang Danny O'Dwyer, the horse thief. True enough, there was undoubtedly something eerie about the place; always windy and cold, in a perpetual shadow from the adjoining tors. Most skeptics who did venture up there usually returned with a seed of doubt, and a chill down their spines; though it was the Crag's recent history that kept the faint-hearted away. All stayed tight-lipped on the subject: except Norman.

Norman was even older than his odd bedraggled appearance suggested but, in his more lucid moments, nowhere near as daft. To him, the role of village idiot was a boon that brought odd jobs for beer money; and a sort of introverted status in the community, whereby nobody bothered him, whilst accepting his near-useless presence as natural a part of the scene as the sinister Cormley outcrop. And part of the scene he most definitely was; either sweeping for the shopkeepers, clipping hedges or stooging about on the road, walking the equally tatty Kevin, the one love of his life.

The spiky, quivering mongrel spent its entire time two feet behind his heels, linked by a length of twine. Norman's eccentric reputation was further enhanced by the widely-held belief that Kevin was a bitch, though few had been close enough to the beast to confirm it first hand. Norman was glad about that. He did not want to share his friend with anybody. Kevin obviously felt the same way about him, baring teeth and snarling at those having the temerity to approach her master. O'Dwyer's Gallows, as it was called, offered a safe retreat to them. That was why he encouraged the rumours; it kept people away.

Strictly speaking, the Crag was private property on the east flank of the Thurston family's substantial acreage that bordered the village on its west and south sides. The grim mass of volcanic spew had been allowed to fall within their boundaries by default. Nobody else wanted it; the place was commercially useless. As far back as anybody could remember, the early Thurstons had never objected to the public going there, as neither did the present incumbent Joshua, the latest to take up the challenge of the farm that had been carved out of the unyielding landscape by his great great-grandfather, and those in the line since. Getting their hands dirty had been a way of life for them, as it now was for him. And despite the wealth, with the security it bought, Joshua believed in being on his land, working it, tending it, and retaining the feel for it.

Sometimes, when he was in the fields below the Crag, he would look out for old Norman and his dog; usually up there, silhouetted against the oppressive skyline, doing nothing mostly, just standing. They had been there, once, during a cloudburst; the rain falling so hard that Joshua called off the ploughing. But man and dog stayed, loitering; as though they could neither see nor feel it.

Everybody said that Norman was mad; yet, over all the years, the farmer had never actually spoken to the tramp to find out for himself; not on the Crag, nor in the village. The pathetic eyes had always been glued to the ground whenever the two passed on the road. Only Kevin gave any form of acknowledgement. She'd growl.

If anyone ventured beyond their thresholds at night, which few did, it was to the church or Five Bells that they usually went. Running the spartan tile and scrubbed-wood alehouse was just one of Horatio McLaughlin's many contributions to community life. The village was a good forty miles from any major highway so relied, to a large extent, on its own resources for day to day needs. Occasionally, they'd get travellers or pilgrims through. Horatio kept a couple of guest rooms available to be rented when necessary. The sheds, to the rear of the inn, acted as the area's slaughterhouse. Then there was the builders and undertaker's business that he had acquired under questionable circumstances when Jeffrey Kelly - whose name the thriving enterprise still bore - left on his last journey in one of his own containers.

McLaughlin's fortune, though considerably less than the many hundreds suggested by envious neighbours, kept him in considerable comfort, as did, albeit indirectly, his leadership of the parish council; a post befitting the foremost trader in the area.

Joshua Thurston had once been a councillor. He believed in democracy; the right of the people to have their say. McLaughlin had not taken kindly to that sentiment at all. But Thurston was a far wealthier man, and had more inherited right to influence local affairs. He'd said as much at his first, and last, meeting. It was said he’d resigned. In reality, he was thrown out.

As a result – and to his deep distress - Joshua found himself shunned by the villagers. They had not approved his calling-in the sheriff. All he wanted was for the unsatisfactory state of affairs to be properly investigated. He had thought they would all have welcomed it - except the council, of course. Meetings were never minuted, no accounts ever made available for inspection, and no elections. Joshua, himself, had not been elected. He was appointed by the chairman to replace George Smalley, who’d perished in the flames that engulfed his workshop. McLaughlin assured the farmer that a ballot was unnecessary. Nobody else would be standing, he was certain. And nobody did.

From the start, Joshua had had his doubts about the sheriff. The man seemed to be more interested in McLaughlin's business successes than council matters. His eyes widened, noticeably, every time that the extent of the chairman's interests were discussed; almost as though he was absorbing the information for future self-improvement. The so-called inquiry ended in a whitewash. The sheriff summed-up by telling Joshua: “You would be well-advised to keep your nose out of council affairs, and confine your attentions, and yourself, to the farm in the future.”

Henceforth, the insulting advice rankled repeatedly in Joshua’s mind.

So now the errant farmer was looked upon as a troublemaker, and few people would speak to him. The only person to show any civility, aside from his workers who had little choice, was the pastor - and that, Joshua suspected, was purely because of the covenants that his father and grandfather had made. It was expected he would do likewise.

* * *

Harvest was gone; the cool autumn evenings easing steadily into wintry nights, evidenced by the growing number of smoke columns spiralling from chimney pots. As he had done so many times before, Horatio McLaughlin pitched old Norman out onto the street at closing time. The fool had been privileged tonight; actually allowed into the bar, instead of the rear passageway to where he was usually consigned, along with the flea-bitten Kevin. What little money he had was soon spent, so he'd resorted to the charity of a few regulars who thought the madcap behaviour and imbecilic outpourings worth a half-pint, or two, for the sport of it. This time they'd had him singing, dancing and reciting doggerel; all skills he patently lacked. They laughed and laughed. The fool laughed too, and they encouraged him all the more. They laughed so much that they failed to notice Kevin clearing the half-eaten ham hocks from their plates.

Old Norman could hear the residual guffaws evaporating into the crisp night air as the drinkers staggered away along the lanes towards their homes. Although the barn where he slept was a mere hundred yards from the inn, he liked to circle the village before retiring, mainly to exercise his friend. Now, all was quiet, just his own footsteps and Kevin's pitter-pat behind him; how he liked it best. Nobody pointing, no taunts; the two of them with the world to themselves, when his mind would clear for a time.

The seat by the lych gate was a favourite spot to pause during these excursions. Norman liked the camouflage of the drooping horse chestnut branches that embraced it when in full foliage. Tonight they were almost bare. Still, he stopped to rest while Kevin, free from her tether, foraged about in the brittle carpet of dead leaves. He stretched himself along the length of the rustic bench, allowing the silence and calm to flow over him. It was a clear night; he could see the stars, and when he diverted his doleful gaze to the village below, he felt at peace. No lights burned, nobody stirred. He hummed a half-tune, one he’d tried to sing earlier.

Then he stopped and sat up. A movement in the bushes near the rectory garden had caught his attention. Kevin also heard it, and was already on her way to investigate. There was more movement and, moments later, a muffled thud and stunted squeal.

Creeping, quietly, up the path was difficult, even in his soft-soled boots. Whoever was there heard the crunch of gravel and fled. Norman saw a shadowy form go over the fence and away into the darkness.

Where was Kevin? There was something amiss.

Pastor Dunne came upon them both a while later. His eyes betrayed little compassion for the pathetic creature, kneeling, with tears streaming down his face, nursing the lifeless skin of his pet – lightly caressing, sometimes kissing, its fractured skull.

The pastor’s lack of sympathy was duly matched by the disinterest of the villagers when word got around. Nobody had ever liked the animal, and it had long been generally agreed that Norman's queer behaviour would lead to grief sooner or later. But it was intense grief that he experienced, next day, when he toiled, scratching out a grave for the dog in the stony earth up on Cormley Crag. When it was done, he stood there, quite alone; the only mourner, he thought. But there was another, watching from a distance.

These days, Joshua Thurston heard little of village affairs, but did know of Norman's loss, and it saddened him. He began to make his way up to the gibbet. Whether he would actually talk to the man, he was not sure, but thought his presence might be comforting. To his surprise, it was himself who felt in need of consolation on seeing the bewildered tramp at the graveside. Norman had not seen Joshua approaching, but had heard; even so, there was no acknowledgement. The farmer plucked a single wild flower from the bank and laid it on the mound.

Now, he must speak, Joshua felt, though words did not come easy. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Norman turned to look him straight in the face. The meeting of their eyes sparked a reaction in Joshua that he had not anticipated. These were not the eyes of a fool, this was no clown. Somehow, Norman had been veiling an intelligence; a clear perception of everything that went on around him. It was all there in his look; a lifetime’s experience, bitter, weatherworn, but there.

Then came the words. The accent was not that of some ill-bred yokel. It was refined, educated. "They will pay for this day's work," he said, glancing back at Kevin's grave. "He has suffered their cruelty long enough, yet still they had to take his friend. They'll pay," he nodded his head in self-assurance. "They'll pay."

Joshua took some time to consider what he was hearing. He was confused; unsure if he should respond, or what to say if he did. Whatever hold 'they' had over the lonely soul, must be fearsome to make him act the fool for so long. A cold gust blew across their backs, carrying drops of dreary rain. Joshua shivered, then reached for Norman's arm. "Come with me," he said. "We’ll go to the house."

Norman blinked in agreement, and they left the dog to rest.

How long it had been since being invited into another's home, Norman couldn’t remember. The farmer's fine residence was warm, and he was made welcome. It was pleasing. Mulled wine, a taste he’d long forgotten, revived his frozen senses, though he accepted little food. It was all too rich after the scraps he survived on. There was little talk at first, just approving grunts.

An ember crackled and spat onto the hearthrug. Norman extinguished the spark with his leather-skinned thumb. "Another soul on its way," he observed. "A few more will join it soon."

Joshua saw this as the ideal opening it was. "They've treated you badly, haven't they," he said.

Norman answered, guardedly, as though unwilling to let the subject develop. "Some might say that, I suppose.”

The farmer was intrigued. "Why have they done these things?" he asked.

Norman exhaled, almost a sigh as he reflected. "I can't say yet; not until the entries are made."

Maybe years of living within himself had lost the forlorn creature the ability to converse. His responses were obscure; clipped and difficult to fathom. But, strange though it was, Joshua had the conviction that his guest knew exactly what he was talking about. He would have to draw him out gently, until that knowledge could be shared. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I can't remember. Sixty, maybe seventy. Never did count years."

Joshua smiled. "When I was in my teens, and you appeared in the village, you were already a man – and that was at least forty years ago. Where did you come from?"

"London. Clerkenwell. I was born in Clerkenwell."

"Why did you come here?"

The tone of the reply warned the questioner that he might be digging too deep now. "On business," Norman grunted, then hid his face in his goblet.

"What was your business?"

There was no reply.

The question came again: "What business, Norman?"

"It's in the past. Best forgotten."

They sat in silence for a time, Joshua wondering whether he would be able to prise his man open; Norman gazing blankly, seemingly mesmerised by the flames on the red coals.

"I want to help you, you know," Joshua appealed to his visitor. "You really should trust me. Whatever it is they've been doing has got to stop. Look, I know what they're like. God knows, I've suffered at their hands as well. You must confide in me, my friend. Please don't go back inside yourself."

Norman looked up. "Friend?" he said. "I do not remember ever being called friend before. Well, if you consider me a friend, then I must reciprocate and call you friend too. And if you are my friend, I must not put you in danger with my knowledge."

"But you must," Joshua insisted. "I can fight these people."

"You cannot," the reply was authoritative. "I will not put you in peril."

They stood at the impasse. Norman went over to the window and looked out into the grey of the late afternoon; up to the macabre outline of the gallows.

Joshua watched the eyes. Again they told a story. "It was that," he pointed, "wasn't it? Was it not what brought you here?"

The old man squinted. "Aye," he whispered. "Me; not Norman."

* * *

Some councillors thought it amusing that the demise of Norman's dog should be deemed of sufficient import to be raised by Chairman McLaughlin. He didn’t share their mirth. His concern was sharply focused on the identity of the perpetrator, and what he, or she, had been doing by the rectory garden at the dead of night. "I do not have to tell you," he addressed the meeting, "how vital it is that we find this person. I demand that you speak up now if you know or, indeed, if you were in any way involved. There will be no recriminations. I'd rather hear it was one of you. At least, then, we could all sleep soundly in the knowledge that our security has not been breached."

The room fell silent, inquisitive eyes sweeping from side to side; heads shaking to indicate ignorance. Nobody spoke.

McLaughlin took due note, and continued: "Then we have a state of emergency. The interloper must be found, and stopped."

The secretary forced a cough, begging leave to ask a question. "Chairman;" he said, "how do we know that this person was no more than a roaming vagrant, a gypsy passing through, or possibly a footpad who was disturbed by the animal, and is now long gone?"

"We don't; but it is most unlikely. It’s seldom that outsiders get near this place unnoticed. No; this is the work of some local busybody, I am sure. We must put a stop to it."

They all nodded their agreement.

"What would you have us do?" somebody asked.

Their leader had already decided. "Two of you will stand watch each night. This meddlesome person will return. It’s in his nature."

"And if we find him?" the secretary questioned.

"He will be silenced.”

* * *

End of PART 1

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

 

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