DANCING TO THE SINGING OF THE WIND

 

 He was drowning. 

        Trapped beneath the ice he hammered desperately with bleeding fists at the frozen sheet above his head, while above the ice the grotesque face of the Mistletoe Man looked down upon him, revelling in his plight with demonic glee 

       He could hold his breath no longer and exhaled, waiting in terror for the lake to enter his lungs, but even as he took breath the ice above him shattered, his head broke the lake’s surface, and he found himself, sweat soaked, trembling, but relieved, lying on his bunk in the cabin. But the sight of Deakin’s sheet-enshrouded body on the other bunk immediately jolted him back to frightening reality.

       The stench from the corpse was unbearable, and had seemingly fused with the palpable presence of the evil that had taken Deakin’s life; the evil that he himself had glimpsed on Christmas Eve, watching him from high in a lakeside oak. At first he had thought it a trick of the light, shadows flickering in the winter gloom, but a second glance revealed the devilish face leering down as if from within the mistletoe itself. It was gone in a moment, but had filled him with incomprehensible fear.

     Back at the cabin, he had found Deakin, demented, and raving deliriously about the Mistletoe Man. Deakin had lain in delirium all Christmas Day and three days more and, as a bitter gale raged around the cabin, had died in torment, in vain begging the Mistletoe Man to spare his immortal soul. He knew then that he was in danger and must leave the cabin, but to venture into the gale would have been suicidal.
           

       But now, on New Year’s Eve, the gale had eased, so gathering his rifle and his few belongings, he lit the oil lamp and, as he left the cabin, turned and hurled it at Deakin’s body, engulfing it in flames.

    Cresting the long rise beyond the cabin, he stopped, and watched as flames and smoke belched from its roof; flames and smoke in which he fancied he saw the Mistletoe Man, writhing in fury, a swirling mass of orange, red and black.

            Frightened, he hurried through the forest, far from the lake and the burning cabin and in to strange and unknown country. He knew that he must find shelter and warmth before nightfall and pressed on purposefully through the morning and long in to the afternoon. And through all the day he saw not a living thing, nor heard a bird, but all the time the wind pursued him, rustling and sighing through the trees, as if encouraging him on his way.

            Daylight was fading when he emerged from the forest, to find himself once more beside an ice-bound lake. Before him was a cabin, smoke curling from its chimney in to the darkening sky, while outside, muffled against the cold, a woman worked, splitting logs upon a block with a long-handled axe. She saw him and put down the axe, waiting his approach.

            She was a fine-looking woman, tall and strong, and with a dark beauty that blended, somehow, with the forest. She did not seem surprised by his arrival and her strange green eyes, the colour of spring-fresh leaves, seemed to be looking deep inside him.

        “I have been expecting you. Welcome to my home.”

          He was confused. “You knew I was coming? How can that be? I didn‘t know of you, nor of this place.”

       She smiled. “There is nothing that happens in the forest of which I do not know. There are many messengers among the trees; no news that the wind does not share, or that the lake does not carry in its hidden currents. Word of your mortal peril reached me yesterday, and I asked the wind to guide you safely here.”  

   He knew then that the woman was not of his world, but was something mystical, a sprite perhaps, a goddess even. And he realised, with feelings of both apprehension and euphoria, that he was powerless in her presence.

           Taking his arm, she guided him into her cabin where a log fire was burning in the stone fireplace. After the bitter cold of his journey the room was warm and welcoming and two comfortable chairs were set beside a low oak table, which was laden with bread, cheeses, preserves and a jug of wine.

       “Sit now, and eat,” she said. “The fare is wholesome, and the wine refreshing.  You will be tired and hungry from your journey, and bewildered that I know so much about you.”

      “I am bewildered,” he admitted. “So much is happening that I do not understand. Who are you,  that you know so much about my troubles?”

        She took the chair beside him, poured wine in to earthen mugs and bade him drink.

         “My name is Hulder,” she said, “and the forest is my home. The forest dwellers are my family, my friends and my protection, and provide for all my needs.  Nothing happens in the forest of which I am not aware, nothing that I cannot control.

      “Who are these forest dwellers?” he asked. “I saw no evidence of human habitation on my way here. Do you live here alone?”

      “I have no human friends,” she said, “although sometimes someone strays from the outside, as you have done, and keeps me company for a while. But I am not lonely. The animals and birds are my companions, the trees my watchful neighbours, the wind and water my messengers. But tell me now of your journey here. I know only of your danger, but little of what led to it.

         So he told her of how he had glimpsed the Mistletoe Man in the forest and how the Mistletoe Man had stolen Deakin’s soul; of the brooding evil that had pervaded the cabin and his fears for his own safety that had caused him to flee.

        “I know of the Mistletoe Man,” said Hulder. “He is an evil wraith who steals the souls of all who trespass in his forest world. He is capricious and unpredictable and will be angry that you have escaped him and found sanctuary with me. But now,” she said “we must celebrate your deliverance.  Tonight the old year dies, and the creatures of the forest will celebrate the coming of the new. You must eat now and rest a while and then we will go together to join the forest festival.”

      Later, wrapped warm against the night, he and Hulder left the cabin. She took his arm and pressed tight against him, as they walked beside the lake and he marvelled that someone so unworldly could feel so warm, so human, excite so much desire within him, and dared to wonder what delights the night might hold. 

     As they walked along the shore a full moon filled the sky, reflecting brilliantly upon the ice-cloaked lake. The forest had come alive with mysterious shapes and shadows, but with Hulder at his side he felt no fear. The wind had now joined their progress, whispering gently before gathering force towards a wild crescendo, singing in celebration, while unseen pan-pipes played exotic melodies. 

      The excitement of the wind’s song intoxicated him. Roughly, he took Hulder in his arms and, carried along by the irresistible urgency of the music, he spun her around in exultation, laughing at the joy and passion in her face.

      He had lost control now, dancing frenziedly, conscious that the forest shadows had joined the dance and were circling them, around and above, in ever-changing patterns of light and shade. Laughing, Hulder broke from his arms and danced away, beckoning him to follow, but as he did so the shadows closed around him, blocking her from his sight. The wind still sang, encouraging him onwards; but Hulder had gone, and the shadows, too, now melted away and he realised, too late, that his pursuit of her had taken him, alone, far on to the ice-covered lake.

   Panic-stricken, he turned towards the shore, but as he did so the ice beneath him cracked and parted and he plunged in to the lake and was swept beneath the ice. Briefly, he struggled in disbelieving rage as his helpless soul was torn, screaming, from his body, while above him, Hulder and the Mistletoe Man whirled in unison, dancing to the singing of the wind.

 

 

THAT SORT OF PLACE

 Lady Viola Babbacombe fixed me with a piggy stare and grunted angrily across the desk.

               "Are you the dingo I've been talking to on the phone from Melbourne for the last two years?"

               "I'm Barrington Matheson -Price," I offered, neither confirming or denying. "How may I be of service?"

               Despite my relaxed attitude, alarm bells were clanging. Her Ladyship was the absentee owner of Blatheringho Hall, and the scarcely-feminine half-sister of the Hall's former owner, the Hon. Horace 'Bunny' Ponsonby, who had disappeared in mysterious circumstances some years previously. Until this moment I had believed her to be fading unobtrusively away in a nursing home Down Under. What was she doing here?

              "Be of service?" she growled. "Look, Blatheringho Hall has been on your books for two years now, ever since I inherited it when Bunny was pronounced legally  dead, and still no takers. All I get is endless fob-offs and I'm here to find out what's going on."

               "Well, your Ladyship, as you know, Blatheringho Hall is derelict; the cost of restoration would be prohibitive to our local impoverished gentry, and we at Matheson-Price and Pratt are reluctant to let such an historic building fall in to the clutches of nouveau riches Philistines."

              "I don't care who clutches it. As long as they can pay, the Philistines can have it. But I need to go and see the situation for myself."

              Fiona Worthington-Deville, my secretary, (50's, detached, elegantly refurbished, delightful views to rear) came to my rescue. 

             "Princess Anne is on the phone again, Barrington, wanting an update on the sale of Gatcombe Park."

             That always works, and I was in my office with the door locked before Lady B could utter another vitriolic syllable. I gave it five minutes and then buzzed Fiona. "Is the old boot still here?"

             "'Fraid so, Barrington, parked her lardy arse in the easy chair, legs akimbo, with her frillies on display, so awwwf'lly uncouth. Says will you remember her to Anne?"

              "This is serious," I said. "Tell her we'll discuss her problems over lunch, then get me Price, Price, Price, Matheson Pratt and Ceauscescou on the blower, I need to talk to Frank."

               "Matheson here," said Frank.

                "Trouble old love," I said, the Babblecombe woman's blown in."

                "What! What!" expostulated Frank. She can't have. She's in Australia, bedridden and demented."

                "Well, " I said, "demented, yes, but presently in my office and wanting to go see the Hall. Didn't you know she was coming, you are her UK solicitor."

               "Not heard a dickie from her, old darlin'," said Frank. "This is a nasty one! It could sink the whole bloody ship. Do you think she suspects anything?"
        

               "I don't know," I said, "but she is extremely arsey and we obviously need to keep her away from the Hall. Book a table at the Jockey and we'll butter her up a bit. I'll bring Fiona and to be on the safe side, I'll make sure that Razor and Svetlana know the score."

                At the Jockey her Ladyship ordered a large carafe of Fosters lager to wash down her Coquille St Jacques Provencale a la Maison. Gaston, the chef, threw a dreadful tantrum, while she, oblivious to the furore, drained the carafe's last dregs as the final scallop slid down her gullet.

               "Now, Lady Babblecombe,"said Frank,, "you really should have given us notice of this visit, we could have saved you time and money."

               "You see, " I said, "we can't actually take you to the Hall for at least another month."

               "No," said Frank.

               "Quarantine," I said.

               "Foot and mouth," said Frank, "vicious outbreak; nothing left alive within a mile and a half radius."

               "Police would shoot us," I said, "if we were found in the exclusion zone."

               "Messy business, shooting," said Frank. "Armed response chappies bagged poor Cissie Mainwaring last week; she was only walking the spaniels. Quite dead, and the post mortem revealed she wasn't infected anyway."

              Viola Babblecome wiped Provencale sauce from her mouth with her sleeve and grimaced at us. "Matheson Price? Matheson? You've got to be related, haven't you?"

              "Well, probably," I said. "We could be distant brothers on our father's  side, though it's very difficult to be precise about ones relatives in Blatheringho, It's that sort of place."

              "Yes," said Lady Babblecombe, I've noticed that you two display all the arrogant charm of upper-crust inbreds. Fancy trying to spin me that one. There wasn't any foot and mouth at the Hall when I passed by earlier, although there were a lot of strange looking people there that require an explanation."

              Frank and I concocted the explanation in the Jockey's bog. "Failing that, it's over to Razor," I said.

              I had to admit that Blatheringho Hall displayed excessive animation for a supposedly derelict property. Parked near the outbuildings were two mini buses crammed with men of unkempt appearance  and there were others working in the adjacent fields. On the Hall's terrace a group of smartly dressed men and tarty-looking women were laughing and drinking.

              Babblecombe said nothing, but the set of her jaw indicated displeasure. We entered the Hall's study where Razor and Svetlana were waiting for us.

              "This better be good," said Babblecombe.

               "It's better than good," said Frank.

               "The publicity will be tremendous when we break it to the media," I said, "and it being your property, you'll get all the credit. If it wasn't for the cash-for-honours hoo-ha, you'd probably get a peerage."

                "What credit? And who's this unsavoury pair?" asked Lady Babblecombe.

                "How rude of me," I said, "the large brick outhouse is Mr Razor Popadopolus, the tiny tattooed Goth is Miss Svetlana Abdujaparov and they are jointly managing the Hall on your behalf. You see, as there seemed no prospect of selling, Matheson and I, not wishing to concern you with trivia, took the decision to make the Hall work for you by opening it up as a half-way house for refugees. The Home Office is wildly excited about the project."

                "It's ground-breaking social engineering," said Frank.

                "Cutting edge," said Fiona.

                "The Queen was coming to open it, but had double booked with Ascot," confided Frank.

                "Codswallop," said Babblecombe. "You're running an illegal immigrant labour scam and a knocking shop. The gorilla here is the minder and the tattooed tart runs the brothel. Did you know she bats for both side, by the way? She's been making free with the merchandise for months."

                Svetlana flashed a vicious scowl at Lady B, drew her right index finger slowly across her throat and emitted an obscene gurgling noise.

                "Piggy lady toast," she said.

                 Razor looked enquiringly at Frank and me. "Svet could be right about dis, bosses. De porky chick's too sharp for her own good. Say de word and I'll squeeze her in under de parquet, she can cosy up next to her brudder, he won't notice."

                "So that's where Bunny ended up, "observed her Ladyship, "I did wonder. Anyway, before you get ideas, there's a letter lodged with my Melbourne solicitors which implicates you all should I mysteriously disappear. Fiona has been keeping me fully informed of your activities for the last couple of years now."

                "Fiona?" Frank and I were appalled. Fiona had the good grace to look sheepish.

                "Yes, Fiona is maybe my half-sister, or more likely some sort of cousin, although, as you said, it's difficult to be sure in Blatheringho. I must say though," she beamed, "that your operation is impressive and dovetails perfectly with my Australian interests. I'm sure Fiona will be happy to keep  you all on when she takes over on my behalf. The tattooed tart goes though."

                "Oh, Viola, how awwwf'lly mean," exclaimed Fiona. "Look, the poor little mite is really upset! Never mind dear, you can come and live with me."

                "Goody goody," said Svetlana, "I bring Polish Lena also, no?"

                "No," said Fiona.

                It's all worked out quite well actually. Fiona manages the Hall operation and Svetlana works for me, selling derelict barns to Russian oligarchs. She has integrated well in to village life and was recently elected as the first Lithuanian Goth president of Blatheringho WI. 

                Sadly, for Frank, Viola Babblecombe took a fancy to him and insisted on marriage as part of the take-over deal.

                Tough on Frank, yes, but sometimes, when a ship goes down, an act of noble self-sacrifice is required by someone that others may survive.

                That's what I tell Frank, anyway,

                

        

 

                       
                        

                

                

The Greengrocer's Daughter

My business meeting had been difficult and I was tired even before I started the long drive home. It was a dreadful evening and the windscreen wipers were toiling under the combination of heavy rain and the spray thrown up by the slow-moving line of traffic that I was trapped in. It was going to be half an hour before I reached the motorway and at least another hour-and-a-half before I got home, and I was becoming less enthusiastic by the minute.

 Peering through the spray I saw a signpost up ahead indicating a turn-off to the left:  ‘Winchcombe 6’.

  Winchcombe! Of course! What a blast from the past! I hadn’t been there for nearly forty years, not since I used to cycle through its narrow streets every weekend between RAF Compton Bassett and Birmingham.

 I smiled to myself, remembering the little greengrocer’s shop on the main street, wondering if it was still there. Probably not, I thought, but there’s nothing to stop me going to take a look. Even stop over for the night maybe? Well, why not?  It was Friday, it was a filthy night and there was no-one waiting at home. So I turned off the main road and drove to Winchcombe.

 Although it was dark and wet, the little town seemed friendly and familiar even after all this time. There was a small hotel on the main street, a half-timbered place called the Royal Oak that looked welcoming, so I pulled on to the car park and walked through to the lounge bar. It was a cosy room with an open log fire blazing in the hearth and with half a dozen people, obviously regulars, cheerfully exchanging banter. I went to the bar, ordered a pint from the pretty young barmaid and asked her if they had a room vacant for a one night stay

 She wasn’t sure. “Just one moment please,” she said “I’ll go and ask Jenny.”  

                 A couple of minutes later the door to the private quarters opened and a petite, attractive woman came through. She had short, beautifully styled, snow-white hair and clear dark eyes and I guessed she was probably in her mid fifties.

 “Hallo,” she said, “I’m Jenny, the proprietor. Kim says that you want a room for the night?” She gave me a quizzical smile which somehow also seemed to include a searching appraisal of my person. “Well, I do have a single vacant as long as you’re not expecting the Hilton. I’ll show you.”

 The room was small, but spotless and comfortable, and after I’d agreed terms Jenny took me back to the lounge. “Are you going to eat in?” she asked. “We have an excellent restaurant and our chef is well regarded.”

 I said that eating in seemed a good idea and booked a table.

 “About an hour then,” she said, “if that ok with you?”

 After Jenny had gone I finished my pint and went out in to the street. The rain had stopped and I walked on until I came to a row of terraced Cotswold stone houses, built directly on to the pavement, all with two or three worn stone steps leading up to the elevated front doors. This was where the greengrocer’s had been but, as I had suspected it had gone. I felt a momentary twinge of disappointment, laughed at myself for the sentiment, and made my way back to the Royal Oak.

     My table was laid ready in the dining room, complete with the bottle of red wine that I’d ordered. The meal was, indeed, excellent and when Jenny came over to check that everything was satisfactory I asked her to sit and share a glass of wine with me.

  “Tell me,” I said, after we had exchanged pleasantries, “would you know what became of the little greengrocers shop that used to be in that terrace along the main street?”

 “Goodness gracious,” she said, “you mean Turner’s. That shop has been gone for nearly thirty years now. Why do you ask?”

 “Well,” I said, “it’s a silly story really. When I was eighteen I was doing my National Service in the RAF, stationed in Wiltshire.  I used to cycle through Winchcombe to and fro to Birmingham every weekend, and always called at that greengrocer’s to buy some bananas to keep the hunger knock at bay. One of the girls who served in there was about sixteen, dark hair, dark eyes and absolutely gorgeous and I was really smitten. I used to hang about outside the shop until I was sure that it would be her that would serve me, but I was always too cowardly to talk to her other than ask for bananas. Every week I would cycle here rehearsing irresistible chat up lines and working myself up to a real high.  Of course, when it came to the crunch, I froze up and just gabbled about bananas. The stupid thing is, I knew she liked me too, I could tell by the way she looked at me.”

 Jenny laughed. “Ah yes, a teenage crush, I can empathise with that.”

 “Anyway,” I continued, “this went on for several months until I was posted overseas and I spent the whole of the week before my last ride home psyching myself up, knowing it was my very last chance to get to know her. I had decided to ask her to write to me as my pen friend while I was abroad; she could only say ‘no’. But on that last Saturday morning I went to the cycle shed to collect my bike, only to find that it had been stolen, and I had to go home on the coach. I never saw her again.”

 Jenny smiled, I thought sympathetically. “How sad,” she said. “And you still remember her after all this time?”

  “Yes, I do. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t had my bike stolen. Pathetic, isn’t it?” I

 “Pretty much,” she agreed, “but that girl was actually a good friend of mine so at least I can tell you what became of her. She was the greengrocer’s daughter and just worked weekends in the shop. She was quite bright actually and got a good job with a building society after school. She eventually married Dennis, a lovely man, had two daughters and is now a grandmother. She and Dennis ran a successful business together but she lost him through cancer about ten years ago.”

 “Oh,” I said, “that’s sad. I’m a widower myself, so I know what it’s like to lose one’s partner early on. Are you still in touch with her? Is she coping alright?”

 “She copes very well.” said Jenny. “She runs a small hotel called the Royal Oak and her name is Jenny.” She glared at me across the table. “Do you know, I prayed to God every Friday that you would stop being terminally stupid and pluck up the courage to talk about something except bananas. I was only sixteen, and when I finally realised that you weren’t going to come by any more, I cried for a week.”

 I gaped, speechless, at Jenny, who was shaking with silent laughter.

 “I knew who you were as soon as I saw you,” she said, “so tonight’s stay is on the house. And if you’d like to stay again tomorrow night I’ll fix us a Banana Surprise!”