Cuckoo Page 19

  I swung round, catching sight of a group of children crowded round a house. They were screeching with excitement. I pushed out, suddenly even more anxious. Their heads were bent low over a large wooden tub. I saw apples bobbing in the water. One of the girls leaned down, her hands behind her back, teeth snapping as she tried to bite one of the apples. A boy reached out to grab hold of her head. It plunged into the water and I saw the strands of her dark hair drift out like a bloom of ink. She shook her head, hands releasing to grasp the edges of the tub and push back. Bubbles of air exploded up from beneath her face. Shrieks of laughter pierced the fog in my mind and I stepped forward.

  ‘No!’ I cried, memory leaping into life.

  The same tub of water, the same noise of the Wassail, the same peals of malignant laughter from the crowd of children around me. My lungs bursting for breath, my eyes open and staring beneath the water, my head shaking, shaking as the boy behind me grappled with my hair and held me underneath and the water slipped down my throat.

  I forced my way between the children, seized hold of the girl and dragged her from the tub. Her eyes blinked, laughing at me as I held her head. Water from her hair drenched her clothes and mine. The boy hooted with glee and caught her hand and they and the rest of the children scattered down the street.

  People were staring at me. Walking past as if I was contaminated. Did they think I had tried to drown the poor girl in the water? I swung around, stepping away from the tub, shame flooding my face. But I was confused; they weren’t staring at me, they were walking after the man with the fiddle and the Morris men, hooting, banging, drinking as they went.

  I was right, I shouldn’t have come, I wasn’t well enough yet. It was like I was back at Carsington stranded in the lake, surrounded by a sea of indifferent people, drowning beneath the weight of the noise filling my head.

  I hung back from the crowd, breathing deep to calm myself. Waiting for the memory to go, retreating again, slipping like sand through my fingers.

  Some time later, I wasn’t sure how long, I spotted Craig on the far side of the crowd. Mary Beth’s purple hat was by his side. Our eyes met and he lifted one hand to wave. He must have been keeping an eye on me, despite being caught up on the wrong side of the street. He was frowning. Had he seen my bizarre reaction to the apple-bobbing?

  All I could think of was Craig and Angus talking at the bar. And the words Angus had used in Ashbourne – fucking bitch. Craig had agreed with him. Well that may be, but not worth getting an assault charge for, eh? It made me curl up inside. Perhaps he still thought that now, after my sorry escapade at Carsington Water and my foolishness tonight.

  I was undecided whether to follow or abandon Craig completely. It was a long walk home, but there was no way I wanted to stay. I searched the pub for a sight of Angus. He was at the bar drinking, quite indifferent to the festivities. I didn’t want to go back that way. I willed myself to look and feel normal, reluctantly joining the crowd.

  The procession reached the next house, the noise bouncing off the stone walls of the village. I had that same sense of being an outsider looking in, but everyone was having too much of a good time to take any notice of me. There was more good-natured jostling and dancing and banging of pans. We passed through a gate into a field. Trees were dotted all around, their myriad branches shaking moonlight patterns at our feet. Paper lanterns marked a path across the orchard to a central tree and candlelit jars swung from its boughs. The Morris dancers took their places in a circle around it. Then one of them stepped forward. He raised a tankard of cider and the crowd fell silent.

  ‘Oh apple tree, we wassail thee, and hope that thou will bear,

  For the Lord doth know where we shall be when apples come another year.

  So to bear well, and to fruit well, merry let us be,

  Let everyone take off their hats and cry health to the old apple tree!’

  The crowd cheered, hands raising a sweep of tankards. The man turned with his drink and tipped it onto the roots of the tree.

  ‘Wassail! WASSAIL!’

  Another cheer rose from the crowd and the fiddle player struck up. I felt two hands slip around my waist and Craig’s warm breath against my cheek.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d abandoned me.’

  The circle of men around the tree began to dance.

  ‘Are you alright? You’re not cross with me again, are you?’

  I leaned away from him. ‘I saw you talking with that man.’

  ‘Ah.’ Craig lowered his head to my ear. ‘Angus is a customer, Caro. And a bully, I get that. But he won’t bother you again, I promise.’

  His tone was hard. In that moment, I almost felt sorry for Angus. It was nothing, all of it, just my anxiety and confusion. I was aware that Craig was watching me closely. I shook my head and smiled.

  ‘He’s not worth the time thinking about him,’ I said.

  I let Craig gently pull me down the street.

  There were more gardens after that, each rendering of the Wassail more raucous than the last. The music was infectious, the drink flowed, poured from two barrels wheeled behind the crowd. Craig passed me a mug and kept it topped up. My mood lifted. The music and banging got even louder, but now it didn’t seem to matter. I danced with Craig and the rest of them and as he’d promised, Craig introduced me to one rosy-cheeked face after the next.

  To my surprise, most of them were friendly. Had I got it wrong about the village? Perhaps it was the effect of the cider, or more likely, Craig’s choice of friends. I began to realise most of them didn’t live in the village but were from further afield: Ashbourne, Derby, the crowd swollen by visitors enjoying the spectacle.

  There was just one older couple I didn’t like. We almost collided with them under the archway of a barn.

  ‘Elizabeth’s stepdaughter?’ said the woman, placing a slight stress on the ‘step’.

  ‘Yes,’ said Craig. ‘You’ll remember, she left several years ago to study art.’

  ‘I’m sure Elizabeth did mention it.’

  Her voice was icy crisp and authoritative. I felt my back stiffen. The woman was tall, make-up carefully applied to her face. One of her inner circle. Now I thought about it, I recognised her from Elizabeth’s funeral, the woman in black silk. Her husband was still holding an umbrella. She hadn’t come up to speak to me then.

  ‘Well, I hope things go well with the sale of the house,’ she said. ‘It must be so distressing finalising the disposal of family possessions, though it’s not like Elizabeth was your real mother, or that the house was ever meant to be your home.’

  I took a sharp intake of breath. No, Elizabeth hadn’t been my mother, but the jibe still hurt. How dared she? It had been my father’s house long before he’d met and married Elizabeth. I saw Craig glaring at the woman but before he could reply on my behalf, I chipped in.

  ‘That’s true, a death in the family shakes us all. But it was my father’s house, not hers, and I’m looking forward to living in it.’

  I don’t know what made me say that, announce that I was staying. A perverse desire to upset the woman. I jutted out my chin.

  Craig looked pleased, I felt a curious tug of pleasure. The woman looked furious. The husband muttered something about finding some food and the couple melted into the crowd.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’ Craig took the empty mug from my hand. ‘I guess you can’t win them all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s not my type anyway,’ I said.

  ‘Thank God for that! So, you’re planning to stay on at the house?’

  ‘Er, I don’t know why I said that. I …’

  I felt a rush of pleasure. He’d seemed pleased to hear me say I would be living at the house – like it was a permanent arrangement.

  A mobile phone rang and Craig reached into his pocket to answer it. I watched the dancers, a genuinely happy smile now on my face as the music and banging started up once more.

  CHAPTER 31

  My ears
were ringing by the time Craig and I arrived at the car. He tucked me into the front seat with a blanket.

  ‘Can you wait here a moment, Caro? There’s one thing I have to do.’

  I wasn’t going anywhere at this stage; my head was hurting again and I was more than ready for bed. I leaned back against the seat and nodded.

  Craig sprinted off in the direction of the village hall on the opposite side of the road. I watched the last lantern bobbing up the street, listening to the strains of The Derby Ram, another drinking song emanating from the pub.

  With Craig gone for a few moments, I found myself pondering his apparent friendship with Angus. Their acquaintance had been obvious that day in Ashbourne, the way Craig had spoken to Angus, talking him around. A client? Even if Craig didn’t like the man any more than I did, I rationalised, sometimes you had to pretend, for the sake of professionalism. Craig was self-employed like me. I knew what it was like trying to keep a flow of reliable work and pay the bills. Perhaps he couldn’t afford to take offence, even if Angus was an overblown Neanderthal git.

  Craig had been gone five, ten minutes. No, longer. I waited and he still hadn’t returned. I stirred myself from my snooze, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. He couldn’t have gone far. I threw the blanket from my knees and got out.

  It was colder than before, or maybe it was just the contrast with Craig’s heated car. I shivered, recalling the paralysing chill of the lake. A stab of remembered fear pierced my thoughts. It was quiet, the street empty. I heard a sudden girlish laugh, the slam of a front door, then silence again. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and ran across the road.

  The village hall was lit up by two old-fashioned carriage lamps, the light flaring out against the walls. I stepped around the boundary hedge, thinking Craig must be inside the building, but the doors were locked. I peered through the windows. Inside was pitch black apart from the green glow of an emergency exit sign.

  I followed the line of the building, rounding the corner where the grass verge ended and the car park started. The white lines of the bays shone in the night and I could just make out the shape of a van parked in the far corner.

  The driver’s door was open. There was a light in the cab. Leaning against it was a man, heavyweight, his stance overly casual, deliberately contemptuous. Angus. In front of him was Craig.

  I felt myself stiffen. Craig was animated, waving a hand. I could hear his voice, angry and accusing. I hugged the brick wall. The men were too far for me to make out their exact words, but the body language said it all, hands jabbing, faces contorted. I hung back, unwilling to interrupt such a heated discussion. Then Angus pulled away from the van towards Craig.

  I couldn’t breathe. Angus’s face was furious. He threw out a fist. Craig swung his body aside only just avoiding the blow. He closed his own fist and raised his arm. It hovered in the air, but his fingers unclenched and he stepped back.

  Shock held me frozen. Angus swiftly closed the gap. He thrust his head forward, butting Craig. I heard the crack of their skulls. Jesus! Craig staggered backwards clutching his nose. He dodged as Angus took aim again. Craig found his balance and punched. I stood there, hand on my mouth. Angus reeled back against the van and Craig stood, legs apart, fist ready to fly, watching his opponent.

  I tried to think what I should do – they’d both be in trouble for this, let alone the damage they were doing each other. Should I run over? Should I call the police?

  A sudden gust of wind rattled a cluster of bins by the hedge. The Wassail, I thought of the Wassail, the sound of the pans being clashed together. I kicked with my leg. The first bin teetered, then crashed to the ground, spilling out its contents. The noise reverberated across the car park. I pulled out of sight, inching forwards again to watch.

  Their heads had both swung towards the sound. Angus shouted something at Craig, but Craig ignored him, striding across the car park. Angus climbed into his van, slammed the door and fired up the engine.

  I scooted back across the hedge, for some reason unwilling to let Craig see that I’d been watching. Black puddles shimmered on the road where a barrel of cider had fallen over. I could smell the sweet stench of alcohol. I threw my head around to check if I’d been seen. Craig was by the village hall, his tall frame silhouetted against the wall. He’d stopped, lowering his face, a handkerchief held to his nose. He lifted his head, looking towards the van as it drove out of the car park far too fast, heading in the opposite direction.

  Craig fished out his phone. Still holding the cloth to his nose, he tapped on the screen one-handed and started to talk.

  I ran, clambering into the car. I scrambled to tuck the blanket around my legs, my heart hammering as I saw Craig push the phone into his pocket and cross the road.

  When he reached the car, he swung himself into the driver’s seat. There was no sign of the handkerchief or any blood. His lips were pressed tight together and his eyes avoided mine. I pretended not to notice.

  ‘Right, we can get going now.’ His voice was nasal and slightly breathless. ‘Thanks for waiting. Sorry it took a bit longer than expected.’

  He made no effort to explain what he’d been doing.

  We drove in silence, Craig wrapped in thought, me bursting with curiosity, my hands gripping each other under the blanket.

  What had that been all about? This wasn’t the Craig I knew. Was he alright? I didn’t dare ask, I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps Craig had challenged Angus about his treatment of me, but that wouldn’t have led to a punch-up, surely? The idea should have made me smile, except it didn’t.

  No, this was about something else – but what?

  Back home, I unlocked the front door. I looked up at the sky. The clouds had drifted away to leave a cooler, sharper night. The stars were clearly visible, white pinpricks against the midnight blue. The moon shed a silver glow across the fields as bright as any village hall floodlight and I heard the flutter of wings in the trees behind me.

  I touched Craig’s arm.

  ‘Look!’ I said.

  I pointed toward the top field.

  A single tree stood in the middle, skeletal against the horizon. The moon filtered through its branches casting a deep shadow across the turf. As we both raised our heads, the tree moved in the wind, swinging gently from side to side. It took on the shape of a human scarecrow, exaggerated in height, long arms reaching out with spindly fingers, wriggling against the field. A sudden gust caught it from the side and an arm swung up, seemingly punching the sky.

  I slipped a hand around Craig’s arm, leaning close, the proximity of his body chasing away my wariness. I wanted to bring him back to me again, to say something that would make us both laugh.

  ‘Look,’ I said again. ‘It’s the Apple Tree Man!’

  I thought he would smile, use the moment as an excuse to kiss me. But he did neither. His body was tense. He was upset from the fight, of course he was, who wouldn’t be? But now there was a distance between us.

  Why? I felt myself withdraw. I didn’t know what to do. It was as if I wished I was back in the anonymity of London, shutters down, avoiding all contact with anyone who might hurt me.

  Safe.

  Was that what I really wanted?

  CHAPTER 32

  Craig didn’t stay that night and I was relieved. The next day, I scurried round doing jobs, reaching deep into cupboards, piling up stuff in the dining room, firing off emails about bills to the lawyer. Anything to distract me. Finally I closed the laptop lid and started to make myself some dinner. It was whilst the meal was cooking, steam filling the kitchen, that the house phone rang.

  I was surprised; it was the first call on Elizabeth’s phone I’d had since my arrival.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Is that Caro?’

  I recognised the voice.

  ‘Mary Beth! Is that you?’ I felt pleasure at the call, the first gesture of friendship from someone local. Well, apart from Craig, of course. ‘How did you get my number?’<
br />
  ‘It wasn’t difficult. Elizabeth was a parish councillor, she’s still on the contact list. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. How can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing really, I was wondering if you’d like to meet up for a cup of tea some time? Isn’t that what you folks do in England?’

  I laughed tentatively, cautious in spite of myself. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Fabulous. How about this coming Thursday at about eleven?’

  ‘Okay, that would be lovely.’

  I felt a flare of pleasure. The New Year had brought a fresh start, or maybe it was Craig’s strategy to socialise me actually paying off.

  The snow had gone, but fog and mist had descended on the county. As I approached Mary Beth’s house, it snuggled low in the street like a child resting between its siblings: the quintessential Derbyshire worker’s cottage, a Georgian terrace built of sandstone. It had been partially modernised, with a walk-in sitting room/kitchen/diner and what I guessed were two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom tucked under the eaves. A wrap-around garden was neatly laid out with flower borders, a vegetable plot and a large wooden shed. It was all a bit neglected-looking at the moment but I could tell it would be a riot of colour in the summer.

  Mary Beth’s taste was eclectic to say the least. Inside, I gawped at the oversized bright yellow dream catcher dangling from the central ceiling lamp. Feathered and beaded, like a replica spider’s web, it was hard to avoid as I passed underneath. I perched on a pink velvet sofa overlaid with a patchwork crocheted blanket. I didn’t think you could buy pink velvet sofas in Derbyshire.

  Mary Beth’s crockery was impressive too. There was a quirky brown teapot in the shape of a dormouse, one paw acting as the spout. I couldn’t resist lifting it up to see a pair of sleepy eyes painted under the lid. Next to it on the tray was a pair of mismatched china cups and saucers featuring Beatrix Potter characters. There was one of the kittens from The Tale of Tom Kitten and Jeremy Fisher in his black ballet pumps, one foot in the water, a fish about to nibble on his toes. Oversized chocolate chip cookies, evidently homemade, sat on a plate shaped like the handsome head of a black horse. Black Beauty, nobility personified. It couldn’t help but bring a smile to your face.