Cherringham--The Curse of Mabb's Farm (7 page)

“I’m Ali, and this is Mira.” “Hi — I’m Sarah. Archy’s godmother. Lucy’s getting the morning off.”

“Lucky her — don’t suppose you fancy Mira for a day, do you?” asked Ali, with a grin.

“Tempting. But they’re quite the handful, aren’t they? I’ve done my time,” said Sarah. “Got teenagers now — that’s a whole different set of problems.”

Archy started crawling towards the door so Sarah got up and fetched him back. She’d forgotten how these conversations were ruled by the random movements of the children.

“Anyone you know here?” said Ali, gesturing round at the other parents.

“Well, actually, there are some familiar faces,”

“Let’s go grab a coffee and I’ll introduce you. It’s a fair old mix.”

“That’s the nice thing about being in a village,” said Sarah. “Back in London, these things could turn snobbish.”

“Oh you won’t completely escape that,” said Ali. “Only difference is, a village this size, there’s no choice but to muck in together. Come on.”

And with that, Ali led her through the crawling babies to the coffee hatch.

It took Sarah half an hour to work her way innocently round the group — which expanded as the morning wore on — but eventually she found a space in a corner next to the woman who Ali had told her was Caitlin Fox.

Caitlin looked as Irish as her name suggested — red hair, green eyes. She also looked like someone who was made to laugh and have fun — but here, sitting on a corner of a blanket on the ground, she looked pale and tired.

Sarah sat beside her, with Archy on her lap.

“Hi there,” she said. “I’m Sarah. And this is my godson, Archy. And who’ve we got here?”

Caitlin turned slowly to look at her, then back at the red-headed little boy who was pushing a car back and forth on the rug in front of her.

God, she looks all in,
thought Sarah.

“This is Sammy,” she said.

“Ah so you must be Caitlin?” said Sarah, now feeling uncomfortable at the way she’d set this up.

Was it deceitful? She wasn’t actually lying — Archy was her godson, after all. But she was using him — and Lucy — to get information. She pushed the thoughts away.

This was in Caitlin’s interest.

The bedraggled mother nodded at Sarah, but said nothing.

“Play nicely now, Sammy,” she said, as her little boy grabbed at a toy.

“Pretty exhausting, aren’t they?” said Sarah. “I’m just so lucky I don’t have to do this every day. You getting much sleep yet?”

Caitlin looked right at Sarah for a moment.

Almost … as if she could see right through her.

Talk about a chill.

“Don’t you mean — what’s it like living under a curse?” said Caitlin, her voice brittle. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t know. It’s all anybody wants to talk about.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sarah. “I–I just didn’t want to bring it up.”

“And you know what? I don’t mind talking about it. I’m happy to talk about it. In fact, some days I think it’s all I do talk about. The bloody farm. That—” she lowered her voice, “—damned Curse.”

“It must be difficult,” said Sarah.

“Difficult? That’s an understatement.”

Sarah was aware of one or two of the other mums looking over, hushed voices, comments …

“Are you getting any help?” she said.

“What help is there?” said Caitlin. “We’re stuck there. Can’t leave. Can’t stay. Trapped.”

“But can’t you just go back to where you used to live? Give up the farm?”

“Back to the old flat? I’d do it like a shot.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Charlie — my husband — he won’t leave.”

“But if you’re not happy there?”

“We’re
miserable
there. And that’s the truth. Not like it used to be.”

“When you lived in the flat, you mean?”

“Before we moved to that bloody farm we were happy. Charlie was happy. It was no bigger than a shoebox, that place, and we had no money. But we were happy.”

“But not since you came to the farm?”

The question seemed to give Caitlin pause. Sarah felt that under those sad, tired eyes there was a very shrewd and aware young woman.

“It was like … Charlie went all cold on me. He wasn’t the same man I married anymore. And then those things began happening.”

“What things?”

“All the bad things. The scary things,”

“You mean the Curse?”

“Those witches live, that’s what everyone says. And they’re punishing us just because we’re there.”

“Things like what?”

“Like fires just starting. Spooking and hurting the animals. They’re making Charlie go mad — and me too.”

Sarah was aware that around them, the other parents had cleared away. She and Caitlin were almost on their own now in the corner of the room, with the two little boys playing on the rug in front of them.

“And you’re sure there’s not an explanation for it all?” said Sarah. “Maybe someone’s got a grudge. Wants you off the property?”

Caitlin turned and faced Sarah, her face set, and whispered: “It isn’t people doing this. I’ve seen the Devil’s own footsteps on the roof! And I got friends, people who know about these things, who say the Devil is there on the farm.”

“What people?”

“People with the Gift. People who can see the Devil. And they say he’s there all right: in the fields, in the barns, in the house,” she paused. “In the
bedrooms
.”

“You can’t be sure, Caitlin.”

“Oh, but I am. It’s the witches, see? They don’t want us on Mabb’s Farm. We should never have moved in. And they won’t be happy till we’re gone.”

Sarah realised the room was silent. All the parents had gone.

It was as if a wave had broken, sending kids, toys, mothers and fathers scattering away from a stormy shore.

There was just one little old lady in the kitchen. She was drying the coffee cups with a cloth, and watching them through the serving hatch.

Sarah picked up Archy and stood.

“Time for me to go, Caitlin,” she said. “I’d like to help you. Maybe I could?”

“We don’t need help. We just need to … leave.”

The whisper had vanished.

There could be no doubt about what Caitlin wanted to do.

Sarah nodded, accepting. Then a small smile.

“I’ll give you a hand with your stuff.”

And she helped Caitlin pack up.

It took a few minutes to put everything in the buggies and then together they walked down the path which ran alongside the church and down towards the High Street.

Sarah looked up. From here, through the trees, she could just see the little window at the back of her office. She really needed to take Archy home, and get back to work.

“Are you parked in the square?” she asked Caitlin.

“No,” said Caitlin. “Charlie’s picking me up. In fact — there he is.”

She pointed to the church gate — and Sarah’s heart plummeted.

There, leaning against a Ford pick-up, arms folded — was Charlie Fox.

It was too late to turn away. Charlie had already seen her. She’d have to brazen it out.

“Sorry Charlie, we were chatting and I just didn’t see the time,” said Caitlin as they approached.

“Chatting were you?” he said, stepping forward and standing face to face with Sarah. “I bet you were.”

Sarah spun the buggy round so Archy wouldn’t see this, and stood her ground. Charlie was angry — and frightening. But she knew he wouldn’t do anything here, right in the heart of the village — and not with children here too.

“Get Sammy in,” he ordered.

“What’s the matter, love?” said Caitlin, confused by Charlie’s anger — directed not at her, but at Sarah.

“Just put the damn buggy in the back and get him in — didn’t you hear me, woman?”

While Caitlin went round the pickup with her son and dealt with the buggy, Charlie leaned even further into Sarah’s face.

“I don’t know what your game is, but you stay away from my family — you hear?”

Sarah was glad she had Archy as a plausible prop. And Charlie didn’t have a shotgun.

“Mr Fox, Caitlin and I were just—”

“I warned you once. Now hear this — if I see you anywhere near us again — anywhere near my farm, my wife, my son — I swear I’ll …”

He hesitated, the word ‘kill’ seemingly on his lips.

“—do something. I swear to God.”

“Charlie, what’s—“

“Get in the car,” he said over his shoulder.

Sarah stood motionless, her body between the buggy and Charlie.

Then she watched Charlie, certainly not happy, turn and climb into the pickup and, with a roar of the engine, drive off.

Sarah instantly spun the buggy round to check on Archy.

He was fast asleep and hadn’t noticed a thing.

Babies …

Sarah let out a breath and realised she was shaking.

Was Charlie’s threat real? She felt out of her depth and wished Jack had been there.

Because — in her own village square — she felt scared.

Jack smiled at the barmaid, Ellie, and took his pint of Wadworth’s. Didn’t seem quite right to hit the pub after such a mystical experience with the mysterious and — ultimately — helpful Tamara.

But he felt that if people were talking about Charlie and the Curse, then the Ploughman’s might be rumour-central.

He turned around. And after months of feeling like he stood out as if he had walked off a spaceship from Planet USA, no one now seemed to take any note.

Could it be … he was accepted as a pub regular, still a ‘Yank’ … but able to stand at the bar, sip his beer, chat if he wanted to, or not, and just enjoy the moment?

If so, then that felt damn good. He had known that making a second home — especially after an amazing loss, after a full life — wouldn’t be easy.

But somehow, he might be, slowly, steadily, doing just that.

Ellie said, “Expecting anyone, Jack?”

Jack turned back to barmaid. “Nope. Just enjoying my beer, Ellie. Though I might stick for a bite. Anything good on the menu tonight?”

”Got the chef’s special meatloaf — least, he calls it ‘special’. Just tastes like the same old, same old, if you know what I mean.”

“Not much harm you can do to a meatloaf,” Jack said, and she laughed.

Jack turned away, taking in the room.

And if he was looking for people chattering, he found them.

The table in the corner was usually occupied by a random assortment of local farmers, and tonight was no exception.

Jack took his beer and sailed on over.

Thinking:
Let’s see just how much of a regular I really am …

“Mind if I join you?”

Jack looked at the three men at the table. He knew Pete Butterworth already from when he and Sarah had helped the man recover a valuable Roman plate that had gone missing.

“Jack, sure. Know this lot?”

Jack pulled over a wooden chair from a nearby table. He could tell the other men were eyeing him a bit. Which made sense. By now, the fact that Jack got involved in local matters — missing items, missing people — was well known.

And who didn’t have secrets that they’d rather keep just that — secret.

“Tom Hodge, Phil Nailor,” Pete said making introductions. The two men nodded.

Neither seemed delighted at the new person at the table.

Jack nodded back.

Tom Hodge. The man who Charlie had fired.

Pay dirt,
as they say.

He knew he had interrupted whatever they were talking about — another odd sign. Being fired, Tom must have a big grudge. Pete might also know things, be able to help, though the club of farmers was probably tightly knit and protective.

“Helluva thing, hmm?” Jack said.

Always good to lob out something that has people wondering …
what are you talking about?

Pete took the bait. “What’s that then, Jack?”

“The troubles on Mabb’s Farm, all that talk of a curse. Something going on?”

And that was all Tom Hodge needed to hear.

“Too right something’s going on. That Charlie is daft. A nutter when it comes to running a farm. I’m amazed he doesn’t try to milk them cows from their ears.”

The men laughed, and Jack joined in, taking a big sip of beer.

“No talent for farming, eh?”

“Talent?” Tom snorted. “The man shouldn’t be allowed anywhere
near
a farm.”

“A real screw-up,” Phil Nailor added.

Jack turned to look at Phil.

Amazing how much people wanted to talk about things,
Jack thought.

Especially when they had a beef with someone. Tom had one for sure. Did Phil, too?

“Come on, Phil,” Pete said. “That was an accident, could’ve—”

Phil turned to Pete. “Charlie and me went fifty-fifty on that damn spreader, and when I get it back, the thing is a wreck. Couldn’t operate the bloody machine, money down the drain!”

Tom laughed. “Guess no one told Charlie that you had to put some oil in the thing.”

More laughter, but Phil still glowered, clearly not in a forgiving mood.

“A write-off, huh?” Jack said.

“Too bloody right. So my machine and my money, are gone!”

Jack nodded. Two men here, both with no love for Charlie Fox.

He turned to Pete. At least he didn’t seem to have an axe to grind.

“So tell me — if Charlie is so bad at farming, what’s he doing with a farm?”

“Good question that, Jack. Bit of a story too. You see, his dad—”

“Harry?” Jack said.

A pause there, perhaps as they realised that Jack wasn’t simply idly interested in the events on the farm.

“Yup. Right. Harry. In his will, he left the property, the farmhouse, left it all to Ray—”

“Now
there
was someone who knew farming,” Tom pronounced.

“Nothing for Charlie?”

“I guess,” Pete continued, “that his dad could see that Charlie didn’t have it in him.”

“Unlucky Charlie is what we call him!”

“Ray did well?”

“Sure, good crops, excellent dairyman. Place ran like a clock. Right, Tom? You worked with Ray before Charlie took over, didn’t you?”

Another pause.

Interesting …