Ravens Gathering (2 page)

Farming had been in the family for generations.   There
were rumours that a great great-grandfather had even had his own land at some
point.  But that was long before Peter or his father had come into the
world.  He had been born into a heritage of working for other
farmers.  It wasn’t a source of great pride, but it put food on the table.

Nigel Salthouse had worked on Lodge Farm since he was a
child.  His only break from that had been during the war.  He could
have worked the land, but he chose to fight for his country.  In the
process, he saw parts of the world he would never have dreamt possible. 
Africa had been where Tarzan came from, though he couldn’t recall Johnny
Weissmuller spending time in the desert.  Burma had felt more like
Tarzan’s home.  Like many old soldiers, Nigel didn’t talk about his experiences. 
But he did come back talking about the opportunities there were, beyond the
life he had been brought up to expect.  Mixing with so many different men
from so many different backgrounds had opened his eyes to the chances there
were in life.

When he finally returned home at the end of 1945, he had
great plans.  The celebrations that followed his homecoming put paid to
them.  A hasty marriage didn’t cover their tracks, but the miscarriage
did.  By then it was too late.  Nigel had a young wife to support,
and that meant working at the only thing he knew how to do.  When the
children did come along later, he had felt even more trapped.

He didn’t rail against it.  The things he didn’t talk
about were reminder enough that he was lucky to have the life he did.  But
he was determined to provide his own children with the opportunities he had
missed.  And he did.  The first three were encouraged to look beyond
the farm, beyond the village, even beyond the area for their futures.  One
of them even went to university.  Unheard of in the community, let alone
the family.  But Peter wasn’t cut out for that.  Not by a long chalk.

Peter was the youngest, by fifteen years.  Some might
have referred to him as an afterthought, others as an accident.  Nigel and
his wife were in no doubt that it was an unmitigated disaster.  They had
been approaching a time when their children would have become more
independent.  In a few years’ time, Nigel and Katherine would be able to
enjoy more time on their own and doing the things they wanted to do, without
having to consider the children first and foremost.  After seventeen years
of giving priority to others, they were looking forward to being just a little
more selfish.

Even so, if that had been the sole issue, they would have
been more forgiving.  Instead they had been
blessed
– they used the
word ironically, though only between themselves – with a crippled child. 
Nothing too dramatic.  One leg three inches shorter than the other, so he
would spend the whole of his life limping or wearing specially adapted
footwear.  It was also safe to say that Peter was never going to scale the
heights of academic life.  The boy’s options were limited.  And,
although he cursed his son’s conception, Nigel still loved him all the same. 
So when he was old enough to work, he knew the safest place for Peter to be was
where he could keep an eye on him.  And so another generation of
Salthouses came to work the land.

Peter had been working on Lodge Farm since he was sixteen,
and Nigel had taught him everything he knew.  Which was good, because
Nigel had been due to retire and the current owners of the farm needed some
continuity.  But from Nigel’s point of view, it also meant he could teach
his son the safest way to do all the jobs.

Like ploughing.  Ploughing involved using some very
dangerous equipment.  It was safe if it was handled correctly, but deadly
if it wasn’t treated with respect.  Peter knew his own limitations, and he
was always very careful.

As he drove the tractor up and down the field, he kept a
watch all around him.  In the past, he had spotted bricks in the ground
that might have damaged the blades of the plough.  Where the bricks had
come from was anyone’s guess.  Out here in the country all kinds of things
could be dumped in odd places.  Apart from potential harm to the tractor
or plough, he had also found children playing in the fields, sometimes as young
as five.  What their parents were thinking letting them off on their own
like that, he didn’t know.  But he’d made sure they were out of harm’s way
before he carried on.  That was how his dad had taught him to plough, and
that was the way he did it today, as he did every time.

He had covered almost a third of the field when something
did catch his eye.  It wasn’t too obvious to him because it was on the
other side of the hedge to his right.  That field had sheep in it. 
He had checked the hedge earlier, to make sure there was no gap they could get
through.  All part of that safe approach his father had taught him. 
But it wasn’t the sheep that caught his attention.  Close to the hedge, he
saw a head.  It was too far away for him to make out any features – or
even tell if it was facing this way.  Nevertheless, he got the impression
that he was being watched.  It was unusual, but he didn’t see it causing
any risks, so he ignored it.  Having said that, he’d probably report it to
his boss, Bob Lambert, when he got back to the yard.

Reaching the end of the field, Peter stopped the tractor,
then raised the plough, watching clumps of soil drop off the blades. 
Satisfied they were clear of the ground, he turned the tractor, ready to start
its next run.  Once in position, he lowered the plough again, keeping his
eyes on it to ensure it dropped into place as it should do.  As the blades
cut into the soil, he returned his gaze to the front of the tractor, slipping
the tractor into gear as he did.  Directly ahead, no more than ten feet
away, stood a ewe.

It was unremarkable as sheep go.  White face, white
body, thin white legs.  It was standing side-on to the tractor, its head
turned so it was looking in his direction.  Peter dropped back into
neutral, cursing mildly under his breath.

How the hell did that get into the field?  And how did
it get across the field so quickly?

He looked over at the other sheep and saw the head he had
noticed a few moments earlier.  Perhaps that answered one of his
questions.  Had the man over there somehow let the sheep through the
hedge?  The head still wasn’t very clear, but he thought it must be a man. 
Not that it helped to make any sense of the situation, because Peter had
checked the hedge.  There wasn’t even a gap you could widen sufficiently
to let an animal pass.  A human might be able to climb the tree that stood
in the corner of the field, crossing the barrier in that way.  But sheep
weren’t noted for their climbing skills.

As the thought ran through his mind, he glanced at the
tree.  It was old and dying.  No leaves had been seen on its branches
since Peter was a boy.  They were occupied today, though.  Dozens of
birds were lined up on them.  And their attention seemed to be focused in
his direction.  Not that they were his concern right now.

Peter double-checked the handbrake, and made sure the
gearbox was still in neutral.  Then he opened the cab door and climbed down
to the ground.  The soil on this side of the tractor had already been
ploughed, so as he stepped on to it his wellington boots sank slightly. 
Unlike his other footwear, Peter hadn’t been able to get wellies that
compensated for his short leg, so at the best of times they were awkward to
walk in.  His lopsided gait was aggravated by the mud clinging to his
boots, tugging his feet up with each step.  Behind him, the diesel engine
ticked over steadily.

Lodge Farm wasn’t a huge concern by modern standards, but it
was big enough, and several men worked there.  Peter had demonstrated an
aptitude for handling farm equipment well, and carrying out heavy tasks. 
Contact with the animals was limited as other workers were more adept with
them.  As a consequence, when he did deal with them, he generally found
they were quite wary of him, tending to run away when he approached
them.   So when the ewe turned and moved away, he wasn’t too
surprised.  Though it did seem odd that it didn’t rush, and it also kept
itself almost exactly in line with the tractor’s path.  A dozen or more
paces on, and Peter had gained a little ground on it.  They were about
eight feet apart.  The tractor was maybe ten feet behind Peter.

For a moment, the change in the engine note didn’t register
with him.  He was distracted by his quarry and the effort it was taking to
walk through the mud.  He had put an extra few feet between himself and
the tractor before he realised something was wrong.  Looking over his
shoulder, he saw the radiator grille start to move towards him.  All
concerns for the welfare of the ewe disappeared in an instant.

Turning to the right, he started to lift his foot.  His
boot was stuck firmly in the mud.  Which was impossible.  He hadn’t
ploughed that stretch yet.  He might have picked up some mud when he
walked through the ploughed part, but that wouldn’t be enough to stop him
moving.  Panicked, he pulled harder and his foot slid out of the
wellington.  Leaning forward, his stockinged foot landed in the mud and he
jerked his other foot clear of its boot.  The effort caused him to lose
his balance and he landed face down.  He knew he didn’t have time to take
stock of where he was in relation to the tractor.  He just had to get
himself as far out of the way as he possibly could.

Rising to his knees, he started to move forward again. 
As he lifted himself further, the front wheel struck him.  He was halfway
between kneeling and standing when he felt the tyre catch the side of his
calf.  The impact knocked him down and he was helpless as the wheel rolled
over his leg.

The softness of the soil helped.  He felt his leg being
pushed down into it, which undoubtedly cushioned the effect of the wheel’s
weight.  It didn’t stop the sharp cracking sound of bones breaking,
though.  As the wheel rolled clear, he rolled sideways.  He wanted to
free his shattered legs from the soil, but they barely shifted.  He could
only watch in horror as the larger rear wheel came towards him.  And
behind that were the unforgiving blades of the plough.

“
He
doesn’t look familiar.”

Villages have a reputation for being somewhat insular. 
And the village pub has done more than its fair share in boosting that
reputation. 
The Major Oak
in Ravens Gathering was no
exception.  When the bus pulled away from the stop on the opposite side of
the road, the landlady was the first to see the stranger it had dropped off.

The half dozen lunchtime regulars followed her lead and
looked over their shoulders.  Turning back to their beer, they nodded and
muttered agreement.

It would be hard
not
to agree.  A suntanned face
wasn’t uncommon among those living on the edge of Sherwood Forest.  But if
you got it on holiday, it faded rapidly; and if you worked outdoors it might
last longer, but usually left a weather beaten look to go with it.  One
thing you were not going to see from a local, though, was sun-bleached
hair.  It was safe to say that the man at the bus stop wasn’t from these
parts.

Norma Fuller kept an eye on him as she pulled David Sullivan
his first pint.  He hadn’t made any attempt to move.  Instead he
seemed content to simply stand and look around him.  From this distance,
she couldn’t see the face clearly enough to make out any expression, but she
got the impression he was just taking in the view.  What the view could
be
exactly, she didn’t know.  The village was pretty much just one long
street.  A few cul-de-sacs led off that street, but there were no big
housing estates, no major businesses.  Apart from the pub, the only other
places for the villagers to congregate were the church and the Post
Office.  And surrounding those structures was nothing but farmland and
woods.

There were times when she contemplated the limitations of
the village and could understand why her ex had given up on their dream of running
a country pub.

As David counted out his change on the bar, he nodded to an
empty stool.  “Bob not in yet?”

“’
Aven’t
you heard?”  The
response came from a gnarled and wrinkled old man standing round the corner of
the bar.  Walter had been retired since before Norma moved to the village,
and had looked as if he was eighty then.  It was possible that this
ravaged appearance had contributed to Frank’s decision that the country life
wasn’t for him.  There was certainly no doubt that his years as a farm
worker hadn’t done his complexion any favours.

“Heard what?” David asked.  From the offhand way he
spoke, it was clear he hadn’t heard.

“’Bout young Peter,” Walter offered – though it wasn’t much
of an offering, Norma thought.  Tempting as it was to jump in and tell
David the news, she knew from past experience that it was better to stay out of
it.

“What? The cripple?”

Norma winced inwardly.  She knew Peter would be
mortified to hear himself being defined in such a disparaging way.  She
was also shocked to hear David, of all people, talking in those terms.

“Aye.”  A sly glint appeared in Walter’s eye. 
“Well he definitely is now.”

Norma held her tongue.

“What
d’you
mean?”

“’Ad an accident with a plough this
mornin
’.” 
There was something almost malicious about the way Walter spoke.  She knew
he had a dark sense of humour, but this just seemed twisted.  “But the
Devil loves his own,” he went on, though how he could connect Satan and Peter
was beyond Norma.  “Seems Bob had to go out near where the lad was
workin
’, and he saw the tractor just
standin
’
there doing
nothin
’.  Well, you know what Bob’s
like.  Don’t like to see his workers
idlin
’. 
So he went to find out what the lad was up to.”  Walter stopped and took a
long draw on his pint.  Norma wasn’t sure whether all this talk had dried
his throat, or if he was just pausing for effect.  She suspected the
latter, but busied herself straightening bar towels.

“Well get on with it,” said David impatiently.

Walter put his glass down and sneered.  It was fair to
say that the banter at the bar did sometimes cross the line, but Norma couldn’t
recall such an obvious display of antagonism between these two before.  As
Walter continued, Norma wondered if he only did so because he was getting so
much pleasure from the tale he was telling.

“The tractor ’ad run over the lad’s legs, and the plough
ripped ’
em
to shreds.”  Walter’s smirk was
barely concealed.  “’E’s still alive, but it don’t look like
e’ll
be needing them special shoes
any
more
.”

“Hang on!” David said, apparently spotting a hole in the old
man’s tale.  “How could the
tractor’ve
run him
over if it was standing still?”

“Don’t know.  Perhaps it’d run into the ’edge.”

“Don’t be daft!  It’d just go through the thing and
keep going.”

Walter shrugged as if it was of no interest to him, which it
probably wasn’t.  All he seemed to be concerned with were the gory
details.  As he began to demonstrate.  “I ’
eard
there was blood everywhere.  And they’ll be picking bits o’ bone and flesh
off the shares for weeks, I reckon.”

Norma couldn’t listen to any more.  She opened her
mouth to say something as Walter continued: “Always thought
e’d
come to a sticky...”  But his words tailed off as he stared past her.

As one, everyone in the bar turned to see what he was
looking at.  In the doorway stood the man from the bus stop.