Saturday's Child
Saturday’s Child
Clare Revell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Saturday’s Child
COPYRIGHT 2013 by Clare Revell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version
(R),
NIV
(R),
Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com
PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410
White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2013
Print Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-339-1
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-338-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
I need to thank so many people for this book.
So here goes.
Thanks to:
Ceryn for the roller-blading seventies disco.
Michael Duncan for his pastoral advice on a couple of scenes.
Pastor James for his advice, technical edit and constant prayers.
My editor, Lisa, and editor-in-chief Nicola, for their support and encouragement in running with this idea.
JoAnn and Theresa for critiquing this for me. Massive chunks at a time in some cases.
Mum, Dad and Dean for the support.
Philip Wilson for answering my random policing questions.
Steph for being on the other end of the IM telling me “You can” every time I said “I can’t”.
And everyone from Carey and all the Pelicans, for the prayer cover.
Praise for Clare Revell
Times Arrow
I stand in awe of Revell’s ability to pack an entire novel’s worth of action and emotion into so few pages. ~Delia Latham
After The Fire
What a wild ride in After The Fire! Ms. Revell created a sweet romance within a beautiful setting, but don’t let that fool you. There’s plenty of action in this book as Freddie and Jason work to uncover the truth. Just when you think you’re near “The End,” Ms. Revell pulls out a few more surprises. ~ Dora Hiers
Monday’s Child.
The blend of romance and suspense is superb, and the depth of emotion is so very touching. I am eagerly looking forward to the rest of the books in this series. Clare Revell is truly a master novelist. What a treat! I highly recommend
Monday’s Child
to anyone looking for a GREAT story. ~ Mary Manners
Though they plot evil against you and devise wicked schemes, they cannot succeed.
~Psalm 21:11
Monday’s Child must hide for protection,
Tuesday’s Child tenders direction
Wednesday’s Child grieves for his soul
Thursday’s Child chases the whole
Friday’s Child is a man obsessed
Saturday’s Child might be possessed
And Sunday’s Child on life’s seas is tossed
Awaiting the Lifeboat that rescues the lost.
Glossary of terms used
AGA – A large stove/range. It has several ovens, large hob with room for up to ten pans. It also contains a fire and can be used to heat the house.
Lekking – A group of butterflies is known as a kaleidoscope, swarm, rabble or a lek. The term used for their movement is swarming or lekking.
Dadcu – pronounced Dad-key. Welsh for Grandad.
Mamgu – pronounced Mam-key. Welsh for Grandma
Pice ar y maen – Welsh cakes.
E.D. – Emergency Department. (ER)
Cariad/Bach – Welsh for love
CPS – Crown Prosecution Service
Hymns referred to or used.
I Saw a New Vsion of Jesus
by Vernon Higham. Public domain.
The Royal Telephone
by Frederick M. Lehman. Public domain
Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing
by Robert Robinson. Public domain.
Just as I Am, Without One Plea
by Charlotte Elliott. Public domain.
Put Your Armor On If You Want to Fight
© Clare Revell. Used with permission
1
Saturday’s child might be possessed…
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? Psalm 22:1
Was he cursed? Could it simply be a string of bad luck, or was there something else, some darker force at work? Some
thing
or some
one
was determined to take his home and land. It had been one crisis after another. Now Aaron Field was at his wits end and tied up in so much legal red tape that he couldn’t see a way out. How was he meant to find a quarter of a million pounds by the end of the financial year to prevent his stepmother selling the farm to her development company?
Aaron pushed a hand through his hair, his fingers touching the jagged scar above his right eye, before he tugged his flat cap back over his head. His wife hadn’t believed in luck or curses—said they were pagan—but then Aaron didn’t exactly believe in God the same full-on-change-your-life-way that his wife had either.
No sir’ee.
Not that he was an atheist. After all, he was English, and England was a Christian country the last time he’d checked.
In his mind, God existed.
He’d attended church most of his life—until just a few years ago—and knew without a doubt that God was real. His heart, however, remained untouched.
And naturally, if a man believed in a Supreme Being who was totally good, there had to be an exact opposite, a being who was pure evil—the devil—who, no doubt, had his own followers. They may not attend services on a Sunday in pretty churches, but they were there.
Aaron stood by the farm gate, slid both hands in his pockets, and surveyed the empty land. When his old school friend, Pastor Jack Chambers, had first broached the subject of using the farm for the traditional bonfire and firework display on November fifth, Aaron agreed as a favour. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like something his stepmother would hate, which was altogether a better reason for doing it.
At least the organization would take his mind off things. Or he hoped it would. Sorrow filled him. Everything he, Dad, Grandad, and Great-Grandad had worked for would be gone in a few short months. Four to be precise. He sighed. All the more reason to do some good with it now. Go out with the proverbial bang. Well, literal bang in this case.
He had just over a week before his land would be overrun for the evening by hundreds of people from Headley Cross Baptist, eating, drinking, enjoying themselves, and probably churning the grass to a sea of mud. Especially if it rained. It was bound to rain. The South of England got more than its fair share of rain in the autumn. Would they go ahead in the rain or call the celebrations off? Would they pay him in the event of a cancellation?
Sure, it was no more than a token payment, but he needed the money. Needed every penny he could lay his hands on.
He shuffled his feet. That made him sound like a penny pinching miser. A scrooge of the nth degree. Far from it. There was a time when he enjoyed a party as much as the next man. There simply wasn’t anything to celebrate anymore. Not since Nancy…
Enough, Aaron. She’s gone. No amount of wishing will bring her back. Or Dad. That life is over. Best come to terms with it quickly.
Quickly? That was a joke. It had been three years now. He was stuck in a rut. He couldn’t go backwards and couldn’t go forwards, either.
His father’s death had been something he knew would happen at some point. Children bury their parents. It’s a fact of life. And he knew from growing up on a farm all too well how things lived and died. There was no getting away from it. Especially at the rate he was losing the sheep. Almost every week one turned up having been mauled by some wild animal.
So, yes, he knew about death first hand. What he hadn’t anticipated was the fact his father would die so suddenly at the age of fifty-nine. Or that it would be followed by the devastating loss of his young wife so soon afterwards. It had shaken him to the core.
He’d gone from being Aaron Field the farmer’s son, to Aaron Field the farmer—just like the card game of happy families he’d played as a kid with his brother and sister. Not that he believed in happy families any longer. Not since his mother had died giving birth to his baby sister, and everything changed. His father had remarried his step-aunt when Leah was six months old. Tanis gave a whole new meaning to the term wicked stepmother.
For the brief years of his own marriage, things had looked up and Aaron had hoped it would last. But it hadn’t. Nancy’s death had only cemented his impression that no one lived happily ever after.
He pulled his train of thought back to the matter in hand—getting the grounds in order for such a large crowd. November the fifth,
Bonfire Night
—a very British tradition going back to 1605 when a terrorist plot to assassinate King James was thwarted, the success of which was celebrated by Royal decree every year since.
Aaron eased his shoulders under his wax jacket. He turned, climbed back into the tractor cab, and released the brake. He headed up to the north field to finish the plowing. He derived immense satisfaction from plowing—keeping his furrows straight and even. It focused the mind and took his thoughts away from places he didn’t want them to go.
At the halfway point across the field, the phone vibrated. He yanked the handbrake and pulled the mobile from his pocket. He scowled when he didn’t recognize the number. Probably another telesales agent wanting to pitch insurance he didn’t need. He’d love to have just five minutes alone with whoever decided selling mobile phone numbers was a good idea.
“Hello.” He tried not to snap down the phone, but so help him if this was another unwanted call whoever it was would get short shrift.
“Hello, could I speak to Farmer Field please?”
He winced at the name and the underlying laughter in the Welsh lilt. Obviously, she thought ‘Farmer Field’ was hysterically funny—just like everyone else did. Except him.
“Speaking.”
“Hi. My name is Meaghan Knight. I’m ringing from Headley Baptist about the bonfire next week.”
“Oh, right. Hello.” He assumed he’d be dealing with Jack, not some chit of a girl. But Jack was probably busy with pastoral stuff. “What can I do for you, Miss Knight?”
“I was wondering if it would be possible for me to come over and talk with you in person. Take a look at the field; make the arrangements, and so on. I appreciate the fact you’re busy, so thought I’d ring first, rather than just descend on you.”
Her lilting voice washed over him like a fresh spring breeze.
Like sunshine following rain, or the first daffodil peeking through the ground after a long hard winter. He wanted her to say something else just to hear her speak.
