MARWOOD MAGIC

By Nel Barton

A rural area in England which was way behind the times.

When Gordon Pattison was sent to Marwood to investigate rural affairs on behalf of the Government, he was astonished by what he found. And why was he continually asked if he was going to Maddy's wedding? Who was Maddy anyway?

In spite of his best efforts his task was rapidly proving difficult. But then the people of Marwood had help from a source he could never have imagined. And events took a very strange turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nel Barton
• Release date: Aug 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502243508

Book preview

Chapter 1

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What we need, the PM announced slowly to his Number One, is a nice juicy scheme that will set half the population at the throats of the rest. That's the way to make sure they are too self-absorbed to notice what we're doing.

And what exactly is that Prime Minister? Just so I have it clear in my mind.

His grin was wicked.

Doing what suits us best of course; pay rises, expenses and travelling the world free of charge of course. A few laws here and there to keep us occupied too, and in our favour naturally.

Sir Christopher's mouth twisted into a knowing smile.

What did you have in mind, Prime Minister?

Well the smoking ban was unsuccessful as they gave in too easily. I had anticipated the smokers here would have been more like the French and disregarded the law. That would have been the ideal but regrettably it just didn't happen. Lethargy. That's the great downfall of the English.

English, Prime Minister?

"Sorry. I should have said British, shouldn’t I? Forgot myself for a moment. Old habits etc.

There's always the pensioners, Sir Christopher tried to be helpful.

"Been there. Done that. It didn't work. We tried low interest rates to reduce their income; even taking their property when they became sick or disabled. But they were the only ones to complain. It didn't upset anyone else, you see, so it was a failure.  Always remember, Number One, 'divide and rule'.

And so your latest idea is ..?

This time we need to target a specific group and wham into them with some campaign or other, as with smoking, until they are really feeling persecuted by the rest. We have to be subtle though. The health route is always good to go down – their actions are damaging the health of others, that sort of thing. He stroked his goatee beard thoughtfully. The actual idea and implementation I intend to leave to you, Number One. I would suggest you have a man of your choosing in the field to do some digging around for you. Someone trustworthy who can suss out the opinions of the locals and advise you on what might be most divisive.

Mmmm.... I think I know just the man.

Yes? The PM was expectant.

Gordon Pattison. Pliable sort of chap who can mix with all sorts.

I leave it to you then, Sir Christopher... that'll be all for now. Good morning.

Chapter 2

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Saturday

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Gordon Pattison was disturbed from his slumber by the persistent ringing of the telephone. Sitting up in bed, he reached for his glasses, fumbled to put them on, and answered in a bleary voice:

Yes?

Sir Christopher here. I've a little job for you, whereupon he proceeded to outline the PM's wishes. "You are my man in the field, Gordon. I want you to have a little holiday, backpacking or whatever, and take yourself off to one of these hamlets for the purpose. You can go this weekend and take as long as you need but I should warn you, the PM has a bee in his bonnet over this, so no unnecessary dawdling, right? Divide and rule, remember.

But we're flying to Madeira on Sunday for our winter break, Gordon protested in vain. I can't possibly...

Oh I think you can, Gordon. PM's orders and all that. Madeira can wait. He can't.

We've paid. It's all booked, he added weakly. There was no arguing with Sir Christopher, any more than there was the PM. Madeira had become nothing more than a dream of what-might-have-been, and he knew it.

Too bad. Claim it back on expenses, was Sir Christopher's response, before he launched into a detailed explanation of the reasons for the trip and exactly what the PM wished him to achieve.  This weekend then, Gordon.  He's not fussy where but would prefer the south-east as it has the greatest mix of people: young, old, wealthy, poor, businessmen and the unemployed. Get my drift? Take Margaret if you want. And email your reports on a regular basis as I shall need to keep him up to speed.

The line went dead and Gordon was left holding  the buzzing receiver and biting his lip. His wife was beginning to stir.

Margaret, he said softly, I've got something to tell you.

Mmm...?

We're going on holiday.

I know. Go back to sleep.

Not to Madeira.  It's better than that. It's all expenses paid.

She rolled over to face him, rubbing her eyes.

What are you on about?

Backpacking in the south-east. At least it will be backpacking to start with, after that it's up to us. It's our cover.

She was fully awake now, and was not happy. She was not an outdoorsy person, she protested. How could he have agreed to this?  Didn't he have any say in his own life?  He deserved a break – in Madeira – not in some off the beaten track part of England, posing as a backpacker. At their age? It was ridiculous. He must ring Sir Christopher at once and put his case strongly. Or she would.

It was with great difficulty that Gordon prevented Margaret from doing just that, and for the rest of the morning they were not on speaking terms. She banged things about in the kitchen while he tried to concentrate on his maps. But there was no getting out of it.  Refuse and he risked losing his position and possibly even his pension, and eventually they were both resigned to taking an unwanted expenses paid holiday in the quiet byways, the only consolation being that Madeira was not an impossible dream, just a delayed one.

By afternoon a fragile truce had been called and they drove into town to buy the necessary equipment: ruck-sacks, umbrellas, khaki shorts, stout boots and all the rest. It sent Margaret into a spiral of depression. It was a far cry from her designer dresses and stilettos and she felt awkward and uncomfortable. She also bought thick cardigans as she had no intention of being cold. But honestly! Cardigans on a fashionable woman! It was outrageous. Matters didn't improve when they were home, either.  Margaret wanted to take her make-up case but Gordon insisted it would be quite out of keeping with their new personas. In fact, she couldn't wear make-up at all as healthy outdoor complexions were required to complete their ensembles in a believable way. It was then that Margaret's anger finally broke free in tears of frustration.

I'll never vote for that man again! was the best she could conjure at that moment.

That's all right, Margaret. If we don't succeed in our mission you probably won't have to.

Chapter 3

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Sunday

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Sir Christopher had sent a chauffeur driven limousine to collect them on Sunday morning and transport them to their destination of choice. The driver was more than a little surprised when they emerged from their large house in the suburbs wearing shorts and cagoules.

Luggage, Sir?

Just these, Gordon replied, handing him the heavy rucksacks.

Where to, then?

Gordon produced his map on which he had marked a couple of crosses in red.

Start here, he pointed, but if that doesn't suit us we'll go on to here, he added, indicating the second cross.  The driver's eyes widened but he said nothing, set his Satnav and they were underway.

Margaret was silent for most of the journey although Gordon constantly tried to reassure her.

We won't be long. Just get this job over and done with and then it's due south for us. She was not consoled, so he tried again. This could be quite a pleasant place. Inland yes, but near enough to the coast for you to find some decent shops.

She was staring out of the window at flashing images of south London until they rapidly disappeared and gave way to longer and longer stretches of greenness. Most of the journey was in sulking silence but on the one occasion she did speak, it was barbed.

If my mother could see me now, she'd wonder why I ever married you. And so do I, Gordon!

A couple of hours later the car slewed to a halt in a lay-by on a busy road.

Been told not to go into any villages but to drop you off at the nearest point, the driver explained. This seems to be about as close as I can get, Sir. You'll need to go left at the next turn-off, then it looks about a mile or two into Marwood from there. Bit of a bendy old road but you should find it easily enough.

They were disgorged from the warm comfort of the limousine and left standing in the lay-by, heavy bags on their backs, watching as the driver vanished into the traffic on the A-road.

Up here, turn left, Gordon began to stride out, map in hand, with an unwilling Margaret trailing behind. Come on, old girl. Shouldn't be too far.

But it was. On entering the left turn the road became narrower with only a large house on one side and waste lands which  spread further and further apart until there was nothing but hedges and fields which seemed to stretch for an endless distance and which wound around. To Gordon and Margaret it appeared they were walking in circles. Then it was uphill to a row of terraced cottages and on again.

Margaret was weary. She never walked from choice. Not anywhere. And the flat boots made her legs ache unbearably. Neither was Gordon faring much better. He didn't walk much either, and the hills were taking a toll on him.

Can't be much further, he panted, I think that's a crossroads ahead. It probably means we arrived.  But it didn't. It pointed to another lane marked Marwood but gave no indication of distance. See? he was falsely optimistic, no mileage given so we must be on the outskirts.

Margaret said nothing. Neither did she stop to look at the sign post, but plodded on in zombie fashion. She knew if she halted for even a second, she wouldn't be able to get moving again.

There were further green fields with nothing more interesting than sheep; the odd farm building here and there, and dried mud tractor tracks to assure them other humans were somewhere around. Then the hedges gave way to trees, great dark hulks overhanging the lane and shutting out the daylight. When they emerged from the tunnel of foliage, a road sign met them announcing their arrival.

Marwood! We've made it, Gordon would have hopped with joy if he'd had the energy, come on, Margaret.  You'll feel better after you've had a cup of coffee and something to eat.

Chapter 4

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A further half hour's tramping and they arrived at The Green Dragon. There was no sign of life and the door of the pub was locked.

There's got to be someone around, he tried to console himself. I rang ahead and booked us in for a few days bed and breakfast.

Margaret was sitting on her rucksack. They're probably all in church, she said.

Wait! I think I can hear someone inside.

He banged louder on the door and could detect bolts being drawn back and a key turning.

Yes? Mrs Danson stood in the doorway, her hair in curlers and a pink mesh hairnet covering the whole, We're not open. You'll have to go on to Shepherds Corner if you want a drink.

But you don't understand, Gordon protested, it's Mr and Mrs Pattison. We're booked in here for a few days. B and B.

Oh bless you! What must you think of my manners? You'd better come in and rest yourselves.

She held the door wide open and they strolled in to the little bar, their eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the darkness. Against one wall were a couple of booths each with an oak table and settle, and small round tables and stools were scattered across the remainder of the room.

You take the weight of your feet and I'll fetch you something to eat, she offered. Tea or coffee?

Gordon ordered two white coffees as they settled themselves in one of the side booths. Their feet were throbbing and Margaret untied her boots and kicked them off. She preferred to go about in socks and risk splinters from the wooden floor than wear those things for one more minute.

I don't suppose there's any chance of breakfast, is there? he asked Mrs Danson, more in hope than expectation.

Oh I think I could manage the traditional fry-up if you want.  I expect you're pretty hungry after your exercise?

Sounds wonderful, he answered, and while he and Margaret waited an age to be served, they drank their coffees in silence they began to feel almost human again. He tried to break the tension by commenting on the delights of the pub; wondering if their room would have the same low doorways and beamed ceiling and all the rest, but his weary wife was uncommunicative and still sulking from Sir Christopher's imposition. She was thinking of Madeira. They would have been there by now. Doing the shops in Funchal no doubt, or taking a taxi up to the Nun's Valley to enjoy the scenery. Instead they were imprisoned for several days in a pokey pub, so dim one could hardly see a hand in front of one's face and with barely another soul about. Some holiday this was going to be.

The 'full-English' breakfast eventually arrived and Mrs Danson carefully placed a plate before each of them.  Sausage, slice of bacon and tomato with a slice of fried bread.

There! she said, that should put hairs on your chest.

Gordon stared at the plate.

I think you've forgotten the eggs? he asked.

Oh no I haven't.  But it's Sunday!

What's that got to do with it?

Everything.  Mustn't break eggs on a Sunday or the roof'll fall in.  Didn't you know that? and she retreated to the nether regions of the pub muttering something about strangers and don't know nothing.

What they did have tasted good and they were both feeling somewhat revived when Mrs Danson re-emerged an hour later.

S'ppose you'd better see your room? she asked, clearing away the empty plates. Daniel – Mr Danson – will show you.

A short man with a pronounced stoop seemed to materialise from nowhere, his grey hair dishevelled and his hands trembling slightly. The onset of Parkinsons Disease, Gordon assumed.

Follow me. Gathering up the rucksacks and Margaret's boots, he led them towards the staircase at the back of the bar and up to a couple of bedrooms and a shared bathroom on the first floor. That's yours, he pointed directly opposite.  Mrs and me is right next door to you if you want anything in the night." Then he closed the door and left them to it.

The room was dominated by a high Victorian bedstead covered with a pink eiderdown, and matching curtains hung at the window, which was on the floor and necessitated bending double to see out. In the corner was a washstand, a jug and a clean towel.

"Is this... is this... it? Margaret was appalled. She was sitting on the edge of the bed to the accompaniment of loudly creaking springs. Gordon! Are you listening to me?"

He wished he wasn't and in that moment was wondering whether they should go on to the other place he had marked on the map, even though it would mean hiking several miles. He dare not suggest that to Margaret now. She would probably de-camp at once.

We're here now, so best make the most of it for a couple of days. Hopefully I can get the business done by then and we'll get back to London. It did little to console his wife, however, who issued the stern warning that he'd better make darned sure he did. Or else.  I think I'll join you, he went on, a couple of hours shut-eye and we'll both be feeling better.

It was as he was climbing up into the bed that his foot banged against something hard and bending over to see what it could have been, he produced a large china chamber pot which he held aloft in amazement.

Margaret saw it and wailed.

Oh no, Gordon! This really is too much to bear!

Chapter 5

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In spite of their misgivings, they both fell asleep almost at once, the unaccustomed exertion proving too much for their suburban bodies, and it was not until early evening that Gordon opened his eyes. There were voices and noises coming from below as the evening bar had opened up. He nudged Margaret awake.

Time to meet the locals, he said.

I'm hungry.

Me too.  Perhaps they know of somewhere we can get a bite. I'll ask.

And if not?

Don't be pessimistic. There's bound to be somewhere. They all eat, don't they?

But not eggs. Not on a Sunday.

Margaret rummaged in the depths of her rucksack, thankful that'd she had the foresight to pack her cosy slippers and the thick cardigan. Then they went downstairs to be greeted by an awkward abrupt silence as the locals weighed them up.

It was Ellie - Mrs Danson - who broke it by announcing that Mr and Mrs Pattison would be staying in the area for a few days and as good Marwoodians, they should all make them welcome, to which there was a murmur of consent.

I was wondering, Gordon began, his the sole voice in the bar, is there anywhere round here we could get something to eat. We're both starving.

A sympathetic murmur ensued but it was Mrs Danson who again jumped to the rescue, saying she had the leftovers of a large steak and ale pie if that would suit them.

Sounds wonderful, Gordon answered gratefully,