THE GREEN MAN MYSTERIES

By Nel Barton

The twin English villages of Gratton Major and Gratton Minor nestled contentedly under the hillside, upon which was the ancient chalk figure of the Green Man. Below was the village pub, named in his honour. Few people visited the Grattons, that is until a new journalist was appointed for the local paper - and the film crew and archaeologists moved in.

Who could have foreseen an ancient antefact would lead to murder and miracles?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nel Barton
• Release date: Aug 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501433214

Book preview

Chapter 1

FRIDAY

What’s up with you? Zoemarie asked her brooding nine year old.

Nuffin.

Not ‘nuffin’, Tom. It’s ‘nothing’ Dan interrupted, looking up from his breakfast cereal and feeling more than a little irked that his son could be so lazy with speech. So why the sour face this morning? What’s brought that on?

Nuffin.

Dan sighed and poured another cup of tea. The unspoken instruction ‘don’t ask again’ filled the atmosphere like an invisible heavy fog. Dan was happy to oblige. These moods were regular enough to be almost predictable and last time it was simply because Frederick Rogers had called him fat and stupid when he slipped into the brook. Before that it was best friend Peter Potter who had uttered some thoughtless phrase which resulted in a temporary falling out. Tom could be needlessly sensitive at times. This would pass though, these spats always did, and in no time at all they would be bosom buddies again. It was nearly a year since the Taylors had moved to Gratton Major. A long, slow year. The change from suburban living on the outskirts of the capital to a small village was never going to be easy and Zoemarie mused they were still in the adjustment phase. ‘In-comers.’ The opportunity for change had presented itself quite unexpectedly, house prices were high and buyers easy to find. The only fly in this particular ointment was having to pay a higher price for what they wanted. That, and agent’s and solicitor’s fees had swallowed the financial nest egg they had hoped to secure from any deal. And finding the right property in Gratton Major was – so they rapidly discovered – a nigh impossibility on their budget. This house was a compromise which in the end suited none of them.

It had all come about so suddenly. Dan had seen an advert for a journalist on the Coast Today with offices only ten miles from Gratton, whilst simultaneously his mother had fallen and become hospitalized bringing them to the realisation that she was, perhaps, not quite as fit as she used to be and her years were advancing at a pace. The surgeon had shaken his head dolefully:

At her age anything could happen, he’d said. Mrs Taylor is recovering now but such events are likely to reoccur in the future and I think she should have regular supervision. Does she have family nearby?

What the surgeon didn’t know, and Dan did, was that his mother was indestructible. And no, there were no relatives on hand, just him and his sister in Australia.

Mrs Taylor was a long term resident of Gratton Major having made the graduation from in-comer to new-comer, to resident, though this privilege did not extend to Dan and Zoemarie. They would have to earn it, just like anybody else. Belinda, Dan’s sister, had had the good sense to escape while she could and her infrequent letters to him were exuberant with the wonders of Oz and her freedom to do whatever she chose; with the sun, the sea, the surf, she was in paradise. Dan loved to hear from her, but hated to read the words. It was all a bit too good for his palate. Now it seemed as if events were conspiring to bring him to Gratton. Someone had to oversee his mother; the house, the change of job. It all fitted in neatly. Once in a while there seems no option but to follow the path the Universe had laid out, and this was one of those moments. He was, then, neither surprised nor pleased when Coast Today offered him a position straight away since half of him hoped they would turn him down and Gratton would cease to be a prospect.

Likewise, their house sold to the first viewer, who was in a rush to complete the deal, and before they had time to catch their breath they were moving boxes and furniture into The Cottage. One would have expected old Mrs Taylor to be overjoyed to have her son, daughter in law and grandson living five houses along the road, but she wasn’t.

He’s only here to spy on me. she complained to her neighbour. Can’t a body have any peace even in old age? Kids! Damn nuisance from the time they are born, if you ask me. She was very good at expressing opinions which hadn’t been asked for.

Gratton was a village divided. Much smaller Gratton Minor, no more than a hamlet really, nestled itself at the eastern end of Honeypot Lane and on the far side of the railway line which divided Major from Minor in every sense. The two societies rarely mingled, apart from the Potter family as the father was to be found in Major’s Green Man most nights drinking a jar too many and eyeing up Clarice, the bubbly blonde barmaid. She was young, slim, attractive in a blousy sort of way, and always ready to flirt with any male around, revelling in being under 30 and available. She would wink and flutter her bristle stiff eyelashes at Reg Potter as though he were the only man riveted by her attentions. She made him feel good about himself, young and carefree again instead of a being a middle aged farm labourer with calloused hands and a wind whipped face the colour of walnut and the texture of leather.

Tom Taylor and Peter Potter fell into friendship when they met at school in Shorebury which served both Major and Minor as well as many other outlying districts, there being too few children in either village to warrant a school of its own. The boys were a pure example of the adage ‘opposites attract’. Tom was quiet and reserved. He preferred to wait and watch from the sidelines before he became involved. Peter, on the other hand, dived in head first, made friends easily and was often surrounded by a group of lively youngsters craning to hear the fantastic tales he wove or entranced by the latest marvel produced from the deep recesses of his blazer pocket. He reminded Tom of the Pippy Longstocking tales his mother used to read him. Peter was a ‘turnupstuffer’ par excellence.

Frederick Rogers was another attendee at Shorebury, but at nearly 12 he was a little older than the others and was inclined to be too domineering for either of them to want to spend much time in his company.

Out of school the old Major-Minor divide had set in and the first winter in Gratton was a long and lonely one for Tom who was forced to remain cloistered with his parents throughout. It was only when the early clement days of spring emerged and Dan began his evening stroll, which invariably ended in the bar of the ‘Green Man’ pub, that the boys’ friendship really cemented as they were thrown together in the pub garden waiting for their fathers. Unsurprisingly, Tom also wanted to be a ‘turnupstuffer’ like Peter. He would dawdle along behind Dan, his eyes firmly fixed to the ground, but he never had his friend’s success. The best he managed was some old nails, the broken heel of a shoe, and on one gloriously successful occasion a pound coin.

The major thoroughfare joined the A-road at the northern end where there were several smallholdings, Strawberry Farm, and not much else. Honeypot Lane led from the A road straight through Major and Minor and was about 3 miles long with houses clumped either side near the railway end. On the right of Major was the ‘Green Man Inn’, the Church of Holy Innocents and the post office which sold everything from cooking pots to garden compost but was forever running out of stamps. Parcels posted there also had the knack of vanishing for no apparent reason though gossip had it that Hilda Montgomery, the postmistress, was becoming unreliable in the head and when the Grim Reaper came for her, all the missing items would be found stored in her little rooms at the rear. Until then, it was safer to use the Shorebury office even if it meant waiting for the weekly bus or risking a drive into town. Three cars constituted a traffic jam in Honeypot Lane, and more than three was a nightmare.

There were a dozen or so homes opposite the pub, including Dan’s and Zoemarie’s who lived in The Cottage, and Mrs Taylor who lived in Mayfield House, which sounded much grander than the small bungalow it was. All these properties backed onto the flat land at the base of Spring Hill and were loomed over by the giant chalk outline figure of the Green Man which was carved into the hillside, after whom the pub was named. No one knew the age of the figure, or how it came to be placed so prominently visible for a great distance, and nobody cared very much. It was just there, staring into their back gardens with its sightless eye, the other presumably having long since succumbed to grass.

Dan Taylor slammed his laptop shut and stretched his back whilst emitting a hearty yawn. He stared up at the conservatory roof. It really was too hot out here to work or even to try to assemble any useful ideas. His deadline for the column on the Coastal News weighed on his shoulders. He had to produce something or Sergeant Major Twicken – his pet appellation for the editor – would eat him alive. It might be a provincial rag, but it was life blood to Twicken. Dan had only just scraped past the deadline last week too. But what could he write about when absolutely nothing happened? Anywhere. The relentless unexpected heat of summer had sent the whole country to sleep.

He shook a cigarette from the packet, lit it, and strolled into the garden. It was much cooler out there. That conservatory was nothing less than a furnace at times. Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it, his mother’s words floated into his head. Maybe she was right. The conservatory seemed an ideal workspace when they viewed the house, but now it was becoming a test of endurance. She was a funny old girl, he pondered. Not like other mothers. Always so abrupt and complaining. He quite understood why Tom had no wish to spend time in her company though he could never bring himself to sympathize with his son over it. That would feel like a betrayal. He drew deeply on the cigarette. It tasted good.

You’ll get bitten out there, Zoemarie’s voice came from the kitchen. He ignored her. This was his favourite time of the day. Very soon the sun would begin its descent and a heady, almost magical dusk would descend. Looking at his watch, he decided he had time for a jar or two before he again took up his chains to the computer. Maybe he would find inspiration in the bar? Some local gossip he could pad an article with, and his eyes drifted upwards to the giant on the hill. He wondered how many attention grabbing headlines it could give, if only it could talk.

But you’re not a lot of help, are you? he breathed, squashing the remainder of his cigarette underfoot. Tom! I’m going to the pub. D’you want to come? Have a lemonade? See Peter?

The stroll to The Green Man took just a few minutes. Dan was absorbed in thoughts of his pending deadline. Tom was scuffing his feet and trying to cover his trainers with as much dust as possible.

Last day at school, eh? Dan broke the tension. Summer holidays now. Looks like you’ll have the weather for it too. In my day it always seemed to be raining. There was no reply. Any plans with Peter, he tried again.

Nope.

You could always climb Spring Hill and sit on the old giant’s head. This caught Tom’s attention and he suddenly looked up questioningly. There’s an old wives’ tale that if you sit on the Green Man’s head at midnight it will make you wise. He ruffled his son’s hair playfully, don’t try it at midnight though. Another story says the hill is haunted and strange lights have been seen there. Better still, don’t try it at all. I think I heard somewhere that it’s not allowed to walk on the hill except by the side path. Probably classed as trespass.

I never knew that, Tom was becoming interested.

Live and learn, my boy. Live and learn. Then, Isn’t that Peter over there?

They reached the pub entrance and parted company. Tom joined Peter in the beer garden while Dan went inside for what he hoped would be inspiration. Instead he found Reg Potter telling a filthy joke to Clarice, who pretended to smirk, then laughed raucously.

You are awful, she giggled, pushing him playfully on the shoulder, and for the briefest second Dan wondered if Dick Emery had been reincarnated in Gratton.

Tom pushed at the wicket gate to the beer garden with some apprehension, wondering if Peter would continue the tiff of the previous day but the wide grin which met him showed it was a thing of the past. As usual they were the only ones in the beer garden, the adults preferring to adopt the orthodox elbow-on-the-bar position.

What you got there, then? he asked, watching Peter wielding the heavy implement across the grass.

Great, isn’t it? Peter beamed. Me Dad found it back of Brown’s barn. The old boy’ll never miss it. Probably forgot it was ever there. Then adding excitedly, Look! I made £2.70 already.

He held out a mucky hand to display a £2 coin and some coppers, all encrusted with mud. It was only then that Tom noticed a few molehills in the grass which hadn’t been there before.

Had to use a spoon for the deeper ones, Peter explained. The rest were just lying there. Abandoned so to speak.

It was a great metal detector and Tom was more than mildly jealous. Trust Peter to have one. Just another one of the turnupstuffs which always seemed to come his way.

Here, let me have a go.

The machine was very old, heavy and pretty tarnished but seemed to work well enough, almost immediately emitting a loud squeal as it he swayed it over a discarded bottle top.

Hazard of the game, said Peter, finds anything metal. Not just money.

For some reason this remark brought back the memory of Dan’s suggestion: ‘You could always climb Spring Hill’. Surely, thought Tom, there must be a load of discarded stuff up there. Old too since hardly anyone went up there any more. And so the idea was hatched. They would go together, tomorrow, and this time they would take trowels and a pot for their finds. Peter was highly enthusiastic at the idea, but added a word of caution.

You do know it’s not allowed to dig on the hill? It’s a monument or something, then quickly adding but nobody goes up there except once a year to clean the grass away and they won’t even be able to make out it’s us from down here.

‘They’ of course were the opposition, the grown-ups who usually discovered a reason to stop a boy’s enjoyment

Chapter 2

SATURDAY

Saturday sprang into being and promised to be every bit as ferocious as its predecessor. By nine o’clock the conservatory temperature had already reached 100 degrees and Dan was indulging in idle speculation about knocking it down altogether.

He had until Sunday to email his article to the Sergeant Major. How he hated the writing business at times. An observer  might think it easy. But it was gut wrenchingly hard to continually find something new to say, week on week. Ideas hit unexpectedly, often in the middle of the night, but remained elusive if sought.

Almost vacantly he looked up towards the one eyed monster on the hill, which seemed to be winking at him. And then the long desired inspiration struck.

That’s it, he almost fell over his own feet as he rushed to the laptop. A piece on the Green Man’s history, inviting comments from the neighbourhood. Old biddies loved to put pen to paper. He might start a running blog on the subject.

Meanwhile, Zoemarie was fussing over Tom. You’ll need a hat if you’re playing outside. Don’t want to get burnt, do we? as she smeared heavy sunblock on his cheeks, nose and back of his neck.

Muuuum! he protested, trying to wriggle out of her grasp but to no avail as she started applying it to his arms, but after what was an unendurable age to Tom, he was ready to meet Peter on the path which led up the hill.

Where are you going, Dan called out to him.

Nowhere.

Dan and Zoemarie gave up, a shudder of relief coming over them as the front door clicked shut.

If anything, Peter’s enthusiasm had grown overnight.

I thought we’d start at the top of the hill and work our way down . Here, hold this, he pushed a bucket and trowel in Tom’s direction. Just how much was he hoping to find? Tom also had a trowel sneaked from his father’s collection of ironware.

What’s the bucket for?

Treasure, Peter replied without hesitation, his confident smile showing perfect gleaming teeth. What you got all that white stuff on you for?

Sun cream. To stop burning.

Peter snorted. Don’t bother m'self. Don’t burn or nuffin. Go brown in the summer and white in the winter. Natural, see? Like the fields changing colour.

The farm worker’s son and the townie began their long, arduous climb to the summit, which in places became so steep they had to haul each other up. Peter went first. Of course he did.

Dan knocked on his mother’s door. Although he had a key for emergencies she took it as an affront if he let himself in. An invasion of her privacy. After several moments when he hoped on hope she would be out, he saw her distorted image on the reverse of the bottle glass pane.

Oh it’s you, she seemed disappointed. I haven’t got any.

Any what?

Whatever it is you want.

Leaving the front door open she turned her back and stomped her walking cane hard into the polished parquet as she wobbled back to her chair in the lounge. He followed her into the small highly patterned room which overlooked Honeypot Lane. The welter of mismatched florals made his eyes jazz.

How are you, Mother?

As you find me.

How’s the leg now?

Rotten. You’ve no idea ... pain keeps me awake all night. Dammed doctor – he’s not much good either. Says its age, but they always say that. Once you’re retired they think you’re senile and they can tell you any old rubbish and you’ll swallow it along with their half-baked prescriptions.

Shall I make you a cup of tea? he offered.

If you must.

She settled herself in her high back tapestry chair, the injured leg carefully placed on a footstool, while Dan busied himself in the immaculate kitchen. How Zoemarie managed to keep this place so perfect when their own was totally out of gear remained a mystery to him. Nobody else would tolerate his mother the way she did and his heart swelled with pride and admiration for her. She was a good wife, a great mother and a truly wonderful daughter in law. He never told her enough. Never told her at all in fact. He ought to remedy that.

Placing the tray of tea things on a side table, he poured two cups.

"I was