Greywinton

GREYWINTON

Les Broad

Published by Les Broad at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Les Broad

Discover other titles by Les Broad at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Greywinton, Northumberland, England

Late October,

Thursday, Midday

The village of Greywinton was well named. It sat in its narrow vale in the high Northumbrian Pennines, its buildings uniformly grey under an habitually grey sky; the sun did shine occasionally, but the early days of winter seemed every year to be unrelentingly grey. For this Thursday was in those days, and winter came early at this altitude.

The reason for the existence of the village had long since ceased to be; now it clung to life as the focal point for the sole local farm, a few long distance commuters and those hardy souls who had chosen to live and work in Greywinton's isolation. There was a single, narrow road leading to the village; it went no further simply because there was nowhere else to go and just ended in the village square. On one side of the square was the pub, incongruously named the Anne Boleyn by a long-dead landlord who, it was popularly assumed, admired Henry VIII's approach to matrimony and named his pub as a warning to potential spouses. Alongside the pub was its car park, retained as a triumph of hope over expectation for only during the very few weeks of high summer might tourists stumble across the village. Opposite stood a row of grey, sturdy, terraced cottages, four in all, with a further five looking across the square between their neighbours and the pub as if willing traffic to use the road. The only other buildings were the shop standing adjacent to the road, a multi-functional emporium that served as newsagent, post office, grocery store and anything else the villagers might require and which had a refreshingly flexible approach to sell-by dates, a farmhouse and outbuildings behind the five cottages, and, finally, a row of derelict cottages behind the pub which were slowly crumbling and being taken over by weeds.

Into this tranquil, cold scene stepped C W Masterton, known to everybody simply as CW, from his end-terrace cottage opposite the pub. It was a normal occurrence as each and every day CW did the same thing. He stepped out, looked at the sky, locked his door and walked, upright and proud as befitted a man with a lifetime of military service behind him, to the pub. He was less than happy with the meteorological conditions, finding the air to be too still and too cold, the cloud base to be too low and discovering there to be a distinct smell of snow. The first heavy fall of the winter, he guessed, was going to arrive any minute. He cast another look skyward as he pushed the pub door open.

Inside all was as it should have been, with two exceptions. A log fire blazed in the grate, the tables were clean, the brassware gleamed, but of the landlord there was no sign. Nor was there of his dog Pharoah, a fierce looking Alsatian with a nature completely at odds with his appearance, in his usual place in front of the fire. CW shook off his coat and stood warming himself by the fire, then moved to the window and gazed outside. Yes, he thought, any minute now it'll start and when it does it'll be heavy and it'll go on for a good twenty four hours. Mentally he checked his supplies at home: he had enough firewood, a full larder, yes, he'd be fine even if they were cut off for a couple of weeks.

He turned back to the still unattended bar then, deciding that all he could do was wait, he settled into his usual seat.

C W Masterton didn't only appear to have had a military career; he had served his country with great distinction, although he rarely if ever spoke of his experiences in the armed forces. He had been decorated on more than one occasion and it had been hinted that he had in fact been awarded the Victoria Cross, even if those hints didn't come from the man himself. He had never bothered to confirm or deny which medals he had actually won, but whether than was because he really was not interested in discussing past acts or for any other reason was something that could only have been speculated upon. He was known in the village to be absolutely honest, trustworthy and the sort of person who could sort out problems; if anyone went to him with a worry CW would always do his best to resolve the problem. CW's best was good enough, always.

He seemed to have no money worries, although he was far from rich. He didn't own a car, but was a good customer of the taxi firm a few miles down the valley. He spent as freely as anyone in the pub and was generous, if not conspicuously so, with both money and time. He was a popular man, living out his retirement quietly in remote and close-knit Greywinton.

He had become lost in his own thoughts, so lost that he hadn't noticed the first flakes of snow drifting silently down, nor the pub door being opened to admit the landlord and his dog. Pharoah trotted across to CW, tail wagging in delight at seeing a friend. CW was brought out of his reverie abruptly as a canine tongue dragged itself across the back of his hand.

Hello, boy, CW said, grinning at the dog, I wondered if I'd ever see any intelligent life in here. He was rewarded by the dog bouncing in excitement. Good of you to put in an appearance too, Wilson.

Aye, well, weren't my fault. It's 'im, being bloody odd. Pharoah glanced up at his accuser but only briefly; he was far happier to let CW carry on scratching his ear.

Odd, Wilson? Tell me, how was he odd? I take it you can pull a pint while you tell me.

Edward Wilson, licensee of the Anne Boleyn for the past twenty years, was unmarried and the best part of a decade younger than CW, but looked older. Rather overweight, he was a creature of habit as is often the case in small villages and in his case it was a habit to go out with his dog prior to opening the pub. But it had gradually got later and now he opened up then went out; CW was always the first customer and Wilson was always back in time to serve him. Except today.

Kept hangin' back, wouldn't keep up sort of thing. As he spoke he pulled lovingly on a pump, dispensing a pint of cask conditioned bitter with just the right amount of head on it. Refused to go on the tops. Never done that before.

Was there any reason do you think?

Couldn't see anythin'. And it's snowin'.

I knew it would. It's going to be a bad fall and now it's started it isn't going to stop for the rest of the day.

You're right, aye. Wilson took CW's pint over to him. Ah reckon we'll see the travellers back early, or not at all.

'Travellers' was Wilson's affectionate term for those who commuted to work from the village. There were only three people who did so: Laura and Simon Robson, CW's neighbours, and Anne Baxter, who lived in the far end cottage of the five.

We won't see the Robsons, CW asserted, they left yesterday and don't intend coming back for several days. Simon had to go to London and Laura went with him. They're treating themselves to a few nights in a hotel while he works and she goes shopping. CW grinned as he spoke: Laura Robson's shopping expeditions were legendary around the village. I hope Anne decides to come home though. She's hardly equipped for arctic driving. Again CW grinned as he spoke.

Aye, that little thing of hers is no Land Rover, Wilson agreed.

Anne Baxter left early every morning on her 120 mile round trip to work, driving her little four wheel drive vehicle. It might have been a little better than an ordinary car in coping with snowy conditions, but everybody knew that she preferred ordinary tyres because they made less noise than proper off-road tyres. Wilson's comment had been made with that in mind and it prompted CW to suggest that she be told of the weather conditions. After all, he said, "the fact