The Last Moon Boat

coincidental.

Child’s Play

Later, hardly anyone could remember many of the details.

Like all small valley towns they were reluctant to explain to outsiders and so their habitual silence grew in on itself and became a reluctance to talk amongst themselves. Least said soonest mended seemed the order of the day

When I was last there - almost accidentally really - someone was keeping some books for me and I just happened to be passing nearby - most of the real story was so overlaid with rumour and second-hand embroideries that the truth was hard to fathom.

Some things were agreed upon after several evenings and many beers bought and drunk by me and others in the snug of the Black Dog. He had been a distant relation of the family and apparently had only been found after prolonged searching and advertising by the executors and solicitors. He had appeared late one weekend evening and seemingly had the keys to the gates and the house itself. Some days later several removal wagons had arrived with French writing on the sides - no one seemed to remember exactly what writing - and there he was; ensconced, alone apparently, in the Vicarage. It wasn’t actually a vicarage at all but some neo-Gothic eccentricity from the turn of the century that a vicar had once rented from the penurious owners and it had subsequently changed hands several times until coming to rest in the care of an old couple who had inevitably followed each other to the grave with as little fuss as they had followed each other when alive.

The new owner soon became somewhat of a favourite with the local tradesmen such as there were. The painting and decorating, glazing and puttying, odd slates and flower beds were renewed and tidied accordingly and paid for in cash and often with generous bonuses which pleased them no end especially as much of the work was in the autumn when the long, coldish and work-scarce months lay ahead. Tall some said, dark-skinned certainly, with or without a beard, sometimes with glasses, sometimes without.

All quite vague stuff really but hardly surprising as, by the time I arrived there, many of the tradesmen had retired and moved (their sons inevitably seeking greener pastures), or died and their widows gratefully surviving in other, warmer, places.

Winter came and delivery vans were seen - all from the nearest big town that delivered provisions. Once or twice a Harrod’s van. Milk and bread were used sparingly it seems and money often left in an envelope pinned to the garden door.

Spring arrived and it was then that all agreed that a surprising thing happened.

A small white table appeared just beside one of the open, ornate gates. Like a card table - X-legged, with a neat white cloth carefully arranged with its points equally spaced between the table corners. On the table; a crystal vase completely filled with a bouquet of - Barley Sticks... glorious things of reddish-brown spiralled sweetness, the likes of which had rarely been seen even by the older inhabitants and certainly far beyond the imagination of the local Post Office stores. With the barley sticks, neatly written in a semi-copperplate hand on white card, in a silver edged photo frame, was the message

Please take one and Welcome, but please remember the others.

This caused some discussion - no one took one at first of course, it was too new, too strange, too unexpected. Which others did he mean? Other barley sticks? Other people?

At last someone took one - or several people took one - or one person took several. Whichever it was, the little bouquet gradually grew less. Considerately, when it threatened rain, a large stripy umbrella appeared over the table anchored by one of those water-filled white bases as if for a picnic.

Everyone was well aware of this strange affair and equally reluctant to take the last stick for fear - of what?

Still, of course, someone did take the last one. Or did HE take it to show that he knew what they were thinking?

Everyone agrees that the last stick went after church on a Sunday; and everyone agrees that Monday morning the vase had been replaced by a most handsome fruit bowl, again of good crystal and absolutely filled with assorted wrapped sweets. The card now read Hopefully you will enjoy these. Please share your happiness with as many as possible. . At least this was less cryptic than the first and the bowl soon emptied. John and Ellen Blake even wrote and coloured a little card which they weighted with the empty bowl - Thank you sir - they were luvely. John and Ellen Blake, Town End Farm.

This seemed to start a little fashion among the younger ones and soon all sorts of messages and drawings, paintings and even plasticine models appeared on the table in gratitude for each, seemingly endless, offering of candies, chocolates, gums and drops.

Then it stopped.

For a week no table appeared on a Monday and no explanation. Some parents even discussed knocking on the door to see if he was alright, but they never got round to it when someone actually had to do it.

Then a strange van appeared with a Bristol name on it and seemed to deliver a lot of stuff. Or at least the driver was there most of the morning according to the barmaid who lived nearby.

Then the table reappeared but instead of sweets there was a neat box and a large typewritten message in a larger silver edged frame saying You’re welcome to take one but only one for each family’s children. - and inside the box.

An invitation!

"The Grand Opening of the Vicarage Playground.

Children only, Entrance Free.

Refreshments provided.

Sunday 21st March from 11am."

This time several parents did knock but got no reply. Those more nervous or busy ones who telephoned were told that the number was now Ex-directory. Many children were warned not to go - and take the invitation BACK ! But many weren’t warned. After all, it was a small village. What could happen with a lot of children. the gates were always open... .we could always surprise him on the day and go in and we have to meet the kids anyway when it’s all over.

Sunday came.

So did the children.

The church was reportedly surprisingly empty that day and the vicar, Mr Parsons - oh, he suffered for that name - made gentle enquiries and considered it No harm done really. which is what he almost always said.

Some mums did go and a few protective dads too and they were politely encouraged not to worry by means of a large notice on a wooden stake on the front lawn just inside the gates.

And it seems that there was really no need for the garden of the Vicarage had been largely transformed into - a children’s playground.

And what a thing of wonder it was.

Swings and roundabouts and bouncy things. Sandpits and digging things and shaping things; a slide; a monkey frame, ropes and a tree house - a real tree house in a real tree !

All brightly coloured and safely installed (by the man from Bristol it seems And - what refreshments! Everything for children and encouragement too for healthy eating with some salads and dips and sugar free this and that. Indeed some of the mums were hoping for recipes from this surprisingly modern man... if he had appeared at all that is.

It was all quite remarkable. And all the more so as the village had never had proper children’s facilities except for the rather dangerous ponds and streams with the usual perpetual parental warnings and fears and the equally usual -

Yes, Mum. as a response

Of course, the darker muttering from the parents of those children that didn’t go was largely concerned with WHY?

They were not entirely convinced by the easy answer - that he just loved children, having none of his own they supposed.

Still - the mums and dads who had gone, left their loved ones to the abandon of the amazing playground with strict instructions to be at the gates by six. This was greeted by a great chorus of Hooray and wild shrieks as a crowd of happy youngsters fought over food, tree-house and rope ladders. It has to be said that there was not a little relief in the faces of the parents as they walked home. the general opinion was that he must be a nice man anyway and a generous spirit had come to the village and, hopefully , would stay.

No one remembered his name though... something with an H perhaps... or perhaps not?

Six o’clock came uneventfully. Kids duly arrived or were collected and one parent received a little girl with a neatly plastered knee and proud explanations of how she got it - followed by a polite phone call about half and hour later explaining the minor mishap and hoping that all was well.

All in all a satisfactory day for everyone and one which had greatly entrenched the man at the Vicarage in the affections of the children and parents alike.

And so it continued through that Spring.

The gates were almost always open at the weekend. The little table bore its magical offerings of sweetness with the same little cards and the same Thank you’s left in return.

Mr Parsons was not entirely happy as his little flock at Sunday school had diminished by about a third and the two thirds that were left were obviously itching to get away before it rained or got dark - with a sigh he contemplated the early arrival of Mammon into their little lives.

Some of the sourer elements in the village, reinforced by pints of strong ale, also continued muttering darkly among themselves in the Black Dog - much to the landlord’s delight at the extra sales. He in fact encouraged the mutterings and being from London originally, his opinion or at least his insinuations, carried much weight with the locals. He was, after all, from the City and had travelled a bit too

Still, for a while all was pleasant and Summer moved toward Autumn again. The children rambled around the Vicarage happily laughing and shrieking. Sometimes a microphone with a long cable disappearing through some distant window appeared and the sounds and comments of the children became all the louder if they thought they were being recorded. The parents all smiled indulgently at the reports of this harmless fun and some even said how sad it was that a man who so obviously loved children didn’t have a family of his own. Some still wondered where the money for the treats and sweets and refreshments came from but were stopped from wondering by the more charitable members of their coffee circle.

All moved pleasantly on toward the time of leaves falling and that look in the sky which told of different things to come.

Then Penny Cannon came home early one Sunday from the Vicarage where she had gone to play as usual and, eventually, told her parents with many tears what had happened.

It all gets a little confused now.

True it was that little Penny Cannon screamed and true it was that the Sealand twins - Barry and Saul were on the scene in seconds after the scream - standing open mouthed in the door of the games-room staring at a tall man who stood, staring wide-eyed, holding a small pair of yellow knickers in his right hand while, under the billiard table cowered Penny, sobbing and then crawling out to rush past the twins and away out of the gates; rapidly followed by the horrified and excited twins. Penny said that she was playing hide-and-seek with the twins and several others when the lights went out and she was pushed to the floor and felt her little pants being roughly pulled down - that’s when she screamed - then the lights went on and HE was there holding her pants - she screamed again and the twins appeared - that’s all. The man said - later to the local police - that he was looking for all the children to call them for refreshments when he heard a scream and, running to the games-room, found the lights off. He turned them on again and was horrified to find Penny under the billiard table and her little pants lying in the middle of the intervening space. The little girl screamed when she saw him and the Sealand boys came in.

The children all ran off before he had time to explain - he sent the other children home immediately and called Mrs Cannon but she had screamed abuse at him on the phone and banged the receiver down before he could explain.

How did you know that the knickers belonged to the little girl? - asked the police stolidly. The man showed the first signs of anger as he asked who else would be wearing such things of all the people present at the time! He was told to kindly control himself and that he would be hearing from the police in due course - good afternoon sir.

As usual, bad news flies and in the village it took wing with amazing speed.

Unfortunately for the Man - Hugh was it?... the father of little Penny was a rather morose man; left slightly disabled after an accident at work some years ago, he had been unemployed for several years; not that he had looked too hard for a job; preferring to use his injury as a vindication of the injustices of employers in particular and the vindictiveness of Life in general. Now he reinforced his usual bitterness with copious quantities of local Bitter and naturally found a ready and sympathetic audience and queue of suppliers in the bar of the Black Dog. The landlord too found that his oracular predictions about "him in the big house’ had come true and his reputation accordingly blossomed. Those quieter ones who had remained non-committal up to now found that they had to take sides if they were to drink comfortably and so followed the majority vote.

In vain then the much praised sense of British fair play.

The man was guilty as charged - he couldn’t get away with it - something should be done

The Police made no further appearances for the moment but several new cars arrived from time to time at the Vicarage, usually driven by young women with briefcases.

Social services they said. The cars were there a long time each time they arrived.

Needless to say; the gates were firmly locked now and the few children who dared to peer through the bars were reported by the others and received sharp treatment for their daring from newly-stern parents.

Mr Parsons found his church and Sunday school back to normal capacity and found ample opportunity for choosing the more sonorous quotations from Isiah and Revelations.

So that’s how it stayed - for how long, no one can really remember - a few weeks maybe.

Then the police came back.

The village was agog with speculation. The police car hadn’t stayed long - what did that mean? There was nothing to do or Justice was about to be done; at last?

Curiosity was satisfied in a suitably shocking way about a week later when the police returned again, drove into the drive of the Vicarage and about half an hour later more police cars and an ambulance arrived. Gates were cordoned off with fluorescent tape and a great deal of activity seemed to be centred around the back of the house (according to the barmaid).

He had been found dead - hanging from the swings, gently swaying in the breeze, a swing banging gently against the back of his legs as he moved so slowly, face a horror - they said.

Guilt some said - proper thing for a pervert they said - once the police had decided to charge him. And so it should have stayed - a little horror story to liven up this little backwater.

Then Penny Cannon said that she seemed to half-remember now that there had been more than two hands on her little legs... but she started crying when she thought about it anymore and couldn’t really explain what she meant.

The Vicarage gates stayed locked and soon sported a selection of For Sale notices from Bristol estate agencies. Life settled down to the aftermath of sedation after excitement.

Then Saul Sealand spoke up and, eventually Barry, who was always stubborn , broke down into uncharacteristic tears and said he had helped. He said he had turned out the lights too and that they had both run away and dropped the pants when Penny had stopped giggling and started screaming.

The Police returned and made copious notes. The Black Dog was packed, satisfactorily, for days and Mr Parsons thundered piously at his cowed and guilty-faced congregation.

So it should have stayed at last - but it didn’t.

One Sunday morning the Vicarage gates were open - the For Sale notices down. New occupants, fresh air - wonder if they knew?

Children peeped in, crept in, looked in whispering terrified groups at the swing, gently moving in the warm breeze; then ran out to church.

All week the gates were opened. Some people called and knocked, but received no answer. The more timid ones who phoned, were told by a polite voice that the number was no longer available.

The next Sunday it seems, coming back from church, the Sealand twins and Penny and her older sister Michelle had gone into the Vicarage on the way home, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new people and have a little excitement as well. As they were crunching their way along the drive they stopped.

The door was open, and the inside door was open too. In the hall they could just see what seemed to be a little table covered in a white cloth and hear what seemed to be children laughing coming from inside. The Sealand boys wanted to go in but Michelle said that they couldn’t and that they were late for lunch and she would tell her Dad if they all didn’t go home at once. The Sealand boys said - go on then if you’re scared. Penny looked undecided ,until her sister shouted in her Mother’s voice - then they both went home leaving the boys to their dare.

The twins shouted hello a few times into the slightly echoing hallway - without actually going in then they went round the back to the back garden. All seemed as they had last seen it but this time no Bouncing Castle bobbed about in the fitful breeze.

They didn’t look too long at the swing. The garden door to the laundry room was open and they could hear children laughing somewhere inside.

Barry was the first to step inside the door from the garden - Saul had to be coaxed as usual. They went in, past the familiar appliances, flower pots and boots. The laughter and noises seemed to be coming from the music room upstairs - there seemed to be a lot of children up there. They stepped onto the first stair, smiling a little nervously at each other.

The front door and garden door swung silently closed on well oiled hinges and closed with a hardly audible click.

In an upstairs window a curtain softly fell back into place and someone shuffled a little awkwardly out of the bedroom and went, heavily and haltingly, down the stairs to greet his little guests.

Clothed in Fire She Was

Chapter 1

He didn’t mind the dentist’s. As he sat there in the overly warm waiting room he surreptitiously surveyed the few other waiting patients; mostly elderly ladies swapping details of their illnesses and one anaemic-looking red-headed girl of about seventeen who still looked nervous even with the aid of her earplug phones and endlessly ruminated chewing gum. He had always quite liked medicinal smells - the astringent tang of clinics and hospitals. Maybe because he had been in so many when he was younger, had had to be patient and silent and believe that it was ‘all for the best in the long run’ as his parents had tried to reassure him with their over bright smiles and their eyes that couldn’t look at him for long. He had felt afraid of the treatments though they had proved not to be painful. Most of all though, he had felt as if he had let his parents down somehow by the fact of his being ill so often. Once or twice was normal; a topic of conversation, even a kind of pride, when discussing such things with the other mothers. But so often - there must be something wrong with boy. He didn’t like to think of those times and buried them away with his other secrets - only the strange neutrality to the potential unpleasantness of dentists and his attraction to the antiseptic smells remained.

He had read all the tattered magazines on the table, mostly with covers missing and with the bright teeth and faces of the models on the pages long inked in to leave black fangs and moustaches and beards as is the way of boring waiting rooms everywhere. Then he noticed one which seemed relatively new and he picked it up mostly for its image of totality, of wholeness amidst the debris. It was a recent copy of The Lady not one of his usual reads but he opened it idly anyway skimming past the society pages with their stiff photographs of aspirants to higher things and the advertisements for Burberry and training schools for nannies in Switzerland and Chelsea. What a world away from his own world - from anybody’s. Still there must be more of them out there than he thought if it warranted this size of magazine.

Some property advertisements caught his eye - Provence (of course!), Andalucia (where exactly was that?) and deepest Surrey. Job offers... talented couple man to follow own occupation woman to cook and drive elderly... experienced nanny for five children and dogs (no thanks!) Then - lower down the page - two lines of curt text:- full run of the house in exchange for tidying of garden and modest security checks. Rent free for minimum of six onths and maintenance salary. May suit post-graduate or writer or similar. References required. Reply by handwriting only to...

He looked around furtively. Only two old dears, still swapping hospital horror stories in one corner. He quietly ripped the advertisement from the magazine and put in his wallet. Post-graduate he was and writer or similar he was trying to be - that seemed to cover all the options asked for. Handwriting may be a bit of problem though.

Mr. Winston? Come this way please Nice legs and smile he thought. He smiled in return and went in - ah! He breathed deeply and contentedly as he entered the surgery...

Just a few stops on the bus from Oxford, station. Ask anyone where it is they are sure to know when you get off. It’s not too far to walk if you cut across the footpath beside the pub car park...He re-read the instructions in a schoolmasterly hand on pale blue notepaper. His handwriting had been good enough to get to an interview at any rate. No telephone number at the top of the page and it had been a combination of curiosity and approaching financial desperation that had sent Churchill on this (for him) moderately expensive journey firstly by train to Oxford and then by small and neat bus towards the village which, as they all did round here, nestled somewhere in the middle of timeless countryside.

As he peered out of the window he wondered how so many people could exist on the royalty payments from period romances and Jane Austen adaptations for BBC television - as that was surely the only thing such idyllic settings were for. Nobody could actually live in such surroundings. He knew he was kidding. Retired and comfy ones abounded worrying about their roses and azaleas, their ponies and borders and tutting over the latest scandal of the Royal Family and the continued refusal of the IRA to be fair and sensible.

This is it for the village. Sang out the driver and stopped at a small crossroads in the middle of a set for Pride and Prejudice. He got off and followed the wooden finger hoping that the ‘1 mile ‘ was true.

It was. Amazed at the scarcity of cars and the wealth of half-timbered shops and houses he made his way to the Red Lion (what else!) and, over a pint, asked the way to Ferrers Barton. He decided to walk as there was no alternative and strolled on the perfect summer’s day along the footpath neatly swept it seemed and helpfully signed in suitably rustic lettering on tidy brown wooden flags from time to time. He turned off at the sign Ferrers Barton Strictly Private. No Right of Way and soon breasted a little hill to stand and smile in spite of himself.

Someone had planned all this of course. Like the gardens and oh-so-natural lakes and oaks in picturesque pairs spread out over the contours of the surrounding hills. The house lay low and long - an enclosed square with creeper covering the front façade, gravelled circular drive with fountain of apparent great age and the wings of the house stretching back and joined at their extremities with a tall garden wall. Sunlight glinted on what could have been greenhouse glass somewhere beyond the wall and sounds of sawing could be heard. If this is rent-free, thought Churchill, then I would like to have some just for the experience of being here. It will take me six months to walk round the outhouses and the grounds and as for gardening... Jesus himself would work overtime on this lot. With this irreverent thought he walked on down to the front door - wondering if this was the right thing to do... maybe the trade entrance around the back? No... he wasn’t employed yet so he would arrive as a guest and apologise for his lack of calling card. He practiced a little dandified swaggering until he noticed he was being watched by a figure doing something to the shrubbery on the end of the house. The figure had straightened, shears in hand and pushed back the old hat. Churchill had an impression, no more, of sunburned age and sinewy arms below the rolled up shirtsleeves. The figure made some sort of waving motion and for a moment Churchill thought it was the owner beckoning him to come over. He started across the gravel toward him only to see the brown arm move rapidly sideways and back obviously saying no... then the same waving and pointing. As they were near enough to shout to each other all this pantomime seemed a bit eccentric but Churchill thought that either the gardener was deaf or mute or just fitted in with the stagey appearance of the house anyway.

He changed direction and marched sensibly up to the front door which was set in an old-looking squarish extension to the house like a miniature lodge. A thick black iron rod hung down by the door and this was duly pulled with no obvious result. He was undecided whether it would be polite to try again or just wait. He waited and walked to the side of the little lodge to peer in through the diamond-paned side windows shading his hand against the reflection. Inside was a collection of boots of all sizes and another door - obviously the real front door, which stood open and bore a large and shiny brass bell-push beside it. Back to the first door and tentatively try the latch. It opened. He went in and pushed the shining nipple of brass to be rewarded with a sound like an old fire station bell. After a few seconds a woman’s voice called

Coming - won’t be a minute! And sure enough with a mutter of heels she appeared.

Short, grey-haired and brown eyed, she stood appraising him openly. Her eyes had the strange quality of having shutters over them. She appeared to come to some decision quickly and stepped back ushering him in with one outstretched arm.

"Do come in Mr.