The Crow Folk Read online

  ‘Get you another?’ Faye asked.

  Charlotte didn’t look directly at Faye, but rather at the air around her, her head twitching like a hound with a scent. Her eyes rolled down to meet Faye’s as the tobacco in her pipe glowed red. Charlotte gently exhaled smoke from her mouth and nostrils and Faye felt it waft over her. It wasn’t the usual acrid pipe smoke that made Faye’s eyes water. This was warmer, sweeter, with a hint of honey. ‘And what have you been up to today?’ Charlotte asked, her voice husky.

  ‘Oh, y’know, bits and bobs, Saucepans for Spitfires, doing my bit.’ Faye couldn’t help but inhale some of the smoke and it made her cough a little. She glanced over to her dad. He was chatting with the ringers and serving pints, unaware of Faye and Charlotte’s conversation.

  ‘Anything else?’ Charlotte asked.

  Faye stood wide-eyed, feet rooted to the floor, befuddled by Charlotte’s sudden interest in her. ‘Er… no,’ she said, all the time thinking, She knows! She knows about the book. But how?

  ‘Anything special?’ Charlotte took another puff of her pipe, exhaling more of the honey-scented smoke. Charlotte raised an eyebrow and Faye felt an uncontrollable urge to tell her everything about the book, how she had found it and what was inside, along with all of her conflicted thoughts about her mother. Faye’s mind was foggy and soft as a duck-down pillow. She shook her head but her lips tingled, the world swam around her and the only point of clarity was Charlotte’s face. Faye had to think very hard to ensure the only words she uttered were, ‘I went for a walk.’

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. Her smile returned. ‘How delightful,’ she said, then added, as if coming to a disappointing conclusion, ‘It’s not you. Have a lovely evening.’

  Charlotte took a final puff on her pipe, pulled up her hood and sashayed to the door.

  The fog in Faye’s mind cleared, her ears popped and the hound by the fire began barking. Reality washed back over her, as if waking from a daydream. Voices became more distinct and she could hear Mr Hodgson talking to her.

  ‘Say what you want about that Charlotte,’ Mr Hodgson said, tapping his fingers on the bar then pointing at Faye, ‘but she was kindness itself to your mother. They were thick as thieves, y’know?’

  ‘No,’ Faye said, turning to her dad, who was scowling at Mr Hodgson. ‘I didn’t know. And I’m wondering, Dad, when you was gonna tell me?’

  ‘Eh? What?’ Terrence blustered, looking like he could murder Mr Hodgson.

  ‘And you’re going to start right now,’ Faye said.

  4 MRS TEACH’S MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS

  ‘Ill met by moonlight, Mrs Teach?’

  Philomena Teach strode into the circle of standing stones as if she owned the place. Indeed, whenever Mrs Teach arrived at any destination she drew the eye. She was a large woman. Shaped liked a ripe pear and taller than most men, she moved with a regal grace, chin tipped up, and just the hint of a saucy smile tucked between round cheeks. Most days she wore a striking frock and slingbacks. Tonight, the rain and slight chill in the air found Mrs Teach in her Women’s Voluntary Service woollen coat, hat and sensible shoes.

  ‘If you want to have a chat, just knock on the door,’ she said to the woman waiting for her. ‘Slipping notes through my letter box and inviting me to occult places in the middle of the night is liable to give a lonely widow pause. What the bleedin’ ’eck do you want, woman?’ This last was delivered with a snap. Mrs Teach maintained a speaking voice worthy of the finest elocution school, but every now and then her natural common-as-muck Thames Estuary inflection would make itself known with a curse.

  Charlotte Southill stood at the foot of the slaughter stone that lay flat in the centre of the circle. Mrs Teach took her place at the opposite end of the stone. Both women had agreed long ago that it was a good idea to have some small distance between them. The standing stones weren’t as mighty as those at Stonehenge, but they were much older. Tucked in a corner of the wood that few wanderers found, they were a perfect meeting place for those who liked to keep secrets.

  ‘How do I put this?’ Charlotte scratched a match into life and lit the tobacco in her clay pipe. ‘Have you been…?’ She took a few puffs. ‘Doing what you shouldn’t be doing?’

  ‘I don’t think I like your tone, madam.’

  ‘Like it or not, the question remains. Have you?’

  ‘No, I most certainly have not.’

  Charlotte exhaled and smoke billowed around her. ‘Someone is,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it was not I. How dare you accuse me.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Teach, but you have form.’

  ‘Once, that’s all.’ Mrs Teach’s eyes glistened with tears and her voice began to crack. ‘One little mistake, and a long time ago at that.’

  ‘You can turn off the theatrics, Philomena. I’m immune.’

  ‘Yes, you are, aren’t you. And do you know why? Because you’re a heartless—’

  ‘Something has broken through.’

  Mrs Teach sniffed the tears away. ‘From where?’

  ‘Below.’

  ‘Oh. Bugger.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s like someone left a door open and I can feel the draught,’ Charlotte said. ‘It is powerful and moves among us, and it could not have done this on its own.’

  ‘If it’s not you and it’s not me, then who?’ Mrs Teach asked, then gasped. ‘Ooh, do you think it’s Kathryn’s girl?’

  ‘Faye? No.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I spoke with her tonight. She’s still a child. Naive. No power. I don’t think she has anything to do with this.’

  ‘What did you say to her? She’s not supposed to know…’ Mrs Teach trailed off as she caught a whiff of Charlotte’s tobacco. ‘Oh, you are incorrigible. Did you try and read the poor girl’s mind?’

  ‘I might have had a little peek.’

  ‘Charlotte, you should know better than to poke around in a young lady’s thoughts. Goodness knows what you might find.’

  ‘There was nothing to find. The girl is empty-headed.’

  ‘She always seemed quite clever to me.’

  ‘Perhaps, but she has none of her mother’s talents.’

  ‘Who else can it be, then?’

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out. I will meditate on it in the morning. Reach out and see what I can discover. There’s a ritual I’ve been wanting to try.’ Charlotte nodded, half lost in thought before adding, ‘I need a toad.’

  ‘I can try a reading, see if there’s—’

  ‘You’re on probation,’ Charlotte snapped.

  Mrs Teach made little fists, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘Then why drag me out to the stones at this ungodly hour if you don’t want my help?’

  ‘I had to ask the question.’ Charlotte shrugged. ‘And look you in the eye when I did so.’

  Mrs Teach stepped onto the slaughter stone, fixing Charlotte with a glare. ‘And just who put you in charge?’

  ‘Vera Fivetrees.’

  ‘Did she, really?’

  ‘Yes, and you did, in a way. When you disobeyed our laws.’

  ‘One day,’ Mrs Teach said, her voice all aflutter, ‘I hope your heart is broken the way mine was. Only then will you have any clue what I went through. But what am I saying? For you to suffer heartache, you would have to actually possess a heart in the first place.’

  Charlotte’s red lips broke into a smile. ‘I have a heart, Mrs Teach. I’m wise enough to keep it to myself.’

  ‘Thank you for wasting my time,’ Mrs Teach said, turning and heading back towards the village. Charlotte watched her go, idly wondering where she might find a toad at this time of night.

  5 PUT THAT LIGHT OUT

  ‘Put that light out!’

  ‘Get stuffed!’

  Rain pattered on Faye’s steel ARP helmet as she strolled the dark streets of Woodville with Mr Paine, the newsagent. Both were on Air Raid Precaution patrol. Their job was to ensure that no house
lights were visible at night. The government had advised that Luftwaffe pilots not only used the lights from towns and villages to navigate but would also target them with bombs. The policy was designed to save lives, but not everyone enjoyed hiding in their homes at night behind blackout curtains, leading to some heated exchanges.

  ‘I said put that light out!’ Mr Paine repeated.

  ‘And I said get stuffed!’ replied a voice from inside the house on the corner of Bogshole Road.

  ‘Don’t make me come up there,’ Mr Paine hollered. ‘I can issue you with a fine, y’know.’ The blackout curtains of the offending house were tugged shut and the darkness returned. The village used to be quite lively at night, even after closing time, but the blackout applied to cars, torches and even bicycle lamps, so folks stayed at home, curtains drawn. It got so dark that Mrs Brown at the stables painted her horses white after one of them had been hit by a car. Faye even painted the mudguards on her bicycle white for what good it did.

  ‘That was Mr and Mrs Mogg’s place,’ Faye said, her night vision returning. ‘He’ll have a moan when he next sees you.’

  ‘That’ll make a change.’ Mr Paine was a big man who lumbered from side to side as he walked. He spoke with a deep voice, a frown and pursed lips, leading those who didn’t know Freddie Paine to mistake him for a simpleton. He was anything but, and Faye liked his dogged sense of duty. ‘Remind me to put it in the logbook later. Sherbet lemon?’ Mr Paine offered a little brown paper bag to Faye, but she didn’t reply. Her mind was still all of a jumble after what she had learned earlier in the Green Man.

  Mum, Faye’s mum, Kathryn Bright, née Wynter, had been friendly with a witch.

  And not just any witch – not that Faye knew any others – but Charlotte Southill who, rumour had it, would curdle your milk if you gave her so much as a funny look.

  Faye had interrogated her father until closing time, but he clammed up and refused to say any more. She turned on Mr Hodgson who, taking his cue from Terrence, got all evasive and claimed he needed an early night, leaving half a pint of his pale ale undrunk. This never happened, and Bertie was so confused by Mr Hodgson’s behaviour he began to wonder if he had been replaced by a German spy, and that became the topic of conversation for the evening instead.

  At last orders, Mr Paine turned up in his ARP helmet to collect Faye for lookout patrol. She popped her own helmet on, pinned her silver ARP badge to her lapel, strung her gas-mask box over her shoulder and stepped out into the night with the plodding newsagent.

  They started at the Green Man and made their way down to the Warden’s Post at the bottom of the Wode Road. By the time their shift was done they would have covered the whole village.

  ‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ Mr Paine said, shaking the bag of sherbet lemons under Faye’s nose.

  The noise brought Faye out of her daze. ‘Oh, sorry, ta very much,’ she said, pinching one of the little yellow candies and salivating as she popped it in her mouth. Another reason to go on patrol with the owner of the village newsagent and sweetshop.

  ‘Thanks for covering tonight, Faye,’ Mr Paine said. ‘Poor Kenneth’s lumbago is playing up something chronic. You’re a credit to the ARP.’

  ‘It gets me out and about and… PUT THAT LIGHT OUT!’ she called across the street to where Reverend Jacobs could be seen through the vicarage cottage window scribbling a sermon by candlelight. He hurried to the window, waved in apology and pulled his curtains shut. ‘And I get to yell at people, which is just what a girl needs after a long day.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Mr Paine said, making sucking noises on his sherbet lemon. ‘I heard what happened with the LDV.’

  ‘Nothing happened with the LDV,’ Faye protested.

  ‘I heard they laughed at you.’

  ‘They didn’t laugh.’ Faye bunched her lips, blushing at the memory. A call for Local Defence Volunteers had been announced on the wireless, just after Dunkirk. Volunteers were needed to defend the country in the event of invasion by the Germans in occupied France. Faye was one of the first to try to sign up. ‘It was more of a sneer. Said they didn’t take girls.’

  ‘Why would you want to join that lot, anyway?’ Mr Paine said, crunching down on the remains of his sherbet lemon. ‘Bunch of old men playing soldiers with broomsticks.’

  ‘They let Bertie sign up. He’s too young, but they took him cos he’s a boy and he’s keen and he makes a good cuppa tea. He says you get a gun.’

  ‘They’ve got Morris Marshall’s shotgun and Harry Newton’s old blunderbuss. The rest of ’em have broomsticks and an armband that makes ’em think they’re Bulldog bleedin’ Drummond. Hardly a match for the Nazi Blitzkrieg. Y’know what everyone’s calling ’em? The Old Contemptibles, the Look, Duck and Vanish brigade, the Last-Ditch Volunteers, Dad’s Army – PUT THAT LIGHT OUT! – at least in the ARP you get two quid a week, a steel hat and a silver badge.’

  ‘And sherbet lemons.’

  ‘Only if you’re good.’

  ‘Bertie said he’ll let me have a go with his gun when he gets one.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘I just want to be useful,’ Faye said. ‘But none of them want me.’

  Faye left school when she was fifteen and had helped her dad in the pub ever since. She got on with most folk, she had her head screwed on, was good with numbers and loved nothing more than a juicy murder mystery from the library with a good twist or two.

  She didn’t much fancy getting married and having kids, though that’s what was expected of girls her age. She didn’t look good in a frock, and she didn’t turn the boys’ heads. She much preferred her dungarees with proper pockets and a pair of good boots. Now and then she thought she could be a teacher, but none of the teachers she’d met were anything like her, so she didn’t reckon she’d fit in.

  Dad told her not to worry too much, which was good of him, though she suspected he was hoping she would work behind the bar her entire life and take the pub over when he retired.

  Faye just wanted to help people, even though some thought she was just poking her nose in. It didn’t matter what it was – a leaky roof, a flat tyre or picking up your ration – Faye would volunteer to help you fix it. Unfortunately, ‘Fix-It Girl’ wasn’t a recognised vocation at the employment exchange, and so Faye drifted from task to task, doing the best she could.

  They came to the Warden Post, a tiny concrete shelter surrounded by sandbags at the bottom of the Wode Road. Faye and Mr Paine sheltered inside and he poured tea from his Thermos flask into a pair of tin cups.

  The village slumbered in silence. The houses and shops were lined with sandbags and their windows criss-crossed with tape to reduce flying glass in the event of a bomb dropping. All the curtains were closed tight and the clouds above were breaking apart, revealing clusters of stars as the rain abated. Faye loved night patrol. The stars glistened without the glow of street lamps to dull them. As she picked out the constellation of the Plough, her mind drifted back to what Mr Hodgson had said about Charlotte and her mother. Thick as thieves.

  ‘Mr Paine.’ Faye bit her lip before asking, ‘Did you know my mum much?’

  ‘I know everyone in this village, Faye. That’s the privilege of being a newsagent. Sooner or later they all come through your door. Every Monday, your dear mother would pop in for a copy of Woman’s Weekly and a bar of Cadbury’s. Lovely woman. Always said her pleases and thank yous and very good with her exact change. You don’t forget stuff like that.’

  ‘Did she ever do anything… peculiar?’

  ‘In what way peculiar?’

  ‘In an… odd way. Strange. I dunno… er… witchy.’

  Mr Paine slurped on his tea as he cogitated. ‘No,’ he said.

  Faye puffed out her cheeks. That was that. Her mother was an ordinary woman who bought magazines and chocolate and never so much as—

  ‘Except that one time,’ Mr Paine added. ‘Gave me the right willies.’

  ‘What time? What do you mean, Gav
e you the willies?’ Faye asked. ‘What did she do to give you the willies?’

  ‘Nothing horrible, you understand, just… it was peculiar.’

  ‘Peculiar how?’

  Mr Paine stood as he screwed the lid back on his Thermos flask. ‘Tea break’s over,’ he said, marching off at a clip towards Gibbet Lane.

  ‘Like what, Mr Paine?’ Faye hurried after him. ‘Mr Paine, tell me, please.’

  Mr Paine slowed his pace and scratched at his ear. ‘I was just a lad,’ he said, ‘helping the hop-pickers who came out for the harvest. A sparrow got trapped in a sack of hops and the poor thing panicked, its ticker stopped and it dropped dead right in front of us. Stiff as a board, legs like that.’ Mr Paine raised his hands like frozen claws, crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth. ‘Your mum – she weren’t much older then than you are now – she was nearby, hears the kerfuffle, comes over, fishes out the sparrow, cups it in her hand and whispers in its ear. And blow me if the bloody thing didn’t come back to life and fly off. She wouldn’t take no praise for it, no thanks nor even the offer of a beer. She scarpered off like she’d done something… like she’d done something she’d been told she shouldn’t have. Half the hop-pickers thought she was Saint Francis of Assisi, the other half thought she was a…’ Mr Paine stopped walking as he trailed off. Faye had the feeling that he’d told this story to countless others in the past with the same punchline, but never to the daughter of the protagonist.

  ‘Go on, say it,’ Faye said, folding her arms.

  ‘I don’t rightly think I should.’

  ‘A witch?’

  ‘You said that, not me. Personally, I think the dickie bird had a funny turn and the warmth of your mother’s hand woke it up again. She was a lovely woman, your mother. All pleases and thank yous and exact change, like I said.’

  ‘Did she know Miss Charlotte well?’

  ‘Miss Charlotte? What do you want to know about her for? She’s a proper fly-by-night, if you know what I mean.’