Wednesday tea time. Four thirty pm. I gazed out Edwards’s chamber window, unable to avoid gloomy sky stretching far into the distant horizon. ‘twas raining rather angrily out there in the great beyond I noted, gritting my teeth. Misty clouds covered adjacent valley tops, swathing our countryside with swirling portents of dark, depressing doom.
‘Deary me,’ I muttered dismally, for soon it would all be upon us. Their unmistakable signal meant simply ‘give up - no more hope.’ Closer to home atop the steep hill opposite sat the great oak tree our family named Rufus after a great war general who possessed an uncommon valour, preferring to lead his troops from the front. Where once Rufus stood proud and potent, he now crouched naked and vulnerable. Battle had commenced later than usual, yet the start of a bitter winter campaign had already taken a heavy toll on the strapping fellow as it had done to his loyal soldiers whose torn brown jackets lined dark woods behind.
Woodland creatures scurried to and fro, frantically picking up ammunition discarded by our heroic warrior as he valiantly fought on to the bitter end, when the relentless forces of darkness overwhelmed him once more. One hundred years he had fought. Doubtless he could do so again, but now he sat, quietly watching and waiting, silently forming battle tactics. All the while he gained strength and comfort in the knowledge that they still held the high ground, and when reinforcements arrived his mighty army could rise up once more, defending merry England and crushing all who dared stand in their way.
On the battlefield before him other little helpers ever efficient and impersonal were attending to the wounded whose dry, lifeless corpses and rotting clothing were strewn carelessly about in the stiff breeze. A sneaky red jacketed spy, his scheming work at an end, made his way stealthily down the hill, using tired, blackened bracken as cover and disappeared back to his home far to the east.
Back at our home, creating a sliced black shadow against white wooden railings rested a shabby, ladies cycle, groaning with countless years of misuse and neglect. Her once striking paintwork was flecked with pebbles of thick, rusty copper and her royal seat once fat with luxurious padding now lay crushed and compressed into a paper thin meld of densely packed dried sweat and worn leather. Beneath her bowed body her rounded feet buckled with a lifetime’s service of bearing thankless burden’s men three times her size would baulk at. That certainly explained those curious scraping sounds heard moments before.
Three brisk knocks at the front interrupted my meandering thoughts. At our door there now stood an officer of the law. This exceptionally well fed fellow was occupied in a losing battle, hopelessly failing to stem floodwaters breaking out everywhere on his forehead, despite being armed with a handkerchief the size of a giants bath towel. Yes, just about the reddest faced and fattest one I’d ever seen. Rogues must have drawn lots to work on his beat. Father answered the call. I caught most of the conversation on my way downstairs.
One Constable Bray remained very polite and almost apologetic as he breathlessly explained the trying circumstances of his visit. Old man Parson’s place way up on the hill had been attacked by mindless vandals every night for the past two weeks. The angry farmer reported rotten eggs thrown at his workshop, which had taken quite a pounding. Sheer force they’d hit with suggested launch via some sort of mechanical machine.
Of course that wasn’t the whole tale. Annoying knocking disturbed the peace at ungodly hours, weird, disembodied voices screamed obscenities and expensive tools had been stolen or damaged. Not only that, someone had flooded his barns and left strange tracks all over the property. The friendly officer mentioned talking to Mr Dawson at the dairy before he left town. Apparently the man spoke highly of our family and father admitted they were lucky to have such decent people on their side. Had father seen any suspicious character’s lurking near the hill lately? Father confessed he knew nothing of it and the officer happily accepted his word immediately.
Constable Bray said he was happy to go back to town and tick the right boxes, confirming Parson seemed a bit of an odd character and was partial to a tipple now and again. So who knows exactly what had gone on up there on the lonely moor? After much small talk of cut backs at the station and exactly what folk’s taxes were paying for the chatty man waddled off towards his dying cycle.
“You watch out for yourselves sir and have a good evening. Lovely place by the by, very quiet, peaceful like. Best not tell the missus; she’d love to live way up here.” With that he was off, heading west towards town. I noticed he chose to push the worthless bicycle up the small gradient.
Father obviously never gave the incident another moment’s thought, barely mentioning it at the dinner table, never even asking us two if we’d anything to do with it. I understood the mad general wouldn’t attack anyone other than me. Knowing someone who may have done though, I asked him at the first opportunity.