Ann Purser - Threats At Three

It was a beautiful morning, and the two set out with Jeems tugging eagerly at her lead. “Walk properly!” said Gran. She shortened the lead and the terrier immediately obeyed. “Pity some kids are not so easy as this little dog,” she said reflectively.

“Meaning?” said Lois.

“That eldest Hickson boy,” Gran said. “He was at the cricket match on the rec yesterday, fooling about with another boy-not from the village-and disturbing people who were trying to have a picnic and watch the match.”

“What were they doing?”

“They’d got their bikes, and had made a track of hollows and bumps down by the hedge at the bottom of the field. Then they were riding as fast as possible, shrieking and yelling until they fell off. Wheelies, do they call it?” Gran could see from Lois’s face that she did not think this a great crime, and decided to change the subject. She had no wish to start another quarrel with her daughter.

“How’s Floss’s ankle coming along?” she asked, as they climbed the stile and took the footpath into the wood.

“She says its much better,” Lois said. “Mrs. Tollervey-Jones sent her a bunch of flowers! How’s that for a changed character? Mind you, she’s always been fond of Floss. I don’t like the girls to get too close to the client, as you know. That’s why I send Paula there alternately with Floss.”

Gran thought of saying that she would bet a pound that Mrs. T-J wasn’t as devoted to Paula Hickson as she was to Floss. But she bent down and released Jeems, who headed at once towards a rabbit hole.

“Damn!” she said. “Will she come out?”

“Don’t worry. We can grab her tail,” and saying this, Lois took hold of Jeems’s rapidly waving tail and pulled her out backwards.

They strolled on, enjoying the dappled sunlight through the trees, until Gran stopped suddenly. “Who’s that?” she whispered. She pointed to a figure seated on a stool with an easel in front of her, painting away, totally absorbed and unaware of their approach.

“It’s that new woman,” Lois whispered back. “They’ve bought one of Thornbull’s old farm cottages for weekends. She’s in the wood most weeks. All weathers, apparently. Painting the trees. Doesn’t like anybody talking to her. Lovely paintings, people say.”

“No accounting for folk,” said Gran, “though she looks friendly enough.”

They walked on, talking idly about Jamie and his concert tour, and Douglas and Susie, and young Harry. They agreed they would do certain things differently in his upbringing, but also agreed that it was best not to interfere.

“I suppose you know the way? We’re not lost are we?” Gran said, as Lois stopped and gazed around her.

“No. It’s just there’s something different about the bushes over there. Looks like somebody’s made a hide of some sort.”

“Bird-watchers,” said Gran. “They’re everywhere these days. You’d think birds couldn’t exist unless someone watched them. Barmy lot, if you ask me. They should let the little dears get on with it, without bein’ watched all the time. Enough to make them emigrate, I say.”

“Just wait a minute. I’ll go and look,” Lois said, and pushed through the bracken. It was a rough hide, but not for bird-watchers. Ashes from a fire had been spread out neatly to make sure there were no smoldering cinders. A small wooden box turned upside down proved to be a mini-larder. In it, Lois found a plastic bottle of milk, half-full, and the remains of a loaf of white bread, both covered in protective wrap. Insulation, Lois supposed. She rewrapped them carefully and replaced the box.

“What was it?” Gran said, as Lois returned.

“Just a shelter for bird-watchers, like you said. Come on, let’s see if we can find wild strawberries. There used to be some on the Waltonby side of the wood. Are you up to a bit of a trek?”

Gran bridled. “O’ course I am! I’m used to plenty of exercise from being on me feet all day round the house, down to the shop, round to WI, over to Blackberry Gardens for coffee with Joan. It all adds up, you know. Not an ounce of spare fat on me. You must’ve noticed.”

Lois had to admit that this was true. “But then, I sit at my computer, sit in my van, sit in the Tresham office, sit interviewing clients, and I weigh exactly the same as I did when I was twenty. How come, d’you reckon?”

“Nervous energy,” Gran said confidently. “You worry it all away. Anyway, are you still sure we’re on the right path? I can see a man over there, looks like he’s got a gun.”

“Morning, Mrs. Weedon, Mrs. Meade!” It was John Thornbull, and he explained swiftly that he was out shooting rabbits. “Pesky things!” he said. “Hazel is mad because they ate all the new lettuces before we’d had a single one. Funny thing, though, they took the whole plant out of the ground. One by one, they went. Never seen that before.”

“Perhaps them rabbits had an order from Tesco’s-lettuces on the vine, an’ that,” Lois said lightly, but in her mind she was beginning to see a pattern forming. Self-sufficiency, she thought. Whoever was the culprit, he was clever. Never in the same place two nights running, on the move. Locals might say it was the Green Man. She knew there were legends about this wood, with many sightings of a tall ghostly character with leaves for hair and a face carved out of wood. But she’d never heard tell of a Green Man living on half-liter plastic bottles of milk and sliced white bread.

“What’s funny?” said Gran.

“Nothing much,” Lois said, and then pointed excitedly at a green patch ahead. “Look! Strawberries. Come on, Mum. We can get cream from Josie on the way back and have them for pud.”

JOSIE WAS ABOUT TO LOCK THE SHOP DOOR AS THEY APPROACHED. Sunday mornings she opened up, mainly for newspapers and sweets for the children, and now she looked forwards to an afternoon with Matthew Vickers. He was taking her over to his cottage to see his latest acquisition, a king-sized double bed. “One careful owner, good as new,” he had said persuasively.

“We need cream, Josie. Look, we picked these in the wood. Just enough for lunch. Enough for you too, if you want to come up to the house?”

Josie explained about Matthew. “By the way,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you about my babysitting evening at Paula’s.”

“Troublesome children?” said Gran hopefully.

“No. It was this phone call, Mum. A man wanting young Jack. The lad wouldn’t speak to him, and he rang off before I could ask who he was. Bit odd, I thought. I meant to tell you earlier.”

“What was his voice like?” Lois said urgently. “Can you remember? Did it sound like he was disguising it?”

“Here we go!” said Gran. “You read too many crime books, me duck. She sees villains round every corner,” she added to Josie. “Now, have you got any double cream left? We must let you get on.”

Lois glared at her, but Josie produced the cream and saw them out of the shop. As they were setting off up the street, she called out, “Mum! Here a minute!”

Lois came back a few steps, and Josie said quietly, “He wasn’t from round here. Up North, I would say. Any use?”

THE TINY WILD STRAWBERRIES VANISHED IN SECONDS, AND Derek ran his finger round the pudding plate appreciatively. “Nothing like these wild ones,” he said. “The big buggers are all right, but nothing to compare with these.”

“You can grow the little ones in the garden,” Gran said.

“Wouldn’t taste the same,” Lois said. “Something to do with the soil, I suppose. It’s all leaf mould in the wood. An’ worms and grubs an that, keeping it fresh.