The Fox in the Forest (2 page)

3

The sign over the door of the village shop read ‘G. G. Farr’, but everyone called him Tommy. A few people knew that the first initial stood for George, but not even his intimates were allowed the knowledge that the second one had inflicted Godfrey upon him. He had been born in Wales at the end of the war, when the memory of gallant Tommy Farr’s contest with the great Joe Louis was still a fresh legend in the valleys. He had never minded that ‘Tommy’; it had given him a kind of distinction among his schoolfellows.

It had meant he had had to fight sometimes, especially when one of his peers sneaked a glance at the register on the teacher’s desk and caught sight of the Godfrey in her round copperplate hand. But he had never minded a scrap: his broken nose and misshapen right ear bore witness to the fact. During his National Service, in the very last batch of young men to be drawn in by that system, he had even boxed a little, fighting with gloves on for the only time in his life. But those days were long gone. He had been here now for almost thirty years, initially with a wife, but for the last ten years on his own.

He managed well enough, even when things were busy, as they were this morning with Christmas so close. He was never ill, and his broad-shouldered strength made light of the lifting of cartons of various sizes around the big, untidy storeroom which no one ever saw. In the shop itself, he had made himself over the years into an adequate conversationalist, recognizing the need to offer small talk as part of his alternative service to that of the supermarkets burgeoning in the towns outside the forest.

He greeted all the women, and all of the children sent on errands, by name. As the morning progressed, he gathered and then retailed various bits of harmless gossip —young Wayne’s cut knee had needed stitches, old Mrs Hardman was having to go into hospital again, that young Sally with three kids already was pregnant again. If he saw himself playing a part, and occasionally derided what he saw, his hearers were not aware of that. They wanted only the odd snippet of news to sugar the extraction of their money, and he provided it satisfactorily. If he remained a secretive sort of man, few of them even registered it, let alone resented it.

He was putting a jar of cranberry sauce in his single display window at the end of a busy morning when he saw Clare Barton drive past. He studied her without any attempt at disguise, for she was too preoccupied to notice his attention. As she turned the old Escort round the corner by his store, she was hunched and intense over the wheel, with a strand of fair hair falling askew across her forehead. She missed her gear change before the car lurched away a little unevenly out of the village.

She was off out again, then. His deep-set eyes with their slight squint watched the thin blue smoke from the exhaust until it disappeared at the bend by Stonecroft Farm. Perhaps there was something in the rumours he had heard that all was not as it should be at the vicarage. He smiled a little at the thought. His teeth were his best feature, as the wife who had left had told him many years ago. So he was never afraid to smile.

Perhaps that clean-cut young Reverend Barton on whom some of his customers doted was not giving her enough. She was a spoiled young bitch, from what little he had seen, but attractive. Perhaps what she needed was a bit of rough, and Tommy Farr could be as rough as most in bed when given his chance. He smiled again. As a man who lived alone, he was allowed his fantasies: in the secret small hours of darkness, he even indulged them. It was harmless enough, whatever his teachers and the chapel clergy had once told him. He liked to see his hot visions of Clare Barton as his revenge on the Chapel.

On the stroke of one o’clock, he bolted the door of his shop. He always gave himself an hour and a quarter for lunch, though he would open again just as promptly. He went through the storeroom to the old-fashioned living kitchen at the back of the building, where he switched on the kettle and cut himself a thick slice of bread to go with the cheddar cheese he had brought from the shop. The dark head which waited attentively by his knee vanished the rind with scarcely a sound.

He poured the boiling water over the teabag in the mug and subsided with a sigh into the big armchair. The head was on his knee now, and he fondled it as he ate; there was no one here to scold him about hygiene. It took him only a moment to rinse his cup and plate at the sink. The dog was waiting at the back door as he knew it would be, beneath the hook where his lead hung.

He walked briskly, relishing the release from the dark cave of his business, savouring the bitter air most of his customers had complained about as a reflex action as they came into the shop. There had been a little sun, which had melted the thin covering of snow in patches, but that had gone now. The cloud was high, but it would not clear again today.

He was in the forest in less than five minutes. The Doberman raced ahead of him, then swerved off the path into the woods, tail wagging furiously with the excitement of scents undiscernible to his master. It was colder than ever on the narrow track they followed, for the frost hung between the pines and no sun had penetrated here.

Farr did not mind that. He beat his arms a couple of times across his chest and ran for a moment, until he was thoroughly warm. He watched his breath wreathing in great tubes of steam into the branches above him. “Come on, Kelly!” he shouted, and raced anew down the path as it sloped helpfully away in front of him. With the dog bounding at his heels, he was for a moment a boy again, racing along the hillside above the pit, conscious only of the exhilaration of the moment.

Kelly loped indulgently at his heels; he did not need to do more to keep up with the best speed his master or any other human could muster. He was a powerful dog, but gentle and well controlled. Not many people chose to test those qualities, for the reputation of his breed did not encourage the taking of chances. When his master slowed, he veered away again into the trees in search of something swifter to pursue.

The pair went a good mile into the forest before Tommy Farr looked at his watch and decided it was almost time for them to return. He whistled the dog, but was only accorded a distant bark in response. Usually Kelly returned to heel immediately. Tom hesitated a moment, then turned down an overgrown path that not many would have even recognized as a route. No one knew this section of the forest better than Farr.

He called again as he heard the sound of Kelly barking. “Leave it, boy. Come on!” Probably the dog had found a rabbit or a fox. Tom had gone a hundred yards along the disused way, stooping under low branches and cursing to himself, when he saw the man. He had his back to Tom and his eye on the dog, watching it cautiously, prepared to defend himself if it sprang.

“Kelly, heel!” called Farr sharply. The dog, hearing the assertion of serious authority now, came reluctantly back to him. He fondled the soft ears without taking his eyes off the man ahead of him. He was no more than thirty yards away, motionless now that he realized he had been discovered. Tom Farr went a little nearer, then called gruffly, “You’re quite safe. He won’t touch you with me here.”

The man looked without speaking from his face to the dog at his heels, weighed the situation, and seemed to accept his words. He nodded his agreement, but did not speak, as though waiting for Farr to make the next move. He had half a week’s stubble on his chin and cheeks, a dark circle of hair which made his face look smaller. His hair was uncombed, protruding in a wild fringe beneath the edges of a cap which seemed too small to cover its exuberant disarray.

Farr said, “He must have given you a shock, coming upon you like that. But he’s harmless enough. We walk here nearly every day.”

The man knew it well enough. He had avoided them successfully until today. But he did not reveal that. He said only, “Ay. I can see that now.”

His voice was not as rough as Farr had expected. Tommy had assumed he was a tramp, but he realized now that he had not seen a tramp in twenty years or more. They came from all sorts of backgrounds now, and they called themselves dropouts. Or other people called them that; he was not sure which. He cast a glance up at the square yard or so of sky he could see. “Going to be cold again tonight. Not a night to be without shelter.” For a moment he panicked, fearing the man would suppose he was offering sanctuary. All the tramps he had met years ago had been expert cadgers.

“I’ll be all right. I can look after myself.” There was a stubborn pride in the man’s words. Perhaps, taken off guard by this unexpected meeting, he had spoken without thinking. It was his first human intercourse for four days. He glanced automatically into the undergrowth on his left, and the alert Farr caught a glimpse of the corner of what he thought was a small tent.

“I’m sure you can.” Tommy was anxious to be away now, obscurely afraid of involvement with the man, though he should have sensed the feeling was mutual. The tramp, if that was the right word for him, was younger than he had thought beneath the embryo beard. He looked fit and vigilant; the old army greatcoat he wore covered him well, but Farr fancied there was a hard, fit body beneath it.

Well, that was no business of his. He felt suddenly aware that this was a remote and lonely place, and was glad of the dog waiting obediently at his heels. “Well, I must be off. I’ve a shop to open, you see.”

The man nodded. The quick half-smile he volunteered was the nearest thing he offered to acknowledgement or farewell. He did not turn away, but watched the retreating figures of man and dog until they disappeared beneath the dim evergreen canopy of the firs. Then he turned and set about dismantling the small grey-green tent. There were plenty of other places to camp.

Tommy Farr cast a look back at the woods as he reached the edge of Woodford. Even at just after two o’clock, twilight seemed to be descending. For once, he was glad to go back with Kelly into the shop which had sometimes seemed a prison.

4

Peter Barton did not need to don his public face at the door as his wife did. He went out among his flock with pleasure. Even when he did not always like what he found, he remained an optimist about the possibilities of the human race.

Those in Woodford who had greeted him with suspicion — he had the twin disadvantages of being young and an incomer — had warmed, sometimes reluctantly, to his enthusiasm and his capacity to treat all souls alike. Those who attended his churches generally found him stimulating, once they had got used to his disturbing tendency to direct their attention to issues like starvation on the other side of the world. Most of them found themselves uneasy when asked to contemplate events outside the forest and its small towns, let alone beyond Gloucestershire.

Those who did not go to church were in the majority now in the village. There was a hard core of resolute atheists, but the majority had drifted into an ill-defined agnosticism when they found religion no longer provided answers they could accept. They used the church still for marriage, death and occasional christenings. They had expected the young vicar to chastise them for their sloth, and avoided him when he arrived, but had then been relieved to discover that he was not the aggressive crusader they had feared.

The Reverend Barton was ready to talk religion when they introduced the subject, but he never seemed to compel it upon them. He played cricket with the young bloods in the summer, coached the youngsters at football, played the occasional game of golf as a guest but had resolutely refused to join a club. After a distinguished performance in skittles, he had been welcomed into the pub circle. He could not afford to attend very often, but after one inspired evening at the dartboard, he was offered that ultimate male accolade in the village, an invitation to play in the Crown’s darts team. He had modestly consented to becoming part of the ‘squad’, so that he might be called upon when the real giants of the arrows were not available.

He knew everyone in Woodford now, and faces young and old lightened at the sight of him on this bitter morning as he walked briskly among its houses. By the time he reached the church, he had four children trotting beside him. He gave them the key to the little room at the rear of the stone building, with instructions to carry the statues with extreme care along the path which ran beneath the old gothic windows alongside the church.

He stood for a moment looking at the front of the church before he went in, admiring the steeple which climbed towards the grey clouds, wondering what would happen to the place when the next major repairs were necessary. The moment took him back to Clare, for he remembered their honeymoon, and the way they had stood arm in arm, gazing like this at the soaring fronts of Rheims and Rouen, of Notre Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle. The parish church in Woodford had not the swirling detail of those great fronts, but its plainer elevations were balanced and agreeable enough to their latest incumbent.

And today at least, the doors were not locked. It was one of his abiding regrets that vandalism and theft in some of the richer churches had resulted in a diocesan directive that all churches should be locked when unattended. He would rather have locked away the church’s modest treasures — mainly a pair of ornate Georgian candlesticks and a silver chalice — and left the house of the Lord open for quiet meditation. But there were more important issues for him to debate with the bishop than this.

He knew when he found the door unlatched that the ladies would be busy within. Mrs Jenkins was vigorously polishing the brasses. Mrs Coleman, who employed her on other mornings to clean her home, was unconsciously supervising her here as she did when she paid for the privilege. She stood with an amber chrysanthemum bloom in her hand, inspecting and admiring the sheen on the brass lectern. She did not see Peter Barton until he came forward.

“Good morning, ladies,” he called from the end of the central aisle, anxious to announce his presence early lest they should think him an eavesdropper. “What a splendid gleam, Mrs Jenkins. I can see it from the back of the church.” The old Welshwoman’s red cheeks shone with pleasure; her distorted reflection danced in the plate she polished like that of a benevolent sprite.

Deirdre Coleman said, “I was thinking of doing the Christmas displays this afternoon, Vicar. You don’t think it’s too early?”

“In this weather, I’m sure the flowers will look as good as new on Christmas Day. As you know, we can’t really afford to put the heat on until about six o’clock on Christmas Eve, ready for the midnight service. We shall all need our thermal undies on, even at that.”

Mrs Jenkins twinkled. It was a mildly improper suggestion, coming from a vicar, but that just showed how the young man wasn’t stuck up. There were times when he said things her own husband might have said, even though Mervyn had left school at fourteen.

The children came in, carrying the crudely fashioned figures with elaborate reverence to the side altar where the crib was to be set up. Young Meg had made sure she got Baby Jesus for herself. With her dental brace, her jeans and her patched anorak, she made an unlikely Madonna, apart from the sentimental affection she conveyed upon the plaster figure as she cradled it carefully in her arms.

Peter Barton was soon on his knees, spreading straw carefully around the floor of the improvised stable, putting just enough of it into the small wooden manger to set off the figure Meg waited patiently to deposit there. It was better not to let straw get into the hands of over-enthusiastic children, lest it spread into the aisles the ladies had just swept. After eight years as curate and vicar in different settings, he was an expert on the temperaments of voluntary church helpers.

“Any chance of a little greenery round the crib when we’ve finished setting it up, Mrs Coleman?” he called to the now invisible presence behind him. He knew the children would regard their work as downgraded if it did not receive the accolade of decoration by the floral artists.

Deirdre Coleman appeared behind them, surveying their work without comment. “We might not be able to run to chrysanths,” she said. These children must be kept firmly in their places.

“Oh, that wouldn’t be appropriate anyway,” said Peter Barton. “I thought a little holly and ivy to garnish the edges the kind of thing you did so effectively last year.”

Mrs Coleman glowed. “That’s easy enough. There’s plenty of holly, and it’s berried up nicely this year.”

“That’s good. Traditionally English rather than historically accurate, of course, but that’s entirely right.”

She watched them critically for a few minutes as they set the figures in place. “Pity you’ve only got two wise men. Young Florence Brown dropped Balthasar a couple of years ago, you know.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Peter.

“There’s no real evidence for the three kings being at the stable anyway. And it leaves us room for this rather appealing donkey.” He moved the beast a little nearer to the manger, so that it looked quizzically at the Christ-child. Not surprisingly, thought Peter: this Jesus, with his lengthy brown locks, looked at least eighteen months old. He hoped that Joseph did not look quite so villainous from a few yards away as he did at close range; he moved him back a little further into the shadows.

He watched the children’s rapt concentration on their task and felt again the lack of a family of his own. Would it have made much difference to him and Clare? He wondered bleakly just where she was at this moment, then turned resolutely back to the task in hand.

***

In one of the village’s four council houses, two people who never set foot in Peter Barton’s church were preparing for their own kind of Christmas.

Charlie Webb was fiddling with the lights on the Christmas tree, taking out the tiny bulbs one by one and replacing them. “It can’t be more than a connection, Gran,” he said over his shoulder. “They were working all right yesterday when I got them out.”

“Damn Japanese rubbish!” said old Mrs Webb. She spoke without rancour; indeed, with satisfaction, for the thought that all things unreliable should be made abroad was one dear to her heart.

“They weren’t made in Japan, Gran. If they had been, they’d be a lot more reliable.” He looked at the side of the carton on the sideboard. “Made in Taiwan,” he read, by way of enlargement.

“There you are, then! I told you. Damn Japanese rubbish!” She dabbed extra-large allocations of mincemeat into the last two pastry cases, as if in triumphant celebration of her vindication.

Charlie opened his mouth to correct her misapprehension, then closed it firmly. She wouldn’t accept his geography; it would provoke only a diatribe about cheap labour and her father buying Japanese fire-crackers at sixty-four for a penny in the early years of the century. The lights lit up suddenly as he screwed in the last bulb. He looked at them gratefully, knowing that his small reserve of patience had been precariously preserved. Then he said, “I’ll go and put the washing out,” and took the basket down the narrow garden.

The thin veil of snow in the shadow of the house struck chillingly at his feet through his thin plastic trainers. The clothes wouldn’t dry much today, for it was much too late to put them out really, but Gran would fret if they weren’t put out, and he didn’t want her trying to do it herself after he’d gone to work. He pegged her long pink bloomers among his shirts, checking anxiously over his shoulder that he was not observed by the neighbour’s children.

Gran was the nearest thing he had known to a mother, his own having left when he was scarcely two. They never spoke of her. Gran had buried her husband twenty years ago and her son, Charlie’s dad, when Charlie was ten. He was the only thing she had left; as she shrank into old age, the fear that this last male presence would be balefully removed from her like the others was one of the few things which animated her.

Once his last pair of socks was on the line, Charlie went swiftly between the rows of drunken Brussels sprouts to the shed at the bottom of the long garden. Within the privacy of its thin wooden walls, he held his most prized possession up to the light of the small window and revelled in its softly gleaming perfection.

The barrels of the shotgun shone darkly in the pale winter light. He broke it open over his arm, studying the empty cartridge chambers, enjoying the scent of the oil he had applied yesterday, savouring the spotless perfection of the engineering. The box of number 6 cartridges was dry and unopened on the shelf. Tomorrow perhaps, he would take some of them with him and go into the forest…

He went back into the house and ate the meal the old lady had ready for him. She watched him affectionately, not eating herself. “You don’t want too many of them chips,” she said, ignoring the fact that it was she who had piled his plate with then. “Bad for your spots, they are.”

Charlie ran his hand automatically over the small outcrops on his forehead and neck; tact was not a quality to be associated with the aged. He made a note to use the ointment tonight, so that it could have its opportunity to work before he went to the dance on Christmas Eve. He was twenty now, and in a year the spots would be gone, as a confirmation of the manhood he pretended to have attained some time ago. But he did not know that: the pink and purple excrescences still filled him with a hot adolescent embarrassment.

He put down the black leather bomber jacket and his gauntlets. ‘It was time to be moving’; Gran had left the plastic container with his sandwiches by the door. “I may get a couple of hours’ overtime, so don’t wait up. And don’t worry if I’m late.”

“I have to worry when you’re on that motorbike,” she grumbled. “Noisy, dangerous things. Ought not to be allowed.”

He didn’t bother to argue, nor did she expect him to. Her protests had become a ritual for both of them. She had been through the same business thirty years earlier with his father. Both of them knew really that there was no way he could get to his employment at the electricity works without the bike. Public transport to the village had ceased ten years ago, and there was no way he could afford to run a car.

Charlie took the polythene cover off the Honda and pushed it round the side of the house. He looked at the watch Gran had given him on his birthday before he pulled on his goggles. He was on the last minute again. He would have to use the road through the forest, as usual.

***

It was well after dark when Peter Barton returned to the vicarage. He called upstairs, “Clare, I’m home!” but he knew because the front of the house was in darkness that his wife had not come back.

He went to check that the garage was empty, hoping against hope that she had come home and gone out again into the village. Its absolute stillness and carless concrete floor seemed sinister on this icy evening, as if emphasizing the presence that had been removed.

He felt a sudden, futile indignation that she could have taken the car and not returned it. She had left him to make his calls on foot, without checking on his schedule to see if that was possible. It was not the absence of the car itself which irritated him, but the petty selfishness involved in its removal like this. He was not a man used to feeling sorry for himself, and the emotion only disturbed him.

The house tonight seemed to echo cheerlessly around him, as if reflecting his misery. He was tired out, emotionally as well as physically. He had spent almost an hour with a man who was dying of lung cancer, wrestling with the problem that while the central figure now accepted his fate, his family was still fighting it. He wanted to ring Clare’s mother, to see if she was there. Instead, he forced himself to make the phone call to the hospice, knowing it would press upon his mind through the night if he left it for the morrow.