The Bitter End, Page 4

  It had brought down other trees, forming what looked to Paul like a tragic woodland graveyard. For long moments he stood, leaning on his axe thinking what a terrible shame it was that this magnificent oak had fallen like this.

  Maybe there’d been a storm, or it was diseased, and the roots had weakened. He didn’t know, he was no expert in arboretum matters – or anything to do with nature really. When he was a kid maybe …

  He’d loved the forest, hadn’t he? Messing about, climbing trees – him and Owen. Yes, he was positive he’d done that. Maybe this oak was one he’d climbed at some time in the past. At some point before he was nine and a half and his world turned black.

  He didn’t remember bumping his head so badly it put him in a coma for nine months. What he did remember was whittling a cat from a little piece of wood with the penknife that his best friend Owen had given him. He remembered sitting on a tree stump, concentrating on not pressing too hard on the blade in case he chopped the cat’s tail or leg off. And he remembered Owen building a bonfire.

  Paul picked his way amongst the massive branches, choosing a section where the wood was only the thickness of Sally’s waist. He gauged what he wanted to chop off. Big enough to try and carve something from, but not too big that he couldn’t carry it home.

  He raised his axe, stupidly apologising to the tree for taking such liberties, and brought it down. It cut deftly into the bark and refused to come out. There was definitely a skill to this that he certainly hadn’t mastered. But practice makes perfect, so they say, and determinedly he wangled the blade out, raised the axe again, took aim and made another decisively clean slice into the branch.

  He was sweating by the time he’d cut off the chunk he wanted. Damp patches discoloured his shirt and even his jeans were sticking to him. Looking at the severed piece of wood, he hoped he hadn’t been too ambitious. But he felt elated. This was as good as a session in the gym – and a lot more fun.

  7

  Sally was watching for him. Emerging from the woods, axe over one shoulder, chunk of wood under his arm, he spotted her at the kitchen doorway. She waved and went back indoors.

  Leaving the log and the axe by the barn wall, he was desperate for a drink, a gallon of cold water ought to do the trick.

  ‘I was just about to send out a search party!’ Sally said, removing tinfoil from two plates of cheese, pickle and crusty bread.

  He gulped down two glasses of water. ‘Have you missed me?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said carrying the plates out to the patio table. ‘Bring some beers, will you?’

  He downed another glass of water and grabbed two beers from the fridge.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d got lost in the woods. I was half expecting a phone call saying you’d ended up in the village and would I come and pick you up.’

  ‘I haven’t been gone that long, have I? Must admit I haven’t looked at my watch once.’ He did so now, surprised that it was mid-afternoon.

  ‘You’ve been gone three hours.’ Her smile was slightly strained. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’

  He pressed a finger to his temple, to the spot where the needles had jabbed him yesterday. ‘Exploring, chopping wood. Time flies when you’ve enjoying yourself.’

  ‘Okay, and what do you intend doing with that great big chunk of wood you’ve brought back?’

  He found the cheese and pickle delicious and would rather have concentrated on eating than talking. Still, she deserved some kind of explanation – except he didn’t have one.

  ‘That’s my practice piece,’ he said, brushing crumbs off his shirt, surprised as a sparrow hopped right up to his feet to feast on them. ‘I’m just going to mess around with it, get some practice with the lathe. See what emerges. A pile of sawdust I imagine.’

  She laughed. ‘You might surprise yourself.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  * * *

  After their late lunch Paul checked his emails, slightly irritated that various matters needed attending to before he could get back to the barn. He forced himself to concentrate on work. It was beginning to look as if the World Peace Conference planned for November was actually going to happen. He could hardly believe that the Government had come up with a strategy that might get the President of the USA and world leaders from the Middle East, North Africa and a host of other countries as well as those known terrorist factions, all sitting down around the table and talking to each other. In a way he could hardly dare believe it would work. Hadn’t there only ever been one time during the history of mankind when there had been no wars on earth – at the birth of Christ?

  So, unless there was to be a second coming, he doubted it would succeed. Not that he voiced his doubts. He would remain positive. After all, miracles did happen occasionally. He only had to look at his new relationship with Sally to realise that. The fact that he'd found love and happiness again – now that was a real miracle.

  After dealing with his correspondence and more phone calls, he finally allowed his thoughts to return to matters of a more relaxing nature. Armed with a litre bottle of water, he strolled back to the barn.

  The piece of wood was around twenty-four inches in diameter and about seven inches deep. It was light oak with a thick, rough, dark bark. He lifted it close to his face, liking the smell and the silkiness of its inner texture. Taking it inside, he placed it on a revolving disc bolted to the workbench. He examined it from all angles, seeing if it cried out to be turned into some glorious piece of art. He finally had to admit to himself that it looked like a chopped bit of wood from a fallen tree.

  He had no idea whether you could carve freshly cut wood. It probably needed to be dried. Maybe that was what the kiln was for. But his lack of understanding was overridden by his exuberance to have a go.

  He took a chisel from the rack. The handle was worn smooth by some artisan of bygone days, yet his own hands seemed to slip into the contours. With a tingle of excitement, he touched the blade against the wood.

  He had no training in carpentry – couldn’t even remember doing it at school – but glided the metal lightly over the centre of the log, hoping he was doing it right. A slither of wood shaving curled up and along the blade. He repeated the action, ending the cut – like before – at the central point. He made another cut and then another, moving the log anti-clockwise as he worked until he had formed a full circle of grooves. He blew away the curls and examined his efforts. It wasn’t much to look at, but he was enjoying the work. There was something therapeutic about it. Almost like he was running on autopilot, almost like he was a natural.

  By the time Sally wandered down to tell him dinner was ready, he must have looked like a demon barber standing knee deep in shorn locks. As for his chunk of wood, it was now vaguely resembling some sort of fruit bowl.

  ‘Hello,’ she said slowly, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking at his creation. ‘Wow! That’s not bad for a first attempt. It’s a bowl, right?’

  ‘It certainly is. The splinters are extra.’

  Paul reached for a smaller chisel, hoping to smooth away some of the roughness, but Sally’s hand came and rested over his. ‘Won’t you leave off now and come in for dinner? I’ve hardly seen you all day.’

  For a second he felt a twinge of annoyance. He didn’t want to stop. He honestly felt like he could whittle away all night – although he’d need a powerful halogen lamp, one that gave a good spread of light. He’d think about that tomorrow.

  ‘I’ve made chicken breasts stuffed with Gruyere cheese and wrapped in Parma ham, and the wine is chilling.’

  ‘Have I time for a shower?’

  ‘You certainly have.’ She wrinkled her nose, making no bones about the fact that he stank. ‘A priority, I’d say.’

  He slapped her bottom. ‘Cheeky minx.’

  Laughing, she put some of the tools he’d been using back in the rack then took his hand, leading him out of the barn. He was amazed to see the sun so low in the sky. He hadn’t noticed.
As he closed the barn door an odd feeling of regret washed over him. A feeling of loss, as if he was leaving someone or something behind.

  ‘Should I light the fire tonight? Or is it too warm?’

  ‘No, don’t bother with it tonight, Sal.’ He didn't relish a repeat of last night’s illusions. ‘Keep it for autumn evenings. I’ll soon warm you up if you feel chilly.’

  She glanced up almost demurely. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  8

  Five days after Paul’s arrival Bluebell finally made an appearance. Sally had started to worry about her cat not returning for its meals, while he was secretly hoping it had found a new home.

  But then it appeared.

  He was in bed, lying on his back, fast asleep. A weight on his chest had stirred him. His dream told him it was Sally, her fingers walking up his torso from stomach to chest. But as he slowly came awake and sensed she was fast asleep on her side with her back to him, his eyes shot open.

  It stood on his chest. A pair of luminous cat eyes staring straight into his. Only the moonlight through the window outlining its feline shape stopped him from reacting, stopped him from flinging the damn thing to the floor.

  It was just a cat. Not a demon, just a cat – Bluebell. But he was cautious. Cold sweat suddenly oozed from every pore in his body. A trickle ran past the corner of his eye and tickled his ear. He could see his startled face reflected in the cat’s eyes and something at the back of his mind stirred. Instantly he was swamped with feelings of remorse, guilt … horror.

  The cat hissed, eyes narrowing, teeth bared as if it was facing some predator. Then it sprang down from his chest. Paul jerked from the force of its hind legs pushing against his ribcage as it leapt off him and shot out of the room.

  He sat bolt upright, heart thudding. The feelings of revulsion and sadness were still in his head, in his heart. But whatever had instigated them was buried deeply in his subconscious. He struggled to bring the memory to the forefront of his mind, but it was embedded far too deeply to be recalled.

  * * *

  Paul’s first few weeks in his new home flew by. Considering the cat’s initial fear of him, Bluebell didn’t stay away for too long. She turned up regularly for meals and often curled up on Sally’s lap, even when she was machining leather. Not once did she try and sit on his lap however, for which he was grateful.

  His week was split, Tuesdays to Thursdays in London, Friday and Monday working from home, and weekends blissfully were his. But of course, a phone call from head office could change all that in an instant and frequently did.

  He travelled by train unless they sent a car to pick him up. The station was just on the outskirts of the village, so Sally usually drove him there and he would walk back on his return.

  Travelling home one Thursday evening in August, he realised the tingle of excitement he felt wasn’t just the prospect of being with Sally again, but of getting on with his woodcarving.

  He actually loved the hours he spent roaming the forest for suitable chunks of wood for whittling and carving. The therapeutic feel of a rough piece of timber gradually becoming satin smooth filled him with inexplicable joy. He had no idea where this passion had come from, but he was glad of it. And he was getting pretty damn good at it, even if he said so himself.

  The first attempts at a fruit bowl, which had become a potpourri holder because of the splinters, had long since been improved upon. A second bowl – which was used for fruit – now sat on the sideboard, full of fresh fruit from the garden. There was also a plant pot holder, a walking stick because the slender piece of wood had demanded it, and his latest, almost finished project, a cross.

  The cross was an off-cut from a disastrous attempt at a trellis-shaped key holder. The off-cut had lain discarded amongst the sawdust and wood shavings. He hadn't noticed it until sweeping up at the end of the day.

  It was just a couple of inches long, slightly less wide, with the most perfect wood grain pattern running through it.

  It had been effortless to carve. It was simply a matter of gently sanding away the husk to reveal the beauty within. It came as an afterthought to drill a hole at the top, so a chain or tie could be threaded through and it could be worn around the neck.

  The cross so far, was his most prized and beautiful piece of woodwork.

  * * *

  Four weeks after first moving in with Sally, the parish priest – Father Willoughby – came by for a visit. Sally was an avid church-goer, and while she’d dragged him along to the church of St Mary Magdalene once, he’d wormed his way out of attending any services since. Not that it wasn’t a beautiful church, with the Passion of Christ depicted in its stained-glass windows, it was just that, since Helena died, it was hard to give praise to a God who had ignored his desperate prayers that day.

  Father Wallace Willoughby was a diminutive man and the sight of him standing in the open barn doorway with the sun at his back made Paul think, for one irrational moment, that he was being visited by an elf.

  It was the familiar – once heard never forgotten, boom of a voice from such a little fellow that assured Paul that he wasn't seeing things.

  ‘As was the Son of God a carpenter, so you follow in his footsteps.’

  ‘Father Willoughby, good to see you,’ Paul said, blowing away a layer of fine dust from his latest creation.

  There was a glint of sunlight on the priest's round, Lennon-like glasses. ‘I trust I'm not disturbing you. I was just passing.’

  Paul smiled to himself. No one just passed this place.

  The priest's gaze fell on the cross that lay with other pieces Paul had crafted. His eyes widened. ‘Now this is one fine work of art.’

  ‘It's not bad, is it? Here, feel; smooth as the proverbial baby's …’

  Father Willoughby's stubby hand enveloped the cross, feeling its weight, its texture. Then gazing at it, murmured. ‘Beautiful! Primitively beautiful!’

  ‘Primitively?’ Paul mused, caught off guard by the priest's reaction.

  ‘Why, yes. Breathe that earthy smell, caress the feel of the wood. It is from the earth but reformed by the hand of man, now an adornment to praise God. It is beautiful. Primitive and beautiful.’

  ‘It's yours,’ Paul said, startling himself. He would never have dreamed of giving away his fruit bowls. No one in their right mind would want one of them. But this – this was something to cherish. He'd sensed that himself, and the little priest had confirmed it.

  ‘I’m touched. Can I pay you for it?’ His hand was already in his pocket.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Paul stopped him. ‘It’s my pleasure.’ And it was. Never had he felt such a rush of joy at giving something that he had made to another human being. It was a weird sensation.

  Sally joined them, taking in the situation, her mouth fell open. ‘You made this?’

  ‘Yup!’ He smiled. ‘I can't believe I'm enjoying this so much. Don't know why I didn't take it up years ago.’

  ‘It’s lovely!’ said Sally.

  ‘Primitively beautiful, according to the good Father here.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘A bit like you, darling …’

  He laughed. ‘Absolutely!’

  Father Willoughby cleared his throat. ‘I'll find myself a chain to thread through, and wear it under the old dog collar. There’s terrible wickedness in this world – terrible.’ He stepped closer to them both, one hand clutching the cross, his other hand pointing to Paul's heart. ‘Protecting oneself from evil is what we all ought to be doing. And a hand-made wooden cross seems a grand way of keeping one’s spiritual armour up to par. I suggest you make one for your good lady, and one for yourself.’

  Paul gave a vague nod of agreement, hoping they weren’t in for another of his hell fire and brimstone sermons – which had been another reason he hadn’t gone back to church with Sally.

  Reading his mind, Sally changed the subject. ‘Can I get anyone a drink? Tea, coffee, beer?’

  They had coffee on the patio, Paul had a beer, and Fat
her Willoughby did his level best not to turn a chat into an interrogation. Paul recognised the visit for what it was, and went with the flow. It wasn’t a bad thing to find out who was living in your neighbourhood. In a way he quite admired the little priest for asking so many questions.

  Turning the inquisition around, when Paul felt he’d given away enough about himself, he learned that Father Willoughby had been at St Mary Magdalene’s for fourteen years.

  ‘Our church is steeped in history,’ Father Willoughby went on, helping himself to another chocolate biscuit and dipping it into his coffee. ‘Sadly, some of it tragic.’

  ‘That’s the church for you,’ Paul remarked.

  ‘Careful now, Paul,’ warned the priest. ‘Don’t blacken its character as a whole just because of one tragedy.’

  Paul took another mouthful of cold beer before asking what he meant. Not that he was particularly interested, but it was so obviously a leading statement.

  ‘You don't know?’ said Father Willoughby. ‘You haven't heard of the Pentecost Sunday tragedy of 1947?’

  Sally leaned forward. ‘When everyone in church died? That’s just a myth, isn’t it?’

  Paul raised one eyebrow, marginally curious, but more eager to get back to his woodwork. From here he could see right into the barn to where sunlight was glinting off the axe head, beckoning him, pulling him back, reminding him he had work to do.

  Sally touched his hand. ‘Did you ever hear that story, Paul … when you were a little boy?’

  ‘Don't think so.’ He finished his beer, wanting to push his chair back, say thank you, it’s been great, and get back to his wood carvings. He stayed put.