In Durleston Wood Read online

  In Durleston Wood

  Michael Graeme

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): romantic adult mystery psychological romance

  Chapter 1

  The gun lies against the roots of the beech tree, as it once lay in my boyhood, the oiled walnut of the stock blending like dry grass into the background. The old blued barrel and the telescope seem to blur out of existence as they are dissolved by the soft light. I've been sitting here since dawn, and I have neither seen nor heard another human being. The canopy is filled with the song of invisible birds. Invisible too are the creatures I seek. It is as if they smell the gun, feel it as a disturbance in the harmony of things.

  There is a rabbit-run across the river, no more than a smudge through the undergrowth, but in regular use. I estimate it's twenty five yards away. From my elevated position, I have command of it, even with an old air rifle. But today the wildlife of Durleston Wood remains under cover. It's mid-morning now and the time for hunting has gone, but still I wait - wait for this ancient place to accept me back, to close over me, for the troublesome ripples of my past and my presence to fade and for the surface of things to become once more clear and calm,.. for the future to reveal itself.

  I wait a long time.

  Not moving.

  From my vantage point, leaning back against the tree, I can see the Rye running sluggishly below. The canopy stirs sleepily, wearing the deep green of high summer in all its torpid density, while the air of the woodland floor is thick, stunned into stillness by the heat, and the weight, and the humidity.

  I might have been forty five that morning, or any age from about eight years old, from the time when I first came this way with my father. My childhood memories of sitting in that same spot, among the roots of the beech tree, are a perfect remembrance of the sights and sounds and scents of everything about me now, so I am able to glimpse more easily perhaps the meaninglessness of time.

  I am a child, a teenager, I am middle aged and old. I am a moment spanning the fresh quickness of youth, all the way through the blur of my life to the frailty and decrepitude of one making terms with his own death. All of it is the same - just as this tree has already fallen, while at the same time it is no more than a fresh sapling raised in ancient days upon the banks of the River Rye.

  There comes an unnatural sway to the grasses now, a shadow slipping through the undergrowth, and finally a grey, lumpen form materialises. It hops cautiously, stopping now to lift itself on hind legs, and to sniff the air. The gun comes easily to my shoulder, the thread-worn cotton of the waxed Thornproof jacket making not a whisper. The cheek-plate is cool, while the scent of decades old polish and gun oil releases memories of other times such as this, other long waits for sight and sound of the simple lives that ebb and flow beneath the trees in Durleston wood.

  It's a rabbit - young, lame, made careless by hunger and by the torment of its injury. Nature will take it back into her blooded bosom soon: a fox, a domestic dog, even a cat, or a man with a gun. I fix the cross hairs upon its skull. The rifle is a Webley, a powerful weapon in its day, with the unusual facility of interchangeable barrels. I have on the .177 calibre this morning, but really you need the .22 for killing. The .177 is for target shooting, a lighter pellet and more likely to maim all but the smallest living thing, unless you can manage a head-shot, square between the eyes or tucked in behind the ear. All of these things I remember, even though for the past thirty years of my life they have been of no use to me whatsoever.

  What else do I remember? Better not to dwell,… just go with the flow of things.

  The rabbit settles to nibble the grass. It's in the open now, ears pricked for the slightest disturbance in the subtle flow of the wood. I breathe slowly, adjusting my aim so the sights settle reliably and repeatedly upon the mark when I breathe out. I exhale one last time, then pause, as my father taught me. The sights close on the rabbit and I squeeze into the feather-lightness of the trigger.

  A good shot.

  Clean.

  I take a breath and lay the gun across my lap, settling back once more against the tree, deeper into meditation now. The canopy sways and swishes in a different air and I feel myself tingling as a vital part of me slips free, slips through the cracks in time. The rabbit hops away. There was no sound from the gun, no tension in the spring, nor even a pellet in the breech.

  A fox will take the rabbit. Let it be that way. There was a time when such a kill would have graced the kitchen table, but those days are a long time gone. I've killed nothing since my boyhood, and only then because it was the way my father taught me. I am not about to start all that again now.

  It's something else I need to reconnect with here, in Durleston Wood, something other than merely spilling the blood of its creatures. It's more a way of thinking, a way of feeling, an instinct for life, for a way living, a way of seeing.

  If only could remember it!

  The morning draws on and the sky becomes a deeper grey while the air moving down the valley grows cooler and not so humid. A change is coming! The sycamore leaves in the deep of the wood begin to show their backs, their paler foliage lending a contrast to the shadow, and I smell centuries of life rising, centuries of decay and renewal.

  There will be rain.

  I move away, side stepping with a quietness that still comes easily, down the bank to a narrow ledge by the river, along which there runs a sketchy path. I trace it downstream, nosing through low branches to a hidden bend, half remembered, and a broad shelf where there lies a ring of river washed stones and the remains of a recent fire. I'm surprised to see it. I built this ring as a boy, here on this dry bank, nothing combustible close by, nothing to risk a fire getting out of hand.

  I've thought of this place, now and then, over the years. In the mean time, some other soul has chanced upon the spot and adopted it: a sympathetic soul too, for there is no litter - nor orange peel, nor chocolate wrappers to disturb the harmony of the wood - just the scent of those centuries, and the ever present rippling of the peaty Rye.

  I gather dry grasses and twigs, then set them in the ashes contained by the ring, and I light them with a match. I add more fuel to the flames and while the fire grows, I take out a screwdriver and begin to dismantle the gun. The stock comes off easily and I lay it across the fire. It steams for a while, as if in disbelief, then darkens suddenly and begins to burn. Before removing the barrel, I cock the spring, so as to make sure that time will ruin it. Then I take off the telescope and unscrew the focussing lens to expose the delicate graticule and its adjustment.

  The river runs slower here, bulging out to hundred feet or more and slowing to a ponderous glide as it takes the bend, so that towards the far bank there is an almost stagnant pool bottomed by deep silt. I toss the telescope into the middle of it, then the mechanism of the spring and cylinder. The barrel I lay between two rocks and strike it with a hefty stone, bending it. Then it follows the rest of the gun into the silty pool,… and is gone.

  It's a pity. I remember the gun as an accurate weapon. But more than that, the gun represents for me now the lore of the wood. It belongs to a time beyond the ken of today's children. But the days of guns in Durleston Wood are over, and it's better it should meet its end here than be sold on, perhaps to fall into the hands of a misanthropic teenager, to become corrupted as a breaker of windows and a killer of cats. Guns mean something else entirely these days.

  It's partly this sentiment that has brought me back to the wood, but there is something else, something in the ritual I do not immediately understand. It is a sacrifice of course, an offering. It is a letting go, the sending of a ripple back into the past, so that the past might offer something back to me.

  Then, glancing up from the flames, I realise I am being watched! It's a woman, dark skinned, gaunt, crouching perfectly still among the balsam on the opposite bank. I find this shocking, for I had thought myself alone. Suddenly though I'm looking across the silty waters of the Rye into a pair of dark eyes, watching me. How long has she been there? What must she be thinking of my strange ritual?

  I call to her: "Hello?"

  But she takes fright at once and is gone, snatched back like a startled animal, into the shadow of the wood. And for a moment, above the thickly lapping sound of the river, there comes the sound of a chain being dragged.

  Chapter 2

  They say that once you've left the place where you were born you should never go back - that to go back is somehow to have failed. Our footsteps should wend for ever spiralling outwards, they say, that to return home is against the way of things, that to return home is to have been nowhere at all. But sometimes we are bound to return and for no more reason than our path leads us there, that after decades of spiralling out, it cuts right back to the centre.

  The reasons are many and mysterious, but to remain at large in the world at such a time would be to ignore the vital tide of life, it would be to ignore the fact that somewhere in our past there might lie something we have overlooked, that a return to our childhood, or more: to a sense of what grounds us in reality, is the best we can do, when all else seems to have fallen away.

  I left this place twenty years ago, left the old pit village of Marsden, in the grey English North, exchanged it for the sunshine of California, tanned my skin, and brought up children on the beaches of the Pacific coast. I built a life with a blonde haired, long-legged woman who, after all of our time together, decided we should call it a day, and apparently for no other reason, she said, than that I bored her. So, I have come home
now. To my father.

  He's not looking bad today. He sits upright in a tweed jacket. It's threadbare now, but the care-workers know he is fond of it. And they have tied his tie nicely. There is a chessboard between us, though it's months now since he's had the energy to apply himself to a game, but the carers have explained to me there is something in the way the pieces are arranged that pleases him - that even though he rarely speaks now, and his tempers can make him difficult to manage, the simple array of a chess game calms him. It's as if he remembers a fragment of his former self in it, as I remember a fragment of my former self in Durleston.

  The pieces are not lined up in their beginning positions; there is always a game in play. One of the carers has set this up by copying positions from a little book of classic games she found in a charity shop. Any attempt to randomly array the pieces, something that might for example result in the illogicality of two white bishops - is enough to set my father grumbling. Even in his old age, and his confusion, he cannot be placated by pretence.

  He is still lucid at times, and sensible, but even on those treasured occasions we do not talk of certain things. I think he knows his home has gone. I sold it to pay for his care, but we do not mention this. It still exists in his mind, and also in my dreams, as a place he will return to, just as soon as he starts to feel a little brighter in himself. It was the place he brought his wife home to fifty years ago, the place he raised his child in, the place he would have liked to leave his child when he finally shuffles off, but like I said: we do not mention it.

  He's quite chatty today, remembering a walk by the Rye, when I was twelve. My memory of this event is clear enough to know it is not an illusion on his part, but he is remembering it in such detail I wonder if the past can possibly be embellished in this way; his memories have such a brightness to them, while mine are dull, tarnished by the abrasive dross of all that has filled my life since. But I like his picture of things, so borrow from a mind that may be manufacturing fantasy-frilled edges, and I accept it all unflinchingly as the truth, for no other reason than it has a brightness about it, when everything else in the world these days strikes me as unbearably dull.

  He's speaking of the path around the horseshoe of the Rye, and the season when the ramsons and the bluebells and the wood anemones bloom together to create an impossibly beautiful carpet beneath the overarching boughs of beech and oak and sycamore.

  We have the gun, and we are ratting along the banks of the Rye, close by the Willet place, the curious, lonely old house in Durleston Wood. I am away from school - some mysterious illness of the spirit that has laid me low, and which is somehow soothed now by the warm blanket gloom of Durleston, and the peaty smell of the Rye.

  The rats are not rats but water voles, the Ratty-Rats of Tales of Toad and Badger, and homely Mole - harmless voles twisted by ignorance into carriers of plague and shot almost to extinction. And when he talks about the starry heads of the ramsons, I am with him, their garlic scent overwhelming me in hot waves as we lie prone for hours, the gun lined up on a likely looking hole in the sandy bank of the Rye.

  Bumble bees buzz, ducking in and out of the shade of our hats, but we bide them patiently, and when my father mentions this, I am amazed that he can have recalled the scene so vividly, and I am drawn into it - not just the pictures and the scent, but the "feel" of it - to have my belly against the soft earth, and to have it soothe my fear, soothe the feeling of that twelve year old boy that he is entering a life he surely was not meant for.

  Did I tell you my wife's name is Faye? It's three years since I last saw her, now, but we died a long time before that. I know this because I tell myself I think of her so little, and that when I do there is neither hate nor fondness in it. She is not like the first girl I fell in love with, whom I think of still with a wistful tenderness, the girl whose love my father's story of that walk reminds me I had already betrayed as I lay there that day with the gun. Her name was Lillian.

  Lillian and I are kneeling in the school hall, at Marsden C. of E. Primary School. I am eleven, she is on the cusp of her tenth birthday, and there is something about her face, something about her eyes, and in the way the light falls upon her long blonde hair that pleases me, though in a way I do not understand. And while I am looking at her, taking pleasure in this thing I do not understand, I become aware that she has looked up, is looking at me, and on seeing or sensing my pleasure, she is smiling at me, smiling because my pleasure gives her pleasure. And the more pleasure we are each aware of inspiring in the other, the greater becomes our pleasure, so the feeling is like a flowering, like a swelling of spiritual bliss. And we blossom into the unexpected enlightenment of first-love.

  But human love brings also human folly, and in the days to come Lillian will ask me if I will come to the front of the school assembly to tug her hair when it's her birthday - ten tugs - as is the tradition, one for each year of her life. Of course there will be uproar among our friends. Hers will be jealous I did not pick them to love, while mine will be merciless in their teasing that I could ever like a girl.

  I lie awake for days, dreading this event so much that on the dreaded morning I invent a tummy ache, and when Lillian stands up proudly on the school stage to proclaim her love by calling out my name, I am not there. She's embarrassed then, let down by love, and quickly chooses one of her smug school-chums, and the pair of them make fun of me on my return - rejecting as ludicrous my tales of tummy ache, and Lillian, her heart bleeding throws my love back in my face.

  My father is quiet now, his tale hanging mid-sentence, attenuated by the heat of the lounge here in Marsden Hall, and by the enigma of the frozen chess game. The memory of Lillian remains like a splinter in my brain though. It's strange; I have not thought of this for a long time now, have not thought of my betrayal of her love in such vivid terms before. I am forty five and find myself overflowing with guilt for something I did as a boy and cannot possible atone for.

  What is it telling me, this thing, this serendipitous serpent from the darker layers of my unconscious? It is reminding me, I think, how often I have been seduced by the idea and by the loveliness of love, but when love demands a test, I am unwilling to allow myself to be transformed by it,.. to trust in the sureness of its direction.

  Perhaps then, I have never truly been in love.

  Chapter 3

  My return to Marsden after twenty years has not aroused much interest among its current inhabitants. All the old families I remember have gone and in their place there seems to have grown up a generation of cheap commodity worshippers who swear in front of their children, and they sneer at anyone who looks or acts in even a vaguely intellectual way. They hawk and spit in the street. "I am not civilised," they seem to say, "and neither should you be. Those days are gone. Marsden has grown ugly. There is no place here for dignity, for tidiness any more."

  There are politicians on the television who say my country lacks something they call social cohesion - others say it has always been this way. But something has changed. I feel it, after so long abroad. It's a loss of innocence perhaps? We tore the veil of respectability from corrupt authority decades ago, but for want of something to replace it , we left it alone, content to sneer at it, and by our sneering cynicism have corrupted something in ourselves as well - the sense that things could ever be any better than this.

  On returning from California I lived for a while in the feral cesspit that is my nation's capital, resisting the call of Marsden. There, I trained as a teacher, not because it was something I wanted to do, but more something I felt I could do in order to earn a decent living, and in an environment that was more stable than the cut and thrust of a here-today and gone tomorrow software house. There was also the advantage that even a poor specimen of a man, and one clearly past his sell-by date, could outrank a bright young girl, for whom teaching was a calling, simply because he was a man and there are nowadays so few men interested in being Primary School teachers. But on completion of my training, of the openings I explored, all were dead ends until I saw the post of teacher advertised at Marsden Church of England Primary School, my old school. It seemed like fate was calling, and I had known then for sure my path led home.