carried its own terror; we called it Witches’ Corner.
Soon we were trotting briskly past the cemetery wall, to pause at the first of the outlying houses of the village. I thanked Mr Blaney for the lift, patted Rosy, who ignored me, biscuitless as I was, then I walked briskly across the village green towards my first port of call, the vicarage.
Todhall village was a community of about two hundred souls, gathered round a village green with the church at its centre. It boasted one pub, the Black Bull, a post office, a general shop, the vicarage with the smithy close by, and above the smithy the carpenter’s workshop which belonged to Mr Pascoe. To either side of the green the houses straggled in no sort of order, so that what we called Front Street was in fact a wide ovalof green set about with a sprawl of dwellings, gardens and smallholdings. The only modern touches (and therefore, perhaps, the less picturesque features of the place) were at the southern end of the village where the milk cart had set me down – the school and the church hall, with the raw brick wall of the cemetery alongside. The church, the proper centrepiece of the village picture, was late Norman, with (as I had known all my life, without understanding why it mattered) all the right stonework and a perfect horseshoe chancel arch. There were wild roses sprawling over the stone wall that surrounded the old graveyard, and some lovely elms lending their shade. A couple of goats and a donkey were tethered grazing on the green, and a gaggle of white geese sunned themselves near the pond.
As it was in the beginning…Nothing seemed to have changed. Nothing ever would. And, as I had done so often in the past, I made straight for the vicarage gate.
Nothing had changed there either, except that here, certainly, the house did not seem the huge mansion it had appeared when the Lockwoods had lived there, and little Kathy Welland had first gone to play with the vicar’s daughter. It was a low, compact house, squarely built but made attractive with whitewashed walls and green window shutters and a trellised porch covered with jasmine. The garden walls were almost completely hidden by ivy, and as I passed the front gate with its glimpse of a pretty garden, a blackbird flew scolding out of a tangle of leaves where, as I knew, there had been a nest every year, time out of mind.
The front gate was not, had never been, my way in. I pushed open the back gate and went into the yard where the motor house stood, and beside it the hen-run, and the cage where Prissy had kept her rabbits. The rabbits had gone, but the hens were there, busy still over the morning feed. I would have lingered for a minute, remembering, but there was someone at the scullery window, and she had seen me. As I reached the back door it opened, and a girl looked at me inquiringly, wiping her hands on her apron.
She was, I supposed, about sixteen. I did not recognise her, nor, obviously, she me.
‘Oh, miss. Did you ring at the front? I’m sorry, I never heard no bell—’
‘No, I didn’t try the front. It’s all right. I know I’m early, but is the vicar in, please? It’s Mr Winton Smith, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, miss. But he went out a bit since, visiting up the village. Mrs Foster at the post office. She’s been poorly. But Mrs Winton Smith’s down the garden somewhere. Shall I get her, or maybe you’d like to go yourself? It’s through that gate by the hens.’
I hesitated. ‘No, I’ll come back later. When do you think he’ll be home?’
‘I couldn’t say. Sometimes he stays out till dinner, that’s at twelve o’clock. But I’ll tell him you came – what name is it, miss?’
‘Herrick, Mrs Herrick. I think he’ll know who I am. So I may see you later. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘I’m Lil Ashby.’
The Ashbys were farmers a few miles along beyondthe station. I remembered Mrs Ashby, who had called sometimes on Gran, and had supplied the Hall, and us
Soon we were trotting briskly past the cemetery wall, to pause at the first of the outlying houses of the village. I thanked Mr Blaney for the lift, patted Rosy, who ignored me, biscuitless as I was, then I walked briskly across the village green towards my first port of call, the vicarage.
Todhall village was a community of about two hundred souls, gathered round a village green with the church at its centre. It boasted one pub, the Black Bull, a post office, a general shop, the vicarage with the smithy close by, and above the smithy the carpenter’s workshop which belonged to Mr Pascoe. To either side of the green the houses straggled in no sort of order, so that what we called Front Street was in fact a wide ovalof green set about with a sprawl of dwellings, gardens and smallholdings. The only modern touches (and therefore, perhaps, the less picturesque features of the place) were at the southern end of the village where the milk cart had set me down – the school and the church hall, with the raw brick wall of the cemetery alongside. The church, the proper centrepiece of the village picture, was late Norman, with (as I had known all my life, without understanding why it mattered) all the right stonework and a perfect horseshoe chancel arch. There were wild roses sprawling over the stone wall that surrounded the old graveyard, and some lovely elms lending their shade. A couple of goats and a donkey were tethered grazing on the green, and a gaggle of white geese sunned themselves near the pond.
As it was in the beginning…Nothing seemed to have changed. Nothing ever would. And, as I had done so often in the past, I made straight for the vicarage gate.
Nothing had changed there either, except that here, certainly, the house did not seem the huge mansion it had appeared when the Lockwoods had lived there, and little Kathy Welland had first gone to play with the vicar’s daughter. It was a low, compact house, squarely built but made attractive with whitewashed walls and green window shutters and a trellised porch covered with jasmine. The garden walls were almost completely hidden by ivy, and as I passed the front gate with its glimpse of a pretty garden, a blackbird flew scolding out of a tangle of leaves where, as I knew, there had been a nest every year, time out of mind.
The front gate was not, had never been, my way in. I pushed open the back gate and went into the yard where the motor house stood, and beside it the hen-run, and the cage where Prissy had kept her rabbits. The rabbits had gone, but the hens were there, busy still over the morning feed. I would have lingered for a minute, remembering, but there was someone at the scullery window, and she had seen me. As I reached the back door it opened, and a girl looked at me inquiringly, wiping her hands on her apron.
She was, I supposed, about sixteen. I did not recognise her, nor, obviously, she me.
‘Oh, miss. Did you ring at the front? I’m sorry, I never heard no bell—’
‘No, I didn’t try the front. It’s all right. I know I’m early, but is the vicar in, please? It’s Mr Winton Smith, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, miss. But he went out a bit since, visiting up the village. Mrs Foster at the post office. She’s been poorly. But Mrs Winton Smith’s down the garden somewhere. Shall I get her, or maybe you’d like to go yourself? It’s through that gate by the hens.’
I hesitated. ‘No, I’ll come back later. When do you think he’ll be home?’
‘I couldn’t say. Sometimes he stays out till dinner, that’s at twelve o’clock. But I’ll tell him you came – what name is it, miss?’
‘Herrick, Mrs Herrick. I think he’ll know who I am. So I may see you later. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘I’m Lil Ashby.’
The Ashbys were farmers a few miles along beyondthe station. I remembered Mrs Ashby, who had called sometimes on Gran, and had supplied the Hall, and us
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