Part One

Right on cue the noise of heavy machinery started; it was nine am and you could set your watch by the racket beginning bang on time.

Connor Barstock had tried everything to blot the noise out: a pillow over the head, earplugs, even closing the window tightly on hot summer nights, but nothing worked. It was particularly annoying for Connor because he rarely got to sleep before four am on any given night. He had no idea why, it had just always been that way ever since he’d left home and gone to university to study economics. Connor had wondered if his sleeplessness was as a result of repressing his true artistic gifts, he’d sidelined his God-given talent in the pursuit of a career that would pay him a good, steady wage.  But in the end he couldn’t stop drawing and it took over his life, pushing out the chance of a job in a bank or somewhere similarly institutionalised. He’d been a professional cartoonist for eleven years now – and he still couldn’t sleep.

Connor gave up trying to shut out the noise. Jumping out of bed he went to have a nice refreshing shower, his head aching from lack of sleep. He could usually cope with falling asleep at four am and waking up at ten, but the early morning call of several bulldozers for the last couple of weeks had resulted in him stumbling through his days clutching his muzzy head.

He dressed quickly, almost falling over as he tried to insert one leg into his jeans.

“Christ on a bike!” he spat, wincing as he stubbed his big toe painfully on the leg of the bed. Hopping about moaning, he fell back onto the bed, successfully planted both his legs into his jeans and pulled them up. Walking to the window he observed the progress of William Mottlebury and Sons who were redeveloping the village green into a new and useful roundabout which would serve and enhance village life – or so the local council had told them it would. The village activists had shouted long and hard in protest against the developments, they had dug up every document relating to preservation they could get their hands on, but nothing was accepted as a reason for the village green to remain in place. It was finally agreed that progress had to arrive in the village of Muchover Westlake and the past would have to take a back seat.

Connor could see two men standing looking down into the murky depths of the village pond, or Loch Mess as it was known locally. He wondered what the view from his window would take in when he had the roundabout to feast his eyes upon. Would they put some flowerbeds in the middle of it or perhaps an example of modern art? He chewed his nails, pondering what sculpture would be most appropriate for Muchover Westlake. Two gossiping women? Or maybe a group of bored, hooded teenagers in a mock bus shelter? Connor went downstairs to prepare some breakfast, his stomach rumbling like thunder in the hills. He thought it was odd that since he’d been rudely awakened each day he always seemed to be much hungrier than usual. Taking the bowl of cereal into his studio he stood munching and peering at yesterday’s work on the drawing board. He’d packed up working at around three thirty that morning and could see the last section of the cartoon he had been drawing would have to be done again. It wasn’t an example of his best work, in fact, it was a mess.

He quickly sketched three hooded teenagers standing by a bus shelter and then drew a roundabout with cars encircling them. It made him smile so much, he drew another sketch of the two old ladies he’d thought of first, statues surrounded by the perpetual motion of traffic. Connor put the scribbles to one side and continued with the cartoon strip, it was due to appear in the Sunday supplement and he needed to hurry up and finish it. He drew until his stomach rumbled so loudly he realised he would have to stop for lunch. Grabbing the cereal-encrusted bowl from the filing unit he ambled into the kitchen, dumped the bowl in the sink and stared through the kitchen window in amazement.

They’d started draining the pond. A huge tanker stood on the churned up mud, at its rear a sizeable suction tube was pulsating as it guzzled up the contents of the pond. Connor stared on in horror,  imagining all the little frogs and newts being sucked up that huge tube into the dark lifeless interior of the tanker. Hunger pangs forgotten, he grabbed his door key and exited the cottage, banging the ill-fitting door closed and swirling the key in the lock before pocketing it safely - you couldn’t be too careful with all these strange new faces roaming about the village.

“Excuse me!” Connor bellowed over the sound of the machinery intent on siphoning out the contents of Loch Mess. He waved his hand to attract the attention of one of the men he’d seen earlier. The man turned and looked at him. He was about fifty years of age and had a pudgy complexion, clearly someone who spent much of his time indoors behind a desk. The man beckoned for Connor to come away from the  noise to a place where conversation could take place without resorting to shouting at full volume.

“What’s happened to all the wildlife in the pond? All the frogs and newts and ducks and…?”

“RSPCA removed all the surface fauna this morning. And we’ve got filters on the siphon to stop anything bigger than that going up the tube.” He made a small circle with his fingers and peered through it at Connor.

“Tadpoles could go up it.”

“Not this time of year they won’t, its high summer now, they’d all be frogs by now.” He gave Connor a knowing sneer, making him blush.

“What about all the bulrushes and irises? What’ll happen to them? Some of those water plants have been there for hundreds of years.”

“I doubt that, sir. Plants tend to live in cycles, or so I understand. I wouldn’t worry, if I were you. We’ve done a considerable amount of research to ensure that nothing is removed from this site that’s endangered or valuable.” He gave Connor a look, daring him to interrupt his busy schedule with more ill-considered complaints.

“Now if you don’t mind, sir, I’m very busy and have to be on hand in case of siphoning setbacks.”

Connor mumbled a few words of thanks and slunk back to his cottage. He prepared himself a chunky cheese and pickle sandwich and popped open a can of Dandelion and Burdock to accompany the sandwich on its way to his still grumbling stomach. As he ate his lunch, Connor ruminated on the development work. He didn’t like change; it took a lot of getting used to. Walking through to the kitchen, he tipped the can up to drain the last few drops out, before carefully stacking the empty crockery into the dish washer and turning it on. The water swishing in to wash his plates reminded him, in some small part, of the water draining out of the village pond. He wondered how long that water had been in there and how many old bikes and traffic cones it hid. This started a train of thought puffing through his mind as he pondered on the kind of things which could be hidden within its murky depths. He raced up the steep and narrow cottage staircase, bumping his elbow on the rail as he reached the top and turned the corner too fast. He scampered to the window, pulled the net curtain aside, and peeked out at the progress of the large hungry tanker. The water was now down quite a few feet and he could discern a piece of pipe poking out plus a few other strange unidentifiable objects.

“I know!” Connor said triumphantly. He flung open the wardrobe doors and began digging about in the debris under his clothes. Eventually, he located a pair of small binoculars, the lenses crusted over with sticky dust. He licked his finger and wiped the lenses clean with the edge of his t-shirt, placed them to his eyes and twiddled about with the focus until it brought the surface of the village pond right up to his eyes. He swooped the binoculars over the pond, watching as various pieces of house ware came to the light of day. A change of tone in the tanker’s machinery made him lower the binoculars to see what was happening. Another tanker had arrived and the two drivers were in the process of swapping over positions to continue the job. He watched the first tanker drive away with a belly full of liquid history sloshing around inside it.

Connor returned to staring at the slowly emerging depths of the pond. Thick sticky mud masked the shapes of what could be articles of interest, tangles of weed twined around shapes he struggled to recognise. He looked at his watch, it was three thirty pm and he should be working. Connor returned to the drawing board, he had a deadline on the cartoon for Friday and he had to finish it or he wouldn’t have the money to get his car insured. 

The thump of a sparrow flying into the studio window make him jump and the pencil drew a streak of wrongness across the page. He tutted and tried to erase the hard black line. Released from the hold his drawing had over him, Connor pattered off to the bathroom to spend a penny. It was now nearing seven thirty and he ought to get some food, it was a long time since the cheese and pickle sandwich and he really fancied a beer. He thought maybe he would go to the ‘Dog and Sausage’ for supper. He licked his lips at the thought of a nice plateful of ham, egg and chips plus, of course, a pint or two of ‘Old Mother Murcheson’s Ruin’, the new beer on tap.

The front door of the pub was propped open with an old cider flagon to let some air circulate. Connor ducked his head down from its usual lofty heights to get into the ancient watering hole without inflicting brain damage on himself.

“Evening, Connor.”

He glanced at John Whittle who, as usual, was propping up the bar.

“Evening, John. How’s your good self this hot and sticky night?”

“Hot and sticky, like you say. Pint?”

“Oh yes please. I’ve been gasping for one this last hour.”

“Usual?”

“No. I’ve a hankering for some of the new brew Tom’s got in.”

“What? A pint of ‘Old Mother’?” John grinned. “It’s strong stuff, you sure you’ve got the head for it?”

“Course I have. You’ve seen me sink enough pints in my time to know that, John.”

But when Connor’s throat caught the first sip of ‘Old Mother Murcheson’s Ruin’, he felt tears springing into his eyes.

“Cricketty wicketts. What strength is this stuff?”

“It’s a sixer.”

Connor took another hefty gulp. “It’s almost treacly. Where’s it brewed?”

“Next village over. Lussunder Westlake. It’s the Old Yellow Hen Brewery that churns it out.”

“Ah.” Connor had now finished his pint. “That is moreish. I’d better put in an order for some food or you’ll be wheeling me home in a barrow.”

Around nine o’clock, Connor felt a hand on his shoulder, wheeling round on his stool, he exclaimed in delight.

“Huge Hugh! Good holiday?”

“Blinding! I could’ve stayed another week. Anita didn’t like it though.”

“Have you seen what they’ve done now?” Connor swerved his head towards the pub door and the direction of the village green.

“Awful. Fancy destroying Loch Mess.”

John Whittle moved his stool towards them. “They should be careful.”

“Why?” Hugh frowned at him, ducking under the mass of dangling horse brasses to order his pint.

“You should always be careful if you mess about with history. After all, you don’t know what you’re digging up, do you?” John raised his very hairy eyebrows, leaning in close to Connor, who shuddered at the thought of what could be lurking in the pond mud.

“What sort of thing did you have in mind?” he asked.

“It’s got a bit of a past has that pond. My old Grampy Graham used to regale us with tales of yore in which that pond featured strongly.” John Whittle put down his Bacardi and Coke and whispered menacingly. “In fact, there’s some that say there are bodies in there from way back. Dead folk from centuries ago.”

Connor could feel his eyes widening in alarm. The four pints he’d consumed had paved the way for a couple of whiskies and he was now susceptible to all forms of fables and nonsense.

“Why would there be bodies in there?”

“Ah well.” John took a long sip of his drink before he answered. “There was a time when people just went missing and no-one ever checked where they went.” He put his finger to his nose and tapped it. Huge Hugh emerged from under the brasses and pushed John’s finger away from his nose, almost causing him to topple from the stool.

“You’re talking stuff and twaddle, John Whittle. If you’re going to tell a tale, make it a good one. Like what happened to old Mother Murcheson herself.”

“This one?” Connor put a hand on the beer pump.

“No. The real one. The one the beer’s named after. She lived a long time ago, back in the seventeenth century. She was a snaggle-toothed crone who lived in a cottage by the green with a cat and her daughter.”

“The cat’s daughter?”

“No Mother’s.  Anyway, Old Mother Murcheson was well known around these parts for being good with herbs and such like and she drew too much attention to herself.”

“What happened to her?” Connor leant on the bar with his head in his hands; he felt a bit light-headed and needed some support.

“She was denounced as a witch. Dunked and sunked as they call it round here.”

“You mean they drowned her in the village pond?”

Hugh nodded gravely at him, finishing his whisky in one big open mouthed gulp.

Connor staggered home around midnight with his head full of tales of witches and dunkings in the village pond. He strayed over the road, stepped lightly across the mud and looked down at the revolting mess of drying pond weed and the accumulated garbage of many centuries that was now lying on the pond bed, raising a dreadful smell.

That night Connor fell asleep at once, although a drunken stupor is more of an apt description for the state he was in. His dreams were troubled and when he awoke at the sound of dozers and hosers on the dot of nine am, he found his feet were entangled in sweaty sheets, his boxers were twisted by tossing and turning and one of his pillows was in the doorway. Connor sat up in bed, scratched his head, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He felt edgy and ill rested, but that was nothing new. Connor went for his shower and stood under the relentless stream of lukewarm water, washing away the film of sweat clinging to his skin.

It was even hotter that day. He raked in his wardrobe for a pair of shorts - he didn’t have the legs for them really, but couldn’t bear the thought of thick denim on his legs in the scorching hot weather. He dug out a pair of faded beige combat shorts and gratefully pulled them on. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he dangled his legs, grinning at their ridiculous whiteness poking out of his shorts. They really were far too pale and spindly to be on public display. The sound of raised voices reached his ears and he realised the heavy machinery had fallen silent. He walked briskly across to the window and peered out. A crowd had gathered at the edge of the pond and there was a yellow hard hat bobbing about down on the pond bed.

A siren wailed and a police car came bumping over the grass towards the crowd. Overcome with curiosity, Connor forced his feet into a pair of ancient crispy espadrilles and stumbled down the stairs to locate his door key. After a brief search, he discovered in his drunken daze the night before he’d hung it on a coat hook. Scooping the key from its mooring, he left the cottage, almost running across the road in his haste to get to the source of the action. His feet, not used to the espadrilles, tripped him up and almost sent him sprawling in the mud churned up by the bulldozers where the trees and shrubs had been wrenched out the week before.

“What’s happening?” he asked anyone who was listening.

“Dead body. I think it’s a girl.” Mrs Stealth from the local shop had her arms tightly folded,  her lips buttoned up with disapproval as she surveyed the murky bottom of the former village pond.  

To be continued

Copyright Suzanna Stanbury 2009 All Rights Reserved