of thing. Calling her a witch, I mean. She grows herbs down at Grumpy Hollow.’
‘ Grumpy Hollow ? Are you serious?’
‘That’s what the place is called. Always has been. No idea why. When we were kids we’d go and play at the Hollow, there’s a couple of springs down there and we found it quite spooky but perhaps it was just because it had a weird name.’
‘Is it near here? Can you show me on this map?’
‘Yeah, it’s right there, it’s marked even, see it?’ He pointed to another squiggle and some writing that I had thought spelled Guppy Horror, which wouldn’t have surprised me one bit, this being Somerset after all. I folded the map back into my pocket. ‘Right, thanks. This time I’m really out of here, promise.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Once outside again I finally got a cigarette lit and took it as an excuse to wander about in the yard. You can’t really ride a motorbike and smoke at the same time so it was plausible that I’d hang about for a bit longer. Not that I knew what I was looking for but I thought I’d recognize it when I saw it. That’s how I had always worked in the past – hung around, made a nuisance of myself, stuck my nose in. The mist had thickened even further, which gave me the irrational feeling that the valley itself was trying to make things difficult for me, though Jack Fryer had been helpful enough. I sauntered further towards the back of the long chicken shed where a steel-grey double door turned out to be locked when I tried to open it. A couple of paces further along and the square-faced man suddenly swung round the corner again, still carrying his shit scraper. ‘Did the farmer say you can come round here?’
‘He didn’t say I couldn’t,’ I suggested. ‘I’m just having a fag before getting back on the bike.’
He simply stared hard with disapproving eyes and gave me the distinct impression that he considered me another bit of shit to be scraped out of the yard.
I ignored it. ‘What’s that Stone woman like down at Grumpy Hollow?’ I asked, hooking a thumb in the general direction the map had indicated.
His eyes widened and he gripped the scraper’s handle harder. ‘Stay away from there if I was you.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘S’not a good place, it’s a witchy place. And the Stone woman, I’m not saying she’s a witch but you can’t help but wonder. Stuff you hear.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Strangers coming and going. Weird stuff she grows.’ He shrugged. ‘I heard someone say down the Surgery that half the stuff she grows is poisonous. Stuff like that.’
‘At the surgery?’
‘Brains Surgery.’
‘Brain surgery?’
‘It’s a pub in Larkhall, Brains Surgery,’ he said slowly. ‘Brains, it’s a beer.’
‘Poison? I wouldn’t have thought there was that big a market for it.’
He shrugged again. ‘You don’t know, do you?’ He turned and walked away, once more rounding the corner of the shed in pursuit of avian excrement. I didn’t follow him. Whether he meant that I didn’t know or one never knows I wasn’t certain, but if someone told me there was a witchy place full of poison then I considered it my duty to go there and be scared.
As I walked towards the Norton I could just make out Jack Fryer’s face through the grimy kitchen window behind his stacks of mouldy dishes, watching me. I gave a cheery wave with the hand that held the cigarette, hoping it might explain why I was still there, then took a last puff, flicked the butt into the weeds by the gate and kick-started the bike. It took a few goes, the Norton never did like murk.
By now I could see no more than a hundred yards in any direction. It was a stupid idea to ride deeper into this valley which I didn’t know at all. If the fog got any thicker I’d have trouble finding my way around. The complete absence of signposting made me wonder whether the signs that were taken down in 1940 to confuse an invading Jerry had ever gone up again. The lanes
‘ Grumpy Hollow ? Are you serious?’
‘That’s what the place is called. Always has been. No idea why. When we were kids we’d go and play at the Hollow, there’s a couple of springs down there and we found it quite spooky but perhaps it was just because it had a weird name.’
‘Is it near here? Can you show me on this map?’
‘Yeah, it’s right there, it’s marked even, see it?’ He pointed to another squiggle and some writing that I had thought spelled Guppy Horror, which wouldn’t have surprised me one bit, this being Somerset after all. I folded the map back into my pocket. ‘Right, thanks. This time I’m really out of here, promise.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Once outside again I finally got a cigarette lit and took it as an excuse to wander about in the yard. You can’t really ride a motorbike and smoke at the same time so it was plausible that I’d hang about for a bit longer. Not that I knew what I was looking for but I thought I’d recognize it when I saw it. That’s how I had always worked in the past – hung around, made a nuisance of myself, stuck my nose in. The mist had thickened even further, which gave me the irrational feeling that the valley itself was trying to make things difficult for me, though Jack Fryer had been helpful enough. I sauntered further towards the back of the long chicken shed where a steel-grey double door turned out to be locked when I tried to open it. A couple of paces further along and the square-faced man suddenly swung round the corner again, still carrying his shit scraper. ‘Did the farmer say you can come round here?’
‘He didn’t say I couldn’t,’ I suggested. ‘I’m just having a fag before getting back on the bike.’
He simply stared hard with disapproving eyes and gave me the distinct impression that he considered me another bit of shit to be scraped out of the yard.
I ignored it. ‘What’s that Stone woman like down at Grumpy Hollow?’ I asked, hooking a thumb in the general direction the map had indicated.
His eyes widened and he gripped the scraper’s handle harder. ‘Stay away from there if I was you.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘S’not a good place, it’s a witchy place. And the Stone woman, I’m not saying she’s a witch but you can’t help but wonder. Stuff you hear.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Strangers coming and going. Weird stuff she grows.’ He shrugged. ‘I heard someone say down the Surgery that half the stuff she grows is poisonous. Stuff like that.’
‘At the surgery?’
‘Brains Surgery.’
‘Brain surgery?’
‘It’s a pub in Larkhall, Brains Surgery,’ he said slowly. ‘Brains, it’s a beer.’
‘Poison? I wouldn’t have thought there was that big a market for it.’
He shrugged again. ‘You don’t know, do you?’ He turned and walked away, once more rounding the corner of the shed in pursuit of avian excrement. I didn’t follow him. Whether he meant that I didn’t know or one never knows I wasn’t certain, but if someone told me there was a witchy place full of poison then I considered it my duty to go there and be scared.
As I walked towards the Norton I could just make out Jack Fryer’s face through the grimy kitchen window behind his stacks of mouldy dishes, watching me. I gave a cheery wave with the hand that held the cigarette, hoping it might explain why I was still there, then took a last puff, flicked the butt into the weeds by the gate and kick-started the bike. It took a few goes, the Norton never did like murk.
By now I could see no more than a hundred yards in any direction. It was a stupid idea to ride deeper into this valley which I didn’t know at all. If the fog got any thicker I’d have trouble finding my way around. The complete absence of signposting made me wonder whether the signs that were taken down in 1940 to confuse an invading Jerry had ever gone up again. The lanes
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