Mystery at Meadowbank Cottage An Original Story Written and Performed by Stephanie Poppins Music by my brother,
John Miles Carter Chapter 10 It was late afternoon in the village of Leighton,
And the moment Tuesday St.
Clare turned the cobbled path into her back garden,
The late afternoon sun melted into a glorious amber on the horizon.
It was coming to the end of a very busy day.
She had successfully completed her brother's latest marketing campaign and managed to organise all the upcoming half-term bookings.
To her relief,
And thanks to the help from Jonathan Green,
Her circle of luxury lodges was now fully renovated,
With freshly painted timber walls,
Cedar shingles on each roof,
And every porch fitted with clean-cut railings still pale from the soar.
The doorways were flanked with large terracotta pots,
Each one painted a different colour,
And inside the lodges smelt of fresh new linen and wood polish.
Things were coming along nicely,
Everything was in place.
Apart from Jed Norman,
From his latest behaviour,
Tuesday now understood he considered every place in Leighton Village to be his place,
Without exception.
She gazed through the autumn light to the far fields,
Where the earth was turned into chunky chocolate lines that ran parallel to the lane.
The late autumn air smelt of smoked peat,
Denoting the change in temperature,
But in the garden of Meadowbank Cottage,
The grass remained green,
And it was Tuesday's job to ensure it stayed that way.
Removing her slip as she stood barefoot,
Her toes sinking into the fresh grass,
Her long hair loose around her shoulders,
She was really settling into this white witch thing.
But there,
Underneath her eyes,
Were the tell-tale signs of recent sleepless nights.
She hadn't slept well for days.
Not that she'd said anything to Jonathan Green or Tom Bucket.
They'd been the only people she'd seen in the past few weeks.
Oh,
And Tom's sister,
Sissy,
She'd been to visit a few times too.
Tuesday looked into the cauldron.
It had been bubbling away all day with the potion she was preparing.
Over the week,
She'd learned more and more from the late Mrs Green's old recipe book.
Although she'd been sure to keep any experiments hidden from the locals passing by on their country walks.
Judging by how welcome she'd been made in the village,
She was sure they would love the idea of having a new white witch around.
And chances were they'd already made up their minds about her anyway.
She certainly did seem to get some funny looks when she was out and about.
Taking a deep breath in,
She held her hands over the rising steam.
The words of the defence spell came low and even from her lips.
She had been practising for days around the windows,
The threshold and the gate at the top of her front path.
But today she was anchoring the sentiment deeper,
Into the garden itself,
Into the very soil.
Ever since Jed Norman had winked at her with that broad,
Unhurried smile,
As though he owned the lane he walked down,
His gestures had not stopped.
First it was the baskets of fresh farm produce appearing on the front step.
Thick stalked leeks,
Waxy potatoes still clotted with earth,
Bundles of something tied with twine she refused even to unwrap.
Eggs by the dozen nestled in straw.
And then,
To top it all,
A gardener had arrived on Tuesday morning,
Cheerful and oblivious,
Shears in hand,
Saying he'd been sent by Mr Norman to tidy the beds.
Who did Jed Norman think he was?
Perhaps he thought she would somehow change her mind and sell the strip of land running alongside the river to him,
Just to get rid of him.
But why would she do that after what he'd done?
Poison the stream and seduce Jonathan's wife to try and get his way?
No,
Tuesday St Clair would never concede.
It was never going to happen.
Jed Norman was a manipulator and a bully,
And she'd dealt with one of those before.
There was nothing she could possibly want that he had to sell.
No leeks,
No eggs,
No hired hands making themselves at home in her garden,
Nothing.
But no matter how many times she'd told him,
He just refused to get the message.
Tuesday hadn't said anything to Jonathan,
Of course.
When they'd worked together on the lodges side by side over the weeks,
She'd kept her mouth shut.
She'd seen just how easily things ignited,
Both him and Jed.
Just one look between them would be enough.
And she didn't want to be the thing that fuelled that fire.
Colleen was still conspicuously absent.
Something was going on there.
Whenever Colleen was around,
The whole village knew about it.
But Tuesday didn't like to ask Jonathan about that.
And if she was honest,
She was just enjoying the space.
It was a relief not to have her nosing about every five minutes.
So Tuesday kept things to herself and handled them the only way she trusted would work.
The White Witch way.
Letting out a slow breath to steady the spell,
She felt it passing through her and settling into the ground beneath her feet.
Like strong roots taking hold of the land she was trying so hard to protect.
Jed Norman had to go.
One way or the other,
He had to go.
Old Tom Bucket leant against the gatepost at the top of Lumbee Lane,
Watching Jonathan's tractor trundle towards him through the early morning light.
It was a new day and he was on a mission.
Morning,
He waved with his old thumbstick and Jonathan waved back,
Pleased to see him.
Thomas Bucket had lived in Leighton Village longer than anyone could reliably remember.
He'd been a young man when the Green family first moved into Meadowbank Cottage.
And as the years went on and they'd invested in more and more of the land around them,
He'd happily shared everything he and his late wife had learned about farming with them.
Life on the land was known to get tough.
Many a time,
Jonathan's father and he had supported each other through hard winters and fractious springs,
With carving,
Lambing and the rest of it.
But old Mr Green was long gone now through heart trouble,
And old Mrs Green had joined him one night many years later in her sleep.
So now it was just Tom Bucket and his sister,
Sissy,
Left to keep an eye on Jonathan,
Their son.
But lately,
Neither Thomas nor Sissy were liking what they saw.
As Jonathan approached,
Tom thought about what he would say.
Now seemed as good a time as any.
Colleen had been away for weeks,
And it didn't look as if Jonathan was pining.
Probably he would not be allowed anywhere near Jonathan's farmhouse if she was around.
It couldn't have been easy,
Hearing that your wife was playing away,
But Jonathan had to know,
Tom decided.
He'd promised Jonathan's father he'd look out for him,
And old Tom Bucket was nothing short of true to his word.
Jonathan slowed the machine down and tucked it into a little lay-by,
Then jumped out from the cab to see what was up.
He knew old Sissy had come to stay and hoped everything in the Bucket household was as it should be.
Getting colder now,
Ain't it?
Was Tom's greeting.
Jonathan agreed.
With the turn of the season,
His waxed canvas jacket had become unfit for the job,
But Tuesday St Clair had said its grey-green colour looked well on him,
So why would he change it any time soon?
Brushing his hands on his corduroy trousers to warm them up,
He smiled.
And how's Sissy?
Ah,
She's grand.
It's nice having her stay then.
Yep,
She'll be moving back for good next week.
That's great!
We've figured out we're stronger together than we are apart.
Jonathan nodded at the steely look in Tom's eye.
He wasn't stupid,
Was Tom.
Then how about you,
Young man?
You still on your own some then?
He left the question hanging with a long intentional pause.
They both knew this question was more of a statement.
He offered up an old canvas bag.
Here lad,
Sissy sent me some rice pudding.
Up with me.
And without another word,
They walked together up the long lane to where Jonathan's house stood.
Traditionally set on working farmland,
It was an L-shaped building,
Two storeys tall with a gently pitched roof.
It had a wide,
Shady porch,
A perfect place to pull off muddy boots,
And generous windows.
Inside the large kitchen was warm and inviting,
With a long pine table,
Deep butler sink and new range cooker.
Take your weight off then,
Said Jonathan as he turned on the kettle.
Tom sat down in the chair by the grate and the murmurings of an early morning fire.
He roused it into life,
Careful to place another log strategically so as not to smother the work already done.
And within seconds,
Curls of wood smoke rose up the chimney as the kettle began to sing.
Do you take sugar,
Tom?
I'm sweet enough,
Tom joked as Jonathan joined him.
And there they sat together,
Staring into the flames,
Jonathan waiting for the questions and Tom figuring out how to say them.
Then,
After a pause,
She's gone,
Just in case you're wondering.
I had wondered,
Tom replied casually.
He looked about the old farmhouse.
It was definitely missing a woman's touch,
Although Jonathan was far from lazy,
Just very busy on the farm.
On the wall,
There were faded marks where the wedding photos had once been.
That was reassuring.
No one took down their wedding photos that quickly,
If they were still grieving.
He looked at Jonathan,
Still as strong as ever,
Still as determined.
In fact,
The man looked fresh as a daisy.
And before you ask,
Tom,
He said,
It's a relief,
We've been struggling for at least two years.
Right,
Tom sighed.
Well,
This saved him one job at least.
Another while passed,
But this time much more comfortably.
Then out came the biscuits and they began to reminisce.
Tom Bucket had grown up hearing stories about Meadowbank Cottage from his grandmother.
The cottage was considered peculiar long before Jonathan's mother arrived.
Lights that appeared in the upper window when the cottage stood empty.
It was unhappy empty,
He said.
Then the crossing of the three paths near the cottage gate,
Lumby Lane and the path to the Circle of Lodges and the hill beyond.
This was a special cottage.
They both knew that.
Tom had watched over Meadowbank in his quiet way for most of his life,
Checking that the gate latch held,
Noting when the atmosphere around it shifted,
Paying attention to who was drawn to it and why.
And now,
He noted,
Tuesday St Clair was there,
That pretty girl with a million dollar smile.
And,
He said,
She was there for a reason.
The house had been waiting for her.
Jonathan had been waiting for her.
Sitting staring at the fire,
Jonathan let out a slow breath.
Then he changed the subject back to his cheating wife.
Colleen told me herself,
In the end,
Said she thought if she could get close enough to certain people,
She could keep him from poisoning the water.
That was her reasoning.
Tom made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite contempt.
Something in between.
And,
I kicked her out.
Packed her things and put them by the door and that was that.
Tom nodded slowly,
The way old men do when they've already decided what they think,
But are generous enough to hear it out first.
Then he turned and faced Jonathan man to man.
She never looked to me much like a farmer's wife,
He said,
And I have to say,
Young man,
You look kind of good on it.
Charming,
Snorted Jonathan.
Tom turned back to the fire.
And that's just as well,
I suppose.
He reached into his coat pocket and took out his pipe,
Not lighting it but turning it in his fingers the way he did when he was enjoying himself.
Your old mother once told me this tale.
It was about when you were in your early twenties.
She said her lovesick son buried a box in the garden at Meadowbank Cottage.
He'd taken up her notion that if you buried the right thing in the right place,
It'd bring back the one thing you wanted most in the world.
That ring any bells?
Jonathan went still.
Then a laugh escaped him,
Reluctant but genuine.
Oh,
He said,
That old chestnut.
That old chestnut,
Tom agreed with great satisfaction.
He still didn't light the pipe.
He didn't need to.
He just looked into the fire with a quiet,
Unhurried expression of a man watching something set alight.
The old life was over.
It was time for the new.
And Jonathan,
The old son,
He added finally.
It looks like what you did all those years ago kind of worked.
