Mystery.
At Meadowbank Cottage.
An original story.
Written and performed by by Stephanie Poppins.
Where's it?
By my brother.
John Miles Carter.
Chapter the last Tuesday St.
Clair woke up with a start.
There was a funny smell in the air.
Not wood smoke from a chimney.
But something hotter,
Faster.
Laced with a stink of melting plastic and varnish,
She sat bolt upright,
Heart already hammering,
Before her mind caught up with what her body knew.
Stay there,
Spike.
She ordered.
But pulling the sheets back,
She saw Spike was nowhere to be seen.
Jumping up,
She snatched back the curtains and winced.
There was a bright orange glow in the midnight air.
And heat.
It was warm.
This was the unmistakable heat of a fire.
But it wasn't any old bonfire.
This was an antagonist's fire.
Someone was out to get her.
No!
Tuesday stumbled down the stairs,
Pulled on her boots over bare feet,
Grabbed her phone and fumbled with a latch on the front door.
Jonathan,
Come quick!
" she cried as he picked up immediately.
Then Tuesday hung up and dialed 999.
Rushing outside,
She shielded her face from the flames.
To her horror,
Lodge number three was alight.
Flames were licking up the timber cladding,
Clawing along the eaves,
Throwing a flickering wall of light against the dark hillside.
As sparks lifted into the night air and gathered on the wind,
She winced.
The fire was drifting dangerously close to the dry hedgerow that ran along the boundary.
No!
She screamed again.
And where was Spike?
She must find Spy.
As a wave of heat pressed against her face there was a roar that went with it,
Like something alive.
Something devouring all her hard work.
Tuesday clutched her robe closest still,
As if it would somehow protect her from the grim truth.
She was at the edge of the gate now,
Peering over,
Hoping and praying the other lodgers wouldn't catch a light.
All it would take was a strong wind in the wrong direction.
She shook at the mere idea of it,
And as she did,
There came a cough and a scrape from behind the woodpile at the back of the house.
Tuesday knew that cough of old,
Only this time it was laced with guilt.
As she watched,
A hunched figure stumbled towards her,
His face caught in the light of the flames.
Robert,
What have you done?
Robert,
Meanwhile,
Didn't even try to run.
He just stood there staring.
Before the wind shifted and a fresh spike of flames ignited with a crack like a gunshot.
What have you done,
Robert?
Then somewhere in the distance,
Muffled and frantic,
Tuesday heard Spike scream.
And there was Jonathan Green,
Thundering down the lane like a man possessed.
He was a broad,
Solid thing,
The kind of man whose shoulders seemed to arrive before the rest of him did.
Every inch of his powerful frame.
Was set with the same grim determination as his jaw.
His brow was furrowed,
His mouth a hard line,
His fists pumping with quiet outrage.
And much to Tuesday's amusement,
He wore mismatched boots.
One an old leather-laced affair,
Another a green Wellington calf high.
At any other time she would have laughed out loud,
But this was not any other time.
Jed was a force of nature that mere footwear could not diminish.
He ran like the lane belonged to him.
And Tuesday Sinclair had never felt so glad to see anyone in her whole life.
Spike!
She yelled,
Her eyes searching through the spirals of thick black smoke.
Spike's missing!
Unaware his competition was running at full speed towards him.
Robert took to the lane,
Desperate to get away before he was discovered by anyone else.
But it was too late.
Catching his collar on the way through,
Jonathan grabbed him by the neck and spat,
You're done here!
That's it for you,
Robert Shaffer.
Before throwing the inebriated shadow of a man into the back of his farm truck.
And locking the door.
Did you call the services team?
He yelled,
Well aware Tuesday was more than capable of working out what to do.
But stating the obvious anyway.
Spike's trapped!
" she screamed back,
Smoke-smudged tea lines streaking her face.
Yes,
I called them,
But Spike's trapped!
She could think of nothing but the rescue of her beloved cat.
Running up to where she stood,
Jonathan wiped the damp hair away from her cheeks and looked into her eyes.
I got this tea,
He said.
I got this.
Then he ran off in the direction of the flames,
Boots pounding,
Heart thumping.
Tuesday looked beyond the dark hedgerow and dry stone to the midnight sky.
It was thick with stars,
But smeared orange at one edge as the fiery glow erupted.
Jonathan,
Meanwhile,
Ran round the side of the cottage and into the circular field where the lodges stood.
The heat hit him like a wall as he approached number three.
It was fully alight now,
Flames pouring out of the broken window,
Where Spike's terrified cries were coming from.
Pulling his T-shirt over his nose and mouth,
He went in low,
Through the side door where the smoke was thinner,
Into a room thick with a grey smoky haze.
Spike was hiding somewhere near the floor,
Under a smouldering armchair he saw,
And Jonathan dropped to his knees,
Eyes streaming,
Throat burning.
Feeling blindly until his hand closed.
On warm,
Shaking fur.
Come on lad,
I got you.
He soothed as Spike stared at him through terrified eyes.
Then Jonathan Green stumbled back out again.
A spike clawed and yelled against his chest.
And the window above them blew outward in a shower of glass and flame.
Roaring to fill the space he'd been standing in seconds before.
Tuesday,
Meanwhile,
Waited and sobbed until at last Jonathan was in front of her again.
Presenting her with her forlorn little cat.
Coughing and splattering,
He fell on his knees onto the wet grass.
Such streaked spike pressed safe between them.
As Tuesday threw her arms around his neck.
In the distance a blue light flickered against the hillside as the fire engine made its way down the long winding road from the village.
Tuesday held on to both Jonathan and Spike and would not let go.
Not even when it's swung into the lane.
Not even when someone called out asking if everyone was clear.
Because right then,
In the smoke and the noise and the dark.
.
.
Jonathan Green and Spike the Cat were her family.
And the things that mattered most to her in the whole world.
The dawn after the fire came pale gold over the lane.
Smoke from the lodge hung low over the back.
Drifting between the orders that lined the water,
The same water Jed had poisoned weeks before.
The water he would not be poisoning again.
The fire engine had long gone.
And what remained was scorched timber,
Soaked ash and the smell of wet char clinging to everything.
The lane ran almost 200 yards between Jonathan's farmhouse and Tuesday's cottage.
Was a narrow ribbon of cracked tarmac now,
Giving way to gravel and then to mud where the hedgerows pressed close.
Hawthorn and Blackthorn tangled overhead.
And the verges were thick with cow parsley,
Foxgloves and late dog roses.
The dry stone walls lining Jonathan's farm were dark with lichen.
And ran alongside in uneven courses,
Occasionally collapsing where the sheep had pushed through.
From its highest point,
You could see a small rise by an old oak tree.
And Tuesday's cottage tucked below with its old roof and the holiday lodges just beyond.
Tuesday sat on her cottage wall,
Wrapped in a blanket Sissy had brought her.
Spike was singed but alive,
Curled tight against her chest.
And Jonathan Green sat beside her.
Such still on his hands.
His jacket scorched at one cuff.
And the soles of his mismatched boots melted and scuffed.
He was sitting beside her on the cold stone saying nothing.
It was Tuesday who first broached the subject.
Looking away to his farmyard and the hills beyond,
She said.
There's something I've been keeping from you.
She figured there was no time like the present,
And at this moment,
She really needed to know the truth.
What's that?
Said Jonathan softly.
I've been keeping something of yours.
An old tin.
It was buried in the back garden.
She checked his face for any signs of movement,
But there were none.
Legend has it when you bury something in the garden of Meadowbank Cottage you realize your most long-fall dream.
Without moving,
Jonathan replied.
Yeah,
That old thing.
I buried it in the summer after the play.
After we He stopped and swallowed.
After everything went wrong because of what Robert said.
Choose this heart.
Skip to beat.
She said,
Let's go in,
It's in the house.
They went indoors and Tuesday settled Spike into an old blanket before collecting the tin from the antique dresser.
Then they walk together down the slope of the back garden.
Past the view of the blackened lodge to a gnarled old tree that had stood in the corner of that garden since before either of them was born.
Where Meadowbank Cottage has simply been the house at the top of the lane.
Belonging to Jonathan's parents.
The earth was soft from the hose water of the night before.
Tuesday sat on an old bench facing the tree and Jonathan sat beside her.
Ready for the truth to be revealed.
As he watched,
Tuesday worked the lid free,
And they looked inside together.
Jonathan's face lit up when he saw the note he left all those years before.
Wrapped in an old sandwich bag.
It was a folded piece of school exercise paper.
Tuesday unfolded it carefully and read,
Her hands shaking.
I am writing this to cast a spell.
It's sad.
Tuesday St Clair,
I will love her for the rest of my life.
I don't care what anyone says about her being too clever for me.
One day I will have something worth offering.
A farm of my own.
A home of my own.
And then I will come and find her and ask her properly.
I write this so the Lane always remembers.
J G.
Tuesday pressed her smoke-stained hand to her mouth.
There was a photograph too.
One of them backstage after the school play,
In costume,
Laughing together,
Her hand resting on his arm.
12 years?
" she whispered.
This has been in the ground for 12 whole years.
I forgot about it for a lot of them.
Jonathan admitted.
Life got in the way.
Colleen got in the way.
His voice caught slightly on his ex-wife's name,
But there was no bitterness in it now.
Only the quiet relief of a man finally free.
But when I saw you that day at the estate agent's.
.
.
And then you moved back into this cottage.
And I realized it was in this garden under this tree.
I remembered the promise I made to myself.
And the promise I made to the Lane.
Old Tom reckons this house had always been waiting for you.
Duh,
Old Tom.
Tuesday smiled and sissy.
What will we do without them?
Then Jonathan pulled Tuesday in for a long,
Prolonged kiss.
As the mist burned off the top fields,
And the first glimpse of sun peeped over the ridge between Jonathan's farmhouse,
To cast a long golden light down the lane,
Over the walls,
Over the hawthorn,
And the two of them leaning into each other.
Tuesday,
St Clair whispered.
You buried a promise in my garden,
Jonathan.
A wish.
And now it's come true.
You really are everything.
I'd ever hoped for.
Ditto.
Jonathan smiled back.
And so choose Decent Clare.
All year.
Then Tuesday chuckled as she thought of the last spell she would cast at Meadowbank Cottage.
She had nearly everything she wanted now.
Let's plant the tin again.
She said suddenly.
The tin,
Let's plant it again,
But this time.
.
.
She pulled a pen from her cardigan pocket and scribbled something quickly on the back of the old note.
This time we'll both sign it.
But what shall we wish for?
The life we would have had if Robert Schafer had never happened.
And in another 12 years,
Whoever's living in this cottage can dig it up and see if it worked.
Jonathan took the pen from her and added his own line beneath hers.
Then together they pressed the tin into the soft earth beneath the apple tree.
A spike the cat sorted out of the cottage door.
To greet them.
The end.
