I only knocked on her door
because I was in such a difficult fix. I’d always enjoyed
taking long walks on my own in remote areas, and in the past I’d always been completely safe, but this time a whole
series of things went wrong. There was heavy mist on the mountain-top, and
somehow I contrived to lose my compass. The result was I must have taken the
wrong path down, so when it lifted I realised I was in a completely strange
valley, miles from where I should have been. Then the sole of my boot started
to become detached, until after a few miles it was only hanging on by the heel;
and at this point I knew I’d got no chance of
getting back to my car until well after dark, and then it started to rain. So
when I noticed this isolated old farmhouse some distance from the road, I
thought the most sensible thing was to go and ask for help; and she answered
the door.
It was no more than a
cottage, stone-built and whitewashed, with very small windows set back into the
thick walls. It was quite likely centuries old. And she matched it: small, with
a mass of wrinkles on her weather-beaten face. I started to explain my
difficulties to her, but she then gestured me inside with little more than a
grunt, and I found myself on a wooden settle beside the fire in the dark little
parlour.
It was clear that she
lived there on her own. Now in my years of walking, I’d generally found that men and women in isolated
farmsteads were quite garrulous: they met so few people that they were glad of
an extensive chat with any passing stranger, and often it was quite difficult
to get away. I thought I was in for one of these experiences when she explained
that I could catch a bus from the crossroads, but that the next one wouldn’t run till tomorrow morning. Then she had a look at my
boot, said that she’d got some glue
which would fix it back together again, but that it would need a few hours to
set, so I’d better stay there for the
night. Well, I was very grateful for the hospitality, and thanked her
profusely, though I was a little surprised that she was so open with a total
stranger. I settled back, anticipating a long, one-sided conversation on the
bad state of the world, the ruinously low level of farm prices etc, as the fee
for my night’s rest. But strangely enough,
I had to do most of the talking. Despite my prompting, it was hard to get more
than a few brief sentences out of her, and these were generally cryptic and
most puzzling when I reflected on them afterwards. When I commented that very
few people must pass that way, she said, “Aye, there’s not many come - and fewer go”. Wasn’t she lonely, here
on her own? “I don’t lack for company”, she said, without
elaborating. Wasn’t she alarmed by
reports of robberies on remote farmhouses? “Nay, I’m plenty safe, as long as I’ve got them”. She made a
gesture out with her right arm, but I had no idea what she might be indicating.
I saw a couple of very dark old portraits on the wall behind her; a man and
woman from a past century, crudely done by some country artist. Were these her
ancestors? “Aye, my great-great
grandparents. But they’re still with me,
you know”. Finally, in a desperate
effort at a new subject, I remarked that in the 17th century this
part of the country was notorious for its witches. “Still is”, she said, and
left it at that. I gave up at this point, concluding that she must be more than
a little mad. Finally she fetched me a mug of tea from the kitchen and
announced she was going to bed. I could stay here in the parlour, since there
was only one bedroom, but I would find rugs and blankets in the chest. I said I
was happy with that, since as an experienced country walker, I was accustomed
to bedding down almost anywhere. Then she left me.
I drank the tea, which
was unlike any tea I’d ever tasted, but
I couldn’t sleep. I realised I was a
little light-headed. There more I pondered on her odd remarks, the stranger and
more sinister they sounded: “I don’t lack for company ….. Not many come,
and fewer go” What on earth did she mean? I
got to my feet and looked around the room. Besides the ancestral portraits,
there was one other picture, dimmed by dark brown varnish. It appeared to be
some religious scene, but I couldn’t recognise the
details. The only book was a massive old bible, which I opened, knowing that
many country people wrote their family details on the flyleaves; but instead I
found a mass of small unintelligible diagrams and a script of characters
completely unknown to me. Turning to other pages, I found similar writings in
the margin of the text.
Was this woman from a family
of witches, I wondered. Or, worse, did she consider herself to be a witch? Who
knew what strange archaic fantasies lurked in her mind? But if so, what did she
intend for me? By this time I was fairly sure the tea must have been some kind
of drug. Was she waiting for me to fall asleep? And then what?
I’m writing this down as a record, in case anything
should happen to me, but also in order to keep awake. I don’t intend to go to sleep. If she, or anyone else, tries
to come for me during the night, I’ll be ready for
them.
………………………………............................................
(The manuscript breaks
off at this point. The presumed author, James Douglas Wright, is currently
being questioned by the police in connexion with the death of Marion Armstrong,
the elderly and reclusive owner of Underknotts Farm.)
