October 6th 2012

Today is my two- month anniversary of coming to live in Cheltwell.  All thoughts of leaving here went by the end of the first week.  It’s odd because although I’ve no family left here or made many friends or even found a job yet, I feel that I belong.  It’s an odd, unfamiliar feeling and one I have been unable to ignore.  The house has started to feel like mine and I’ve spent a little money redecorating, which I did all by myself.  My new sofa and double bed arrived two days ago and the windows and doors were replaced last month. I kept some of Dorothy’s jewellery, a couple of vintage dresses, a few sticks of furniture and some ornaments, but donated the rest to a local charity.  Her letters and diaries are currently being stored in a box under the stairs to be looked at another day. The garden continues to be a challenge, but one I am slowly winning.  Finally I have a home.

In between house-stuff, I have taken up painting again.  It was something I used to love doing as a teenager and I would spend hours escaping into a canvass, blocking out my reality with a palette of colour.  The landscape and skies are so huge here and have such an effect on me it’s almost as if they demand to be painted.  Mr Piper, who I visit regularly, has been very complimentary about my painting abilities. I don’t know who told him that I liked to paint, he probably saw me sketching out by the pond near the village one day.  He has actually asked me to do a painting of an area of woodland nearby that he was once quite fond of and that’s where I’m off to later this morning.  He has asked that I take Jet with me for a walk.  Mr Piper hasn’t been feeling so well of late, so I take Jet out most days.  I have grown very fond of Mr Piper; he is perhaps my only friend here.  Tommy, thankfully, has avoided me since that night and Muriel blows hot and cold.  She is always quick to ask nosey questions about me and my non- existent love life, but somehow doesn’t like to answer my questions, especially those about my Aunt.  To be honest I’m content being by myself, although I occasionally long for a night out with the girls. Not that I have ever really done that, but it looks kind of fun on the TV.

I promised Mr Piper that I would collect Jet at midday, so I grab my camera, sketch book and a flask of tea and throw them into my rucksack.  After a glorious summer, autumn with its dark evenings and dank air is quite the contrast.  Fortunately it is a cold, dry morning, with only a little cloud, making the light just right for sketching.  It’s almost unimaginable that the Met Office has forecast storms for tonight. 

At Mr Piper’s, two quick knocks and I let myself in, the door left unlocked for me.  Jet really is useless as a guard dog as he appears in the doorway, his lead hanging from his mouth, his tale banging against the frame.

“Morning, old boy.”  He comes up to me and nuzzles at my coat pocket.

“Get out of there,” I say, pushing away his wet nose. “You can have a treat later on.”

“In here, Alice.”

Following his voice to the sitting room, he smiles and waves me over to the writing desk he is sat at in the corner of the room. 

“Good morning.”

“Indeed it is a lovely morning, Alice.  Come sit for a while, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

We have had many chats over the last two months, although mostly about me.  I found it awkward at first, opening up to someone about my past, but he makes it so easy.  He doesn’t give advice or lectures me about the wrong decisions I have made, he just quietly listens, offering tissues and cups of tea when needed.  There are some things I will never tell him, but the less dark stuff seems to pour out of me and I swear I feel lighter because of it.  There is nearly sixty years between us and yet I seem to forget that when we talk.  He is much younger than his age and I know I am older than mine.  So we seem to meet somewhere in the middle, not a grandfather-granddaughter kind of relationship, but more a cosy friendship.  Although, I can’t bring myself to call him anything other than Mr Piper, even though I have heard others call him Bertie.  He has never asked or told, so Mr Piper it is.

“Alice, I was wondering if you could do a small favour for me. I have just had my will altered and I was wondering if whether, in the event of my death, you could ensure that the will is given over the to the appropriate people.   I have put it in here,” he says, pointing to a drawer. “The address of my solicitor is on the outside of the envelope and I have made you my executor.”

“But, but…” I am so stunned by this, I can’t find the words.  

“Don’t look so worried Alice, I am hopefully not going to peg it anytime soon, but things have recently changed a great deal for me and I needed to do this.  You won’t have to do anything else, just hand over the letters and when the time come, be there as executor for the reading.”

“But, but …what if…?”

“What, if you move away,  you mean?”  He shakes his head, leans forward and pats the back of my hand.  “Alice, I know you, better than you realise and I know for a fact that you’re not leaving here.  You have finally found your place in the world, and soon hopefully your time too.”

I know he is right, but even so, this is a huge responsibility.

“But, Mr Piper, surely there is someone you have known longer than me to do this for you.  How do you even know you can trust me?”

He gives me that look again, the one where his brows furrow and he peers at me so intently it’s like he trying to send me a message without speaking. 

He sighs and then answers.  “Alice, I can assure you that I have known you long enough and as for trust, well I am putting every last ounce of faith I have in you, my dear girl.” 

He reaches across the desk, picks up a key and squashes it in my hand.  “I also want you to keep a spare key to my house, just in case.”

The key in my hand feels cold and heavy and I don’t know what to do with it. How is it possible to go from owning nothing, to having one home and looking after the key to another in such a short time.

“Mr Piper, are you okay?  Should I call a doctor or …”

“Alice, I am absolutely fine.  In fact, I am better than I have been in many, many years.  But I’m not a fool; I know one day my time will come and it brings a little comfort, knowing I have someone checking on me.  God forbid, I don’t want to be one of those old folk who drop down dead and then aren’t discovered for another year or so.”  He laughs, but I can see in his eyes that he is actually scared by this.

“But, Mr Piper, you have a carer who comes in everyday, so you wouldn’t remain undiscovered would you?”

He chooses to ignore my comment.  “One last thing, Alice, if in the event something does happen to me, would you please look after Jet?  I hate the idea of him being sent to an animal shelter.  He’s so fond of you; I don’t think he’d notice my passing, if he were to come live with you.”

Jet hears his name and comes over to us, his claws clicking across the dark, wooden floor.  He sits between us and looks from one to the other.  “So will you?” Mr Piper asks as he and Jet fix me in their sights.

“Of course I will.”  I pat Jet’s head and he gives me a lick in return.

“Excellent.”  Mr Piper closes the desk drawer and stands up slowly. “Now I think you’d better head off if you want to do these sketches before the storm sets in.  I will have some soup ready for your return.  You know where you’re going, don’t you?”

Nodding, from my pocket I produce a small map that he drew for me last week.

“Will you take pictures too?” He asks.

“Yes. Today is really just to get a feel of the place, draw a few sketches of the area and take a few photos.  The painting I’ll actually work on at home. I find it easier that way when working with oils.

“Thank you, Alice, for doing this for me.  I’m afraid my old pins won’t make it that far anymore and that area of woodland means so much to me.  If there is such a thing as magic, Alice, it exists there.  You just wait and see.”

I stand and follow Mr Piper towards the back door, shaking my head.  Wills, keys, Jet and now magic!  I haven’t heard him talk like this before and he doesn’t like to talk about himself anyway, even though I have tried.  I make a mental note to mention this to his carer who will come to check on him just before tea tonight.

“See you for tea,” he says and waves us off.

The sky has clouded over a little, but nothing too worrying.  Jet stays to heel on the lead whilst we cross over the road, but once we reach the path I release him and he scrambles off ahead.  He stops every so often to look back at me, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, his ears pricked and his back legs seem to be doing a happy dance all by themselves.  Further on, it’s clear that I don’t really need the map.  Jet knows exactly where he’s going.  He spies a grey squirrel sprinting across the path and shoots off after it. 

The woodland here is dense. Tall beech, oak and ash trees compete for the daylight and the leafy earth springs back against every step.  Originally part of a larger forest, this woodland over the years has been cut off, eroded at the edges by farmland, roads and housing developments.  Although I prefer the vitality of spring, I can’t help warming to the host of amber and golden tones of the changing leaves.  After following several trails we happen across a small clearing and Jet barks excitedly.  I check the map and see we have arrived.   

The clearing is small, populated mostly by tall grasses and ferns.  A few saplings have sprouted here and there and a fallen tree cuts across it, offering me the perfect spot to sit and sketch.  Whilst it is indeed pretty, I find it odd that Mr Piper has specifically asked me to paint here.  I sit and survey the area and struggle to look for something that stands out to me, something special that needs to be forever captured.  There were far prettier sights on our short walk to get here and it’s certainly not what I was expecting. The longer I’m here, the less open this space feels, actually more oppressive.  Zipping up my coat to calm my sudden bout of shivers, I decide to pour myself some tea to warm up. 

With my cup drained and now resting on the fallen oak, I stand and turn three-hundred and sixty degrees.  The perfectly circular nature of the clearing pulls at me.  It’s as if a glass dome has been placed over the top, holding back the trees, which so desperately fight to regain the land for themselves.  The fallen tree almost looks like a casualty of such a battle.  All of a sudden, I feel the urge to cry and am grateful to Jet for distracting me.

“What have you there, boy?”

I walk over to him at the very edge of the clearing, where he scratches at the earth.  Expecting to find a dug up root or a beetle evading his paws, his claws catch at a metal object. I push him gently away and get down on my knees.  A square brass plaque lies partially covered by leaf mulch and moss which I brush away until the embossed words can be read.

In memory of F/O Peter Watson. (1918-1942) A brave airman, tragically killed. May he rest in eternal peace.

Instinctively I know that this is Dorothy’s last love, the one Muriel mentioned. In subsequent conversations with her, I’ve learned little else, except that Peter and his best friend Gil grew up together, joined up together and apparently flew together.  But that was all she was prepared to tell me.  I once asked Mr Piper if he’d ever met Peter, but his reaction was so sudden and so clearly upsetting for him, I dared not press him any further.  I wonder if this is what he wanted me to see.  So I take the camera out of my pocket and take several pictures of the plaque and the surrounding area.  Not of a religious faith and yet quite unable to just walk away, I touch at the plaque, bowing my head and closing my eyes.  I whisper the only words that come to mind, “thank you.”

Sat back on my fallen perch, I complete small sketches of the trees above the plaque.  The thin, silvery branches of the beech tree have almost lost their yellow leaves and yet the broad oaks seem to jealously guard their dark green foliage.   Jet occasionally comes over for a pet or a treat, but he seems content just to laze around. Feeling cooler,  I check the time on my phone and it’s 5.45pm. I really hadn’t noticed the time pass so quickly and my stomach rumbles in agreement. The light also appears to be fading quickly.  I pack up my things and call out to Jet, who bounds over to me and we set off back along the path. The journey back looks different in the waning light, gloomy and denser.  Jet chooses to stay by my side this time.  We reach a crossroads in the path-- two paths, one to the right and one to the left.  I paid so little attention to our route on the way here, as Jet was so obviously clued up, that I look at him to determine the way again.  He takes one step further and then plumps himself down right in the centre.

“Which way, Jet?” I ask.

He just looks up at me and thwacks his tail down.

“Come on, you.  It’s time to go home for tea; if we’re out any later Mr Piper will get worried.”

The tail thumps the ground again.

“Okay, so you don’t want to help.  Right then, it’s a good job that Mr Piper gave me this.”  I reach around to my back pocket and feel for the map, but it isn’t there.   I check my other pocket and it too is empty.  Further inspections of my coat pockets, bag, sketching pad also prove fruitless.  I must have left it behind, but I did a check of the clearing before we left for litter, so I know I didn’t miss anything.

“It must be here, somewhere,” and I begin the search again.

The sky is growing darker and the wind has got up, the leaves rustle noisily.  I look at the two paths, down at Jet and back at the way we have just come and then opt for the right hand path for no reason other than I had to pick one and right it is.  I start walking and Jet appears by my side again.

“So, you silly dog, I gather from your lack of protest that I chose the right one.”

He barks once and we continue our walk.  After another ten minutes or so, we seem no further on when we started.  I am sure it didn’t take us this long to get here earlier today.  We approach another footpath crossing and I hope Jet is ready to take the lead again.  However just like last time, he sits himself down and looks up at me and I swear he has a look of triumph on his saggy jowls. I take out my phone to check the time and it is now 6.19pm, the brightness of the screen reminds me how dark it is becoming all around.  I dial Mr Piper’s number, but get no tone and a message appears on the screen telling me there is no reception.  I have to say that I am beginning to feel a little nervous.  The light has almost gone, the branches are now swaying in the wind and large spots of rain have started to descend.

Looking at the two paths, I speak to Jet again.  “Okay, so if you won’t choose for the second time, I vote we go to the left.”

Five minutes later and I have my phone on just to use the screen light as a torch, not that it is much use.  It is now raining steadily and the wind howls around us.  A large crack of thunder makes me jump and starts Jet  barking madly.  I try to calm him, but he is so anxious and keeps spinning around.  I reach for his collar, to hold him steady, but I miss and he lurches forward off into the dark.

“Jet!,”  I run after him, back down the path from where we have just come.  I shout for him over and over, but every time I try to hear for his response the wind gusts making the branches creak and snap or the thunder bellows as lightening streaks above me, given me a momentary glimpse of my surroundings.  Terrified I have lost Jet, I  run on further, tripping several times, constantly calling for him.

A bang, so loud and hits so fiercely, it picks me up and shoots me backwards.  My head crashes against a tree and I bite my tongue, blood filling my mouth. I feel woozy and fight the urge to be sick, but pat myself down, looking for other injuries or burns, convinced that I’ve been hit by lightning.  When I’m sure that I’m okay, I drag myself up and stand even more disorientated.  I hear feint barking and follow it until I see a glowing light ahead.  Deep orange and red lights move about just in front of me, and I cautiously move forward towards them, curious and yet scared to find their origin.  The closer I get to the lights, the warmer I feel.  I can hear my own pulse in my ears but little else, as I hold onto my breath.  Closer still and the lights are not woodland sprites, or anything suitably paranormal.  Instead I am presented with the sight of a wrecked plane, the acrid smell of burning fuel and the quiet moans of a person trapped on board.

** Dedicated to @TanyaWood for reminding me I have other stories that need some tlc.**