We made progress. Life was good.
ROUGH STUFF
I'D GONE TO the hardware store in the village to buy nails, special oil mix for the mower, electrical plugs, yet more white paint—general bits and pieces—parking the Passat in the small but adequate car park at the back of the high street. A few faces had become familiar to me because of my frequent sorties into Cantrip over the past couple of weeks, and one or two of the villagers even nodded hello as I walked around to the shops. I suppose that, as in all small communities, word had soon got around that Midge and I were the new occupants of Gramarye; I'd certainly become used to the occasional odd stare, so it was nice to be acknowledged now.
It was midmorning and the store wasn't very busy. Taking a metal basket from the stack by the door, I strolled down the short aisles between shelving, reaching for the items I needed as I passed and naturally dropping in other articles that I thought might come in handy at some later date (funny how they rarely do).
I was examining various "super" glues wrapped in plastic cocoons and suspended from metal prongs like chrysalids, wondering if the pupae would soon crawl out and take wing, when the gruffness of someone's voice broke through the daydream.
The cash counter was behind the shelf where I stood and I sauntered around, curious but ready to pay my bill anyway. The gruff voice belonged to the shopkeeper, a burly man called Hoggs, someone I'd always found very genial (I'd become a regular customer for my not-too-ambitious DIY enterprises), so it came as a surprise to find him in this brusque mood.
A girl stood at the counter with her back to me, her hair in braids and wearing a loose shirt and long patterned skirt.
The thongs of her sandals curled above her ankles, tying just beneath the hem of the skirt. A metal basket was on the counter before her and the shopkeeper was grumpily delving into this and totting up the price of each item on the cash register. The girl herself was holding aloft two items—I couldn't make out what was inside—and I think she must have been asking which one was best for the particular job she had in mind. His reply had been something like, "You'll have to find that out for yourself, won't you?" and I suppose I was mildly shocked, having found him so affable before.
To her credit, the girl merely handed him one of the tins and returned the other to a nearby shelf.
Hoggs caught my eye, then quickly looked heavenward to show me his vexation. As the girl came back I saw she was pale, almost sallow-skinned, with a blankness of expression that either masterfully disguised her chagrin, or was a true reflection of what lay beyond. She dipped into a canvas shoulder bag and drew out a purse, while the shopkeeper removed the remaining goods from her wire basket, clonking them onto the counter with obvious ill-humor.
I felt sorry for the girl when she meekly handed over money after he had all but barked the amount at her. Her purchases were transferred to a plastic carrier-bag and she hurried from the store, barely glancing at me as she sped by.
Planting my own metal basket on the wooden counter I regarded mine host with some trepidation.
"Morning, Mr. Stringer," he greeted me, and I was heartened by the resumed friendly tone.
I jerked my head toward the now closed door. "Problem with paying her bills?"
"Eh? Oh no, nothing like that," he assured me, a trace of irritation still in his voice. "She's one of that mob, that's all."
"Oh yeah? What mob is that?"
He stopped removing items from my basket to give me a puzzled look. His face was wide and toned a ruddy pink, as though he hadn't had enough time outside to catch the summer's sun properly. "No, of course you prob'ly wouldn't know 'bout them yet, would you?" He shook his head and a firm finger stabbed at a key on the old-fashioned cash register. "She's from the Temple, one of them . . ." the cling of the till again ". . . Synergists." Hoggs looked up again. "Bloody silly name, that."
I nodded a considered agreement. "What does it mean exactly?"
"Mean? Means they're a bunch of crackpots, that's what it means." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "We don't like 'em, Mr. Stringer, not their sort. Bringin' their funny ways and ideas down here. We don't want 'em."
"They belong to a religious cult of some kind?" I was already beginning to make the connection: the girl would have fitted in well with Hub, Gillie and Neil.
"Somethin' like that, don't know what, though. We just don't want their sort clutterin' up our village, beggin' for money."
"They beg?"
"Well, almost. Sell things, you know, things that people don't really want. Weave baskets and mats and such. Then they try to convert our youngsters, drag 'em off to their Temple so-called. Somethin' not right about that bunch, I'll tell you that for nothin'."
"And they all live out at that manor house I've seen tucked away in the forest?"
"Croughton Hall it used to be called, not no more though. They've turned it into some sort of church now, their bloody Synergist Temple."
I groped for my wallet. "I guess they're harmless enough."
The way Hoggs looked through me made me feel like the world's biggest buffoon. He told me how much I owed, took the money, then turned away. "I'll find you a box for all that stuff," he said, walking to the end of the counter and reaching beneath it.
With my goods loaded, I bade him a simpleton's farewell and left the store, the cardboard box tucked awkwardly under one arm.
So my slight unease with our three newfound friends hadn't been totally unjustified. Even so, they appeared innocent enough and possibly it was only the poor image the media gave such cults that made me wary. The girl in the hardware store had certainly been innocuous, even though she'd had good cause to retaliate against Hoggs's blunt rudeness. I suppose it took many years for outsiders to be accepted in such a quiet and reasonably remote village as Cantrip, so an organization that appeared to be steeped in an obscure religion was bound to have problems. What the hell was a Synergist anyway? There were plenty of other strange religions floating around, but this was a new one on me. Was it genuine or lunatic? Or genuinely lunatic? Kinsella and his companions seemed sane enough, and hardly religious zealots (although their forceful sincerity was a little off-putting).
Well, Midge and I were no longer that young and impressionable, so what did it matter if they chose to drop by from time to time? Didn't matter at all.
I'd rounded the corner of the narrow turning that led into the car park, heading for the Passat which was tucked away at the far end, when I caught sight of the girl again. She was standing by the now familiar Citroen, and she wasn't alone. The hatchback of the car was open and she and Gillie Slade were loading up. Both were stony-faced as three youths paid them unwanted attention.
As I drew near, I saw that the boys—I guessed their ages at no more than fifteen or sixteen—were what could best be described as watered-down punks: spiked hair, torn and bleach-stained jeans, lace-up boots. Even in the hot weather, one wore a studded leather jacket, while his two friends had on ripped and can-sprayed T-shirts. Life down on the farm has changed, I told myself.
Leather-jacket was dancing around the girl I'd seen in the shop, tugging at her braids and chortling at his companions in the gormless way of his type. One of the others was snatching at the basket that Gillie was trying to put inside the car, while punk 3 was standing around picking his nose.
Now me, I'll run a mile from trouble any day, and ladies in distress cut no ice. I wondered if they would be too preoccupied to notice me. Had I forgotten to buy anything from the shops, giving me an excuse to turn back? Even for me, that was a little too cowardly. I walked on, pretending I hadn't noticed anything.