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  THE SIEGE OF TRENCHER’S FARM

  THE NOVEL THAT INSPIRED

  STRAW DOGS

  GORDON WILLIAMS

  TITAN BOOKS

  THE SIEGE OF TRENCHER’S FARM

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857681195

  E-book ISBN: 9780857683021

  Published by

  Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St

  London

  SE1 0UP

  First edition: August 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Gordon Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 1969, 2011 by Gordon Williams.

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in the USA.

  To Peter Morgan

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  ONE

  In the same year that Man first flew to the Moon and the last American soldier left Vietnam there were still corners of England where lived men and women who had never travelled more than fifteen miles from their own homes. They had spent all their lives on the same land that had supported their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers and unknown generations before that.

  The neighbouring parishes of Dando and Compton Wakley formed such a place. Here, in the same generation that produced men who looked back at Earth from the blackness of outer space, existed Englishmen to whom the two hundred mile journey to London was an almost legendary experience, something that might happen once in a lifetime, if at all.

  Progress had brought only superficial change to the life of Dando. Farmhouses built three and four hundred years ago, when walls were made by trampling mud and straw, now bore television aerials on their chimneys. Horses had given way to tractors. The narrow roads of the parishes, their banks so high they were little better than tunnels with an open roof, now had metalled surfaces and at night the jinking lantern on the shaft of a wooden cart had been replaced by the low-angled searchlight sweep of motor-car headlamps. The children of the district no longer had to walk six or seven miles to and from the primary school at Compton Wakley; instead they were collected in the morning by a single-decker bus paid for by the County Education Committee and brought back home in the evening.

  Ancient inns to which farming men, generations of them, had walked three and four miles in the dark, after twelve hours toil in the fields, now sold mass-produced beer brought by lorries from the cities.

  Yet these changes were akin to the crippled wing which a hen plover drags over grass when man or beast approaches her nest. They were a disguise behind which the old ways and the old ideas lived on as before.

  The face of the short, squat man with the black hair on the tractor seat was identical to the face of the man who had worked the same ground a thousand years ago.

  At dusk on an autumn evening when the sky was a deep blue canvas smeared by fingers of flame cast by a burning sun, when haunting mists crept down from the dark hills of the moor, it was possible to stand by a wooden gate and look over fields and hedges and woods and see a farmhouse light winking across a shadowy valley and to think… of the men who had lived here before, of rough-clad armies coming over the bare brows of those same hills, of the savage fair-haired men who came from the sea, of kings and nobles on panoplied horses…

  Also at night, in the dim light thrown by a single, cobwebby electric bulb over the encrusted walls of a barn corner, it was possible to stand on a hard earth floor and drink cold, bitter cider drawn from mighty black barrels made by long-dead coopers who had talked among themselves of Napoleon Bonaparte. The tongues of the men who drank the cider were as strange to the outside ear as the dialects of foreign jungles. The names of the men were names that were written in the Conqueror’s Domesday Book, the same names that had lived on the same farms since Drake sailed from Plymouth to smash the might of Spain.

  Some of these men, it is true, had gone away from Dando to fight in the last war, the modern war. They had fought in African deserts and Burmese jungles and Italian mud. Yet, unlike the city men, they had come home determined to maintain the old ways, as though the modern civilisation they had seen was an alien land from which they had escaped. Some of these men who drank cider in the year of the moon rockets could not read or write: Some, if a stranger were present, could adopt the speech of the cities. Some could not.

  And some who could, would not. For there was a dark side to this corner of England. Cut off from the rest of that side of the country by low hills and served by roads no wider than a single motor car, the farmers and villagers had over the years come to regard themselves more and more as being apart from other people. Geography was one reason for the isolation of the two parishes. Poverty was another. The land here was poor. The men, whether they owned the land or worked for someone else, had to spend long, dreary days in the fields. Few of them could afford to go away to seaside towns for holidays – and neither did outsiders come to Dando, for it was not a city man’s idea of beautiful countryside. To the south and west lay the Moor. It, they said, had a climate all its own, a meeting point for cold rain-winds from the Atlantic Ocean. On the edge of the Moor, standing as it were between Dando and the sun, was the great bulk of Torn Hill. Even in summer Torn seemed to cast a shadow over the two parishes, robbing them of warmth.

  So the outside world tended to pass Dando by. And Dando people, either from pride or fear – if the two are divisible – preferred to stay within the boundaries of their own parishes, to be born there, raised there, wed there, and buried there. It was said that some of the older people, especially the women, could give a family connection between almost any two individuals in the area.

  Dando marries its own, was a local saying. In neighbouring towns this was often accompanied by knowing looks and the shaking of heads. Dando, they said, had married its own for too many years. And no closed family could be without its dark secrets. The few outsiders who did buy land within the boundaries of the two parishes might spend a lifetime without hearing these secrets, for some things could not be told to strangers and a stranger could be any man whose father
had not been born in the parish.

  The outsider might hear hinted references to things he did not understand. He might ask, for instance, why a certain pasture behind the woods which stood above the village of Dando Monachorum was called Soldier’s Field. He would be told that ancient history had it that a soldier was once murdered there. He would not be told that there was one old man still in the village who had been in the field the night the soldier’s head was hacked from his body by a hedge-cutter’s billhook. He would not be told that there were men and women who could remember their fathers being out that night, when the soldier came from the barracks at Plymouth and met twelve-year-old Mary Tremaine on the road from the ford at Fourways Cross… and how the men came from farmhouses and cottages and the Dando Inn when the soldier – a deserter, a man of some strength who had crossed the Moor on foot – was caught. Only the men who were there could tell what was in their minds as they slew the soldier, each man taking his turn with the billhook so that all would have taken part.

  The men of Dando, as the area of the two parishes was usually known, had been apart for a thousand years and more and when the outside world threatened them and their land they knew best the strength of their own apartness. A family had to guard its own secrets…

  TWO

  That morning George Magruder pulled back the red velvet curtains of the upstairs bedroom window to see the English countryside under snow for the first time. A foot or more had fallen during the night and apart from the black lines of the hedges and a few isolated trees everything was white from the little garden wall in front of the house right to the top of Torn Hill, whose great breast shape stood starkly bright against the darker grey of the sky. It was a cold, bleak scene. Nothing moved out there. He broke an icicle off the roof overhang, kneeling on the wide window ledge to reach out, his pyjama-clad arm feeling the biting cold of the east wind.

  He walked on bare feet across bare, polished boards to the bed where his wife, Louise, was still asleep. With his left hand he smoothed a few strands of long, dark hair from her face. As usual she slept with her mouth open, a habit he had failed to cure.

  On impulse he laid the icicle gently between her lips and bent over to kiss her cheek. She came out of sleep slowly at first, until her teeth and lips closed on the cold sliver of ice.

  “What’s that? Get it away!” she grimaced, her face contorted in apparently real horror.

  “Look,” he said, holding it up before her eyes. “It’s only an icicle.”

  “Is it meant to be funny or something?” She turned on to her back, her face away from him. “I was having such a lovely dream, too.”

  “We’ve had snow during the night. England looks distinctly Siberian.”

  She showed no enthusiasm when he told her to get up and see the snow. He went to the window.

  “It’s different from all those Christmas cards,” he said. “I can’t see any holly. Where’s the red-cheeked coachman and the robin redbreast?”

  “I hope the bloody road isn’t blocked,” she said, yawning. “This is the last day the butcher calls before the holiday.”

  “We might be snowed in for days and days. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

  “Not if we have to eat tins of catfood.”

  “You going to get Karen up? She’ll love it.”

  “I suppose so. That’s about all you can say for it, children like it.”

  He threw the icicle out of the window and went to the bathroom, which opened off the small, square landing at the end of the upstairs corridor. Karen was never at her best in the mornings, he told himself. He began to hum. The wind had blown snow in drifts against the right-angled wall of the old stable and garage, two buildings which, with the house, formed three sides of a square. The fourth side was the beginning of a long, narrow lawn which ran between high banks to a point wedged at the meeting of their own track road and one of the Knapman fields.

  As usual he shaved, although it was unlikely he would leave the house that day. It helped to freshen him up for the day’s work at his desk in the downstairs study. Sometimes he made a joke of this to Louise, saying that shaving was his equivalent of the Englishman dressing for dinner in the heart of the jungle. Since they’d come to live in Trencher’s Farm she had not been receiving these silly little jokes of his with her usual tolerance. Lately he’d been trying consciously to bring a little more astringency into what he liked to describe as ‘the furniture of their connubial conversation’. The icicle, he thought, had been a mistake.

  George and Louise Magruder had been married for nine years. For most of that time they had lived near Philadelphia in the United States, where he was a senior member of the English Department at the University of Philadelphia. They had met at the home of the Wilshires, Maurice Wilshire having married Louise’s sister, whom he’d met at Cambridge. This sabbatical year had seemed an excellent opportunity to combine two ambitions: her desire to take him to England to show him her country and his need to find a quiet place where he could write the final draft of his definitive study on Branksheer, the late eighteenth-century English diarist. Of course Branksheer was now part of the common transatlantic heritage and most of the useful papers were safe and secure in America, but it had seemed appropriate that the final version should be written in England. He had been hoping, perhaps childishly, that some of the atmosphere might rub off on him. He felt he knew everything there was to know about Branksheer without understanding a single thing about the man.

  They had advertised in The Times (of London) for a suitable house in the West Country and it was Louise who had plumped for Trencher’s Farm. A farm in name only, the land having been sold off many years ago, the house was a long, white-walled building with a study, sitting-room, dining-room and kitchen on the ground floor, and four bedrooms, bathroom and lavatory upstairs.

  The general effect was of a squat, immensely sturdy building designed to stand up to the worst winds and snow the Moor could hurl down on the two parishes. The clay and straw walls – a method of construction known as ‘cob’ – were two feet thick. In the main part of the house, which was said to date back four hundred years, the windows were little more than three feet square, as though the original builders begrudged every inch that didn’t give the inhabitants massive protection. Giant, smoke-blackened oak beams traversed the ceilings of the downstairs rooms. At the rear the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom formed an extension built on since the war, its walls of brick and its windows more in accordance with modern ideas. When they were inspecting the house George had pointed out several diagonal cracks on the matt white walls of the downstairs rooms, but the estate agent had laughed and said those cracks had probably been there since the days of Cromwell.

  They had taken a six months lease in the first instance at what Louise said was a fairly steep rent of twelve guineas a week. He had converted this into dollars per month (as rent was calculated in America) and found it remarkably cheap. However, having been married so long to an Englishwoman he was well aware of the reputation Americans had for money consciousness and he took care, when speaking to English people, not to boast about the deal.

  When he had shaved, his cheeks and chin tingling with Old Spice, he went back to the bedroom and dressed in his fawn Levis and red tartan shirt. For a man who was thirty-five and did nothing more strenuous than walk and swim he thought he was in pretty fair shape.

  “It’s my morning walk that does it,” he said to Louise, who was still in bed. She seemed bored. “I know you think I’m silly, my routines and all, but it isn’t as silly as you think. If I didn’t have a routine I couldn’t keep in the swing of the work.”

  “As the monk said to the abbess, you’re a creature of habit, George. Who are you keeping in good shape for?”

  “Who?”

  “What, then? D’you still think they’ll maybe ask you to run in the Olympics?”

  It was better to leave Louise alone in this mood. For a long time he’d been sure the difference in their nationalitie
s was of no significance, but in the three months they’d been living here at Trencher’s Farm she’d changed, somehow. Had she ever felt like a stranger in the States? He was sure she goddam well had not, but he certainly was beginning to feel like a stranger here in England, here in his own home.

  When they’d first arrived, he’d gone walking, to establish some kind of orientation. The obvious way was to turn right at the junction of their track and the “real” road, which was, admittedly, metalled but so narrow that when cars met one had to back up to a field gate or to one of the shallow indentations cut into the high banking. Having turned right, the road went downhill for about two miles, the longest two miles he had ever walked in his life, until it wandered into the village of Dando Monachorum. The name, he thought, was ridiculously at odds with the look of the place, which was not one of those thatched villages they used for British ads in the New Yorker. The name was the only picturesque thing about it.

  Louise had said she wanted to find a house ‘off the beaten track’, away from the ‘touristy’ parts. By Heaven, she’d achieved her wish. Any tourists who came to Dando Monachorum had to be nuts. There were seven or eight shabby cottages with low roofs, some thatched and some corrugated. There was a red-brick Methodist chapel, an ill-favoured building which, for some reason, seemed to have been built in such a way that all sides of it were always on the wrong side for the sun. There was a grey-stone school no longer functioning as a school and used for bingo on Monday nights and occasional village functions. And there was the pub, the Dando Inn.

  Louise had said the locals would take some time getting used to them, but he had seen no reason for encouraging mutual suspicion and one night he’d walked down to the Inn hoping to strike up some kind of thing with these fearsome villagers. The bar was smaller than their sitting-room. It contained seven or eight men and youths who seemed to do little drinking but a lot of dart-playing. He’d felt like a complete stranger who had walked uninvited into someone’s family home. The men stared at him and then turned their eyes away when he stared back and said good evening.