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Circles |
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This is a short story I wrote in 2001 during a creative writing course at Marlborough College's Summer School. I adapted it for a Wiltshire writing competition in 2002 and won 3rd prize. CIRCLES Arthur Brown surveyed the rolling hills of the gentle Wiltshire landscape, his face as thunderous as the black clouds overhead. They had beaten him yet again. Stretching across the field of barley was the distinctive pattern of a cartwheel. It must have been approaching 200 feet in diameter with an eight-petalled flower in the centre, from which radiated sixteen perfectly straight spokes. There was no denying its beauty, but Arthur was not there to admire. He had to discover who was responsible for these crop circles, which had sparked off such hysteria in his local village. If he could solve this matter, he could return to his beloved garden. His garden, that beautiful acre in which he had spent so many contented hours before the village had been inundated with ‘croppies’, that strange breed of foolish creatures that scoured the country searching for meaning in crop circles. They’d taken over his local pub, where he no longer felt welcome. They tramped through the village in their muddy boots and left litter in his garden. They picked off the petals from his prize roses, presumably for their magic potions and perfumes. How would he win next week’s Horticultural Society’s Best Garden prize without his roses? And his lawnmower had given up the ghost several weeks earlier. He’d always prized himself on his lawn, the showpiece around which he had designed his immaculate flowerbeds. It was as perfect as the pitch at Wembley on Cup Final Day, the lines neatly drawn, not a weed in sight. But now? Now it was looking long and straggly, a few weeds had dared to raise their heads and the yellow of buttercups was scattered across the bed of green. He had less than a week to discover the identity of the creator of the recent circles in order to claim the farmer’s reward, which would be sufficient for the purchase of a new lawnmower. Emma hoped that their two-week holiday would rejuvenate the rather fragile relationship she was experiencing with Rob. He hadn’t been the same in recent weeks, rarely staying overnight at her flat. Rob’s excuses were all so feeble – ‘I’m tired’, ‘I have an early start tomorrow’, ‘I have to go away for a few days’. He couldn’t even be original! They were holidaying with their friends Matt and Sally who were such good fun that Rob couldn’t fail to regain his enthusiasm for life. She hoped. Arthur settled down in a dip on the grassy bank. He prayed he would strike lucky this time and had come well prepared with a flask of hot soup, a cushion, a blanket and his camera, sporting a powerful zoom lens he had bought some years ago before his health had forced him to take early retirement. It was late on Thursday evening and he had a hunch that something would happen that night, there having been no activity in the fields for the past few days. It was his last chance to claim the reward and buy that new lawnmower he had been coveting for several weeks now. If he didn’t, then there was no chance of taking the garden prize and the efforts of the past year would have been wasted. He made himself comfortable, poured out a mug of soup and prepared himself for a long night’s wait. Rob was feeling tired but Matt egged him on. ‘Come on, we won’t get another chance, what with the holiday on Saturday.’ ‘You’re right’, replied Rob. ‘And this one’s my chance to show Emma how I feel about her.’ They loaded the equipment into the van, a 30 metre surveyor’s tape, a 2 metre plank with rope attached to each end to form a loop, a two foot pole with a length of string fixed from one end and a small garden roller. Parking the van as far from the view of any passers-by as possible, they carefully piled everything onto a trolley and together they pushed it to the edge of the wheat field. Despite his fatigue, Rob felt that familiar thrill of excitement as he regarded the site of what was to be his last circle of the year. He thought of the beautiful love knot he had designed. ‘This one’s for you, Emma’, he whispered into the cool, clear night. ‘I’ll bring you here tomorrow’ his mind promised her. That should get their holiday off to a good start. He hadn’t told her about his activities before – how could he when she worked for the police? It could have been awkward for her, but now he had decided not to create any more circles, he felt it would be safe to tell her – show her, in fact. He and Matt made their way into the field by careful negotiation of the tramlines created by the tractor. It had taken a lot of hard work and preparation for them to reach such a level of proficiency. The pair worked well together and soon were well on their way to creating the love knot that Rob dreamed would one day be worn on Emma’s third finger. She loved Celtic jewellery and it was that which had inspired this design. She’d be so thrilled when he brought her to this spot tomorrow night. Arthur awoke with a start as cold soup trickled across his hand. He thought he saw a flash in the distance and peered through the heavy darkness, his eyes slowly adjusting to the night. As his vision became clearer, his heart started beating a little faster until he could barely contain his composure. There was someone there! He reached down for his camera and wound on the film, creeping forwards as quietly as he could. Click went the camera. Rob whirled round, to be assaulted by another click. ‘Run’, yelled Matt, almost falling over the ropes in his anxiety to escape capture. Click, click, click. Arthur kept on clicking, his camera recording the efforts of the two young men to flee the scene. He couldn’t believe his luck. Not only had he caught them on camera, but also he could get shots of the equipment and of the incomplete circle. When Arthur reached his home, he looked at the lawn, gleefully picturing himself cutting it with his brand new lawnmower. It was too early to contact the police and to get his photos developed so he settled down with a cup of tea and a bowl of weetabix. It gave him a strange pleasure to eat the results of a crop the same as the one he’d just finished photographing. At
10.30am, a hammering on his door woke Rob. He opened it to be confronted
by a uniformed officer waving something at him. It was a photograph of a
young man standing in a field of wheat, a plank under his foot. He
looked like a startled rabbit, his eyes bright with bewilderment. ‘Is
this you, sir?’ On his return from the police station, Arthur called in at his local garden store and purchased a new lawnmower. By the time the credit card company charged him he’d have received the farmer’s reward. He’d cut the grass in the morning and would win the Best Garden trophy. Saturday dawned and with it came rain, heavy, and leaving the air scented with grass. Rob rolled over and gazed at Emma’s face. It had been OK. She’d wound him up at first, saying she couldn’t go out with a common criminal, but when he’d told her about the love knot and had taken her to show her the fruits of his labour, she’d relented and hugged him joyfully. Arthur
was not so happy. His long grass was soaked and would clog the
lawnmower. There was nothing for it but to hope the rain would stop soon
and the grass would have chance to dry. He would have to cut it on
Sunday morning, rain or shine, even if it meant ruining his blades. His
gloom turned to optimism by late afternoon when the sun started beating
down on the steaming grass. It would be OK, it would all work out
alright in the end. He went to bed at 9.30pm, knowing a prompt start
would be essential. The sun rose early on Sunday morning. Arthur could see it streaming through his bedroom curtains. A perfect day for the garden competition. He would cut the grass and the judges would appreciate all the work he had put in. The sweet-smelling honeysuckle climbing and falling over the pergola, through which they would walk, would linger with them, reminding them that his was the best garden. He got out of bed and threw back the curtains. He couldn’t believe what he saw. A circle in the centre of the lawn he had been about to manicure into submission, from which three smaller circles each led to three more and so it went on. Forty perfectly formed circles, etched into the long grass. © Sue Melvin September 2002
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