I yawned, looking out the window into the front meadow. It had been a while since the demise of poor old Janet, but we were back from the hospital now, none the worse for our experience. True, I was going to have to wear a woolly hat to cover the patch of missing hair for a few weeks and use a walking stick until my twisted ankle recovered, but apart from that we had all been pretty lucky. Feeling a bit guilty about all the chaos I’d caused I decided to take another month off work and help Uncle Hobart get the barn straightened out again.
I jumped when he spoke from behind me. "'Ow's the stick then? Alright is it?"
He'd leant me his favourite walking stick so that I could get around easier.
"'Ad that stick thirty..."
"Years," I finished for him, still gazing through the window.
"Old Rustin Joyce..."
"Made it," I finished again.
I heard him clicking his dentures in annoyance and smiled to myself.
"Took 'im nearly three..."
"Weeks," I said, completing his sentence yet again.
"Months!" He crowed in delight, having caught me out. "Don't know nothing, do yer?"
"Months," I repeated, looking heavenwards at the passing clouds.
"Going out terday, then?"
Shaking my head, I turned to face him. "No. Why?"
"Oh, no reason. Just asking."
"What're you up to now, Uncle Hobart?" The wily old fox never asked anything without a good reason.
"Me?" He could look real innocent when he wanted to.
"Yes you, Uncle Hobart. Why the interest in my movements all of a sudden?"
"Well, it's just that I've got someone coming over ter see me, that's all."
"Oh?" I responded, raising my eyebrows. "Who's that then?"
He shrugged, sitting down at the kitchen table. "No one in particular. Just some geezer from the noospaper, that's all."
Walking over I leant across the table to question him further, inadvertently putting my hand in the middle of his half-eaten breakfast. With the aid of a congealed fried egg my hand slid across the plate and off the edge of the table to land smack in the middle of his lap with my full weight behind it. I must confess that up until then I'd never realised Uncle Hobart could swear in three different languages. After this little episode I thought it would be a bit unfair of me to question him any further so I exited quickly, leaving him hobbling around the room still cursing under his breath.
*
Later that afternoon, I was pulling rogue barley in the bottom field when I spotted two men standing by Dyke's Corner. By the time I'd managed to struggle my way down they'd already left and were making towards the farmhouse. I resolutely followed, cursing my twisted ankle all the way, finally arriving at the farmhouse to find them ensconced in the kitchen drinking beer with Uncle Hobart.
"Where've yer been then?" he asked as I limped in.
Glaring at him I sat down. "Chasing bloody ferrets! Where'd you think I've been?"
Ungraciously grabbing the can of beer Uncle Hobart held out I pulled open the tab, cursing fiercely when the frothy liquid shot out and hit me full in the face. I could see that our guests were doing their best not to laugh, unlike Uncle Hobart who appeared to be enjoying every second of my discomfort.
"Careful, Peter boy," he spluttered between laughs. "I think I may 'ave accidentally shaken the can a bit."
Wiping froth from my face, I dutifully laughed along with him.
"These gents're from the noospaper," he said, pointing across the table.
I nodded at the reporters, wondering what they were doing here.
"You're uncle's been telling us about his Crop Circles," the shorter of the two men told me.
I glanced at Uncle Hobart with raised eyebrows.
"Ternight," he nodded, clicking his dentures in acknowledgement. "Ternight in the bottom field."
Shrugging my shoulders I took a drink, trying to figure out what he was up to now. Crop Circles in the bottom field were news to me.
"The name's Dave," the other reporter said, holding out his hand. "This is Tony, he's the photographer."
"Photographer, right." Glancing at Uncle Hobart again, I could see he was busy studying something under his fingernail.
In the end I gave up trying to figure it out and sat silently sipping my beer. A familiar feeling had started in the pit of my stomach; that queasy feeling that warned me Uncle Hobart was up to no good. Pushing back my chair, I stood up, now was as good a time as any to make my escape. "I'm going down to the village to get some shopping," I said by way of explanation.
Uncle Hobart slapped some money on the table. "Get us some more beers while yer there will yer? I've a feeling we're going ter need some afer the night's out."
Sighing under my breath, I picked up the money before heading for the door.
*
I spent the afternoon shopping in Ealford village and the evening getting a nice haze on in the Duck and Anvil. Not wanting to chance my arm with the local law, who'd have been only too pleased to have an excuse to pull me in, I decided that I'd better leave my car and collect it next day. Hiring a cab I set off for home.
It was a pleasant evening so I got the driver to drop me off at the end of the lane, reasoning that the walk would clear my head. Nearing the farm, I thought I heard the sound of voices on the evening breeze but when I stopped to listen I could hear nothing and decided that it must have been my imagination. Pushing on, almost at the farm gate, a bat unexpectedly flew out of a nearby bush, making me jump. Stumbling backwards I tripped over my walking stick, landing on the ground with a painful thump.
"What's that?" I heard a muffled voice ask.
I sat up, quietly listening.
"Probably a fox or some'at," another, more familiar voice answered.
Struggling to my feet, a childish urge suddenly overcome me. Crouching down, creeping forward as quietly as I could, I reached the gate and the voices became clearer.
"... 'appen ternight, yer can bank on that," Uncle Hobart was saying. "Got the gift yer see. Got it off me old dad - God rest 'is soul. I can always tell when the circle's is coming."
"That right pops?" The reporter answered. "And when will that be exactly?" I could hear the sarcasm in his voice.
"Don't yer call me pops, yer young whipper-snapper!" Uncle Hobart retorted.
"Sorry, no offence meant," Dave soothed him. "I was just trying to find out when they're coming, that's all."
The sound of Uncle Hobart's clicking dentures floated to me on the night air and I shuddered. That particular sound always made me feel like someone was walking over my grave.
"If I tell yer that, then yer'll know as much as me, won't yer," he snapped.
By now, I was only a couple of feet away and could see their outlines in the gloom.
"I hope you're not trying to get more money out of us," came the reply. My interest rose at the mention of money and I carefully climbed over the gate, trying to get a better view. "Because if that's the idea, you can forget all about it. We've given you more than enough already."
"Money?" I shouted at the trio. "What money?"
The effect of my appearance out of the gloom was quite stunning. Uncle Hobart fell over, clutching at his chest. Dave gave a muted scream, turning a horrid shade of grey, and Tony stumbled backwards, dropping his very expensive looking camera. I could see the tears form in his eyes as the lens shattered on a stone, but admired his restraint when all he said was, "Shit!"
Dave was the first to recover. "Never mind, Tony," he commiserated. "If the old man's right, you've got time to nip back to the hotel for your spare."
"Er... look," I said, stepping forward out of the darkness. All eyes turned in my direction. "What's all this about money? What's going on?"
Tony wiped his face, making a long muddy streak down his cheek.
Uncle Hobart frowned, pointing at Tony's forehead. "Yer've missed a bit, over yer left eye," he said.
Tony wiped his forehead, spreading the mud even further, making his face look as though he was going on army manoeuvres.
"Will somebody please tell me what the hell's going on," I demanded, quickly becoming impatient watching Tony play 'patter-cake' on his face.
"We've paid your uncle for a story on the Crop Circles," Dave explained, "and now he's trying to screw us for more."
"And you believed all that rubbish?" I asked in an incredulous tone.
"Well, even if it's not true, it'll still make a good story," Dave stated. "'Old Man Fails to Raise the Circles!' You know the sort of thing."
"But that's ridiculous," I protested. "I mean, you haven't even..."
"There's more to life than Wort," Uncle Hobart's voice cut across me. "As me old dad used ter say - God rest 'is soul."
We all stared at Uncle Hobart, while Dave asked him whether his old dad - God rest his soul - had been drunk or sober when he'd made such a world shattering observation.
Ignoring Dave's sarcasm, Uncle Hobart tuned away and clicked his dentures. "Just wait, you'll see," he muttered under his breath.
*
An hour and a half later we were back in the field, cleaned up and full of beer, sweeping our torch-beams around, searching for signs of movement. It brought to mind the the happy times I’d spent camping out with my parents as a boy. Pushing these thoughts to the back of my mind I looked out over the gently waving cereal heads, my breath faltering when I spotted two overlapping circles of flattened wheat. Another smaller circle was forming a short way off, even as I looked.
"Hey! Over there!" I shouted, pointing across the field at my find.
Uncle Hobart came up beside me, his gruff voice sharp in my ear, "Told yer, didn't I? It's the gift yer see. It never lets me down." Nudging me with a bony elbow, he nodded in the direction of the circles. "I'll tell yer some'at else too. There'll be more next week, yer see if there ain't."
The reporters decided to call it a night after nothing else happened for some time, and arrangements were made for them to come back with some recording equipment the next week. And of course, an extra payment for Uncle Hobart!
*
I spent a large portion of the following week trying to find out how Uncle Hobart had pulled off the trick with the circles but he was keeping very quite about it. All I could get out of him was, "It's the gift yer see. The gift from me old dad - God rest 'is soul."
I finally gave up, concentrating on getting some work done instead. My ankle was a lot better now and I could get about without using the walking stick. I was so busy that the days flew by and before I realised it, it was time for the reporters to come back.
Exactly one week later, as the farm cat left the comfort of the kitchen aga for its nightly hunt, four figures were huddled by the fence of the bottom field, on watch for more corn circles to appear.
"Not long now, you say?" Dave checked with Uncle Hobart, looking at his watch. "Better get the video equipment set up Tony, I want a recording of this." Turning back to Uncle Hobart, Dave rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "You did say eleven thirty, didn't you?"
Looking at my watch I saw there were three minutes to go and could feel the tension mounting as we all looked around expectantly. Everything was quiet, even the owls seemed to be holding their breaths.
Then suddenly Uncle Hobart shouted, pointing with his stick. "There, in the far corner. Over by the drinking trough."
I could see the wheat waving about in a gentle pattern as from a central point it began to flatten in an outwardly moving spiral, gathering speed as it went.
"You getting this, Tony?" Dave checked.
I pointed excitedly at another part of the field. "Look, there's another one!"
We watched in stunned silence as another circle formed in the opposite corner of the field, holding our breaths as the drama unfolded before us. We stood stock still, transfixed for perhaps ten minutes.
"What the hell's that?" Dave broke the silence as a couple of furry shapes flashed past his foot.
"Rabbits?" I suggested, as Uncle Hobart mumbled something under his breath. "What's that?" I asked, but before he could answer, a line of flattening wheat broke away from the main circle, heading straight towards us.
"Hey, what's happening? Watch out, it's coming this way!" Dave's voice held an edge of panic.
As the commotion reached us, we all stumbled backwards in confusion and I tripped over the video tripod, landing in a heap with the camera lens halfway down my throat. By the time I'd managed to untangle myself, Uncle Hobart had disappeared into the darkness. The wheat parted in front of us and a rabbit shot out, closely followed by two of Uncle Hobart's collies. Attached to their collars by long pieces of bailer twine were heavy metal trays.
"We've been conned!" Dave shouted. "The crafty old sod's pulled a fast one on us Tony. He's trained his ruddy dogs to make the circles!"
We looked at each other and burst out laughing, and we were still chuckling when we finally made it back to the house. Uncle Hobart was sitting at the kitchen table clutching a can of beer, a broad smile spread across his face. "'Ad yer going there, didn't I?" he greeted us as we trooped in. "'Ere, 'ave a beer."
*
By the time that the reporters had finally packed up their gear and left, it was six o'clock in the morning and I was dog tired. The only sign of their visit was the video tape they'd left. Uncle Hobart and I sat by the fire drinking beer and talking over the night's events. He kept chuckling to himself and I had to admit that it did have its funny side, especially as they’d let him keep the money. The reporters said it had been worth every penny.
Uncle Hobart tapped the video tape with a dirt-encrusted fingernail. "'Ow about I send this ter that programme on telly? Yer know, that Yer've Been Maimed programme that Beadle bloke does. Reckon 'e'd love that close-up of yer tonsils when the camera got rammed down yer throat." Opening another can of beer, he pulled a face, squirming about in his chair.
"What's up?" I asked. "You've been wriggling around like a bear with a sore backside ever seen those reporters left. You got fleas or something?"
Sticking his hand down the back of his pants, he scratched about for a moment, then grimaced. "Think yer might be right there, Peter boy," he said. "Me bum's itching like 'ell. Do us a favour and take a look at it fer me, will yer?" Standing up, Uncle Hobart dropped his trousers and turned his scrawny buttocks towards me.
I poked one. "Is this where it itches, then?"
"Aye," he nodded, trying to look over his shoulder.
I started to chuckle.
"What? What is it?" He asked.
I waited awhile before answering, just long enough for him to come to the boil. "It's poetic justice is what it is," I finally muttered under my breath.
Not catching what I said, he began jumping up and down like a spoilt child, his buttocks jiggling in time with his movements. "Will yer bleedin' tell me what it bleedin' is!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
Sitting back in my chair, I looked him straight in the eye. "Oh it's nothing to worry yourself about really," I replied, but my smile belied my statement.
Uncle Hobart face darkened and he shouted again, even louder this time. "What? What is it? What's the matter with me?"
"It's ring worm," I shouted back with a satisfied smirk. "You've caught bloody ring worm. Now wouldn't you say that's poetic justice?"