Ploughed Lines
Nowadays, people would prefer to leave than to live forever.
Last week, I found myself thinking about home. More specifically, where I grew up. For those who don’t know, Suffolk (one-half of East Anglia) is a region littered with quaint villages and rolling fields. It’s home to Ed Sheeran, Godric's Hollow and the aptly named Tractor Boys. But it’s Lavenham (Godric's Hollow) that grabbed my attention, with its wonky Tudor houses, surrounding fields and magical ties.
Driving through the countryside is the only way to find Lavenham, a village of leaning Tudor houses. It’s here that James and Lily Potter met their demise. But, unlike Rowling’s magical tales, life doesn’t have to end in the village. It’s one of those spots in the world not anchored to reality. But there's a catch. To cash in on longevity, you can never leave.
The countryside is a collection of empty fields and thatched roofs. To get the most out of it, you should step through those fields and pause to admire the thatcher's handiwork. Freshly ploughed soil has a perfume of its own. Rich, honest and welcoming. The last of the lavender is happy to feel you, too, as you brush past, cutting through the hedgerow. In the distance, a straw roof pokes over the horizon providing a sense of hope that it might be a pub. When you're in the middle of a field and see them, you ask yourself questions. Will they have a nice pint? Will they serve lunch on a Monday? Pubs work as the unofficial home to local politics and business. But whenever someone like me arrives, they become the tourist information office.
“Be careful when you walk through Parish farm,” the landlord explains, pouring a brown pint of ale. “The old man has a big dog, but it’s anxious and likes to jump at people with backpacks.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
Parish Farm is smaller than I thought after the landlord warned me about the dog. I’d wrongly assumed ‘big dog’ meant big farm. Three sheds encircle the courtyard that the footpath takes you through. The yard is concrete, with a dozen potholes marking hard work. A blue tractor’s rumbling in the middle, with its door open, waiting for the driver to return. In the far corner, two dogs are sniffing something on the other side of a fence. By the smell of it, pigs. They don’t give me a look at first, and I pass the tractor, thinking about the landlord laughing at my expense.
Unlike the city, which throws up a steady stream of anxiousness, the countryside does the opposite. Every few minutes you’re hit with a wave of peace, as if time has receded into a slower beat and the only things that matter are you and the neat lines ploughed in the dark soil. I can hear the dogs barking behind my back as I step off the concrete and back onto the muddied footpath. Over my shoulder, I see a man dressed in green mounting the John Deer. He sees me and tips his cap. I nod and carry on down the thin path.
A few weeks earlier, the same landlord told me about the immortal properties of Lavenham. But the story was so bold and bright that I’d forgotten to follow up.
“No point in leaving at this age,” one man says to another.
“You’re right. But Billy doesn’t believe in it, and every Christmas he's badgering me to come down to his place in Surrey.”
“You have a great big house. Why don’t you invite the whole lot up here?”
“I’ve tried that, but they don’t like to come since Marg died. It brings back bad memories.”
“But she didn’t die here.”
“That’s what I always tell them.”
“That’s the problem with this new lot. They’re too logical. Everything needs explaining.”
“And how do you explain him,” the one with a son named Billy says, nodding at the landlord.
“Harry Potter,” the other says, and they click their glasses together and down the last half of their pints. They leave in a hurry, jumping into the same land cruiser.
“What were those guys talking about?” I ask once I hear the jeep pull away. In another pub, one full of customers, I wouldn’t have. But here, it’s just him and I. It would be impolite if I didn’t.
“Oh, it’s a silly ol' thing.” He says, hoping I’d leave it at that.
“But it’s not, is it?” I prod.
“Well, that depends on who you’re asking’?” He says, scratching an old scar on his jaw.
“I’m asking you.”
“Argh, that you are. The story goes like this…" he says, rubbing his bald head like he’s searching for the memory in a filing cabinet.
Centuries ago, when this village was half the size it is now, a strange woman built a little house at the back of this inn. Back then, most of the clientele were travellers heading to the coast or a bigger market town. This woman was young and pretty. She wore dresses in colours no one had seen before and still performed Pagan rituals, dancing under the stars. When she muttered to herself, people heard foreign tongues they couldn't place. But despite her peculiarities, she was respected. The men loved her, even though most would never speak to her. The women admired her beauty from afar, copying her style with the last of their threads. But no one tried to get too close. Her eyes were said to be dark wells of passion, in which anyone could lose their mind.
One summer, after the harvest, when the labourers were beginning to leave, she was overheard making promises. It had been a great year, one of the best in the village. Even the woman’s small plot produced so many apples that some were left to rot in the orchards. After each day, the drinking became increasingly merrier, and for two weeks the surrounding villages swarmed our home. It was said that that year, whatever the date was, had been the best twelve months in the village's history.
“Shit,” I say and grasp my left arm. A slim red line turns crimson on my pale white skin. A blackberry bush. Ahead of me, a gentle descent until I hit a stream that divides this farm and the next. Or maybe they’re both Parish’s. Either way, I’m scanning the tree-winged line ahead for an easy crossing. Pigeons are cooing in their nests.
A few days before most of the extra help was due to move on, one spent the night with this woman. They were dancing in the inn, laughing and drinking. When the man emerged from her small house in the morning, he looked younger, with softer hands and smoother skin. His hair was darker and thicker, and his teeth white instead of brown.
Of course, he was asked questions. What, who, where, why, how? Everyone asked, and he gave them the answers he knew. But the 10 ales, the dancing, and the laughing had wiped his memory clean.
"It was her eyes," he said. Before he left, he promised he’d come back. But everyone heard what she told him in reply.
"That’s not how it works." If he wanted to keep his thick dark hair, white teeth and smooth skin, he had to stay. “Cross the stream, and you’ll turn grey. Work in another field, and your skin will light up and burn. Love another woman, and your teeth will fester and fall.”
But he didn’t listen. How could he? His life was movement, it’s how he fed himself and how he kept out from behind the iron bars. The whole town laughed along with him as the woman swore while he left, pulled along the dirt road by mules and rocking carts. But the second the wheels rolled over the bridge, his hair did turn grey, and it didn’t stop there. It started to fall out in clumps, landing on his lap with every rough bump on the road. He knew then that the rest of the prophecy would unfold as the woman had said, but it was too late to head back. He accepted his fate and started working in another field. After the first day, he caught a glimpse of his face in the reflection of a plate and saw his face covered in boils and deep wrinkles. He burst a boil in a vain attempt to regain his old face. But all it did was leave a scar on his jaw. His one saving grace was that with no hair and the skin of a leper, he could never find a woman to look at him, let alone love him.
A year later, he returned to the village and knocked on the small door behind the inn. The woman was as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so. But the village had turned on her now, calling her a witch after they’d heard about the man’s demise. Now they saw him a whole year on, and they were terrified. But no one dared to do a thing. She was all-powerful, and a confrontation with a witch might land you in a place you never wished you’d be. But even so, the man went knocking, ready to plead for mercy.
"Sorry," she said at the door, "I warned you."
"But darling, how was I to know your words were true? They were so… unbelievable."
"If you cannot bring yourself to believe in the unbelievable," she sighs. "How will the rest of them believe?"
That night, she returned to the inn, somewhere she hadn’t been since she’d danced with the man. The village was crammed along its wooden stalls and ducking under low-hanging beams. She walked in, greeted with silence. Even in a dark and smokey place, her dress was radiant, and her smile beamed. Somewhere in the dark, someone shouted "Witch!" but she was already drawing in a breath, and as the ‘ch’ echoed in the stale air, she began to sing. Her song was intoxicating, and within a couple of bars, the fiddler was accompanying her, and the inn shook with beating boots. How could a witch sing so beautifully and dance so freely? Witches were old and ugly. The man who had lost his hair and his fair skin stepped up to meet her and held out his hands for her to take. He did cross the river, and worked in another field, but he had never loved another woman. She smiled at him like she saw what he once had been.
The stream is clear and shallow, and I step over it with a single wide stride. Looking back, I can see two lines of apple trees and an old farmhouse hidden behind the old Tudor pub. To the left, Parish's farm and in the air, I can hear the rumblings of the tractor.
The two of them danced like no one had seen before. For hours the village watched, unable to pull themselves away from the scene. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped and bowed her head.
"I've heard the stories you have told about me. I've seen you stare and turn the other way when I walk by. But let us forget it all. I am in love. With a man, with a place and with its people. From now on, I give you all the same opportunity I gave my love. Stay here, with me and never feel the pain of age. Stay here and be beautiful. Stay here and dance with me."
"So that's how it goes. At least, that's what I remember. It was a long time ago," the landlord says, chuckling while he polishes a glass with a cloth.
"Do people still believe it?" I ask.
"Some do, some don't. But nowadays, people would prefer to leave than to live forever."
“And what about the woman?”
“That’s another story.”
“But, surely if the story is true. She’d still be alive.”
“Not if she left.”
Do you believe?
Love, Luke