Such a lovely village, with its stream, thatched and ancient stone cottages, village green, pub, and just enough shops and cafes to cater for locals and visitors alike. The main road diverts the bulk of the traffic, leaving the heart of the village as a serene idyll. A safe haven you might say. A place of peace and serenity.
Look closer, listen to the gossip and you’ll learn that the parish council suffers from in-fighting and is constantly at war with itself, the manager of the local care home has just been made redundant having worked there for over 20 yrs., (she didn’t want to retire as she loved her job), the proprietor of one of the cafes has fallen out with the owner and refuses to give up his lease, and the book group has been barred from another cafe following an argument about disabled access. The two C of E. churches have been at loggerheads for years, fighting over dwindling congregations. New arrivals occupying houses on the recently constructed estates which fringe the village have put a spanner in the works as far as some of the older inhabitants are concerned. The latter cling to how things have always been rather than accept changes proposed by the incomers.
No one notices the man checking into the caravan site by the old, disused railway line. One or two of the older locals might have recognised him or thought he looked vaguely familiar, and they may have recollected an explosion at the chemical factory further down the valley. But that was all a long time ago. At the moment they have more pressing issues to deal with. David, (not his real name) is just one more Autumn hiker with his sturdy boots and rucksack, on holiday to tramp the moors.
His first job was to dam the stream where it flowed away from the village. He chose a spot hidden by a copse in a small hollow. The structure needed to look as natural as possible, as if branches and debris had been carried by the current. It shouldn’t be too efficient either. David needed a slow build-up of the water level to give him time to locate the toxic waste overflow pipe from the factory. He’d found a map of the plant on the internet, a relic of the joke investigation following the explosion. There was no doubt in his mind that there’d been a cover-up and his family had suffered as a consequence. Compensation was a long time coming and hardly worth the wait when it finally arrived. His father was maimed for life and the family thrown upon hard times which in turn scarred his mother. The villagers were sympathetic and supportive at the outset but soon diverted by their own problems and more or less left the family to fend for itself. David felt little guilt for what he was about to do.
The chemical plant was still in the same location, looking almost innocent in the autumn sunshine. There were the usual notices warning of the dangers it held beyond the high, wire fence and the CCTV cameras. David suspected these so-called deterrents were merely cosmetic. He hoped the factory had been established so long that health-and-safety had lapsed into complacency. Still, he’d need wire cutters, clear nights and luck.
It took him a week. Seven nights on the trot to suss out the movements of the security guard, estimate the coverage of the CCTV cameras, locate the waste disposal pipe and damage it sufficiently to enable the toxic overflow to drip into the stream. Twice he came near to discovery when the guard changed his habitual movements, but, as the factory had become so much part of the landscape in recent years and no one was expecting sabotage David got away with it. He lay low in his caravan and waited for rain. He didn’t have to wait long.
The gamekeeper, out at first light with his dog, was the first to notice that the stream appeared to have changed colour. He kept his dog on a tight lead, away from the water as daylight increased and he could confirm his suspicions. He rang the environment agency’s emergency number and got in touch with the chair of the Parish Council. As villagers living alongside the stream were evacuated, the village itself was cordoned off, the stream became contaminated to the extent that toxic fumes emanated from the water and police covered in PPE fought the press who had materialised from nowhere, David left as quietly as he had arrived, dumping his false identity in a garbage bin before abandoning his hire car and catching a train to London. His flight from Heathrow took him to Menorca where he joined his Mother. The chemical factory was shut down, pending an urgent inquiry.
The clean-up took months, during which the village, united against a common foe, began to work as one. The Parish Council forgot their internal differences and organised a joint committee to oversee operations. The ex care home manager put all her experience to work, tending to the elderly, many of whom had been evacuated, while residents of the new estates opened their doors to evacuees (until their homes were deemed habitable) and new friendships were formed. The cafes, devoid of summer visitors and passing trade offered discounts to anyone and everyone working to restore the village to its former glory and the churches united, holding joint services to pray for those suffering respiratory problems following the disaster, and thank God the problem had been spotted in time to avoid a death toll. The gamekeeper, kitted out in full PPE, was charged with scrutiny of the stream and liaison with the environmental agency. Christmas, even though the village was still locked down, was one of the most joyous anyone could remember.
ONE YEAR LATER
Such a lovely village, with its stream, thatched and ancient stone cottages, village green, pub, and just enough shops and cafes to cater for locals and visitors alike. But look closer, listen to the gossip ————-
This village could be anywhere within reach of the North York Moors.
(c) 2024 Katya Marsh.
