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DAMSON'S TALE

by Susan Thomas


Prologue


Frugal Valley Community Trust

This brief background note is intended for those wishing to apply for membership.

Frugal Valley has been inhabited since Anglo-Saxon times. By the 1930s the valley consisted of a number of farms and, in the centre of the valley, the small village of Frugal served by a church, two pubs, a school and several shops. In 1939, at the outbreak of war, the War Office commandeered the whole valley for training purposes. The inhabitants were relocated elsewhere with the promise of returning when the war ended. That promise was not kept. In 1947 the land and village were purchased outright by the War Office using compulsory purchase orders. In 1995 the Ministry of Defence decided the valley was no longer required and sold the valley and all buildings to the Frugal Valley Community Trust.

Members of the trust rebuilt or refurbished the neglected buildings and farming recommenced. The trust does not intend to be self-sufficient. Members of the trust include those who work outside the valley and commute. The average educational attainment and income of trust members is higher than the national average. Trust members must be eighteen or over and may be of either sex. Children of trust members may apply for membership on reaching their eighteenth birthday.

Although it is not a condition of membership, the church is at the core of our community. Those not in sympathy with that would be advised to give careful thought to their application. Trust members have a traditional view of relationships. Marriage is valued highly and husbands are regarded as the head of their households. High standards of behaviour and community participation are expected. Moderate and proportional corporal correction is used in our homes at the discretion of the head of the household. Those not in sympathy with its use should not apply for membership.




Chapter One

When I was little I longed to have a father, a daddy, like all my friends. I'd see them run to their dads and get lifted high in the air, squealing, and wished I had a daddy to do that. As I moved through primary school I began to see that a daddy could sometimes be very stern and strict, but it didn't matter to me. My daddy could make me stand in the corner with my hands on my head for being rude to Mum and I wouldn't mind. I saw my friend Megan-Rose do that when she was very rude to her mum; her dad sternly told her off and made her stand in the corner. I longed for a dad of my own even if he was strict. The fathers of my friends were very good to me but it wasn't the same. I still felt like that when I went up to secondary school and met Mary.

Mary's family belonged to a strange church in the town centre. The building was dated 1841 and was beautifully kept with an iron railing enclosing both the small church and a pretty garden. I can't remember the name but it was something like 'Particular Strict Baptist Church'. Mary's dad used to meet her after school; yes, even though we were now in Year 7. She'd run to him and hug and kiss him and I was jealous, very much so if you want the truth.

Mary and I were best friends and she told me all her secrets. Her dad was very strict with her, not nastily strict, but she had to be polite and well behaved and she had jobs to do at home. If she behaved badly her dad would spank her. I was shocked but she just shrugged. She only got spanked when she deserved it and she loved her dad to bits. Anyway, he didn't call it 'spanking' he called it 'discipline'. I thought about it and decided I'd be happy with discipline if it came with a loving daddy package.

Mary's family moved and we lost touch, and as I moved into my teenage years I forgot about wanting a daddy. All my mum's boyfriends were total losers, although some were nice losers, and I wanted no part of them. I was sixteen, and it was early April, when my mum announced she was going out with a new man. Big deal, I thought, another loser that will come and go like the summer rain. I took little notice because I was busy. Nearly the end of Year 11 and with twelve GCSE subjects I had more than enough to do and a part time job as well. The man's name was Matthew and I knew only that he was down on business from somewhere up north. Mum seemed more than usually enchanted with him but I had so many exams coming up I just ignored it all. Then he was gone back home but Mum took a week's holiday from her job and announced he was coming back but with his son.

I assumed the son was a grown man, an adult, and involved with the business. I was just on the tail end of my exam schedule and could not have cared less about my mum's feller or his son. She told me that come Sunday she was going out with him and I still didn't care. I had two more exams left and I was done. Then some of us Year 11s were helping with the induction programmes for the new Year 7 and going ourselves for induction to the Sixth Form College where I was going to do A-Levels.

I had planned to ignore Matthew, but when he arrived, Mum suddenly came to my room and breathlessly said, "Matthew has something he needs to discuss with me. We'll be about three hours. Will you be a treasure and entertain his son?"

"Stay here with a grown man on my own?! Not bloody likely. Tell him to go to the pub or something."

She looked at me astonished. "You haven't listened to anything I've told you. Caleb is eight years old."

"What! Mum, I am in examination mode. Do you seriously expect me to listen to all your drivel about another of your losers? I can't even keep count of them all. Anyway, what do I know about looking after eight-year-old boys?"

"Please, Damson. This is so important."

I sighed, and followed her, expecting to see some surly, snot nosed, little toe-rag with a loser father. I got a shock. Matthew was over six foot and built like an athlete. He was, I guessed, around forty, with curly hair which was fair like mine. He had vivid blue eyes and no visible tattoos or piercings, which made a change. His clothes though, were clearly not those of a loser: casual, but quality, and worn with a stylish ease that showed he was used to wearing them. Then I looked at Caleb. Such a good-looking boy who had similar green eyes to mine and with my long eye lashes and hair colouring. In fact, we looked as if we were related although we weren't. What really got to me though was the look of worry on his face. He was staring at me and mum like we were monsters from a fairy story.

An idea hit me and I said to Caleb in a friendly voice, "Hi Caleb, I'm Damson. I was going to make a chocolate cake for tonight. Would you like to help me?"

He relaxed a bit, and nodded, so I smiled and held out my hand and he came to me. Wow! Damson the Pied Piper. I looked at the two adults. Mum looked proud and pleased. Matthew looked anxious. I decided we needed to get them out.

"Well," I asked rudely, "what are you two hanging around for? We've got a cake to make." I heard Caleb giggle, and Mathew looked displeased, but they went and we got to work.

Although I showed Caleb what to do, and supervised everything, I let him make the cake. He enjoyed it so much. He relaxed more and more. I even showed him how to crack the eggs and he did it quite well in the end. I showed him how to put the cake in the oven safely and then I asked him, "Would you like to lick the bowl?" I used to love doing that when I was little.

He was scraping the bowl clean and licking energetically when he looked up and said, "I remember my mum letting me do this."

Of course! Matthew was a widower. I asked, "How old were you when your mum died?"

"Four. I don't really remember much but I do remember doing this."

What do you say to an eight-year-old on that subject? I said, "Well, that's a lovely memory for you to treasure. Now every time you lick the bowl, or eat a chocolate cake, you can remember your mum."

He nodded seriously and carried on licking. I breathed a sigh of relief. I kept him busy with washing up and making the chocolate butter cream but finally the cake was done and they still weren't back. What to do with him? It was pouring with rain outside so the park was out. Now I love art. One of my A-Level subjects was to be art and I just asked casually, "You don't like drawing I suppose?" Well he did and soon we were sitting at the table and he had real ability for a boy of his age. I was able to help him and he took it into his head to sketch an old wall clock of my granddad's while I sketched him. We were like brother and sister, not only looking similar, but loving art as well.

He didn't look at me but said, "You know my dad is going to ask your mum to marry him?"

I nearly fell off my chair. "What makes you think that?"

"I heard him praying out loud about it. He hasn't said anything to me but he will ask her. Will that make your mum my mum?"

"If it happens it will make my mum your stepmum and me your stepsister. Big if though, Caleb."

"Will she discipline me?"

Discipline! The years fell away and I remembered Mary telling me in secret about her spanked bottom. Surely this kid didn't mean that? Then another nasty thought: if they did marry, would he expect to discipline me? Anyway, I decided to divert this worry by doing my world-famous impression of my mum in a strop. It begins with rolling up my sleeves and raising my voice to a high-pitched shriek. I goose stepped around saying daft things like, "Caleb, I have worked my fingers to a bone making you that dress, now you will wear it young man." I had him giggling helplessly especially when I told him that was my mum's discipline. That was how they found us when they got back; sitting, drawing, talking and giggling, over nothing really.

I could see by my mum's face that he had asked her to marry him and she had said yes. I was angry. Lord, now she had really taken her foolishness down to a new level. My mum sat on a chair and Matthew stood behind her. Caleb went and sat on the sofa, his face white. I felt sorry for him and sat down beside him putting my arm around him. He wasn't offended, in fact he cuddled into me, and we both waited. We heard their 'happy' news in dead silence.

In the end Matthew said, "Do neither of you have anything to say?"

"I do, I think you need to have a daddy-son talk with Caleb. If you hadn't noticed he is as white as a sheet. I certainly want to talk to my mother... in private."

In the end Matthew took Caleb in the kitchen-diner while I stayed with Mum in the living room.



© Susan Thomas
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.