Bitter Dregs...

1. Write about someone welcoming a stranger into their home. 

The hearth was polished and a warm, friendly glow came from the ambers below. The guest house, joined with the family dwellings at the farm, had been aired and scrubbed in anticipation of the new family moving in to help around the farm. The experienced farm hand was in his 50’s, and always wore a flat cap and characteristic tweeds, as were popular in the rural Yorkshire area, like right out of a movie.He was a stranger and only known by the CV he sent, so they knew nothing about him, really. His wife was care-worn with the typical rosey cheeks one would expect from a romanticized Bronte novel, but their real cause is exposure from too much wind and sun; hardly something to attract a Healthcliff-type hero to save the day. And the two teenage kids had the typical lackluster hair that sort of hung making no statement at all. They seemed, by all accounts, what one would expect to welcome into their home in rural Yorkshire; a plain, hard-working, stoic kind of meat-and-veg family that are the salt of the earth. What wasn’t known was a darker agenda that Flat Cap had in mind that belied his simple image.

The multi-generation of farmer families that had lived on this land had seen many workers over the decades. There used to be an abattoir to slaughter and feed the estate, and the farm had been the main food source to the beautiful mansion that was nearby as well as the neighboring village. It was a peaceful place, the kind that tourists came and took pictures of pretty window boxes and wild deer. Despite a small population in that village itself, many people came to see how quaint and Olde Worlde it was. The farm family was not wealthy, but just getting by, and was largely run by the son; despite his father firmly holding the reins. He lived with his wife and young daughters in a house conjoined with the new residence, as was the habit of having help live for free nearby so as to be accessible at all hours. The patriarch ruled the roost with an iron fist, although he could not do much of the work, and the matriarch kept the books and made hearty meals for the help. Yet, for some reason, something in her gut said not to offer this to the new help, despite the proximity. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up around the new family, something she could not put her finger on, so she didn’t extend the offer and instead just fed her husband and son the rich boundaries of the land…

Farmer father and son did not see eye to eye on much, and in a normal world the torch would have been passed to the now middle aged son, and the elderly father would retire,like normal people do. No, not in rural family farms in this part of the country; the work until they die. So the son was largely put upon, being the only one who could physically do the work. Rather than being in charge or even second in command,his salary was only minimum wage, and his work was often seven days a week, 12-16 hour days during harvest season. This took a toll on his marriage, and his wife had her nose out of joint, so rather than picking up the slack around the house, she bought stuff. Food and package deliveries were so commonplace, when the younger farmer was home, he was on a first name basis with the delivery men! The couple fought as a result, but the bottom line for either was a feeling of not being heard or appreciated. As husband and provider, his parents treated him like a child, and the wife resented all the time being ignored for little perceived gain. If not for the girls, the two would have split ages ago and done their own thing. But, for now, it was a matter of just getting through the day and trying to keep the young family afloat. The farmer wondered why his dad was hiring someone so old, when a younger back would have been more help to him, but his dad had a habit of hiring cronies that were his mates, rather than someone more qualified. Bright and sweet, and a little bit quiet, the son felt more daft and helpless, alternating with anger and frustrations, as his parents had him with the intention of being a farmhand and no other reason; he had many more talents to share to the world. Despite being at odds with the choice of employee, who would be second in command mind you, he had no inkling what this new employee was really after. The walls were paper thin, he didn't hear any fights or anything out of sorts, so he had no reason to suspect anything...yet.

As time went on, the younger farmer started to have a creepy feeling about Flat Cap; perhaps the ones his mum had picked up on. Whilst doing his work, he would get the impression someone was watching him, and would find a lurid stare, but chalked it up to old age and bad eyesight. The tension between him and his father grew over the years, as this new employee gained more power, made more money, yet it was the younger generation's job to do the actual work. 

In a small village, everyone knows everyone. They know who strangers are, the locals had been there for generations, and people all knew each other’s stories. There was the one about a pub owner that faked his own attack to claim it was brought on by someone of another race, only to find out he did it to himself! There was the one where someone was a ‘kiddy fiddler’ and the men in the village simply took care of it themselves and ran him out of town. People of all communities will quickly react and respond about pedophiles or rapists, and that’s why there are registered sex offender lists in many communities. But what about unwarranted attacks of the elderly; what then? Bit by bit, the word got out to the younger farmer, with actual victims sitting him down for a pint at the local pub, telling their story. When it got to half a dozen, the farmer was convinced, and the feeling he had of being stared at when Flat Cap glared over a cuppa, concentrating on the bitter dregs of the tea, his suspicions were confirmed. No, this wasn’t a case of latent homosexuality, or consensual relationships, but perhaps had manifested that way by Flat Cap to keep this facade. These were brutal attacks with unwilling victims, too old and too embarrassed to go to the police. 

The years marched on, and Flat Cap still was second in command. The stress of the farmer’s marriage had broken it up, and the stress in his own life with his father still controlling everything was taking a toll. Plus, the estate was expanding, and rumors were out that the farm would indeed become a car park and leisure area; the younger farmer’s new girlfriend stole the blueprints from work to give to him, less it be a surprise. And rumours stirred about the older farmer retiring, and announcing at a town meeting that he would close the farm, in essence not passing it to his son as was his birthright. Flat Cap kept working, but the light was finally shed on what he was doing, and his wife divorced him. If it had been a lifestyle choice, it would have been one thing, but it was the last victim, who was seen bloodied and with a new scar, that convinced him that these were crimes, and not crimes of passion. The elderly gent had been bashed with his own cane, and dragged off into the bushes unconscious by the now 60-odd-year-old farmhand. The scar trickled down his forehead and cheek, the silver tip of his own came being the weapon. He was utterly embarrassed and ashamed, and what all these men wanted was for Flat Cap to be fired; to not be part of a close-knit village. But the patriarch would have none of it. This last victim was so shattered, what with his wife’s recent passing, his children opted to put him in a home, not knowing the reason for his distress. He pressed no charges, like the others, and simply became someone else’s problem to look after him…

The younger farmer was approaching 50, dad was now 82, and the situation was never going to change. However, one day, Flat Cap suddenly decided to retire, effective immediately; he was 67. Was it that he knew things had come to light? Was it that without the cover of a marriage, he looked suspicious? Was it that his last victim or two had made threats to prosecute? Who knows. Rather than letting the son be in charge, or second in command, dad decided to hire yet another one of his old cronies, not retire, not give his son the reins, and carry on at status quo. The son had a dilemma; tell this story, and risk retaliation, carry on knowing the farm could close, hope and pray that one day, he would be King, or discover his own way in the world. His girlfriend pointed out the latter would be best and less stressful...they could live, out of the country if necessary, run a Tap House, live in Spain, write...but he should tell the story. That being of how one was ridden out of town, yet another stayed with no consequences to the bitter dregs...