England 2026 , livre ebook

Title Page
ENGLAND 2026
AFTER THE DISCORD



A Novel By
Roderick Craig Low



Publisher Information
England 2026 Published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Copyright © 2012 Roderick Craig Low
The right of Roderick Craig Low to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988. England 2026




Chapter One
The traveller left the road about half a mile from the village, pushed open a gate hanging lopsidedly from its hinges and made his way over a muddy field towards the river. His boots, misshapen and beyond repair, coldly welcomed the brown ooze as they repeatedly sank below the waterlogged ground. It had rained for a week, the field changing in that time from poor grazing to temporary riverbed, any animals long since removed for lack of pasture and fear of foot-rot. This day, however, had started with a swirling mist that hugged the bottom of the valley like smoke, followed by a shy, watery sun that dappled the leaves apologetically and, once again, rendered the hillsides green. Quickly, the map of the river was redrawn, the peaks and troughs of the field defined, the temporary lake an archipelago; then a broad bay; then a strip of fast-flowing water trapped behind a reef of strewn boulders and fallen trees interspersed with clumps of wiry grass.
The traveller gained the bank and turned in the direction of the hamlet. He paused for a moment to wipe his boots, dipping them briefly into the stream before turning them this way and that, vigorously slithering back and forth until the worst of the mud transferred itself to the sward. His face briefly reflected the pain he felt in his feet. In spite of this, and although the water was icy cold, he didn’t skimp on his ablutions. Making the best of his appearance was important to him.
From a distance, he looked strong, stocky and straight-backed, if a little short at about five feet six or seven. He was somewhat overdressed, perhaps protecting himself against the unreliable April temperatures. On his back hung a heavy grey pack, full of the hidden lumps and bumps of his existence. From a distance, he might have passed for being in his early sixties. Closer to, however, his lined face and liver-spotted hands added at least ten years to that initial impression. He was, furthermore, unshaven.
Wary of his situation but conscious of the importance of making his presence felt, he inserted two fingers into his mouth and whistled three times - three long blasts. He hadn’t risked the road for fear of an attack - too many places treated strangers with fear and suspicion - but long experience told him a well-advertised yet cautious arrival was the best policy. He entered a large copse, still skirting the riverside and blew through his fingers again. A dog barked, answered by another higher up the hill. A robin chattered nervously and made its clumsy escape from a bough above his head. The river bubbled over some hidden rocks and then curled sinuously between two boulders before spreading and slowing over a shingly bed. A small fish swam against the tide and then gave up the struggle, slipping into some reeds and marking his existence with a rhythmic shudder of his broad tail.
Like a heartbeat.
Walking on, the traveller made no attempt to hide his footsteps, but clattered and crashed his way through cut and fallen timber, stirring up a couple of rabbits that ran ahead of him in what appeared to be a random zigzag that he knew to be as predictable, familiar and well-trodden to them as any man-made road might be to him. He was nearing the village now, the stone-grey buildings, tall and short, windowed and windowless, lying like books on an untidy bookshelf tumbling down from the weathered church to the hump-backed bridge, obstructing the view of the valley beyond. The traveller whistled yet again but the note died on his lips as he caught sight of a figure watching from a walled garden a few yards from the water. The villager made no move and said not a word. In his right hand he carried a roughly-hewn club which he tapped thoughtfully against his thigh.
‘Good-day,’ said the traveller, as he moved forward, breaking through the last of the coppice and emerging onto a stretch of grass in need of its first cropping. After a long watchful silence, the villager spoke at last.
‘Stop right there. Don’t move.’
The traveller did as he was told and slowly spread his hands. ‘As you can see, I’m unarmed and I travel alone. I need a rest and a change of clothes and can work for them.’
The villager smirked. ‘You’re too old to work, stranger. Of what use could you be to us?’
‘I’m still strong and fit. I can repair walls and cut wood.’
‘And what if we’ve no walls to repair and no wood to cut?’
‘Then I’ll have to go on. I’ll leave after I’ve had something to eat.’
‘And what if there’s nothing to eat?’
‘Have we come to this? Nothing for a stranger to eat? No welcome for an honest traveller?’
‘Stand over there, by that willow,’ the villager ordered, pointing to a tree that bent crazily towards the river, its thirst for water slowly becoming its undoing. ‘I’ll speak to someone. We don’t take kindly to strangers here. Wait there. Don’t move or I’ll not be answerable. Understand?’
The traveller spread his hands again, this time in a gesture of resignation, before striding purposefully over to the drunken willow tree. He removed his pack, placing it gently on the grass before him and leant against the tree, partly taking the weight off his soaked and pained feet, and folded his arms; trying to look unconcerned. The villager, by his appearance in his early forties, strongly built, just over six feet tall, sandy haired and freckled, waited until the traveller was still, brandished his club by way of warning, and looked back over his shoulder once before he disappeared between two of the crooked cottages.
After a garden gate swung shut, all was silence, save the incessant bubbling of the river as it pulled in its shoulders to pass between the bridge abutments and the occasional chirrup from an invisible bird. Two ducks, silent but watchful, slowly revolved on a pool of calm away from the main flow of the river, the male in idle pursuit, nervous of interlopers and his mate’s infidelity. Every so often, she would shimmy her tail feathers coquettishly, then dip her head below the surface in practiced indifference.
The traveller stretched the cold out of his back and yawned. He hadn’t slept in a bed for five nights but was numb to discomfort. He had been on the road constantly since shortly after his wife died more than two years before. He had buried her himself and then, after a period of listless grief and guilt at things undone and unsaid, he left their home in search of the frayed strands of his life amongst the people he knew best.
He drew his pack closer to him and bent stiffly to undo a strap before retrieving a small image of his wife painted on wood years before by a neighbour. The colours were still bright but the surface was scratched, part of her face missing, her cheek and chin returning to base wood just as she would be returning to dust in that distant land. He wondered how long he would recognise her from the picture, how long before he would have to rely entirely upon recollection. Even now, that shift of loyalty was taking place. The portrait, so important and necessary to him in those early days of loss, was, after all, flat and unchanging, nothing but a poor representation, her expression frozen in oil and varnish, staring out at him with a too-perfect smile he did not remember. That was not how she had been to him, animate, laughing, her face mobile and warm; passionate when young; patient and kind in her maturity. There were days when he no longer referred to her image, preferring to rely on his memories. Maybe ...
‘Hoy, you! Traveller!’
The stranger looked around and saw the villager had reappeared in his position of safety within the walled garden. He acknowledged his return with a slight nod of the head but said nothing.
‘You’re to come with me and no funny business,’ the villager warned, the club still firmly gripped in his hand.
The traveller obediently hoisted his pack onto his back, slipped the portrait of his beloved into his coat pocket and moved slowly towards the man.
‘I’m not armed, save for a small blunted knife, and merely want a few things for which I’m prepared to work. Then I’ll move on.’ He produced an old folding knife from his coat pocket but didn’t open the blade.
‘No money, then?’
The traveller smiled and raised his eyebrows.
‘None, other than a few coins.’
The villager set off through his garden and down a passage between two cottages. The gardens were refreshingly neat and ready for the riot of Spring that lay just around the corner.
‘Who are you, stranger? What’s your name? You’ve got some means of identification?’ The villager muttered, half to himself, ‘you could be anybody,’ in justification for his blunt interrogation.
The two men gained the road before the traveller replied.
‘My name is Robert Oliver. I’ve lived in France for many years. I’ve got evidence of who I am but most of it is in French. I can translate it if you wish. None of that seems to matter now, though - just letters and papers. But, as I said, there’s nothing for you to fear from me.
The villager