The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

call their son Grim Reaper?”
    “Well, someone has. Just like the Grim Reaper has re named the boys. They’re now calling each other Dave the Grave and George the Morgue.” She searched her husband’s face, just to check that his whisky fuddled mind was following the conversation. “The boys were just telling me about this guy who lurks around the graveyard and the pub.”
    Although Cal was a regular in the pub, it was clear, from his blank-eyed look that he couldn’t recall seeing anyone who looked remotely like the Grim Reaper. “They’re just having you on.” He pooh-poohed Meli’s concerns. Reaching for the remote, he turned on the T.V.
    “Just like I was wrong to be worried about Elsa?” She rubbed in, her voice treacly.
    “I’m too tired for this,” Cal groaned, doing his best ostrich impression by burying his face in his hands. Meli knew that there was no point arguing when he had a head full of alcohol. Returning to the kitchen, she re-heated their meals, and set them at the table. They both ate in silence, Cal too tired to speak, and Meli too busy thinking, her mind going over the conversation with the boys. Her initial instinct was to ban them from going to the church, but what was the use? If they really wanted to go, they would still go, only secretively, and she didn’t want that. No, until she had more information, she would try not to worry. Maybe she should always insist they took Quassi? For all the good that would do though.
    Suddenly, inspiration came. Barbara and Doug, they might know. Leaping from the sofa she grabbed the phone and dialled their number. Quickly, she explained, keeping her eye on the kitchen, just in case the boys slipped back in and heard her checking them out. That proved to be a dead end. Neither Barbara nor Doug had heard of him either.
    Her worries kept her awake. Worries about Elsa’s bizarre behaviour, the vehicles dumped outside their pretty home, the Grim Reaper. When she eventually did fall asleep her dreams were filled with visions of hundreds of little Elsa’s, all dressed in cloaks and cowls, chasing her with razor sharp scythes and pitchforks. Waking, bathed in a sweat, she decided she would need to check this out. In the morning she would visit the Font of all Knowledge; in the morning she would tackle Mrs. Barber, and she wouldn’t leave the shop until the battle was won.

    Friday was only marginally better than Thursday at Farfield Post Office. Maybe this was because most of the O.A.P.s came back the day after collecting their pensions to spend it, so possibly it wasn’t the best day to decide to wage war with Mrs. Barber, but this couldn’t wait. Meli was determined that today was going to be historic, today she would not be outsmarted. She couldn’t stand another tortured night. Marching into the Post Office, she took her place in the queue and slowly worked her way forward, behind a row of half filled baskets that replaced Thursdays pension books.
    “Morning, Mrs. Barber,” was her opening shot across the counter. “I’ll have a book of first class stamps please.” Her eyes were steady as they fixed themselves on Mrs. Barber’s. Mrs. Barber was not going to know what hit her.
    “Morning,” Mrs. Barber returned the greeting, her turnip-head features flushed again this morning as it absorbed a new round of gossip. “How are things up at the lodge?” Reaching into a drawer as she spoke, she produced the stamps.
    “Just fine.” Here goes; Meli loaded her pistol. “I was thinking.” Mrs. Barber cocked a bushy eyebrow at her, but said nothing. “You must know some interesting people?”
    “Quite different from you city folk, that’s for sure. That’s £2.20.” She held out her hand for the money. Meli had already planned that this was her opportunity to get her two minutes worth. As long as she didn’t pay, she would stay at the head of the queue. It was without doubt a simple, yet brilliantly conceived plan.
    “I bet you’ve got some tales to tell? Unusual characters; a few skeletons scattered around the village, hidden in cupboards.” She grinned pleasantly as she elaborately wrapped up her burning question in a lot of general chit-chat. “After all, nothing can be secret for long in such a close community as this.”
    Was it her imagination, or was Mrs. Barber’s complexion paling as though she might be in need of a blood transfusion any time now? And her usually limp hair seemed to bristle slightly, like the fur of