Margery Redhill sat on the bench of the little wooden bus shelter, looking out on a glorious sunny day. In the field opposite, a small herd of black and white Friesian cows were grazing contentedly on the last of the late summer pasture, while a buzzard drifted overhead on outstretched wings, scanning the ground below as it sought out its next meal. From a small stand of trees came a short burst of vibrant hammering before a woodpecker took to the wing, a flash of green as it skimmed low across the grass.

It seemed as if the late Indian summer they had been experiencing for the past three weeks would never end and, though Margery, of course, knew that it must do so eventually, she was determined to enjoy every last little bit of it.

Being the third Saturday in September meant it was Staunton’s annual village fete. But Staunton’s fete was not like those you’d find in most other villages up and down the country. Yes, they had all the usual things you’d find at a fete. There was the dog show, the brass band, tombolas and plant sales. There was the cake contest that would be competed over fiercely by the leading bakers in the village and beyond, and there was the beer tent, which would still be doing a roaring trade long after the sun had set.

But what stood Staunton apart and ensured it attracted a far bigger crowd than any other fete in the area were its scarecrows. Every year, for the past twelve years, ever larger numbers of villagers had enthusiastically joined in with this end of summer celebration of all things scarecrow-related. Dozens of people made all manner of scarecrows, which they proudly displayed in their front gardens, creating a trail excited visitors could wind their way along.

Then there were the farmers, several of whom took to the theme in a major way, constructing huge scarecrows in prominent locations on their land, made from whatever materials came to hand. This year there was even a twenty foot giant made entirely from straw and sections of old tarpaulin. He had been named Nigel by the local children, who thought he bore more than a passing resemblance to a teacher by that name at the village school.

But by far Margery’s favourite part of all this were the scarecrow outfits that dozens of people, mostly from the village but some from further afield, spent the weekend strolling around in. She never ceased to be amazed at how creative people could be and each fete seemed to bring a wider and wider range of variations on the scarecrow theme.

This year, as well as many examples of the traditional design, she’d also seen a scarecrow bishop, a fireman, two football players, a small troupe of Morris dancers and even a Winston Churchill. What’s more, for the last few years some people had chosen to extend the theme to include Aunt Sally costumes, which suited some of the women better, and she’d also seen a number of these walking around with rouged cheeks, pony-tailed hair and long, spotted or check-patterned dresses. And all of that she’d seen during the time it had taken her to register with the organisers at their fete headquarters before making her way to the bus shelter.

She had herself stuck with a scarecrow outfit she first put together eight years ago. Traditional from top to bottom, it began with an old suit she had encouraged her husband, Andrew, to give up, which she had set about with a pair of scissors, to give it that necessary distressed look. She’d then found an old trilby hat at a jumble sale which was a perfect fit for her small head and that too had been given some rough treatment to offer a more appropriate look. A pair of mismatched wellington boots, some straw stuffed up the cuffs of the jacket, a generous spread of make-up and an ancient pair of glasses, missing their lenses and with the wire frames bent, completed the outfit.

It wasn’t as fancy, or as good as some others, but she was happy enough with it and could wear it all day without getting uncomfortable; that was, she suspected, more than could be said for some people’s costumes.

She was not, however, waiting inside the bus shelter for a bus to arrive. In fact, one had recently been and gone, the bus driver giving her a smile and a wave as the vehicle crept by. No, she was there to play an important part in one of the activities available to fete visitors. For a small entry fee, people would be given a sheet of instructions that would take them on a treasure hunt around the village, during which they had to find the answers to a series of questions.

Whoever completed the course in the fastest time and answered all the questions correctly would win a rather lovely prize, consisting of a fabulous family hamper and a day at Warwick Races. There were also smaller prizes for those finishing second and third.

Margery was to play the role of a tired and possibly inebriated scarecrow, who had fallen asleep on the bench inside the bus shelter. Treasure hunt contestants would have to summon up the courage to wake her up and ask for answers to two questions, one of which would direct them to their next destination. She, of course, would not want to give up her answers too easily and would delay people by claiming to be too tired or stupid to remember the answers.

She had arrived a little before ten, when the first contestants would be setting off from the field where the fete was located, on the other side of the village. Her stint would take her through to noon, when Anthony Felling should take over for another two hours, when the treasure hunt would come to an end, so all the entries could be tallied and the winners announced.

Margery suspected that Anthony would already be the worse for drink by the time he arrived to take over. But he was a nice man, whose behaviour wasn’t prone to turning uncouth when he’d been drinking and she was confident the worst that might happen would be for him to actually fall asleep.

Once her stint was done she would make her way back to the fete, where she and Andrew would have lunch together, before descending on the plant sales, always one of their favourite parts of the event. She was especially keen to find a new shrub to replace a hydrangea that had died earlier in the year, leaving an unsightly gap in the border. Autumn would be the perfect time to plant its replacement.

The clock on the village church struck for quarter past the hour. Any moment now, Margery knew from experience, she could expect to see the first of the morning’s contestants appear at the top of the road, where they would turn off King Street and head her way, skirting the woodland that lay behind her. Up to this point, the contestants would have had only two sets of questions to answer. The vast majority of clues were to be found in the main part of the village, which is where they would head once they left her.

She checked her outfit, made sure her flask of tea was out of sight, then got to her feet and peered around the side of the shelter. At first there was no one to be seen, but then two children came running around the bend, almost at once pointing in her direction. Another moment or two, then what appeared to be their mother and father came into sight. Her first visitors were on their way. She felt a thrill of excitement run through her and it took a little effort to compose herself, as she took up position on the bench and made as if she was sound asleep.

Soon, Margery began to make out voices; young, excited ones that were getting louder as they got closer. She smiled, delighted by the children’s excitement. Then came the sound of footsteps, quick at first, then slowing as they reached the shelter. Although her eyes appeared to be closed, Margery was, in fact, still just able to make out the sight in front of her. Two figures stood before her, uncertain as to what to do next, as they summoned up the courage to wake her from her slumber. Oh my, it was so hard not to smile again.

The children, brother and sister, the former five, the other seven, looked at each other. The older one, the girl, nodded towards the scarecrow. The boy scrunched up his face, breathed deeply, then took another step forward. Reaching out with a hesitant hand he prodded the scarecrow’s arm. Nothing happened and he looked back at his sister.

The girl spoke with the natural and irrefutable authority of the older child. “No, David, you won’t wake him like that. Here, let me try.”

She too now stepped forward and reached out, though for her there was no hesitation. This time the scarecrow’s arm was shaken vigorously, little bits of straw falling away from the cuff of the jacket. All but the dead would have found it hard not to respond.

Margery stirred a little, shifting her position on the bench, as she drew out her supposed waking. Groaning, as if having been roused from the deepest of slumbers, she straightened her head and opened one eye, as if reluctant to let the daylight in. She saw the boy, with his mop of dark brown hair and wide-open grey-brown eyes, take a step back. The girl, her long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, stood her ground, staring intently at the rousing scarecrow.

“See,” declared the girl with triumph. “I told you, you had to shake his arm harder.”

Margery straightened up, stretched out her arms to her sides, then yawned. She could also now see the parents, standing a short distance behind the children, smiling as they watched the little spectacle unfold.

“And who might you two be?” Margery finally asked, in an exaggerated country accent, her vowels so rounded you could have rolled them down a hill.

“I’m Susan and this is my brother, David,” answered the girl, in a determined manner.

The boy looked quizzical and scrunched up his face as he leaned forward. “Are you a lady scarecrow?” he asked.

“I am,” replied Margery. “There aren’t so many of us and farmers tend to keep us for their trickiest jobs, which means we’re not usually so easy to see.”

“Oh,” said the boy, looking back at his parents.

“And what can I do for you today?” asked Margery, leaning forward on the bench.

The girl consulted the sheet of instructions she held in her hand.

“The sleeping crow in the shelter will have important information for you,” she read aloud. “You must ask this mysterious character two questions. The first one is, what are they hiding under their battered trilby hat?”

The girl looked at Margery expectantly and, in response, the scarecrow’s eyes looked up towards her hat.

“There’s something under my hat, is there?” asked Margery, in mock surprise.

The boy’s head nodded vigorously.

Margery leaned a little further forward, lowering her head as she did so.

“My arms are too stiff to reach up that far,” she said. “Why don’t you take a look?” she suggested to the boy.

He hesitated, pressing a finger against his bottom lip.

“Oh, David, you’re so hopeless sometimes,” declared the sister, stepping forward.

“Susan.”

It was only one word, but, when the mother spoke, it had the desired impact. The girl stopped and turned to her brother.

“Come on, David,” she said. “I’ll stand here with you while you take a look. I’m sure it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Margery winked at the young boy, who seemed at once to find the necessary courage. Stepping forward again, he reached up and lifted Margery’s hat off her head in one swift movement. He grinned, turned towards his parents and pointed at the little, brightly painted gnome sitting on Margery’s head. The gnome had a large, round belly, bright red cheeks and was laughing madly.

“It’s a gnome,” giggled the boy.

“His name’s Eric,” Margery informed them. “And he only ever leaves our garden shed so he can take part in this event. He wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”

“So,” announced Susan. “Now we know the answer to the first question is, gnome.” She scribbled on the sheet of paper with a pencil as she spoke. “So, what about the second question?” She straightened out the sheet of paper. “Where do we go to once we have found the answer to the secret?” she asked.

Margery waited for the boy to place the hat back on her head, which he did with exaggerated care, keen not to bash the gnome as he did so.

“Now you have the answer to the secret,” Margery said, as she sat up. “You must follow the street that leads to the well.”

David stared at the hat, while his sister scribbled again on the sheet of paper, repeating to herself Margery’s words as she did so.

“Wonderful,” declared the mother, clapping her hands as the parents stepped forward.

“Are you doing this all day?” the father asked, re-adjusting a small canvas rucksack that he carried on his shoulders.

“Oh, no, I doubt I’d have the stamina to last all day,” replied Margery. “I clock off at noon, then another scarecrow takes over until two, while I get to eat some lunch.”

“Scarecrows eat?” queried David.

“Oh, yes,” answered Margery. “But never when we’re working.”

The young boy, apparently content with the reply, took hold of his father’s hand.

“You’re marvellous,” announced the mother. “Quite the best thing we’ve seen so far today.”

“I love doing this,” Margery smiled. “It’s my fifth year and I so look forward to it every time. It’s a chance to dress up and play a character; plus I get to meet so many wonderful people, like yourselves. The children especially. It’s an absolute joy.”

The mother reached into the large handbag she had draped over one shoulder and pulled out a camera. “May I take a photo of the children standing next to you?” She asked.

“Of course, you can,” replied Margery.

The children pressed up close to her on either side, looking pleased as could be, and, at the last moment, Margery lifted her hat, so the gnome too could be seen.

The camera clicked, then the children jumped for joy.

“Thank you,” declared the mother, popping the camera back into its case.

“Ah, I think we’d better be on our way,” declared the father, looking back along the road. “Your next customers are on their way and they look keen,” he added, turning to Margery.

Their goodbyes said, Margery waved to the children as they skipped off down the road alongside their parents. Buoyed by this first happy encounter of the morning, she settled herself back into position on the bench, readjusted her hat, which had tilted a little to one side, then closed her eyes once more so that she appeared to be slumbering peacefully in the shadows at the back of the bus shelter.

*

As the twelfth group of treasure hunt seekers departed the bus shelter, in search of the road to the well, Margery stood up and stretched herself in every direction. Being slumped on the bench, pretending to be asleep, was beginning to take its toll. As she shook herself down, the bell on the church clock chimed quarter to the hour, indicating she was now forty-five minutes into her stint. Nearly half-way there, she told herself.

Glancing up the road, Margery was pleased to find there was no one heading her way. Perhaps she might have time for a quick cup of tea. Reaching down into a darkened corner under the bench, she retrieved her small flask, which she opened, then poured a little tea into the cup that doubled as a lid. The warm drink was refreshing and she savoured its slightly sweetened taste with relish.

Leaves on the trees fluttered intermittently in the gentle breeze, as she stood inside the shelter looking out across the countryside. The sun continued to shine down from an almost cloud free sky, warm, without being overly hot, on this late September day.

A lorry motored up the road, heading towards Upper Culworth. A small hawk, that had been hanging in the air above a nearby field, its wings flapping rapidly, dropped suddenly to the ground, then re-appeared empty-handed. It seemed to look again at the patch of grass beneath it, decided better of it, then shifted to a new position some fifty yards further on.

Taking another peek around the side of the shelter and finding there was still no one there, Margery poured herself a little more tea, then sat down on the edge of the bench, wondering what Andrew might be doing at that moment. She supposed he would have made his way up the road to the fete by now. Perhaps he was trying his hand at the wellie throwing competition or had been cornered by one of the village gossips.

Her musings were unexpectedly interrupted when she saw someone’s shadow cast across the pavement in front of the bus shelter. As she looked up, wondering how they had managed to reach the shelter without her noticing, she found herself facing a stationery figure. With the sun directly behind them, she was unable to make out their features. Margery shifted a little to her left, so that light was cast across the other person’s face.

“Oh, it’s you,” she declared with a smile. “You didn’t mention you’d be taking part in the treasure hunt today. Are you going round on your own?”

The other figure stepped forward, without answering and reached out with a hand, offering Margery a sealed envelope. Before she could take it, the envelope fell to the ground. Margery leaned down to collect it up. As she did so, she felt something solid and a little rough slide around her neck.

“What are you doing?” she asked in surprise, as she began to straighten up.

The rope around her neck immediately began to tighten.

“No… Get off…” she cried out, reaching up to the rope with her hands.

But she was flipped on to the ground, face down, a knee pressed into the small of her back and the rope grew ever tighter.

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