It was the day the rich kid came when things began to take something of a turn. It happened in the middle of the fourth week of my stay. It began like this. I was busy trimming Mr Harris’ hedgerows – the old man was rather keen about his hedgerows being trimmed precisely. Down in the garden, his two grandchildren played by his armchair. I wasn’t allowed to play with them, being the errand boy, so I felt very miserable indeed. All of a sudden, there was a screeching sound from somewhere far off, and, all of a sudden, something sped past Mr Wilson’s house, generating a powerful cloud of dust. Whatever caused it sped past us with a screech until there came a very loud crashing sound at the edge of the street. “Sir,” I said to Mr Harris. “Could I please go and find out what went on down there?”

Mr Harris snorted and waved his cane at me. “Certainly not, boy. Those hedges haven’t been completely trimmed yet!”

“But if I want to, I can still trim them!”

“Oh, hurry up and finish!” snapped Lucinda, the granddaughter. She looked around six years old, and for someone of that age, she was vicious. Believe me, there are children that are far less well-behaved than her at that age. Eventually I finished my work. I hurried it so it was somewhat haphazard. Upon seeing that Mr Harris had fallen asleep, I leapt over the picket fence and ran down the street. I reached the high street and found that the thing that had crashed in the village was, in fact, a brightly-decorated, scarlet sports car, which lay turned on its side, a despicable wreck. Standing close by, yelling into a mobile phone, was a rather finely-dressed young man, about twenty years old or so. He was rather handsome, with shoulder-length blonde hair, and freckles on either side of his finely-crafted nose. He was dressed in a suit, a blue one, with a white shirt decorated with blue buttons. A tie around his neck gleamed scarlet-blue, with a glistening tiepin upon it.

“Yes, Father,” he whined, like a spoilt child who can’t get what he wants. “I’m stuck here, I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know if there’s anyone who can help me. I’ll get back to you later, OK?” There was a long pause, followed by the sound of the phone being hung up. The man lowered his mobile phone. He raised his gaze towards me, and I gasped and hid behind the postbox. The Council of Elders themselves came down the street and greeted him. Clearly he did not suspect that anything was afoot, since, upon being encountered by them, he chuckled in a friendly manner. “Good afternoon, chaps!” he cried. “I don’t suppose you could help an unfortunate soul who’s lost his way?”

Elder Willoughby placed a hand to his chin, as if in a thoughtful pose. He lowered it and said, “I don’t think we can help you, my friend. Maybe you could help us.”

It was at this point that the youth exploded, and in that instant I saw what he was like. “I don’t deserve this!” he screamed, like a child in the midst of a tantrum. “I demand your help. I need it to get back to my father’s estate. NOW!”

“Be that as it may,” smiled Elder Willoughby in a rather unsettling manner, “you are not entitled to our help and we do not owe you it. However, you may reach an agreement with us, so that you may be able to return to your father and everyone else in your life. Help us and we will help you.” He snapped his fingers and immediately the other elders surrounded the young man and grabbed him by the arms. The man struggled against them, but it was fruitless. “Let me go!” he demanded, as he was dragged around the corner. “Don’t you ruddy know who I am? My father is the Duke of Somerset, and when he finds out about this, you’ll all be in prison for five-hundred years!”

There was another sound afterwards that silenced him. It sounded very much like a grunt, which came from the young man. “That for your dad!” cried Elder Simonson, as his voice faded away. I cowered behind the postbox, hyperventilating like mad. It was as if I had come close to discovering something which I shouldn’t have, if you see what I mean. I sank against the postbox and sobbed, as much out of terror as of sadness. I had seen something which I wasn’t entirely convinced I should have seen.

By the time I had finished sobbing, I could barely stand up. I knew that once the other villagers found out what I was doing here, they would kill me. I should escape, that much I knew, but where else could I go? Where else should I go at any rate? I could for example consider escaping to America, but there wasn’t any chance of that. I was underage, and I couldn’t use any money to buy any boarding passes, so they wouldn’t even let me go on a plane. I could, of course, lie about my age and join the Queen’s Army, but I didn’t even look the required age at the time, and considering my skinny frame, I’d probably never pass the medical either. Even if I reached American shores, I probably wouldn’t have fared any better over there in hindsight. It’s not the Land of the Free that it pretends to be, it’s the land of the idiots.

I got up, and decided that whatever just happened, it should not have any kind of impact on my life. That morning, I went down to Mrs Nollys and Mrs Scratch’s cottage on the edge of the village, between the road and the edge of the forest. I tended Mrs Nollys’ plants. “Harry!” cried Mrs Nollys from inside the house. “My wig needs adjusting!”

I went inside the house and replaced the geraniums in Mrs Nollys’ vases with chrysanthemums. The world seemed rather strange.

It was on the following morning, after I had tended to Mr Wilson’s plants, when I found myself being approached by all three members of the Council of Elders. Elder Simonson came around to the cottage where Clarence lived. I was dusting the place with my feather duster, and when he came in, he caught me completely by surprise so much that I dropped the feather duster with a squeak. “E-Elder Simonson!” I cried and knelt before him, clumsily knocking over a vase that was sitting on the coffee table. Beside him stood Elders Jones and Willoughby, both looking as stern as ever. “Get up!” snapped Elder Simonson, and at his harsh command, I rose from my seat.

“Brooker,” said Elder Simonson.

Clarence came into the room. “E-E-Elder S-S-Simonson w-w-wants a word with you, Harry,” he said. I inhaled and exhaled. Elder Simonson cleaned his spectacles, showing his lack of concern and replaced them in his pointy, beaklike nose. “My boy,” he said, “I have a small job for you. We, erm, need you to go around to the police station and to provide sustenance to that rich boy who just landed here. To, erm, fatten him up, as it were.”

It was Elder Willoughby who spoke next. “You didn’t think we’d let him go hungry, did you?” he said, in his reedy voice. “We’re not monsters, you know.”

I hesitated. I really didn’t know what to do. Should I leave my work, or should I refuse to do as the Council of Elders demanded? Clarence smiled. “I t-t-think it would be b-b-best if you do as the Elders c-c-command,” he said, jittering as he usually did. “Th-Th-Their word is law around here, in case you’ve for-g-g-g-gotten.”

I bowed and said that I would do exactly as the Council of Elders commanded. I also asked to know where I was to get this food from.

It was Elder Jones who spoke next. “We want you to cook it yourself,” she said. I shrugged. Yes, certainly I could cook. Back home in Stratford, London, on one of those lucky days when my dad was out of the house, I would usually get the old frying pan out and do some sort of rudimentary home cooking. I could only cook the usual eggs and bacon. Eggs and bacon usually made for a good late-lunch after school. Indeed, I had dreams of one day becoming a very good chef, the best in the world, but I knew that, due to my relatively low financial position, such a dream could never be, and nor should it. I couldn’t possibly handle such pressure anyway. It had merely been one career path I considered, the others being a librarian, a manual worker, and more realistically, a caretaker. Elder Jones cleared her throat.

“Speak up, boy!” she snapped.

I jolted and, in a stumbling tone, assured them that I’d certainly get round to cooking the rich boy the best meal he could get.