by K. M. Peyton
He made it sound as if it was all in a day’s work to come across such a problem – no time wasted asking how they got in such a situation, no panics. Christian was flooded with a ridiculous joy at such a man taking over. He had thought it was bound to be some idiot who wanted to help but would have no idea how to go about it. This man had taken a reel of thread out of his pocket and was tying a small rock to the end. He unravelled it and tied the other end to one of the stirrup leathers, which he then proceeded to buckle together.
‘I had a tack repair kit in my saddle-bag luckily. I could see what might be needed through my binoculars. Once you’ve caught the rock – try not to make any sudden movement . . . I’ll try and aim it right into the window – pull it in very gently. It’s pretty strong. Careful now.’
He made sure it was coiled correctly and would run, and then stood taking aim. It was tricky, as the narrowness of the ledge meant he had to throw virtually straight up. But, as Christian felt himself shivering with nerves at the importance of catching it, it came flying up right into his outstretched hand, and he caught it first go.
‘Pull it in and fix the first leather round the seat bearer.’
It was long enough, ending about two metres above the ledge.
The man tested it by putting his weight on it. It was in the centre of the truck’s precarious balance, which was phenomenal luck. The man then looked up and said, ‘The rest is up to you, matey. I suggest you send the lightest first.’
He lit a cigarette and took a deep inhalation.
He didn’t think they might all make it.
Nor did Christian, now it came to the point. To move the girls along – and Christian had been brought up to believe, quite rightly, it was women and children first – it meant balancing the movement by sending someone back to compensate. This role was accepted without even talking about it by John Pike.
‘Jodie first. She’s the lightest. Then Nutty, then Hoomey. Gently, Jodie—’ He didn’t have to say, they could all sense it. She was nearest, which helped. As she slid gingerly forward, John Pike edged back. To go down would take courage, especially the first, but Christian knew she would. Hoomey might be different. She wriggled over him and turned on to her front, putting her legs out into space. Christian saw that she was terrified. So was he.
‘Good girl.’
He took her hands and let her down and transferred her hands one by one to the leather rope.
‘OK!’
‘Chris—!’ She was white as a sheet.
‘You’ve got to!’
There was no choice at all. She went, at first inch by inch and then with more confidence. The man caught her dangling body and guided her feet on to the ledge. She looked up, radiant.
‘It’s easy! Tell Nutty—!’
The man made her climb down, sideways, so that she was out of the way – out of the way of the van should it fall, Christian noted silently. Nutty was protesting that Hoomey should go before her.
‘He’s lighter, and he won’t go without me to bully him.’
She was right, Christian did not argue.
‘Come on, you little rat!’
But Hoomey rose to the occasion, so desperate was he to regain terra firma. He disappeared with a squeal and a rush, making the van sway horribly. They gritted their teeth and even Nutty made no comment. She crawled forward in time with John Pike moving back. The success of the first two made it easier and she was the bravest of the bunch, Christian knew. He even managed to grin at her glittering expression as she departed down the rock face.
Arnold was a worry, his bang on the head and his late experiences not having improved his strength and determination. But his sense of self-preservation, always strong, overcame his weakness. He disappeared out of the hole and slid precariously down. He joined the other three sitting in a row on a ledge of tufty grass. Christian heard Jodie laugh. He didn’t feel like laughing himself.
‘You next.’
John Pike looked at him from the back of the van.
‘You’re nearer.’
‘No. You.’
John didn’t argue then. He crawled forward and Christian slithered back. He got into position on the leather rope and dropped over the edge. The van swayed alarmingly.
‘Chris, you—’
‘Oh, shut up! Go!’
Christian lay on the side of the van, the hole to safety now some four feet beyond his outstretched fingertips. He felt all the fight go out of his body suddenly, alone. He was scared rigid. He knew when he went forward the van would go. He could feel it slipping even now, and heard some stones grinding ominously against the side. The twigs and leaves were trembling against the sky and there was a soft, almost inaudible sigh of tearing roots.
A sharp voice came from below.
‘Get out!’
It was almost as if he was paralysed. Too paralysed to die. Very, very slowly the van started to move.
He had to go then. He went out of the window headfirst, just as the window slid outwards away from its anchor. The little tree gave way and keeled outwards. Christian caught the swinging rope with one hand, held himself for a fraction of a moment and then let go as the van came over the cliff above him. He fell vertically and saw the great bulk of the van blot out the wonderful sunshine over his head, heard screaming, but knew it wasn’t his. He just thought, this is dying, and a terrible regret.
The van fell down into the gorge with a frightening impact, tearing trees and rocks aside in its path, bouncing up and paraboling down like a live thing until it hit the rocks in the river and exploded. The roar echoed between the rock walls. Christian heard it, much to his surprise. He was still falling, but the van had missed him. He couldn’t believe his luck, in spite of the fact that he was still rolling and bouncing himself, hitting ground at intervals with painful force. He made grabs as he went, at turf, at bushes, at rocks, mostly to little avail, but eventually, still some way above the river, he slammed up against a tree which was well bedded in and stopped with great suddenness. His body swung round and down and was about to take off again when his scrabbling fingers caught a solid root. Gripping hard, he braced himself, digging in, heels and elbows, almost with his teeth, hearing the awful booming of the water below which was leaping to receive him. Black fumes from the burning van stung his nostrils. But he held on and was still, at last, a crumpled survivor of a very nasty accident.
CHAPTER TEN
THE HORSES WERE grazing by the side of the track with their riders chatting, sitting on the bank. They were on holiday, trail-riding across Scotland. Not having expected to meet such drama, they watched curiously as their leader returned at last with a string of six weary survivors. A certain euphoria at being alive had sustained them on the scramble down the cliff-face but when they reached the bridge – the same that Arnold had been tossed over the night before – and saw the horses waiting they slumped visibly. They flung themselves down on the grass in varying degrees of exhaustion. The two girls, not having been knocked out or otherwise injured, were in the best shape; John Pike and Arnold felt extremely groggy, and Christian was one throbbing, stumbling bruise on legs, not capable any longer of taking any sort of decision.
Fortunately their new leader, who appeared to be called Tony, was a man to whom taking command came naturally. Christian suspected an army past. He was lean and fit and seemed to take difficulties in his stride. While they lay on the bank, he pieced together their extraordinary tale. The holiday riders nobly offered up their packed lunches and someone fetched tin mugfuls of water from the river, awed by the graphic account of injustice that had been perpetrated.
‘We’ve got to catch ’em,’ Nutty said, ‘because if they hear we’re not dead they’ll be off like the wind. It’s no good telephoning to say we’re safe. They’ll go as soon as they hear.’
‘Nutty’s right,’ said John Pike. ‘They could fly from Inverness down to Heathrow and be off while we’re still getting back.’
Tony looked thoughtful.
&n
bsp; ‘Can any of you ride?’
‘I can,’ said Nutty. ‘I’ve got a show-jumper. And Christian plays polo.’
‘I can ride,’ Hoomey said, very quietly, so that no-one could hear him.
‘We’ve got two spare horses,’ Tony said. ‘But no stirrup leathers, so we can’t ride fast. If you two want to ride on ahead on the two spares – go down to that camping site and ring for the police, we’ll follow on behind. There’s a good track all the way.’
‘It’s the way we came up in the car.’
‘The car’s still up there, but it’s out of petrol.’
Nutty looked at Christian, who was trying to kid himself that riding downhill, fast, bareback, was an easy option.
‘Come on, Chris! The sooner we get the police—’
‘I know.’ Could he?
Tony said, ‘It’s up to you. We’ll be along, but slowly. The other four can ride pillion.’
If Tony thought he could, presumably he could. Christian stood up. The two spare horses, grazing hard, were mean, lean beasts, not trekkers’ plods at all. They wore headcollars, but Tony swapped them for bridles from two of the other horses. Nutty leapt forward eagerly, hitching up her orchestra skirt round her bottom and Tony gave her a leg up. Her sturdy brown legs surprised the grazing horse with a grip of iron and he pulled himself together smartly. Christian smiled. Tony gave him a leg-up on to the other horse.
He grinned and said, ‘Tell yourself it must be better than walking!’
The two of them crossed the bridge and went up the other side at a fast canter, over the brow and out of sight.
‘Now, the rest of you—’
Tony allocated the four others to a horse each, riding pillion. The saddles were hefty endurance saddles but, even so, small for two bottoms, not very comfortable. He took Arnold up behind him, Arnold looking the groggiest of the four, and set off to follow the others, but at a mere walk.
Arnold laid his head gratefully against Tony’s back. The world was going round and his head was full of cymbal clashes. The music seemed to be swilling through him, those great tunes flooding all his senses, and he saw himself standing up with a cymbal at the ready in each hand, listening to the pulsing crescendo as it rose up towards him, poised to crown it with his gorgeous crash. It seemed to go on and on, the crescendo, without ever reaching his moment, so that he went on standing there, cymbals at the ready. It seemed very strange, because when he opened his eyes there was no orchestra there at all, only huge white clouds racing across a deep blue sky. He had no idea where he could be, nor why he was on a horse. A horse? The rhythm of its stride was like the beat of John Pike’s drum and the clink of shoe on stones like the tinkling of Hoomey’s triangle. Arnold was on a horse, in an orchestra, looking at the sky, and smiling.
Jodie thought Arnold had passed out, but as he didn’t seem to fall off there didn’t seem any point in drawing attention to the fact. Her rider was an American who couldn’t get over the sight of the van cartwheeling down the cliff and exploding in the gorge. He kept asking Jodie what they had been up to, but she was really too tired to tell him. When she tried to explain that they had been locked in and despatched to their certain deaths, it seemed such an unlikely story that she stopped in mid-telling, wondering if it hadn’t all been some sort of a bad dream. But there they all were, in varying states of distress, still being rescued, when by rights they should have been concentrating on their music in the hall with the antlers round the wall. That’s what the others would be doing now. She hoped they were being missed. Nutty and Hoomey apart, they were quite important members of the orchestra. Then she realized that, of course, they were being missed. The responsible Mrs Knox would be doing her nut at losing no less than five of her children. It was obviously gross carelessness on her part, after all her counting and double-checking. Jodie smiled at the thought that, having lost five, she was shortly going to find six. Poor little Arnie would stand revealed at last. Jodie then realized that she was sorry for Arnold, a brave and resourceful lad, who had no friends or relations to welcome him back, only a bleak room waiting somewhere in London, with a lock on the door. He deserved better. He played a good cymbal, better than Nutty. Nutty only did it for a lark. Arnold had done it with passion.
Their steady horses came up over the rise and they looked down the long valley home, but there was no sign of Nutty and Christian ahead of them.
As they galloped up the track Christian felt himself, for all his aches and pains, coming to, back into real life. It was nearly over, the long ordeal, the frights, the unwanted adventure, and after all the inevitable unravelling ahead of them, there was still a week of orchestra and a good time. He hadn’t disgraced himself either, and Arnold, although battered, was safe. He had found out a lot, mostly about himself, and felt he knew what good friends were. For Nutty, the tank-shaped bundle of energy urging her horse on ahead of him, he had nothing but admiration. Not the sort of girl one would wish to take out, but a girl to rely on, a good friend, like John Pike. What his father would call a good egg.
He could see she was a strong and experienced rider: he had not expected it. He had ridden ever since he could remember and took it for granted but she lived in the middle of a town. He didn’t see how. There were quite a lot of things he didn’t see how, he realized, having had a problem-free life with all the good things. Arnold, for example . . . Christian did not know why he was philosophizing as he rode: possibly having just nearly died, all his past life was appearing before his eyes now, instead of when he was falling down the cliff. It hadn’t happened then. Nothing so noble, merely blinding fear. He had been sick when he had stopped and had cried too, but there had been no-one to see. It didn’t matter much about being brave if there was no-one to see. They had all so terribly nearly died it was no wonder his brain was now behaving in this rather odd and reflective fashion.
They came up over the rise and turned down the valley. Trotting bareback was not very comfortable; walking and cantering seemed the best options, and they soon found that the horses were very fit. They could keep up a loping canter for some time. On the rougher bits they walked, and the horses had a rest.
It was a long way down the valley, farther than they had remembered, and it was with relief that they at last came on to a better road and saw the camping site below them. In the bright sunshine it looked cheerful and active, the bright tents blooming on the grass like giant flowers, and a roof with Restaurant painted on it, which looked very good to the two hungry riders above. Mostly the tents had cars parked beside them but there was a small car park opposite the restaurant. There were three cars in it.
One of them was a black Citroen.
Christian reined in sharply. They were on a hairpin bend, still above the site, and too far away to see the number plate.
‘It can’t be—!’
‘How long since they shoved us over the cliff? It’s ages, surely?’
‘Yeah – but . . . they never slept last night, they were hungry, they were dirty, they had a lot to think about . . . they could have had showers here, fed, even had a nap in the sun . . . you think about it. It is possible. If they were to arrive back at the lodge all dirty and hungry, like they were, people would have been a bit surprised, wouldn’t they?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Nutty, visibly sagging. Then she perked up. ‘But they’ll be going back to Boris, surely? We’ve only got to ring the police to catch them back there.’
‘I suppose so.’ Christian wasn’t sure. His brain wasn’t working very well any longer. He longed to hand his problems over to the police where they belonged.
‘There’s a phone box in the restaurant entrance. I can see it.’
Tony had given them phone money, in case more than 999 was needed.
‘You hold the horses. I’ll go and phone,’ Nutty said.
‘They might be in the restaurant. If they see you—!’
‘They won’t see me, I’ll make sure.’
‘Remember, your orchestra clothes �
� they’ll recognize them in a flash.’
It was true, her black skirt, white(ish) blouse and tie stood out rather in the camping world of shorts and orange anoraks. She slid off her horse and handed the reins to Christian, who was very doubtful about the wisdom of the move. If she got through to the police though . . . he could relax.
‘You watch, I’ll do it very cleverly!’
She gave him her amazing grin and started off. She made a large detour below the road, where she wouldn’t be seen, slithering through the heather. Christian, too, moved off below the road and found a useful declivity which made a good hiding place. He got off and watched Nutty, just his head sticking up over the heather. She came out below the car park, and took a yellow anorak that was blowing on a makeshift washing line and put it on over her blouse and jersey. Then she walked boldly into the café. Christian couldn’t see her any more.
Nutty went into the phone booth. There were swing doors into the café and she could see the Turkins and Ferretface sitting at a table drinking coffee.
Her heart was thumping hard as she dialled 999. Coffee meant they had nearly finished.
‘Police, Fire or Ambulance?’
‘Police!’ She was tempted to say everything.
‘My name is Deirdre McTavish. I think I am a missing person. I am talking from—’ God, she had no idea where she was! She looked at the telephone number on the dial and read it out. ‘It’s a camping site half way up a mountain somewhere—’ Flash of inspiration! ‘—on the way to Antrim Falls.’
They were getting up from the table! Mrs Turkin was walking firmly towards the doors, while the other two lingered. Right beside the telephone booth was a door marked Ladies. Nutty turned her head towards the wall and hunched down into the voluminous (Large Man’s) anorak. It was very wet which she hadn’t noticed when she took it. Mrs Turkin swung through the restaurant doors, past the telephone booth and into the ladies. The telephone booth had no doors, only a sort of hood thing.