Make More Noise!

by Emma Carroll

  “Sssh!” I told it as I hurried across the yard.

  First stop, the goat shed. The milk for today had already been collected. Hyacinth, our milking goat, wasn’t impressed at being asked for more. Luckily, the few drops I squeezed out of her were enough for a hungry otter. Though the cub didn’t want it at first.

  “Come on, come on,” I muttered, fretting that any moment Mum would be calling me again.

  The trick was to rub some on its gums. After that it licked greedily from my fingers, holding them steady between its own front paws. We’d soon run out of milk though, and it was too late now to fetch any more. Out in the yard I’d heard Dad coming in for dinner. The bang of boots having the mud knocked off them, the opening and closing of the back door.

  When the coast was clear, I slipped across the yard to the hay barn. Inside were bales, boxes of old tools, rusty plough parts, empty feed bins. And rats. You could hear them rustling, scratching. When I moved a hay bale, two big ones darted out from underneath. Another one ran across the floor. I kept seeing fast-moving things in the corner of my eye. It worried me they’d harm a baby otter.

  So, emptying out a box of tools, I tucked the cub inside. Then I heaved the whole thing up on to a window ledge, where I hoped it’d be out of harm’s way.

  “I’ll be back,” I told the otter. “Don’t worry.”

  It blinked at me. Then started mewling again. It was still hungry. I’d have to try again later.

  Our kitchen was a whirl of people serving up shepherd’s pie and passing plates around. The table looked suddenly cramped. One of the land girls – tall, blonde-haired, all legs and elbows – was sitting in my usual seat. Mum made me pull up a stool.

  “Don’t make a fuss,” she whispered to me, though she was looking at Dad when she said it.

  The laughter from earlier had stopped.

  “Hello, I’m Vera,” the girl said as I squashed in next to her. “You must be Cathy.” She had a plummy voice and shook my hand so hard I felt the bones in it creak.

  I smiled, glad to get my hand back in one piece. “Hello.”

  The other girl was called Helen. Like Vera, she wore a uniform of breeches and a pine-green sweater with a shirt underneath. She was small, sharp-faced. Neither girl was what you’d call glamorous. I’d seen more lipstick on Mabel’s big sister Rita, and she’d never been to London, let alone lived there.

  “I’m not afraid of working horses, Mr Crawford,” Helen was saying firmly. “I’ve grown up with them.”

  “In London? Ploughing Oxford Street now, are they?” Dad replied in that half-bristly, half-joking way of his that left you never quite sure what he meant.

  Mum shot me a nervous look, but Helen seemed unfazed. “We had dray horses – two of them. Shires. My father ran a brewery.”

  “Is that so? Well, it’s a rat-catcher I’m needing,” Dad said.

  On the front of Vera’s sweater was a gold badge shaped like a shield. Putting down her fork, she angled it so we could see it more easily.

  “Rat-catching,” Vera said proudly. “That’s what I’m specially trained to do. At your service, Mr Crawford.”

  After what I’d seen in the barn just now, this was such a relief. Dad, though, didn’t look up from pouring gravy on his pie.

  “You’d better be good then,” he muttered.

  “Oh, she’s good, all right,” Helen replied, a wry expression on her face. “She’ll happily tell you how she does it too, right down to the goriest of details.”

  Mum stared at the pie on her plate. I didn’t suppose this was the “interesting talk” she’d had in mind.

  By the time I left for school the next morning, the traps were set. The goat shed, the hay barn, the stalls where the horses went when it was too cold to turn them out – Vera had gone through each with mind-boggling precision. She’d even been round the house and up in the attic. The traps had to be in just the right place, at the right angle, she said. Where there wasn’t space for a trap, she’d left little piles of poison for the rats to eat. Vera told me all this on the back doorstep. She was taking off her coat just as I was putting mine on.

  It occurred to me – horribly – that if she’d gone through the hay barn, she’d have found the otter cub. She might easily have heard it. When I’d tried to feed it this morning all it did was cry. And cry. It didn’t want the milk I’d brought it, or the crusts from my toast. The noise it made was weaker today. The same couldn’t be said of the rats, who sounded livelier than ever, especially the ones in the hay loft above my head.

  Thankfully Vera made no mention of the otter. Though she’d clearly seen the worry on my face.

  “Those rats’ll be gone in no time,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Rest assured, I always get my man.”

  Which didn’t reassure me in the slightest.

  PART 4

  I arrived at school tired and on edge. If Derek even dared to brag about yesterday’s hunt, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold back.

  Yet it soon became clear there was no Derek.

  “He’s poorly, miss,” said Tommy Bell. “I called in for him this morning. His dad said he had a fever and was staying in bed.”

  “Oh.” Mrs Melrose frowned. It made a squiggly line between her eyebrows. “Right, thank you, Tommy.” And she wrote something in her register.

  “I wonder what’s wrong with him,” Mabel whispered to me.

  I could think of a whole list of things, but said, “Germs from the river, I expect.” And it served him right, frankly, for going hunting there in the first place.

  “Hope it’s nothing nasty like polio or liver fluke,” Mabel sighed.

  I scowled at her. “Since when did you start caring about Derek Patterson?”

  She went pink – a nice, fetching pink, not the blotchy kind. I honestly didn’t know what to say.

  All day I kept worrying about the otter cub. Would the rats find it? Would Dad discover it? Would it escape its box and nibble Vera’s poison? This last one being the least likely because the cub was refusing to eat.

  Looking at the clock every five minutes didn’t help. Nor did copying really long sentences from the blackboard or reading a story from centuries ago about a man called Piers Plowman.

  When finally it was time to go, Mrs Melrose, for once, let the whole class out together. There was a mad scrum for coats in the cloakroom. Then another big crush at the school gates.

  “I’d better dash,” I said to Mabel, before she could suggest going to the post office for mint humbugs.

  “You’re not cross with me, are you, Cathy?” she asked, concerned.

  It took me a moment to realise she was still talking about Derek.

  The road way home took ten minutes if you were quick. I ran all the way up Higher Hope Lane, but couldn’t resist pausing at the top to watch Dad and Helen as they worked the horses over in our east field. They were too far away to speak to, yet just from looking it was obvious they’d made amazing progress. What this morning had been a field of winter grass was now furrow after furrow of soil. I couldn’t imagine Dad doing it that fast by himself.

  Back at home, the yard looked unusually tidy. Someone had shovelled up the horse droppings and swept the cobbles, and the buckets had all been stacked in one convenient spot instead of scattered about like they usually were. There was no sign of anyone here now though, thankfully.

  I went straight to the barn. I couldn’t see any rats today, but they were definitely still rustling. Not for much longer: Vera had laid a trail of poison pellets across the floor. Every now and then the thick white line thinned where something had taken a nibble. Fingers crossed that something was a big fat rat. Still, as I approached the window, I dreaded seeing the box upturned on the ground, the otter gone.

  Yet there it was, so deeply asleep inside the box I had to double-check it was still breathing. It looked adorable, curled nose to tail inside my scarf. So peaceful. And very different to the miserable, crying little thing I’d tried desperately to feed
this morning.

  “You stay right there,” I whispered to it, and went off in search of milk.

  Waiting by the goat-shed door for collection was a churn of udder-warm milk. What I needed was a cup or saucer to carry it in. For that I’d have to risk the kitchen.

  I decided to tell Mum the milk was for me, although it was a rubbish excuse, since I didn’t even like goat’s milk. As I hesitated at the back door wracking my brains for something better to say, I overheard her talking inside.

  “No one’s seen him since yesterday,” Mum was saying.

  “Poor chap.” This was Vera. “Have the police been informed?”

  I couldn’t hear the reply. A chair scraped the floor as someone got to their feet.

  “Well, thanks for the tea, Mrs Crawford,” Vera said. “I’m off to check the traps, but I’ll keep an eye out on my travels. What does he look like?”

  “Dark-brown hair, wiry build. He’s got a nasty scar on his right hand.”

  Now I was confused. The person they were talking about sounded like Derek – especially the bit about the scar. Mabel once told me he’d got it after an accident with a pan of scalding water, which to my mind meant he was clumsy as well as horrid.

  Yet Derek was ill in bed – Tommy Bell had said so. He’d spoken to Mr Patterson just this morning. Which meant Derek couldn’t have gone missing – not when he was sick with a fever. Mum must’ve got it wrong.

  PART 5

  Derek Patterson wasn’t at school the next day either. I was torn between enjoying the peace and quiet of it, and thinking he must be really sick. It was odd how fast Mrs Melrose put a lid on it if anyone mentioned him. Then, at three o’clock, just before she dismissed us, she said rather cryptically, “Go straight home this afternoon, children. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, don’t approach them.”

  No one knew quite what Mrs Melrose meant. But as we left school everyone was on high alert.

  “Germans,” Tommy Bell insisted. “That’s what she’s on about.”

  “Nah, there’s a spy in the village,” said Graham Watson, whose parents ran the pub. “My dad’s been saying so for months.”

  “Or a plane’s crashed in the woods or someone’s found a bomb?” suggested Enid Clarke. She was the cleverest person in our class so if we believed anyone, it’d be her.

  The ideas quickly turned silly. Hitler was here for a holiday. A tiger, escaped from Bristol Zoo, had been spotted at Higher Hope. There was a murderer at large.

  I could see Mabel getting agitated. Tucking my arm through hers, I hurried her out of earshot. As we stopped at the crossroads to go our separate ways, she kept hold of me.

  “Something’s happened to Derek,” she said, straight out. “The curtains in his room have been drawn for two days solid. There’s not even been a light on.”

  I was shocked. “You’ve been staring at his bedroom window?”

  Mabel didn’t blush this time; she looked too troubled for that. And as I thought of what I’d overheard in our kitchen yesterday, a funny feeling came over me like a spider walking on my skin. Perhaps Derek wasn’t sick at all. In which case, Mr Patterson was lying.

  All the way home, it went round and round my head. I couldn’t help but think Mabel’s hunch was right, though you couldn’t just assume things were fact if you didn’t know for certain. The best thing to do, I decided, was to speak to Mum once I’d fed the cub.

  I didn’t get the chance. As soon as I set foot in the yard, Mum whisked me inside to help make an early supper. By five o’clock, rabbit pie eaten, we were on to apple crumble and custard. Vera, not wanting any, had gone outside to check her traps.

  I’d noticed Dad was in a rather good mood.

  “This Helen’s a hard worker,” he confessed. “Got a way with our horses, she has.”

  Helen didn’t smile, didn’t blush. She spooned crumble into her mouth as if she already knew all this and Dad was the surprised one, not her.

  Mum caught my eye and smiled, glad he’d seen sense. Then she cleared her throat.

  “Got something to say, love?” Dad asked.

  “I’m going to the pictures tonight with Vera and Helen,” she said all in a rush. “They asked me to come along and I said yes.”

  There was a pause. A silence. I stirred my custard, not wanting to look at Dad’s face.

  “That wise, is it?” he asked. “What with this lad gone missing and police all over the place?”

  He didn’t say no though.

  “We’ll all be together, Mr Crawford,” Helen said, sensible, steady. “We won’t be back late.”

  Before he could reply, the back door flew open. The wind caught it, making it crash into the wall. Feet, still shod in boots, rushed up the passage. Vera appeared in the kitchen doorway, torch still flashing, hair escaping its pins.

  “You won’t believe what I’ve just found,” she gasped. “In the hay barn…”

  My throat clamped shut. All the blood seemed to rush to my head. It was as good as wearing a sign round my neck telling everyone what I’d done. I’d gone soft, Dad would say. Gone against nature and proper countryside ways, and what good did it do, eh? You still ended up with an otter who wouldn’t survive.

  But no one was paying attention to me. It was Vera they stared at.

  “He’s here,” she said, flushed with excitement. “Come and see for yourselves.”

  Vera was right: she did get her man. Outside the hay barn was a wheelbarrow full of dead rats, though that wasn’t what she’d brought us to see. Nor was it my otter cub; the box sat undisturbed on the windowsill.

  What I could hear was something moving in the hay. And when Vera swung her torch beam up into the hayloft, I saw why. A boy was staring down at us. I didn’t realise who it was straightaway because he looked afraid.

  “You’d better come down, lad,” Dad said. “The sooner we sort this mess out the better.”

  The boy was Derek Patterson.

  “How long have you been up there?” Helen asked. “Are you all right?”

  Derek didn’t answer. He moved back from the loft hatch so we couldn’t see him any more.

  “We should let the police know he’s here, Mrs Crawford,” Vera pointed out. “Is it a long walk to the village?”

  “It’d be quicker to drive,” Mum replied, looking at Dad.

  “Don’t ask me, I’ve got animals to feed,” Dad retorted. But he dug deep in his trouser pocket and, pulling out the car keys, threw them in the air. “Here, catch!”

  Vera caught the keys one-handed. No one bothered to ask if she could drive; it was obvious she could. Mum said she’d go with her to give directions, then, to me as she left, “You know the boy, Cathy. He’s in your class at school. Speak to him, will you? See if he’s all right.”

  “Me?” It was an awful idea. Derek and I had never said so much as a nice word to each other. Ever.

  Yet moments later I was the only person still here. Dad had gone to feed the animals, and Helen, insisting a bowl of apple crumble might tempt Derek down, went back to the kitchen to fetch some.

  It felt odd being in here, knowing I wasn’t alone. I’d not the foggiest what to say to Derek though, so I tiptoed over to check on my cub. My heart thumped a little. I had an awful feeling it might not be still breathing.

  The cub must’ve heard me coming. A little brown head appeared over the side of the box. Then came a chattering noise, a twitching of whiskers. It looked so much better tonight. Happier. I grinned. Yet before I could reach it, the whole box moved, tipped and tumbled off the windowsill. It was only a drop of a few feet, but I panicked. Fearing my baby otter was hurt, I rushed over, flinging myself down beside the box.

  Too late.

  The box moved. To my utter amazement, what shot out at high speed wasn’t my cub. It was a sleek, long, full-grown otter. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.

  “Where did you come from?” I cried.

  In a flash it disappeared behind a hay bale. The cub followed right
behind. There was a hush. Something bumped against the wall. A bucket clanked. Above me, the hay loft beams creaked with footsteps.

  “Going to try and catch her again, are you?” said Derek.

  I looked up. His legs were dangling through the loft hatch. Then both feet found the top rung of the ladder. He started to climb down. I tensed, ready to be angry or hardened or something. Yet when he reached the ground and I saw he was still in his school uniform, I suddenly didn’t know what to feel. He looked crumpled and grubby, and smaller somehow. There was a stonker of a bruise on his right cheek.

  “How d’you know the cub’s a her?” I stuttered, for want of something to say.

  He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Easy when you’ve got the mother here to compare with.”

  “The mother?” I stared, bewildered. “Is that who the adult otter is? But I thought she… I mean… How did you—”

  “I got to her before the hounds did,” he said.

  I blinked. I’d misheard him, surely. The Derek Patterson I knew hunted otters with his dad; he didn’t go around saving them.

  “Don’t stare at me like that,” he said wearily. “What else could I do? They’re the last otters left on this stretch of river.”

  “But your dad was out hunting that day. I heard the dogs. How did you catch her?” I asked. The baby otter had wriggled hard enough.

  “I held my jacket over the den opening, and when she bolted, I bundled her up in it,” he explained. “I came back for the male but…” He trailed off.

  “The dogs must’ve got him,” I said grimly. “I saw the blood on the stones by the river.”

  “Oh that was mine.” Derek gestured to his face. “I slipped.”

  Somehow I didn’t believe him.

  “They’re not going to fetch my dad, are they?” he said, suddenly worried. “Because I’ll run off again, I swear I will.”

  The horrible truth dawned on me then. He wasn’t ill or missing – not really. The bully Derek Patterson had run away from an even bigger bully. His own dad. And Mrs Melrose, with her notes in the register and her all-day frown, must have guessed as much too.