His feet touched Iain’s head on one of his swings.
“Stop that,” said Iain in an irritated voice.
“What?” said Kenneth innocently, upside down and gazing down at him.
“Hitting my head,” said Iain. “Can’t you see that I’m reading?”
“I can’t help it,” said Kenneth still swinging.
“Well, stop swinging then,” said Iain.
“I like swinging,” said Kenneth. “Why don’t you swing?”
“I’m reading.”
“Well, move away then.”
“I told you I’m reading. Why should I move away? You stop swinging.”
“I can’t swing anywhere but here, can I?”
“You can stop… .”
“No,” said Kenneth and he hit Iain on the head again with his feet.
Iain thought Kenneth was being unreasonable and so they had a fight, and they rolled backwards and forwards till Kenneth finally pinned Iain down on the floor, face upwards.
“Surrender?” he said breathlessly. “Surrender?”
“No,” said Iain, so Kenneth pressed his knee into his stomach.
“Surrender,” he said, growing more and more angry, and his face becoming redder and redder as if it would burst.
“No,” said Iain again. So Kenneth got even angrier and his eyes grew wild and ferocious and he was about to butt Iain in the face till Iain said, “All right. I surrender.”
Kenneth got to his feet again and began to swing on the rafter as if nothing had happened, and Iain was left alone. I could kill him, he thought, I could kick his face in. And he imagined himself as an officer giving orders that Kenneth should be taken to a small room and tortured with a needle through his head.
Outside it was very windy and it was growing dark again. When he went over to the skylight he could see the grass moving restlessly as it did in a storm. There was no rain as yet, only the strong wind. It was about five o’clock. He saw some hens being blown about in their brown skirts and then he saw Tonkan standing at the fence spitting into his hands, before he started work with a hammer on one of the posts.
I hope he dies, he said to himself, I hope he dies, thinking of Kenneth. He imagined Kenneth holding his hand out from a tempestuous sea and himself on a boat and not helping him and watching him drown. He thought of Kenneth leaving his last footprints on a snowy bridge as in a poem that he had read at school and which had made him cry though he wouldn’t let Miss Stilton see him.
He tried to read his book again but found that he couldn’t because his mind wasn’t on it and the room was growing so dark that he couldn’t make out the small writing. There was a storm rising, he could feel it in his bones, and through the window he could see the grey leaden waves and the boats pitching stumpily like tubs. He wanted it to be a really big storm, a terrible storm, so that the rain would pour down and there would be wind, lightning and thunder, and the world would be full of water and he himself would be up in the attic as if he was a Noah watching everything and he would be safe.
But after a while he grew tired of watching Kenneth swinging and he climbed down the door again and went into the kitchen. His mother was baking and she said, “Where’s Kenneth?” At that moment he heard the door closing and he knew that Kenneth had also climbed down the door and had gone out.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“How do you mean, ‘I don’t know’? I thought he was in the attic.”
“He’s not. He went out.” He wondered if he could get a scone, but didn’t dare to ask for one. If Kenneth wanted to go out in the storm that was his lookout.
“Well, has he gone out then?”
“I think so.”
His mother stopped what she was doing and looked at him. “Do you hear that wind?” she said. “It’s going to be a storm,” and her voice trembled. “Where’s that boy gone to? I hope he hasn’t gone down to the sea again.”
Suddenly there was a clap of thunder which seemed to run along the roof like someone with heavy boots banging it and then there was a stab of lightning which lighted up the scones.
“Oh,” screamed his mother. “Get cloths. Cloths from somewhere. Don’t just stand there.”
“Cloths?” he said, standing there stupidly. “Cloths? What cloths?”
“Oh, I’ll get them,” she said, her voice still high and trembling. And she ran over to the dresser and began to drag out sheets. She began to cover the mirrors with them, the one that was hanging on the wall and the one on the dresser itself.
“Don’t you know,” she said in the same high voice, “that you must cover the mirrors when there is lightning. Lightning can get in but sometimes it can’t get out.”
Her voice was rising and falling like the wind itself. “Where’s that boy gone to?”
Iain was standing in the middle of the floor not knowing what to do. Through the window he could see the fences swaying and bending in the wind and the rain lashing the ditches and bouncing from the earth and the plank that was at the foot of the path. Seagulls seemed to be held in perfect motionlessness by the wind. Suddenly there was another flash of lightning like teeth opening and he thought of Kenneth out in the storm drenched to the skin, the lightning knifing him and the thunder bouncing off him like a big football.
And he began to cry.
“I hope he’ll be all right,” he chanted monotonously. “I hope he’ll be all right.” And he rushed over to his mother and said, “I think Kenneth is going to die. What are we going to do?” And he remembered how Kenneth had given him a piece of chocolate one day and another time when he had saved him from a hiding from Crusty.
The rain was lashing down, the wind was blowing everything about and it was growing dark, and Iain saw in his mind’s eye Kenneth struggling along, his mouth opening and shutting in the gusts of wind, and he thought that Kenneth was making his will to himself, and asking God’s forgiveness for what he had done to Iain. “Please God,” he imagined Kenneth saying, “forgive me. I’m sorry about Iain. I won’t do it again. I won’t swing from the rafter again and hit him with my feet. I won’t try to butt his face again.”
Kenneth’s body as if burnt by the lightning was swinging on the rafter like that of a hanged man, and now and again Iain could see one eye glaring at him and asking for mercy. Kenneth’s clothes had been drenched by the rain and his feet hung straight down.
“I’m going to look for him,” he said.
“No,” shrieked his mother. And she grabbed him. “You stay here and stop your nonsense.”
But Iain was now thinking of Kenneth cowering in a cave, and himself riding up on his white horse and standing there in the lightning and the rain, and the horse neighing and shaking its head, and himself hauling Kenneth up behind him.
“Don’t worry,” he was saying over and over. “It will be all right. You’re safe now. The White Knight has got you. The White Knight never fails.” And the two of them rode on through the rain and lightning and thunder, as to all sides of them illuminated stage coaches rocked and swayed and Iain could see frightened faces at the windows and people pulling their hats down lest they should be blinded by the lightning.
“I’m going to get Kenneth,” he shouted to his mother. “It was all my fault.” And his mother hung on to him and the lightning flashed and stabbed at the walls of the room, and her eyes were shut, and her face was white with fear.
And then quite suddenly there was an enormous silence. And the two of them stood there in the middle of the silence. His mother’s eyes slowly opened and she looked around her. The floor of the room steadied. The rain stopped pouring and racing. There was one last fading peal of thunder and then the silence returned, this time absolutely. They stood facing each other across the table with the warm scones between them. The white shrouds still draped the mirrors as if they were concealing dead people. As if in a dream his mother went over and pulled the cloths away, but she did not look in the mirrors.
Iain stood there amazed, almost falling
to his knees in the quietness. He turned and looked through the window and saw that the insane jigsaw of road and ditch and grass had come to rest. A horse was standing by a stone wall drenched and passive after the rain, its head drooping. There was even a little wavering sunlight.
Then out of the calm they heard running footsteps and there was Kenneth rushing through the doorway and standing in front of them. He was perfectly dry as if he had been in some other house all the time.
“You bad boy,” his mother shrieked at him, “You bad wicked boy,” and she began to hit him so that Kenneth had to run all round the table and between the chairs. “You bad wicked boy,” and she hit him again and again when she could catch him. And Iain watched the two of them till finally his mother gave up and Kenneth was crying. He was so happy to see Kenneth being punished, it was better for him than to be dead.
4
“I’LL TELL YOU something,” said Daial to Iain. “I believe in ghosts.”
It was Hallowe’en night and they were sitting in Daial’s house – which was a thatched one – eating apples and cracking nuts which they had got earlier that evening from the people of the village. It was frosty outside and the night was very calm.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Iain, munching an apple. “You’ve never seen a ghost, have you?”
“No,” said Daial fiercely, “but I know people who have. My father saw a ghost at the Corner. It was a woman in a white dress.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Iain. “It was more likely a piece of paper.” And he laughed out loud. “It was more likely a newspaper. It was the local newspaper.”
“I tell you he did,” said Daial. “And another thing. They say that if you look between the ears of a horse you will see a ghost. I was told that by my granny.”
“Horses’ ears,” said Iain laughing, munching his juicy apple. “Horses’ ears.”
Outside it was very very still, the night was, as it were, entranced under the stars.
“Come on then,” said Daial urgently, as if he had been angered by Iain’s dismissive comments. “We can go and see now. It’s eleven o’clock and if there are any ghosts you might see them now. I dare you.”
“All right,” said Iain, throwing the remains of the apple into the fire. “Come on then.”
And the two of them left the house, shutting the door carefully and noiselessly behind them and entering the calm night with its millions of stars. They could feel their shoes creaking among the frost, and there were little panes of ice on the small pools of water on the road. Daial looked very determined, his chin thrust out as if his honour had been attacked. Iain liked Daial fairly well though Daial hardly read any books and was only interested in fishing and football. Now and again as he walked along he looked up at the sky with its vast city of stars and felt almost dizzy because of its immensity.
“That’s the Plough there,” said Iain, “do you see it? Up there.”
“Who told you that?” said Daial.
“I saw a picture of it in a book. It’s shaped like a plough.”
“It’s not at all,” said Daial. “It’s not shaped like a plough at all. You never saw a plough like that in your life.”
They were gradually leaving the village now, had in fact passed the last house, and Iain in spite of his earlier protestations was getting a little frightened, for he had heard stories of ghosts at the Corner before. There was one about a sailor home from the Merchant Navy who was supposed to have seen a ghost and after he had rejoined his ship he had fallen from a mast to the deck and had died instantly. People in the village mostly believed in ghosts. They believed that some people had the second sight and could see in advance the body of someone who was about to die though at that particular time he might be walking among them, looking perfectly healthy.
Daial and Iain walked on through the ghostly whiteness of the frost and it seemed to them that the night had turned much colder and also more threatening. There was no noise even of flowing water, for all the streams were locked in frost.
“It’s here they see the ghosts,” said Daial in a whisper, his voice trembling a little, perhaps partly with the cold. “If we had a horse we might see one.”
“Yes,” said Iain still trying to joke, though at the same time he also found himself whispering. “You could ride the horse and look between its ears.”
The whole earth was a frosty globe, creaking and spectral, and the shine from it was eerie and faint.
“Can you hear anything?” said Daial who was keeping close to Iain.
“No,” said Iain. “I can’t hear anything. There’s nothing. We should go back.”
“No,” Daial replied, his teeth chattering. “W-w-e w-w-on’t go back. We have to stay for a while.”
“What would you do if you saw a ghost?” said Iain.
“I would run,” said Daial, “I would run like hell.”
“I don’t know what I would do,” said Iain, and his words seemed to echo through the silent night. “I might drop dead. Or I might …” He suddenly had a terrible thought. Perhaps they were ghosts themselves and the ghost who looked like a ghost to them might be a human being after all. What if a ghost came towards them and then walked through them smiling, and then they suddenly realised that they themselves were ghosts.
“Hey, Daial,” he said, “what if we are …” And then he stopped, for it seemed to him that Daial had turned all white in the frost, that his head and the rest of his body were white, and his legs and shoes were also a shining white. Daial was coming towards him with his mouth open, and where there had been a head there was only a bony skull, its interstices filled with snow. Daial was walking towards him, his hands outstretched, and they were bony without any skin on them. Daial was his enemy, he was a ghost who wished to destroy him, and that was why he had led him out to the Corner to the territory of the ghosts. Daial was not Daial at all, the real Daial was back in the house, and this was a ghost that had taken over Daial’s body in order to entice Iain to the place where he was now. Daial was a devil, a corpse.
And suddenly Iain began to run and Daial was running after him. Iain ran crazily with frantic speed but Daial was close on his heels. He was running after him and his white body was blazing with the frost and it seemed to Iain that he was stretching his bony arms towards him. They raced along the cold white road which was so hard that their shoes left no prints on it, and Iain’s heart was beating like a hammer, and then they were in the village among the ordinary lights and now they were at Daial’s door.
“What happened,” said Daial panting, leaning against the door, his breath coming in huge gasps.
And Iain knew at that moment that this really was Daial, whatever had happened to the other one, and that this one would think of him as a coward for the rest of his life and tell his pals how Iain had run away. And he was even more frightened than he had been before, till he knew what he had to do.
“I saw it,” he said.
“What?” said Daial, his eyes growing round with excitement.
“I saw it,” said Iain again. “Didn’t you see it?”
“What?” said Daial.” What did you see?”
“I saw it,” said Iain, “but maybe you don’t believe me.”
“What did you see?” said Daial. “I believe you.”
“It was a coffin,” said Iain. “I saw a funeral.”
“A funeral?”
“I saw a funeral,” said Iain, “and there were people in black hats and black coats. You know?”
Daial nodded eagerly.
“And I saw them carrying a coffin,” said Iain, “and it was all yellow, and it was coming straight for you. You didn’t see it. I know you didn’t see it. And I saw the coffin open and I saw the face in the coffin.”
“The face?” said Daial and his eyes were fixed on Iain’s face, and Iain could hardly hear what he was saying.
“And do you know whose face it was?”
“No,” said Daial breathlessly. “Whose face was i
t? Tell me, tell me.”
“It was your face,” said Iain in a high voice. “It was your face.”
Daial paled.
“But it’s all right,” said Iain. “I saved you. If the coffin doesn’t touch you you’re all right. I read that in a book. That’s why I ran. I knew that you would run after me. And you did. And I saved you. For the coffin would have touched you if I hadn’t run.”
“Are you sure,” said Daial, in a frightened trembling voice. “Are you sure that I’m saved?”
“Yes,” said Iain. “I saw the edge of the coffin and it was almost touching the patch on your trousers and then I ran.”
“Gosh,” said Daial, “that’s something. You must have the second sight. It almost touched me. Gosh. Wait till I tell the boys tomorrow. You wait.” And then as if it had just occurred to him he said, “You believe in ghosts now, don’t you?”
“Yes, I believe,” said Iain.
“There you are then,” said Daial. “Gosh. Are you sure if they don’t touch you you’re all right.”
“Cross my heart,” said Iain.
5
IT WAS WINTER time and the snow was billowing round the cottage where Iain stayed with Kenneth and his mother, and the glittering light was almost dazzling. So attracted was Iain by the waves of snow and the light that he put on his wellingtons and went outside.
In front of him and around him he could see the houses of the village, with snow on their roofs and doors, as if they existed in a fairy tale. Blue smoke rose vaguely from the chimneys and was dissipated in the still air. In his wellingtons he sank deep into the snow, finding no road anywhere and once sinking deep into a ditch, but though for a while he was frightened by this, his main feeling was intense joy to see the world so white and clear and sparkling, so that he wanted to burst out singing. The houses were like ships rising out of an ocean of snow, and on the telegraph wires, themselves covered with snow, he saw little birds perched as if they were clutching their little wings about them for warmth. It was a magical world, its purity was overwhelming: it was as if some being had calmly in the night rid the whole world of its detail – roads, tin cans, planks – so that all that was visible was an undulating sea of snow, more solid – seeming than an ordinary sea, but almost as treacherous.
On the Island Page 2