The Death of Grass

by John Christopher

  ‘I should take her round to the back,’ he said. ‘It won’t be so noisy there.’

  His own mildness surprised him. Katie Blennitt said:

  ‘Yes, I’ll take her, Mr Custance. You come along, too, Wilf. You’ll be all right. Mr Custance is going to look after you.’

  To the other women, he said: ‘You might as well all go to the back of the house.’

  He knelt beside Joe Harris. ‘Any sign of them moving yet?’

  ‘I thought I saw summat. The shadows play you up.’

  John stared out into the moonlit garden. There was no trace of cloud in a sky which was heavy with stars – fate playing tricks on both sides. The moonlight gave the defenders a considerable advantage, but if the cloud had held, the marauders would probably have missed seeing the house, standing as it did apart and on a rise, altogether.

  He thought a shadow moved, and then knew one did, not more than fifteen yards from the house. He cried, very loudly:

  ‘Now!’

  Although he did not rate his chances of hitting anything with a revolver as very high, he took aim on the shadow that had moved, and fired through the open window. The volley that accompanied his shot was ragged but not unimpressive. He heard a cry of pain, and a figure spun round and fell awkwardly. John ducked to the side of the window in anticipation of the reply. There was a single shot, which seemed to splinter against the brickwork. After that, he could hear only a mumble of voices, and groaning from the man who had been hit.

  The weight of fire-power must have come as an unpleasant surprise to them. They could not have expected an isolated house such as this to be held in force. Putting himself in the position of their leader, John reflected that his own concern, on stumbling on this kind of opposition, would have been to get his men out of the way with the least possible delay.

  On the other hand, still retaining that viewpoint, he could see that there were snags. The moonlight certainly aided the defenders; and it was sufficiently bright to make good targets out of the attackers if they attempted any sudden disengagement. John peered up into the night sky, looking for cloud. If the moon were going to be obscured, it would be common sense for them to wait for it. But stars sparkled everywhere.

  A further consideration must be that if the defenders could be overcome, the attackers stood to make a neat haul of arms, and possibly ammunition. Guns were worth taking risks for. And it was very probable that they had the advantage both in men and weapons.

  It occurred to him that his show of force could have been tactically an error. Two or three rounds, instead of seven, might have been more likely to put them on the retreat. Pirrie might… Pirrie, he remembered, was somewhere outside, enjoying his nuptials.

  The children must have all awoken by now, but they remained quiet. He heard someone coming downstairs. Roger called to him softly:

  ‘Johnny!’

  He kept his eyes on the garden. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What next? There’s one fellow standing out like a sore thumb from up there. Can we start knocking them off, or do you want to give them a chance to blow?’

  He was reluctant to be the one to open the firing again. They knew his strength now. Further firing would be an expenditure of valuable ammunition with no prospect of any practical benefits.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Give it a little longer.’

  Roger said: ‘Do you think… ?’

  In the moonlight, a shout rose: ‘Gi’e it ’em!’ John ducked automatically as a volley of shots slammed against the house with a shivering protesting crash of splintered glass. From above he heard one of his own men reply.

  He called to Roger: ‘All right. Get back upstairs, and tell them to use their discretion. If that gang change their minds and decide to pull out, let them go.’

  This time one of the children had begun to cry, a frightened piercing wail. John felt far from optimistic as to the prospects of the attackers pulling out. They had presumably weighed the considerations as he had done, and decided their best chance lay in pressing the attack home.

  While the new lull held, he called out into the garden:

  ‘We don’t want any trouble. We’ll hold our fire if you clear off.’

  He had taken the precaution of first flattening himself against the wall beside the window. Two or three shots thumped against the far wall of the room in answer. A man laughed, and he fired the revolver in the direction of the laugh. There was a rattle of sporadic fire, either way.

  Watching intently, he saw a figure heave up out of the shadows, and fired again. Something sailed through the air, hit the side of the house, and dropped, not far from the window at which he and Joe Harris stood.

  He shouted: ‘Down, Joe!’

  The explosion shattered what glass was left in the window panes, but did no other damage. A rattle of fire issued from the house.

  Grenades, he thought sickly – why had the possibility not occurred to him? A fair portion of the guns that were now scattered throughout the countryside had originated in army barracks, and grenades were obviously as useful. For that matter, the men themselves had very possibly been soldiers; their present unconcern had a professional air to it.

  Without any doubt, grenades tipped the scales against the defenders. A few more might miss, as the first had done, but eventually they would get them into the house, silencing the rooms one by one. The situation had suddenly changed its aspect. With the valley so close, he was facing defeat, and death, almost certainly, for all of them.

  He said urgently to Joe Harris: ‘Get upstairs and tell them to keep as continuous a fire on as they can. But aiming – not popping off wildly. As soon as they see someone lift his arm, slam everything at him. If we don’t keep the grenades out, we’ve had it.’

  Joe said: ‘Right, Mr Custance.’

  He did not seem particularly worried; either because he lacked the imagination to see what the grenades meant, or possibly owing to his faith in John’s leadership. Pirrie had done a good job in that respect, but John would have exchanged it for Pirrie beside him in the house. If any of the others scored a hit, under these conditions, it would be by a fluke; Pirrie would have picked off the vague moonlit shadows without much difficulty.

  John fired again at a movement, and his shot was reinforced by shots from upstairs. Then from outside there was a swift concentrated burst directed towards one of the bedroom windows. Simultaneously, from another part of the garden, an arm rose, and a second grenade was lobbed through the air. It hit the side of the house again, and went off harmlessly. John fired at the point from which it had been thrown. There was a scatter of shots in different directions. In their wake came a cry which cut off halfway. The cry was from the garden. Someone had claimed another of the attackers.

  It was encouraging, but no more than that. It made little difference to the probabilities of the outcome. John fired another round, and dodged sideways as a shot crashed past him in reply. The people outside were not likely to be discouraged by a lucky shot or two from the house finding their marks.

  Even when, after a further interchange of shots, he saw a grenade arm rise again, and then saw it slump back with the grenade unthrown, he could only see the incident as a cause for grim satisfaction – not for hope. Two seconds later, the grenade went off, and set off a riot of explosion that made it abundantly clear that whoever held it had been carrying other grenades as well. There were shouts from that part of the garden, and some cries of pain. John fired into the noise, and the others followed suit. This time there was no answer.

  All the same, it was with both astonishment and relief that John saw figures detach themselves from the cover of the ground and run, keeping as low as possible, away down the slope towards the valley. He fired after them, as the others did, and tried to number them as they retreated. Anything between ten and twenty – and with one, possibly two or three, left behind.

  Everyone came crowding into the room – the women and children along with the men. In the dim light, John could see their fa
ces, relieved and happy. They were all chattering. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard:

  ‘Joe! You’ve got another half-hour on guard. We’re doubling up for the rest of the night. You’re on with him now, Noah. Jess will go on with Roger afterwards, and Andy with Alf. I’ll take a turn myself with Will. And from now on, raise the alarm first – and start wondering what it might be afterwards.’

  Joe Harris said: ‘You see, Mr Custance, I was hoping they would go on past.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ John said. ‘The rest of us might as well get back to bed.’

  Alf Parsons asked: ‘Any sign of Pirrie and his woman?’

  He heard Olivia’s voice: ‘Jane – out there…’

  ‘They will turn up,’ he said. ‘Go on back to bed now.’

  ‘If that lot fell over them, they won’t be turning up,’ Parsons said.

  John went to the window. He called: ‘Pirrie! Jane!’

  They listened in silence. There was no sound from outside. The moonlight lay like a summer frost on the garden.

  ‘Should we go and have a look for them?’ Parsons asked.

  ‘No.’ John spoke decisively. ‘Nobody’s moving out of here to-night. For one thing, we don’t know how far those boys with the grenades have gone, or whether they have gone for good. Off to bed now. Let’s get out of this room first, and give the Blennitts a chance. Come on. We need to rest ourselves ready for to-morrow.’

  They dispersed quietly, though with some reluctance. John walked upstairs with Roger, following behind Ann and Olivia and the children. He went into the upstairs cloakroom, and Roger waited for him on the landing.

  Roger said: ‘I thought we’d had it for a time.’

  ‘The grenades? Yes.’

  ‘In fact, I think we were a bit lucky.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand it. We were certainly lucky dropping that bloke while he still had the grenades. That must have shaken them quite a bit. But I’m surprised that it shook them enough to make them pack things in. I didn’t think they would.’

  Roger yawned. ‘Anyway, they did. What do you think about Pirrie and Jane?’

  ‘Either they had gone far enough away to be out of earshot, or else they were spotted and bought it. Those people weren’t bad shots. Not being in the house, they wouldn’t have had any protection.’

  ‘They could have drifted out of earshot.’ Roger laughed. ‘Along the paths of love.’

  ‘Out of earshot of that racket? That would have brought Pirrie back.’

  ‘There is another possibility,’ Roger suggested. ‘Jane may have tucked a knife in her garter on her own account. These ideas probably do occur to women spontaneously.’

  ‘Where’s Jane, then?’

  ‘She still might have run across our friends. Or she might have tumbled to the fact that she would be less than popular here if she came back with a story of having mislaid her new husband on her bridal night.’

  ‘She’s got enough sense to know a woman’s helpless on her own now.’

  ‘Funny creatures, women,’ Roger said. ‘Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they do the sensible thing without hesitation. The hundredth time they do the other with the same enthusiasm.’

  John said curiously: ‘You seem cheerful tonight, Rodge.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be, after a reprieve like that? That second grenade came within a couple of feet of pitching in at my window.’

  ‘And you won’t be sorry if Pirrie has bought it, either from Jane or the grenade merchants.’

  ‘Not particularly. Not at all, in fact. I think I’ll be rather pleased, I told you – there’s been no need for me to get myself fixated on Pirrie. I haven’t had to run things.’

  ‘Is that what you would call it – fixated?’

  ‘You don’t find many Pirries about. The pearl in the oyster – hard and shining and, as far as the oyster is concerned, a disease.’

  ‘And the oyster?’ John offered ironically: ‘The world as we know it?’

  ‘The analogy’s too complicated. I’m tired as well. But you know what I mean about Pirrie. In abnormal conditions, invaluable; but I hope to God we aren’t going to live in those conditions for ever.’

  ‘He was a peaceable enough citizen before. There’s no reason to think he wouldn’t have been one again.’

  ‘Isn’t there? You can’t put a pearl back inside the oyster. I wasn’t looking forward to life in the valley with Pirrie standing just behind you, ready to jog your elbow.’

  ‘In the valley, David’s boss, if anyone has to be. Not me, not Pirrie. You know that.’

  ‘I’ve never met your brother,’ Roger said. ‘I know very little about him. But he hasn’t had to bring his family and hangers-on through a world that breaks up as you touch it.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘No?’ Roger yawned again. ‘I’m tired. You turn in. It’s not worth my while for half an hour. I’ll just look in and see that the kids have bedded down.’

  They stood together in the doorway of the room. Ann and Olivia were lying on blankets under the window; Ann looked up as she saw them standing there, but did not say anything. A shaft of moonlight extended to the double bed that had been created out of the two single ones. Mary lay curled up by the wall. Davey and Steve were snuggled in together, with one of Davey’s arms thrown across Steve’s shoulder. Spooks, his features strangely adult without his spectacles, was at the other side. He was awake also, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful for Pirrie,’ Roger said. ‘But I’m glad we’ve found we can manage without him.’

  In the new pattern of life, the hours of sleep were from nine to four, the children being packed off, when possible, an hour earlier, and sleeping on after the others until breakfast was ready. It began to be light during the last watch, which John shared with Will Secombe. He went out into the garden and examined the field of the skirmish. There was a man about twenty-five, shot through the side of the head, about fifteen yards from the house. He was wearing army uniform and had a jewelled brooch pinned on his chest. If the stones were diamond, as they appeared to be, it must have been worth several hundred pounds at one time.

  There were tatters of army uniform on the other body in the garden. This one was a considerably more ugly sight; he had apparently been carrying grenades round his waist, and the first one had set them off. It was difficult to make out anything of what he had been like in life. John called Secombe, and they dragged both bodies well away from the house and shoved them out of sight under a clump of low-lying holly.

  Secombe was a fair-haired, fair-skinned man; he was in his middle thirties but looked a good deal younger. He kicked a protruding leg farther under the holly, and looked at his hands with disgust.

  John said: ‘Go in and have a wash, if you like. I’ll look after things. It will be time for reveille soon, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Custance. Nasty job, that. I didn’t see anything as bad as that during the war.’

  When he had gone, John had another look round the environs of the house. The man who had had the grenades had had a rifle as well; it lay near where he had lain, bent and useless. There was no sign of any other weapon; that belonging to the other corpse had presumably been taken away in the retreat.

  He found nothing else, apart from two or three cartridge clips and a number of spent cartridge cases. He was looking for signs of Pirrie or Jane, but there was nothing. In the dawn light, the valley stretched away, without sign of life. The sky was still clear. It looked like a good day lying ahead.

  He thought of calling again, and then decided it would be useless. Secombe came back out of the house, and John looked at his watch.

  ‘All right. You can get them up now.’

  Breakfast was almost ready and there were sounds of the children moving about when John heard Roger exclaim:

  ‘Good God!’

  They were in the front room from which John had directed operations during the night. John
followed Roger’s gaze out of the shattered window. Pirrie was coming up the garden path, his rifle under his arm; Jane walked just behind him.

  John called to him: ‘Pirrie! What the hell have you been up to?’

  Pirrie smiled slightly. ‘Would you not regard that as a delicate question?’ He nodded towards the garden. ‘You cleared the mess up, then?’

  ‘You heard it?’

  ‘It would have been difficult not to. Did they land either of the grenades inside?’ John shook his head. ‘I thought not.’

  ‘They cleared off when things were beginning to get hot,’ John said. ‘I’m still surprised about that.’

  ‘The side fire probably upset them,’ Pirrie said.

  ‘Side fire?’

  Pirrie gestured to where, on the right of the house, the ground rose fairly steeply.

  John said: ‘You were having a go at them – from there?’

  Pirrie nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ John echoed. ‘That explains a few things. I was wondering who we had in the house who could hit that kind of target in that kind of light, and kill instead of just wounding.’ He looked at Pirrie. ‘Then you heard me call you, after they had cleared off? Why didn’t you give me a hail back?’

  Pirrie smiled again. ‘I was busy.’

  They travelled easily and uneventfully that day, if fairly slowly. Their route now lay for the most part across the moors, and there were several places where it was necessary to leave the roads and cut over the bare or heathery slopes, or to follow by the side of one of the many rivers or streams that flowed down from the moors into the dales. The sun rose at their backs into a cloudless sky, and before midday it was too hot for comfort. John called an early halt for dinner, and afterwards told the women to get the children down to rest in the shade of a group of sycamores.

  Roger asked him: ‘Not pressing on with all speed?’

  He shook his head. ‘We’re within reach now. We’ll be there before dark, which is all that matters. The kids are fagged out.’