Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  ‘Wait a bit,’ Jack whispered. ‘Get yer eyes used to the dark.’

  Clara thought it had been dark enough outside. Indoors, she couldn’t see anything at all. Yet after a minute she began to make out the shadowy forms of a dresser, a stove and a table. Just like the kitchen at Briar Farm; there was even the smell of cabbage.

  ‘Get stuff from the cupboards. Anything you can pick up,’ whispered Jack.

  For five minutes Clara fumbled with the cupboard doors, trying to open them silently and close them gently. She took off her cloak and gathered whatever she found into a bundle. Her eyes were hurting with the strain, and she felt weak and dry-throated; so she was grateful when Jack signalled that they should leave. Now, with arms full of booty, it was even harder than before to climb onto the draining-board. As she twisted herself through the casement, her shoe caught one of the mugs and sent it clattering into the sink. It didn’t break, but in the silent night it might as well have been a dinner gong. Jack swore and pushed Clara through, before following. ‘Run,’ he hissed as Clara staggered to her feet, still clutching the bundle. ‘Fast as you can, before they get downstairs.’

  Clara ran, but of course she went in the wrong direction, and Jack had to risk a low call to get her to follow. They turned left, then right, then right again; and just as Clara began to feel her bundle coming apart, they came in sight of the wood. Still Jack ran on, and as he reached the trees he gave a low whistle, twice repeated. A woman emerged from behind a tree. ‘That you, Jack?’ she hissed. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Think so,’ said Jack. ‘No thanks to her. Any of the others back?’

  Clara hurried past the woman, trying not to look at her.

  At dawn, they came to an abandoned house in some woods where the air was heavy with the oily scent of pines. Clara staggered into the first room they came to and threw herself down in a corner.

  ‘Oi,’ said Jack. ‘Not yet – not till after the counting.’

  ‘The what?’ said Clara.

  ‘Your stuff,’ said Jack. ‘Bring your stuff. Catwall needs to see what you’ve got.’

  Catwall sat at a rough wooden table in the old kitchen, where the broken windows had been boarded, and a stove lay on its side. A layer of grime and rat droppings covered the floor. A dozen of the Scrapers had formed a queue while Catwall inspected and sorted their takings. Soon there was a pile of tins, a couple of lumps of meat, a few loaves and a chicken. Two knives, a tin of lamp-oil and some rope lay to one side. Jack had found some cheese and a leg of ham.

  Catwall looked up. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘New girl. What did you find? Some tins? Let me see.’ She pulled the bundle open and stared. ‘Soap?’ she said, turning her eyes on Clara so that the light reflected off her glasses. ‘What is this supposed to mean, girl?’

  Clara was aware that a silence had fallen. ‘I – I – got things from the cupboard …’

  Catwall unwrapped a cloth. ‘And,’ she screeched, ‘a teapot! The girl’s brought a teapot!’

  From somewhere behind came giggles. Clara said, ‘I didn’t know! What was I supposed to take?’ Everyone was watching her. ‘I’ve never stolen anything before. Can’t you – can’t you sell it?’

  Now everyone was laughing; even Acker had stopped playing with his knife. Only Jack slipped quietly out, as Catwall smashed the teapot on the floor.

  Later, Clara lay on her side, squeezing her eyes tight. Around her she heard the snores of the Scrapers. From nearby she could smell the cigarette that the watchwoman was smoking. She’d assumed Jack was asleep too, but then she heard him whisper: ‘It’s food you’ve got to take, see? And useful stuff, like rope. Tomorrow night I’ll show yer.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Clara managed to say, and wiped her eyes.

  When she woke that evening, Clara wanted to stay where she was and never move again; but Ma and Matty coaxed her up and managed to get her to eat some broth. Matty gave a broad smile when Clara, trying to be conversational, told her how much she liked her pigtails.

  But soon the Scrapers were off again, setting a quick pace over a wide hill, then through unkempt fields bounded by broken fences. Shreds of cloud covered the moon, and a swirling wind blew dust in their faces. The next village straggled out along half a mile of straight road, among newly manured fields where the stench coagulated between the hedgerows. Jack guided Clara into a tiny cottage at the roadside, and checked the living-room while her pulse throbbed in her ears. He gave her tins of soup to carry, then led the way outside.

  Catwall grudgingly approved Clara’s second haul, and by the third night, Clara managed to unlatch a window on her own. She found a meat-safe and stole a packet of pork chops, which gave off that slightly sweet smell that told her they’d better be eaten soon. As they left the house, her legs nearly gave way.

  The next night, near Bagshot, they found a pair of cottages by a pond. Jack sent her into one, and raided the other himself. Clara’s night-sight was improving, and she easily found the back door. It was unlocked, but as she eased the door open something brushed past her leg. Then as her heart stopped thumping, she realised that the cat had been more scared than her.

  She found her way to the cupboards, and groped inside. There were two tins and the end of a stale loaf. The larder contained bare plates, a jug that felt empty and half a bag of flour. But as she searched the cupboards again, she heard a noise. It came from upstairs – someone was stirring. She froze, unable to run, fearing discovery at any moment. Jack had told her that any Scraper who was caught would be left behind. They must say they were working alone, and not expect help. Clara had understood all of this, but now she realised it meant she’d be abandoned to the Repsegs. Even as she tried to calm her breathing, even as she edged closer to the open door, she noticed that the sound wasn’t changing. No-one was coming down the stairs wielding a stick. No-one was fumbling for matches and a lantern. No-one was about to discover her. And then she heard the sobs.

  She crept to the foot of the stairs and listened. Now she could hear the stifled, high-pitched keening that escaped as the woman wept. She made out the words, ‘John, John,’ before the sobbing took over again. Clara couldn’t stand it anymore. Who was John? A servant? A lover? A son? Had John left, or had he been taken by the Repsegs? Or was he lying dead upstairs, while this woman mourned?

  She’d had enough of death, of loss. Fighting back her own tears, Clara grabbed the tins and made her way to the door. Then she stopped and put the tins on the table, staring at them for a minute before disappearing into the night.

  ‘She had nothing, that woman,’ she told Jack as they headed for the rendezvous. ‘She had someone dead upstairs, and I was going to take all her food.’

  ‘So who’s going to starve, then?’ said Jack. ‘Her – or you?’

  ‘I couldn’t do it, Jack. That’s all.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘You was scared, that’s what. Well, I ain’t covering for you no more, see?’

  ‘Oh, how would you understand?’ said Clara. ‘You’re just a boy.’

  Jack held up a hand. ‘Quiet. Listen.’ Far away in the night, there were shouts and dogs barking. ‘Something’s up. Back to the others, fast as you can.’

  Clara ran. She was scared – so scared that she ran faster than Jack. Then through the darkness came the sound of gunshots, and they ran faster.

  The Scrapers were already on the move as Clara and Jack joined them; they plunged through woods and down a valley, marching swiftly up one hill and down another before someone called a halt. By then, Clara’s lungs felt like someone had scalded them, and sweat was rolling down her face.

  Next morning Clara saw that Ma had her arm in a sling, and was told that Edna had been “left behind”.

  For two whole nights they plodded through Windsor Forest, hearing nothing and seeing less, for the weather had turned cloudy and the dark lanterns had to be lit. There was to be no more “visiting” – which Clara took to mean stealing – until the nights were clear again.

  She w
as hungry all the time now, but she knew she was lucky to be getting any food at all. Everyone, even the Don, got the same rations. She wasn’t surprised that they all looked thin (or in the Don’s case, thinner). She tried to learn the Scrapers’ ways, but it was difficult without appearing nosy. With Acker around, she particularly didn’t want to be branded a spy. There were many things she didn’t understand: references to loved ones lost, or to people who’d fled; stories of forsaken homes; friends who’d been handed over to the Repsegs. She also noticed that the few men in the group always had lots of women around them. The Don, especially, always seemed to set the women laughing. Even Acker had a following, as did a thin, greying man who smoked a lot and said little. Only Tesley seemed to stride along all alone, even though he was always ready to chat, to take an interest in people and even to tell the odd joke. It seemed as if he lightened the atmosphere a bit. An antidote to Acker.

  As far as she could judge, they travelled mostly westward, although sometimes their path was distinctly north, and very occasionally south. She found that this could depend on the lie of the land. The Scrapers seemed to know their route well, for they avoided the larger towns and the more exposed countryside; and they never failed to find somewhere to cross the rivers and streams. Once they had no choice but to skirt some marshland, where the mosquitoes and gnats whined and bit all night long. Ma told her that this used to be fertile farmland, but the ditches that drained the water had been abandoned. Clara’s Truth Sister suit was filthy again, and she feared she must smell like the rest of the Scrapers.

  The first night after the forest, a light drizzle was falling. She found herself walking alongside Jack. He’d hardly spoken to her for the last two nights. ‘Jack?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Course I am. Why?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Look, thanks for showing me how to steal, and all that. I mean–’

  ‘’S okay,’ he said, quickly.

  They continued in silence, their feet slithering on wet grass. Then Clara said, ‘What happens when it really rains? I mean, you can’t sleep out in the open. And you can’t always find a barn, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jack, ‘we find a Closed Area. There’s quite a few, if you know where to look.’

  ‘But aren’t they guarded? Don’t the Repsegs come?’

  ‘Not much. And the one time they did, Acker put them away. Two of them, and him with just a knife.’

  Clara shuddered.

  Clara was sent stealing with Matty. The night was warm, and a bird sang in some willows as the two girls circled around a large, white-painted house with a steeply-sloping roof. A motor-van stood in the drive: clearly the people here were rich, or they had the right contacts. She let the tyres down as she’d been taught, then led the way round to the back of the house where a pair of French windows stood open, with pale curtains fluttering in the moonlight. They crept across the lawn and in through the windows, which creaked in the faint breeze. On a table in the spacious kitchen were three large bags, and when Clara inspected them she found they were full of food. Cans, bread, cheese and fresh meat wrapped in brown paper, eggs: the results of a shopping expedition. The two girls looked at each other, grinned, then grabbed the bags and ran. Back in the lane, Clara fished out a bag of plums.

  ‘Here,’ she said to Matty. ‘Let’s have a feast.’

  ‘But, we’re not allowed to,’ said Matty, her eyes wide. ‘It’s not right. Catwall has to see all the goods, and we have to share.’

  Clara rolled a plum in her hand, feeling its firm smoothness. ‘We used to have a plum tree,’ she said. ‘At the farm.’

  ‘Please,’ said Matty. ‘We mustn’t eat them.’

  ‘No,’ said Clara. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ and she put the plums back in the shopping bag. Only one found its way into her pocket.

  Catwall was checking the night’s takings in the corner of a field. The Scrapers had beaten down some of the wheat, and sprawled themselves out over it. Jack, Tesley and one or two others were sitting on a rusty tractor, and they watched as Catwall emptied the bags. The Don stood by, presiding.

  ‘Careful,’ said Clara. ‘There’s eggs in there.’

  Catwall cackled, and said nothing. She held up the bag of plums then tested its weight in her hand, watching Clara. Then she shrugged, and set it aside. ‘We will share these out when we stop for the day,’ she said. ‘It is an hour’s march till dawn.’

  ‘Where’d you get all that lot?’ said Jack, as Clara passed.

  ‘Maybe I’m learning, at last,’ said Clara.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Don with a laugh. ‘I fear Mr Acker will be disappointed. Perhaps this young lady has her uses after all.’ He gave a bow. Jack scowled.

  They feasted well that morning, and settled down for the day on the shores of Eton Reservoir. Catwall said that men had flooded the valley here, because the population was growing out of control. Then the plagues had come, and Nile Fever had carried away lots of the women and most of the men. Nobody needed all this water now. Clara fell asleep listening to the swirl and plop of the waters, and the distant churruk of a moorhen. She dreamed of the Academy, and Butcher’s sweaty armpits, and Bella’s lovely hair; but she was watching from outside, through an iron fence.

  She woke early, chilled by a breeze that made the waters lap and slop on the shore. As she rolled over and sat up, she saw that none of the Scrapers were stirring yet. The long, late summer dusk was just beginning and only the watch, stationed further up the bank, was awake. Clara’s eyes fell on her once-white trousers, now stained with mud and streaked with green and brown from grass and mosses. There was even a yellowish stain where the juice from that secret plum had dripped.

  She should wash them. Looking around again, she retreated further up the shore, then peeled them off. The wind chilled her bare legs at once, and as she stepped into the freezing shallows she nearly cried out. Crouching down, she plunged the trousers into the water, gasping again as her forearms met the cold. She wrung the trousers out, then soaked them again, rubbing vigorously at the stains, glad to be working openly at something instead of creeping and sneaking. When they were as clean as she was going to get them, she stood up and, stretching her back, spread the trousers on a low-hanging branch near the water’s edge. Now her feet and calves felt warm, almost hot; and something in her longed for the cold of the water again. She licked her lips, tugged off her tunic, then ran straight into the water. This time she couldn’t suppress a little shriek, but she didn’t care. She swam out a little way, then back; then along the shoreline until her feet fouled in some weeds and she turned away, into the deeper water again. It was glorious, and the red sunlight glancing off the waters and playing on the trees was beautiful.

  Gasping, she drew herself back to the shore and padded among the fallen leaves, treading gingerly on the gritty sand. Down the bank, the Scrapers were beginning to wake. As she watched them rubbing their eyes and stretching, rolling their belongings into their packs and getting on with their daily routine, she frowned. She felt no connection with them, no affinity. These are ordinary, normal people, she told herself, but I can’t feel like them, I can’t be like them. Maybe I’ll always be a Truth Sister at heart. Looking down at her bare legs, now glowing red as the blood surged around her limbs, she realised she couldn’t let the Scrapers see her like this – it was disrespectful. Even they didn’t walk around in just their knickers. There was nothing for it – she’d just have to wear her wet clothes.

  ‘Clara, you’re shivering!’ exclaimed Matty. They were making ready for the night’s trek, which the Don had said would take them towards Caversham. ‘And your clothes are wet!’

  Clara tried to smile, but her teeth were chattering too much. That breeze was keen, and Matty was right – her clothes were still sodden.

  Ma looked up from tying her backpack. ‘Why, what’ve you been doing, love?’

  ‘I w-washed my clothes,’ said Clara.

&nb
sp; Ma grinned. ‘Silly thing. You wash ’em before you turn in. Then they can dry while the day’s warm.’ She gave Clara a playful slap across the head. ‘You can’t carry on wearing them. You’ll catch a chill, if you haven’t already. Oh,’ she added, looking at Clara’s tunic, ‘there’s that nice badge of yours again. What’s it for?’

  Clara didn’t know why, but she felt she couldn’t part with her Truth Sister badge. It couldn’t be because she’d ever get that life back, could it? ‘Old – old school,’ she said through chattering teeth. ‘Don’t worry about me. I – I’ll warm up, I expect.’

  Then Matty was standing before Clara. ‘I’ve got a spare dress,’ she said. ‘You can borrow it if you like.’

  ‘No, really,’ began Clara. ‘I’m sure I’ll be–’ Then she caught sight of Ma, who was nodding pointedly. ‘Er, oh!’ she went on. ‘Yes, that would be very nice. Thank you, Matty.’

  As Matty ran to fetch the dress from her pack, Ma said: ‘You done right there, Clara. Poor old Matty – keeps herself to herself mostly. Lost in her own dreams. I never seen her offer anything to anyone before. I think she likes you.’