“And the funny thing is, that they would feel safe in here; for them, all the danger would be outside: wolves and mammoths—the tiger-feeling.”
“Yes,” he said, “the tiger-feeling.”
“Do you know something?” she whispered. “I’ve been wondering if this cave is haunted.”
“Of course not.”
“After all, if they did live in here years and years ago there’s no reason it shouldn’t be haunted.”
He got up and put some more sticks on the fire. “It’s getting very smoky in here—rather airless; I hope the fire’s not using up all the oxygen.”
“But why shouldn’t they have ghosts?” she persisted. “They were men weren’t they, not animals?”
“I wish you wouldn’t whisper.”
“I didn’t know I was whispering. I’m very sorry.”
He squeezed her hand. “Good! the kettle’s nearly boiling, can you hear it?”
She listened. “It’s not singing, it’s whistling.”
“No,” he said, “it’s singing.”
“SSh!—”
“What is it?”
“Listen very carefully,” she said. “There is someone whistling!”
He leaned forward towards the bright flames, staring over them towards the entrance. He heard three high careless notes far away as though someone were indeed whistling; but before he could be sure, it had ceased and he could discern only the constant music of the water under-scored by the minute melody of the kettle.
“No,” he said, “it was only the kettle; it was the steam lifting the lid.”
She shivered. “Well I wish it would hurry up. I’m longing to have my tea and get out of here.”
In the darkness a stone fell with a splash into a pool; the noise was deliberate and dreadful. In the silence they squatted there not daring at first even to look at one another. Throughout the unseen reaches of the cave water continued to drip far and near, a relentless pattering like a thousand clocks. Not very far away, in the tunnel perhaps, perhaps behind them in some other part of the gallery, somebody swore pleasurably; an obscene, lingered-over, word.
John jumped to his feet; his back to Victoria, his trembling shadow tapering off over the floor, he shouted out into the darkness:
“Who’s there?”
Oblivious of the echo, his voice interrupting its own reverberations, he yelled again, “We can see you. Who are you?”
In the throat of the tunnel a match was struck and they saw the pink sheltering hands, the laughing face with the shadow of the nose thrown broadly up between the eyes.
“But for that bloody stone,” said the man, “if you will forgive my french, you would not have heard me until much later.” He started to stumble towards them. “Can’t see a foot ahead of me. Show us a light, will you? I’m getting too old for this sort of game.”
The match went out and he disappeared again; but they could hear him: his rapid breathing, the ugly noises of his feet in the water, and the secret chuckles of his amusement.
“A pity!” he went on, “a great pity! I had an idea I should find you here; but then one never knows—one never does know.”
John stepped forward a pace.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“All in good time,” said the man. “One of you knows me, or she should do; and if there’s a cup of tea going, well, like the song ‘I’m young and healthy’.” He struck another match. “And now?” he asked, “Does my young lady of this morning recognise me now?” He thrust his face forward into its light. “Nothing to be so very frightened about surely? speaking the truth, my friends tell me I’m quite good-looking.”
Victoria got up. “It’s my hiker,” she said rather flatly. “However did you find us?”
“Well isn’t that just typical of a woman?” said the man. “She tells you where she’ll be at a certain time and then when you arrive she makes out that she’s surprised.” Kneeling down on the wet rock he suddenly grasped her hand and kissed it. “Your servant, young Madam—more than that, your willing slave.”
Victoria laughed. “You are funny, I’m not a woman, I’m only a girl. Do get up—you make me feel stupid.”
The man got up. “There now,” he said. “I’ve creased my trousers for you; but never mind, it’s all in a good cause.” He turned to John, “Now then, introductions please, this is—?”
“This is my friend. I told you about him. His name is John Blaydon and I am Victoria.”
He bowed. “And my name is Jack—Jack Noone,” he announced.
“Is that your real name?” asked John.
The man turned to Victoria. “Suspicious isn’t he?” he said. “Doesn’t seem to trust us, does he? Let’s say that it’s good enough for me, shall we, and get on with the tea-making? From what you were saying a few minutes ago I gather that the kettle’s just on the boil, so who’s going to be mother?” He sat down on the mackintosh and started to prod at the fire, and Victoria, with a little shrug of her shoulders sat down too. John remained standing.
“How did you know the kettle was boiling?” he asked.
“Because, young feller, I was listening to you—I was eavesdropping!” Abruptly he laughed out loud and then, with a discomforting effect, equally suddenly cut his laugh short. “A terrible crime, isn’t it, listening to sweethearts—in the dark?”
He looked swiftly from one to the other of them, his face briefly two-headed in the flicker of the firelight. They said nothing and their silence seemed to spur him on to further speech. “But you needn’t worry, I didn’t hear much, and I saw nothing because it was too dark. To tell you the truth, whatever you were up to in here, I wouldn’t tell; I’m not so old myself yet, and I don’t suppose kids have changed much since my day—I’ll bet there are still some things we don’t tell our parents or our teachers—eh?” He laughed incompletely, and in the sinking firelight they were again silent, not even looking at one another.
“But I see I embarrass you,” the man said. “Heavy-footed, that’s me. Forget it! We’ll talk about something else—sweethearts must have their little secrets to themselves, mustn’t they? Who’s going to ‘mash t’tay’, as they say up this way? I think the lady should.”
“As a matter of fact,” said John coldly, “we weren’t going to have any tea after all. We were just thinking of going when you arrived—it’s so wet in here.”
“It’s not so wet as it is outside,” said the man. “Cats dogs and puppy dog’s tails! all the things that little boys are made of. So I think you’d be very much better to have your tea in here don’t you, Victoria?”
Victoria looked at John, but he would not meet her eyes; and as he looked away he heard her voice change; it became suddenly defiant, it was her daring voice, “Yes, let’s!” she said. “We said we would, and we will!”
“That’s the stuff!” said the man, smiling at her. “I like a girl who knows her own mind, and I don’t mind betting you’d take a bit of moving once you’d made up your mind; you’d be more than a match for the pair of us I’m sure, eh?”
Victoria looked pleased. She filled the teapot with a flourish.
“You don’t deserve any tea,” she said, with a pretty sideways smile. “We were petrified, weren’t we John? We kept hearing noises, didn’t we! By the way, was it you whistling just before that stone fell?”
“Me?” he said. “I never whistle. You must have been hearing things.” He picked up a cup, “Only two cups? tk! tk! one of us’ll have to share then! Fancy inviting a man to tea with you and then expecting him to share.”
“I didn’t invite you; I just told you we were going to picnic in the cave. I had no idea you were even thinking of coming.”
“Now! now! Don’t deny that you didn’t sell me on the cave and the tea-party. It’ll do him no harm to be a little bit jealous; he’s got all his life ahead of him yet and he’s starting young enough.”
John got up. “What do you do for a living?” he asked suddenly.
“
What do I do?” asked the man. “I do everybody,” and he laughed for the third time.
“I don’t understand,” said John obstinately. “My father’s a clergyman, and Victoria’s father’s a gentleman, well what are you?”
The man looked suddenly serious, “He’s trying to frighten me,” he said, and then he smiled in a very friendly fashion, “Well, to tell you the truth I’m a C.T.”
“What’s that?” they both asked.
“A traveller—commercial.”
“Oh then you’re not a hiker at all?” said Victoria.
“Far from it, I’m what the hikers look for when they’re tired of hiking—the gent with the car.”
He put down his empty cup and John rinsed it out before filling it with fresh tea.
“Particular isn’t he?” said the man. “Anyone would think I’d got foot and mouth, wouldn’t they? What’s the matter, don’t I look clean?”
John looked down at him. “I can’t see your face very distinctly in this light,” he said politely.
The man turned eagerly to Victoria, “Well what do you think? You saw me in the daylight, didn’t you? I’m not so bad am I?”
“I didn’t notice,” she said shortly. “I think we ought to be going, it must be getting very late. Do you know what the time is?” She got up and he looked at his watch.
“It’s just after six,” he said. “Why, what time have you to be back—wherever you’re going?”
Victoria ignored the question. “Heavens!” she said to John. “Mummy’ll be back at seven and I promised we’d help Annie with the supper.”
“No hurry,” said the man. “Once we get out of this hole I’ll have you back in ten minutes.”
“You needn’t worry,” said John. “We’ll walk. It doesn’t matter if we are a bit late does it Victoria? and we don’t mind the rain, do we? We’re wet enough as it is.”
“No,” she said doubtfully. “It’s Annie’s evening out though, and she may miss her date if we aren’t there to help her—then Enid will be upset.”
Stumbling round the uneven floor of the cave John and Victoria collected the things and packed the haversack.
“I’ll lead the way,” said John.
From behind him the man lifted the haversack and the mackintosh from his arms and thrust the torch into his hand.
“Now,” he said, “no arguments; I’ll be the porter and the lady can come in the middle—”
“I can manage thank you,” said John. “I got them in all right—”
“I told you,” said the man, “if you want to argue you’d better pick someone your own size; and now, lead on Macduff!”
With tight-lipped obedience John took the lead, and in single file they negotiated the uneven tunnel, clambered down the entrance chamber, and came out into the dark green daylight beyond.
It was still raining heavily as they made their way back to the road, and in the middle of the dripping bracken which flanked the entrance to the cave their companion made Victoria put on her mackintosh.
“We’ve got to look after you,” he said as he turned up the collar for her and fastened it swiftly beneath her chin. “Can’t have your mother thinking we didn’t know how to look after her daughter. I expect she’ll be back by now and worrying herself cold wondering what’s happened to you.”
“No she won’t,” said John. “I told her we’d be back before they were, and they said we were not to expect them before seven.”
“Oh your father’s expecting you too is he, Victoria?”
“No not my father, my mother’s friend Mr Harkess who owns the farm where we’re staying.”
“And they’re both out? Well well, that takes a bit of beating.”
“What does?” asked Victoria.
“Leaving the two of you alone in the evening in a place like this—Where have your mother and her friend gone to?”
“The Races at Redcar—and anyway we’re not alone; there’s the maid and the two dogs,” John said with relish. “I’d like to see anyone try and break in, I can tell you! The mastiffs would tear lumps out of him.”
The man picked up the haversack and started off along the wet, rabbit-nibbled, pathway.
“Blood-thirsty, isn’t he?” he said to Victoria. “All the same, you wouldn’t catch me leaving a couple of teen-agers alone at night in this part of the world, even if I trusted them—Why, your folk might have a breakdown or a puncture or something and not get home till all hours. That would be nice for you, wouldn’t it?” He stopped so suddenly that Victoria bumped into him. “I’ll tell you something,” he went on.
“What?”
“I’ll bet your mother wouldn’t carry on like this if your father was here.”
They looked at each other briefly and then started to trudge on through the rain and the greyness of the moorland dusk, while for a moment, he stood where they had left him a tall laden figure from whom they longed to escape and from whom for that very reason, they did not hurry, but walked perhaps a little more slowly than the rain and the hour warranted. It was only a moment before they heard the squelch of his footsteps as he ran to catch them up. “Where is your father then?” he asked as he drew level with them.
“She hasn’t got one,” said John, “and if you don’t mind she’d rather not talk about it.”
Because he so sharply expected the laugh, it was a shock when he heard it. “My mistake, apologies all round,” said the man, “but how was I to know? You said he was a gentleman; you never said he was a dead gentleman!”
“He’s not dead!” said John. “He’s very much alive but he’s—abroad, isn’t he, Victoria?”
“Yes,” she improvised. “He’s in New York but he writes to me every week and soon he’ll be coming home on the Majestic.”
“Well well! that’s what I call nice,” said the man. “Every girl needs a father these days.”
They breasted the upper limit of the dingle and came out into the full aggression of the wind hurling its rains against their faces. It was a relief to be on a high level place once more. John felt that the most unpleasant part of the afternoon was behind them, that it lay somewhere in the dark hollow of the dell, and that out here in the open they could be no more than they were; three ordinary people who had picnicked on the Moors. The rain was like a wet sheaf of chysanthemums in the light of his torch, the separate drops swirled into the centre of the light like the loose ragged petals of the flower, and from it came the mingled scent of earth grass and heath.
Ahead of them they saw the low shape of the motor-car as it crouched beside the road, and at the sight of it their companion became suddenly gayer and more confident.
“There she is!” he said. “That’s one thing about a car, if you put her in gear and leave the brake on she’ll be there when you come back; you can trust a car. Between us we’ll have you home in two shakes and then yours truly will have to be on his way back to—Huddersfield.”
They did not argue about this, they wanted only to get home; so they quickened their pace eagerly and were soon sitting together on the back seat. Their companion fumbled at the dashboard; they saw him searching for the ignition-switch with a bunch of keys, and after a short delay he switched on the side-lights and started the engine. “It gets dark quickly this time of the year,” he said, “and though I should know ’er like the back of my hand, she’s got so many little gadgets that I make mistakes sometimes—Pity about the short evenings; I like a country drive myself, looking at things you know, and just easing along through the country lanes.”
“You do a lot of driving then?” Victoria asked politely.
“Nothing but,” he said. “I’m a devil for it! That’s why I took this job—mostly. You get your car, you get your petrol, you get your expenses, and then you get your area and you get paid for covering it. Suits me.”
“What do you sell?”
He laughed loudly above the noise of the engine. This time his laugh was prolonged; they thought he might never stop; but he did, su
ddenly, slowing down the car as they descended the narrow road into the floor of the Dale.
“To be honest,” he said, “that’s something I’m not prepared to answer,” and he turned half round so that they saw the stubby outline of his profile against the running windscreen.
John spoke: “Why do you always say ‘to be honest’?” he asked. “You keep on saying it; you keep on saying, ‘to be truthful’, ‘to be honest’, and things like that. Why do you say them?”
“If you had to do what I have to do, you’d know there’s a lot of liars about, and you’ve got to know who to trust. Now when you’re selling things sometimes, you have to tell a bigger one than the chap you’re selling to; it’s part of the job; but among friends there’s no necessity for that, so just to let them know that it’s not business, you tell ’em that you’re on the level. Satisfied?”
“No,” said John. “I could understand it if you said something, and then the other person wanted to know if you were telling the truth; but if you are telling the truth and yet you keep on saying ‘to be truthful’, it sounds as though the other person who doesn’t believe you is yourself.”
“Oh forget it!” said the man. “To get back to the question of my commodities, the product of the old firm, I can tell you it’s a garment your girl-friend would have no use for yet—I’m sure of that,” and he started to laugh again.
John leaned forward, “We’re nearly there now,” he said. “The entrance is by that clump of trees on the left. You needn’t take us in, it’ll only upset the dogs and frighten Annie.”
“Sure?” he asked. “It’s no trouble.”
“It’s very kind of you and thank you very much for the lift; but we’ll be quite all right now—we’re in splendid time aren’t we Victoria?”
“Yes we are, but we must hurry if we’re to be in time to help Annie with the supper, it must be nearly half-past six.
“Half-past six! It’s ten to seven,” said the man as they drew up by the gate. “Like me to come in and peel the potatoes for you? I’m quite handy in the kitchen, well-trained, and one good turn deserves another.”
“No thank you,” said Victoria. “It’s very thoughtful of you but—” her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her mackintosh, she stopped. “Heavens!” she said bringing out a crumpled envelope. “How awful! I’d forgotten all about Mummy’s letter; just look at it, it’s in an awful mess and it’s terribly important.”
In the Time of Greenbloom Page 15