by Ann Pilling
Rose’s room was full of pretty things, every surface was cluttered with ornaments, bottles and pots. On the dressing table there was a basket full of bright hair ribbons. The boys kept cracking jokes about Rose Salt being bald under that pixie-hood. The little collection made Prill sad somehow.
Above the bed was a whole shelf of dolls, all neatly arranged and dusted, some of them quite old. But Amy wasn’t among them, so she looked round for the old carpet bag, peeping into the wardrobe and sliding drawers open, even crawling under the bed. But everything was in its place. There was no bag and no doll. The only thing she hadn’t investigated was Tony Edge’s Slasher costume cut into four purple pieces and laid out on the counterpane. Cautiously Prill felt underneath. No Amy.
She stared out of the tiny window into the sodden field below. The dank meadow, empty of the three horses, had become threatening. She pushed her head out and took deep breaths but the cold air tasted stale, stagnant almost, as if there was no life in it.
Prill sat down on Rose’s bed and pulled a crumpled envelope from her pocket. It contained a hilarious letter from Angela Stringer, which had arrived that morning. The riding lessons were obviously not quite what she’d been expecting. “Don’t know how you’re faring,” she wrote, “but I feel like something out of Thelwell. All the ponies are fat and slow, and I always seem to end up with the smallest. My feet usually touch the ground! They’re dead strict about what you wear, too. Mum’s been going through the church jumble this week, looking for suitable sweaters and things – everyone else looks so horsey, my dear, and so well tuned out. Gillian and I are definitely the poor relations!
“How are you getting on? I think I’ll give up this lark, and join the karate course at the Tech. There are some nice boys on that, and I could go with Peter from next door. (Your letter has just arrived! Not before time, please note.) He’s not bad, but he obviously doesn’t compare with your Tony Edge! Now he sounds a thrill a minute. . . Are they really that bad? They can’t be. I think you’re exaggerating, as usual. . .”
Angela’s cheerful prattle brought home, and normality, terribly close. What were they doing here, in this silent, brooding valley, with its tight-lipped, suspicious-looking villagers, its awful sense of waiting, its secrets? She pushed the letter back in her pocket, almost wishing it had never come. It had brought too many reminders of ordinariness, of humdrum, day-to-day existence, of the safe, unpredictable daily round from which, quite suddenly, they all seemed to have been cut off.
Prill found Colin in the kitchen, with his arm round Oliver. The small boy was still snivelling, and his thin shoulders shook. His lank hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“What on earth’s the matter, Oliver?” she said, pulling a stool up on the other side. She forgot about her doll and Rose Salt for a minute, she forgot about Angela’s crazy letter. Her cousin was usually so calm and collected, she’d never seen him like this before.
“He says Tony Edge tried to kill him,” Colin said, in a small, embarrassed voice. Prill stared at him, wondering if it was some kind of joke, but there was a darkness in his face, and the same blank bewilderment she’d felt herself when she found Amy missing, and the three horses gone from the field.
“Tony Edge what?”
“He gave him a lift back from Ranswick on his motorbike. Says he drove like a maniac, and kept going into things. Oll thinks he was trying to throw him off, or something.”
“He was.”
After all that crying, Oliver’s voice was a wavering croak, but the look in his large, pale eyes as he stared up at his cousin was firm enough, and stony with conviction. They’d learned not to quarrel with Oliver when he’d got a bee in his bonnet.
“Well, I can just imagine Tony Edge taking you for a joy ride,” Prill said shakily. “He’s a rotten driver. Molly said they’d threatened to take his ‘L’ plates away.”
“L for loony,” Colin said savagely. “He shouldn’t have taken a passenger anyway. It’s typical of the Edges.”
“Where’s Molly?” Prill asked. “Don’t you think we should tell her?”
“She’s gone to see old Miss Brierley. I don’t know where Rose is, but there’s something in the oven for lunch, and Molly said we could take that boat out if it stopped raining.”
“I don’t think I want to,” Oliver said, giving a big sniff and rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, come on, Oll,” Colin told him. “You said you wanted to practise rowing, and it’s a good chance. There’s nothing else to do anyway.”
“How did you get on at the library?” Prill said, trying to sound casual, but secretly wondering what on earth could have happened between Ranswick and Stang, on the back of that motorbike. “Did you discover anything interesting?”
“Oh, this and that,” Oliver replied vaguely. “I copied out bits for my father.” Things had improved a little, but not that much. He wasn’t ready to say anything yet about Stang and its legends, or to share his suspicions about the Edge family, even though that nightmare ride had made more slot into place.
Prill had decided to keep silent too. It wasn’t the right moment to embark upon Rose Salt, and the fact that she was a thief. Colin looked from one to the other, then at Jessie, gloomily nibbling her bandages. Nobody had pressed him about the accident yet, they’d believed his lies and he’d let them.
After stew, dumplings, and syrup tart, they collected Posie from the Masseys’ and walked together as far as Blake’s Pit. Only the little girl spoke, prattling away at Prill’s side all the way through the village. The three older children were silent and tense, locked in their three separate worlds of suspicion and growing unease.
The old boat belonged to Harold Edge. It was rather decrepit, but actually watertight, and Molly had somehow persuaded him to let the boys borrow it. “Do you think she bribed him?” said Colin, pulling out into the middle of the black, silent water. Oliver stared down as the oars rippled the lake. Water always calmed him, even here, on Blake’s Pit. Away from the gloomy trees, and the forlorn-looking cottages, the memory of that terrible journey began to fade a little.
Perhaps he had imagined some of it. When you hated people from the start it was hard to see them straight. Tony Edge was probably just a crazy driver who shouldn’t be allowed on the road. As they reached the centre of the round pool someone ran out of the caravan and a sharp little voice shouted, “Tek care with that boat!”
“The Puddings are on the warpath,” Colin grinned, feeling slightly more cheerful.
Coffin Lane got steeper towards the top of the hill, and Posie grizzled so much that Prill unfolded her blue buggy and strapped her in. She was doing up the buckles when Rose Salt appeared suddenly at her elbow.
“Hello, Posie,” she said, and put her hand out, fingering the tight gold curls, admiring the cherry-red anorak and the Fair Isle mittens. The child was perfect, just like a big china doll.
Posie Massey started to cry, and pushed at Rose. “Go ’way,” she whimpered. “You ’mell.”
Before Prill could say anything the little brown figure had gone; she watched it making its way back along the rutted track, swinging the old carpet bag, the long mack trailing in the mud, then saw it take the left-hand fork that led to Miss Brierley’s cottage.
“That wasn’t very nice, Posie,” Prill said, pushing the buggy up the stony lane. “That wasn’t nice to Rose.”
“Don’t like Rose,” the child said loudly. “Her not nice to Posie.”
The track petered out into Stang Heath, a wasteland crossed by the old canal and fenced off into untidy fields. Big Meadow stretched away to the right, disappearing into a dingy fog. Prill stuck her fingers in her mouth, and whistled.
Almost immediately she heard the drumming of hooves. She felt in her pocket for the apples and sugar she’d taken from the kitchen, and within seconds soft noses were pushing at her anorak. Mister and Lucky Lady devoured the apples instantly, with juicy crunching noises, but William, the old carthorse, wasn’t there.
A feeble sun was struggling to get through, and Posie wanted to go on. Her father sometimes took her to see the barges, further along the canal. But Prill turned the buggy round smartly, strapped her in again and set off for the village.
Goldilocks whined all the way home. “Sun’s shining now,” she complained, twisting about and trying to stand up. “Don’t want to go home. Don’t want to play with Sam. Sam naughty.” But Prill took no notice, she was thinking of William, not spoiled Posie Massey, and when the child tipped the buggy over in her efforts to get out, she lost her temper. “Shut up, will you!” she screamed, and gave her an almighty slap.
The little girl’s hand flew to her face, and she started to wail. “Posie, Posie,” pleaded Prill, kneeling down in the lane. “I’m sorry, darling, but I—”
“Pose hurt,” the toddler squealed, great tears rolling down her cheeks. “I want Mummy now!” And when she took her hand away, Prill saw a big red mark.
She was appalled at the way she’d lashed out. She’d never hit Alison, never ever; it was against all the rules with someone else’s child, and she’d only wanted to go for a walk. Prill found a handkerchief, wet it in a puddle and dabbed Posie’s face with it, then she gave her some stale Smarties from the fluff at the bottom of her coat pocket, and the sniffing child settled down to chew them.
She didn’t know what had come over her, hitting an innocent little girl, and yelling at her like that. William was only an old horse, she’d never even sat on his back. But she felt more and more uneasy.
Our Vi was opening Winnie Webster’s front gate as they went past. She was dolefully practising spellings from a list. “Receipt. . . Receive. . . ‘I’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c’,” she muttered.
“Do you know where William is?” Prill called out.
Vi scowled, and lifted her heavy-lidded eyes unwillingly from the book. She didn’t like this posh girl from down south, or her brother, or that creep with the glasses that was related to Molly Bover. “William? Who’s William when he’s at home?” There was nobody in Stang by that name.
“You know. Don’t those horses belong to your father?”
The girl stared at her, then light dawned slowly on the pasty face. “Oh, them. I dunno. Why ask me?” And she stomped up Winnie’s garden path without a backward glance.
Prill left the injured Posie in a hurry, and made a quick getaway before her mother asked any awkward questions. She was rather ashamed of what had happened, but there was no way she could explain her mood to Brenda Massey. Sid Edge was in the road, propping up a fence as usual. She asked him about the horses too; she put the question three times before he bothered to reply, but she was determined to get an answer. At last it emerged that the old horse had been taken into Ranswick, to get new shoes.
An immense relief flooded through her. For a second she felt like hugging the hapless Sid – crumpled baseball cap, runny nose, and all. It sounded quite plausible. Oliver had spotted a forge in Ranswick, “a real old-fashioned one”, he’d said, “with an anvil. The man had a leather apron and everything”. The Edges couldn’t be so bad after all. Prill knew very little about horses but it was obvious to anyone that William must be near the end of his life, he was lame and slow-moving, he shambled while the other two galloped. It must be years since he’d earned his keep at Pit Farm, so someone in the family must be fond of him.
“He’ll be back with the others then, tomorrow?” she prodded.
“S’pose so” (sniff). Sid was staring past her, as if there was something fascinating in the middle of the opposite fence. He seemed quite incapable of looking her straight in the eyes just at that moment.
They spent the evening watching a pathetic Western on Molly’s TV, all huddled round the tiny screen, trying to suck some warmth from the smoky fire which Rose had lit in the sepulchral best room at the front of the house. She found the film totally gripping, and sat next to Oliver, “oo”ing and “ah”ing at the least whiff of excitement.
None of the others was thinking about the plot. Oliver had privately concluded that Tony Edge was mentally deranged. He had been trying to hurt him on that bike, and possibly trying to kill him. He’d discussed it with Colin, out on Blake’s Pit, and his cousin had confided that he thought the Edges might have something to do with the stone that had fallen off the tower. They’d agreed not to tell Prill yet; she was so nervous, and it was no good giving her bad dreams.
But she had them anyway. Every sweating horse on that screen looked like William, every joyous whinny was a cry for help, from him, and when she went to bed she could think of nothing else.
She tossed about in the dark, trying to warm up, and trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress, with that noble head forever in her mind. When at last she drifted off to sleep, all her dreams were about William, but in happier days. The big, tatty ears were smooth and alert, the coat gleamed glossily, and the decrepit old horse was young and strong again, pulling a painted wagon with children aboard in their Sunday best, all laughing and shouting.
But the huge eyes were always turned upon Prill. Wherever William went, trudging along the summer lanes with his chattering load, his face was fixed upon hers, mute, pleading, unutterably sad.
CHAPTER NINE
She got up very early next morning, before it was fully light. The low room was stuffy and she’d slept with the window open, in spite of the cold. A smell was drifting up from the field below, something she couldn’t identify. Perhaps that had woken her.
She sniffed, and thought, then sniffed again. It was a hot, fishy smell, a bit like strong glue. She put her head out of the window and peered down into the field, then left, towards the village green. Nobody was about yet, and nothing was stirring. It had rained heavily in the night and the trees dripped mournfully into the sopping grass. There were no dogs barking, no bleating of lambs, no birdsong. Prill could never remember such a silent spring.
She slipped on her clothes and stole downstairs. The house was still quiet, but there was a faint snoring from the boys’ room. She wondered whether to wake Colin, and ask him to come with her, but he was at his worst when shaken out of a deep sleep. He might snap her head off.
There were certainly signs of life in the Edges’ shop. The shabby blue blinds were down, but there was a light behind them, and as she hovered in the road she could hear a faint babble of voices. The fishy smell was much stronger here, and as she tiptoed past she saw Tony Edge’s motorbike propped against a nearby wall.
Behind the shop there was an assortment of broken-down sheds. There was a light in one of them, and the voices were drifting out of it. So was the smell. She could see a muddy path leading round the back from the road, ending in an untidy heap of squashed cartons and a rusty butcher’s bike with one wheel.
Prill knew, even before she peeped through a knothole in the warped door. The Edges were in there, all huddled round a great boiler. Steam was billowing out of it in thick yellow clouds, and the glue smell was unbearable, but they were all laughing, and clinking glasses, and poking about in the pot with long sticks.
The shed was spiked with hooks with sausages dangling from them. Frank Edge, his back to the drinking party, was gloomily slamming handfuls of chopped meat into a huge mincer and turning a creaky handle. On another hook, higher up, hung something very beautiful, a long switch of creamy white with a dark brown stripe down the middle. At the top it was all bloody and mangled. It was William’s tail.
Prill’s stomach heaved, and she brought the back of her hand up to her mouth to suppress a scream. But she couldn’t get away from the door. Through the knothole on the far side of the boiler, Tony Edge’s eyes seemed riveted on her, like some awf
ul magician willing her to see his trick through to the bitter end.
Suddenly, a tap was opened at the bottom of the pot, near the floor, and a sticky brown broth poured out over the tiles, disappearing down a drain in the middle. Then Tony reached down inside, his face disappearing in clouds of steam. Harold did the same, and together they pulled out their dripping trophy and held it up for everyone to see.
“It’s not boiled enough,” someone yelled. “It can’t be. It’ll tek us ages that will, Tone.”
“Oh, get scrapin’ and shut up,” Prill heard, and there was the sound of knives and cleavers being chucked on the floor, and people fighting to get them.
She forced her eyelids apart and looked first at Tony, then at the steaming head. It was still William’s face, though the eye sockets were now black and empty, and Tony’s hands had disappeared up inside where the neck had been severed from the body.
Prill’s eyes filled with tears. The youth dropped his gaze at last, and she stumbled blindly away down the slimy path. They had wanted her to come. They had wanted her to see what they had made, out of that trusting, innocent creature. It was as if they’d uttered a spell over their bubbling pot. “Bring Prill”, they’d chanted, as she slept on at Elphins. “Get Prill Blakeman to come. She’d like this”.
Molly was standing at her front door in an old red dressing gown, peering out anxiously into the wet morning. “Prill,” she said, catching her breath. “What on earth. . .” But Prill had slumped against her. “Molly,” she wept. “They’ve got William. He hadn’t gone for new shoes at all. They’re. . . wicked, Molly. They were really enjoying it. . .”
The bewildered woman wrapped her arms round Prill and guided her down the passage into the warm kitchen. She said nothing till they both had mugs of tea, Prill’s with three spoonfuls of sugar in it. Then she looked at the bewildered, tear-stained face with anxious eyes.
“Did you know, Molly?” the girl suddenly shrieked accusingly. “Did you know they were going to do that? You knew, didn’t you? Molly, why didn’t you stop them?”