According to Frank, the far glen was a favourite spot from spring to autumn. It was a great place for wild flowers, he told Abby, and some of the girls collected specimens and pressed them in books, whilst the lads looked for birds’ nests among the whin bushes. A place with sinister associations which the adults forbade them to frequent was the Bog, a marshy tract divided between the farms hereabout and Morebattle Tofts. It contained several pools of water, surrounded by bulrushes, which were reputed to be bottomless; Frank had regaled Abby and Robin with stories of such pools having been measured for depths with a weight tied to a cart rope that had never reached the bottom. It looked innocent enough, he told them, especially in summer when the marsh flowers were in bloom, but one wrong step and you’d be sinking in the ooze and then that was the end of you.
Normally Robin went on his own with Humphrey and the others on a Sunday afternoon, Abby preferring to stay in the cottage rather than tramp through the snow and ice – something she had to do every weekday for school. The Sunday before, however, Robin had arrived home covered in blood after cutting his head badly on a stone when he had fallen off a rope swing some of the lads had made, and Abby still hadn’t got over the shock of seeing her brother in such a state. Consequently she felt she needed to keep an eye on him, and as Robin flatly refused to stay indoors, she had little option but to join him and the others for an afternoon ramble.
Her grandfather had been reading the paper he had been given by the farmer that morning, tut-tutting over the trouble across the water in Ireland where Sinn Féin supporters had had a gun battle with the army resulting in several deaths, and then relating that the first flight in a helicopter – as opposed to merely hovering a few inches off the ground – had taken place in France. Abby would have much preferred to stay in the cottage and read the new paper once her grandfather was finished with it, but instead had pulled on her outdoor clothes, resigned to tramping through inches of snow yet again.
Once outside with the others, however, the high silver-blue February sky and crisp snow underfoot proved exhilarating. At the beginning of February Mr Newton had told them that the month, named after the old Roman festival ‘Februa’, was called the ‘Gateway to the Year’, and that although it was often a cold and cruel period, despite its snow and frosts the frail promise of spring could be sensed in the air on certain days.
Today, Abby decided, as she followed the others, was one of those days. ‘Lamb’s tails’ hung daintily from the hazel’s bare twigs, and the occasional icicle was falling to the ground as the pale sun weakened their hold. Winter sunbeams lit the snow in places and as they reached the lane leading from the farm track, a yellowhammer sang from within a gorse bush, and in parts of the hedgerow that were protected from the snow the flushed red stems of coltsfoot were pushing their way through the damp soil.
Her mam had loved the spring, Abby thought sadly. Her mam hadn’t known about Mr Newton’s ‘Gateway to the Year’, but she’d always said that the worst of the winter was over once February came, and, even if it wasn’t, that it wouldn’t be long before it was.
Tears stung at the backs of her eyes and Abby willed them away. Crying was for when she was in her bed at night. Then she often cried herself to sleep, but in the day she had to be strong for Robin. It worried her that her brother was so full of bitterness and anger towards their father, and in this respect she knew her grandfather was no help at all. He had made it clear how he felt, and in front of Robin too, and when she had tried to argue that her da was poorly and not in his right mind because of what the war had done to him, she had received short shrift from both of them. But her da had been sick, she told herself again. And her mam had known that. Hadn’t she tried to get help for him? And because the doctor and everyone else had ignored her mam’s pleas, it had ended as it had. And her da couldn’t have been the only one to be so badly affected by the horrors he’d seen and the noise of the shells and everything – her mam had told her that there were other poor men like him. Her mam had understood.
She breathed hard against the pain in her chest which was emotional and not physical, and always accompanied thoughts of her parents. She hated Dr Graham, she thought fiercely, using the anger to fight the inclination to cry. If he had tried to help her da, everything would be different now.
Frank had told them that they’d arranged to meet some of their friends from Morebattle village that afternoon for a snowball fight, well away from grown-up eyes, and as they reached the agreed spot some time later, several snotty-nosed, red-cheeked children were waiting for them, stamping about to keep warm.
Within minutes the snowball fight was under way amid much laughing and shrieking and carrying-on, but after Abby had twice had a fistful of snow slide down the inside of her coat and melt in an icy trickle down her back, she decided enough was enough. Wandering away slightly from the others and the risk of a snowball in the face, she walked down the side of the hedgerow before stopping to look at a family of finches busy pecking at the scarlet wild haws on some hawthorn bushes.
A high, gentle tinkle, reminiscent of small windbells, drew her further on, the sweet liquid melody wafting on the February air. As quietly as she could she followed the sound and then stood entranced watching dozens of goldfinches flitting from one thistle-head to another, clinging delicately to the weed stem or dried flower as they darted their heads among the soft down extracting seed after seed in quick succession. Coming from the town she had never seen goldfinches before, and to see such a large flock of the dazzlingly beautiful birds was intoxicating, their golden-yellow wing-bars lighting up the afternoon.
As they moved further and further on so did Abby, captivated and mesmerized by the tiny birds which appeared exotic compared to the thrushes and sparrows and blackbirds. They didn’t seem to mind her presence, if they noticed it, and she hardly dared to breathe as she tiptoed after them, time seeming to stand still.
It was some time later and only when the flock suddenly took flight high into the sky in a whirl of brilliant gold and yellow brighter than any sunshine, that Abby realized she had strayed too far. The snow and ice underfoot had hidden the fact that the ground had become more marshy, but now, as she spied bulrushes in places, it reminded her of what Frank had told them. So intent had she been in watching the birds that she hadn’t noticed the rushlike plants, but as she turned and looked back whence she had come she saw others. Just up ahead must be one of the pools Frank had spoken of, because although the surface was hidden by snow on top of ice and looked fairly innocuous, a big circle of the bulrushes stood out as warning.
Carefully, her heart beating fit to burst, she began to retrace her steps, angry with herself for being so stupid. She must have wandered into what Frank had called the Cut, a vast long ditch running between banks of ground where the tract naturally drained and caused the fearsome pools. Now she realized that either side of what she had assumed to be a lane or farm track were great bramble bushes and gorse bushes and other vegetation that would make it impossible for her to try and scramble onto higher ground.
A few yards in front of her was another big circle of bulrushes, and to her horror Abby realized she must have walked over one of the pools as she had followed the birds. When she came to it she stood for a moment, looking at her footsteps in the snow. Her mouth had gone dry with terror. It was all very well for reason to tell her that if she had walked over the ice covering the pool once and it had held, the chances were it would do so again. What if it didn’t? No one knew where she was for a start. She could sink without trace and be lost for ever. Suddenly the day that had seemed so magical just minutes before was nightmarish.
When a movement high above her accompanied by a rustling and breaking of twigs caught her senses, she thought at first it must be an animal, a fox perhaps or a deer. And then she felt weak with relief when she saw Joe McHaffie from the farm gazing down at her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his breeches. She had never really spoken to Joe – he was a dour kind of man – but she k
new he was the beau who her mother had thrown over for her father, and she could understand why her mam hadn’t wanted to marry him. It wasn’t just that he was surly and morose but it was the way he looked at folk, or at her anyway. She always felt afraid when he stared at her with his hooded eyes, afraid and exposed to whatever it was that emanated from him. But just at this minute she would have welcomed the devil himself if it meant she could get out of the Cut. Her voice high with relief, she called, ‘Mr McHaffie, it’s me, Abby. Abby Kirby.’
‘Aye, I know who you are.’
‘I need to get out of here. I didn’t realize where I was going.’
‘The Cut’s treacherous.’
‘Yes, I know. I know that but I was looking at the birds—’ She stopped abruptly; it wasn’t the time to go into details. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Help you? How?’
She stared at him. He must understand the position she was in. He’d said himself that the Cut was treacherous. ‘I need to get out of here,’ she said again, her voice uncertain now.
‘Then walk out the same as you walked in.’ His voice was flat but there was something, just the merest inflexion, that frightened her.
Swallowing hard, she said, ‘The – the ice might break over one of the pools.’
‘Aye, it might.’
What was the matter with him? He wasn’t simple so why was he talking like this? Gathering her composure, she said firmly, ‘If you could tell them back at the farm where I am, my granda can bring a rope or something. Or tell my brother to run to the farm. Robin’s playing with some other bairns back there and—’
‘I know where your brother is.’ Joe shifted slightly, pulling his cap further down over his eyes. ‘I watched the pair of you leave earlier with Frank Armstrong and the rest of them. Already getting the lads calling for you, aren’t you. Like mother, like daughter. Got in a mood when Frank didn’t pay you enough attention, was that it? Is that why you stalked off on your own?’
‘I didn’t stalk off,’ Abby said indignantly. And then, as his words registered, she added, ‘Did you follow us from the farm?’
‘Free country. I can walk where I like.’
Twilight was beginning to fall and the icy air was sharper with the smell of frost but it wasn’t that which made Abby shiver. ‘If you saw me heading this way why didn’t you call to warn me about where I was going?’
‘Like I said, it’s a free country and folk can walk where they like. Besides, I’m not your keeper.’
He wasn’t going to help her. Not only that but he actually wished her ill – she could read it in his face. Her chin drooped before she raised it defiantly, glaring up at him now as she said, ‘When I first heard what my mam did to you I felt sorry for you but I don’t now. I can see why she acted as she did and I don’t blame her.’
‘Is that so?’ His voice had risen and she could see she had caught him on the raw. ‘Well, let me tell you your mother was a loose piece and once I found out what she was I wouldn’t have touched her with a bargepole. And you’ll be the same, it’s written all over you.’ He was talking to her as though she was an adult rather than a child, and in this moment that was how Joe was seeing her. Every time his eyes had fastened on Molly’s daughter since the children had arrived at the farm, he had seen the mother, and the hate that had replaced the love he’d once felt had burned stronger and stronger. Molly had made him a laughing stock and worse, someone to be pitied. Oh aye, he knew how others had seen him, how they saw him still. Poor old Joe, not man enough to hold on to the lass of his choice. He knew what was said behind closed doors. And it was a constant thorn in his flesh. And now this chit who was the image of her trollop of a mother had come to flaunt herself, with her long blonde hair and bonny face. But beauty was only skin deep, as he had learned the hard way.
Abby wasn’t quite sure what a ‘loose piece’ was, but she could tell it was something not very nice. Her glare deepening, she said, ‘Everyone loved my mother but no one likes you.’
Even in the gathering shadows she could see his face had turned a deep puce with temper and his voice, when it came, could have been dredged up from the deepest of the pools. ‘Is that so, missy? Well, be that as it may, you’re the one down there and I’m up here. And I tell you one thing for nowt, it was a miracle you came as far as you did without the ice cracking over one of them pools and I wouldn’t want to push my luck in trying it again, but then if you stay where you are you’ll freeze to death for sure come nightfall. Tricky, eh? But then you having all the answers, it won’t bother you.’
‘You’re going to leave me here.’
It wasn’t a question but he answered as though it was.
‘Aye, that’s exactly what I’m going to do and we’ll see what fate decides. You might be lucky, you might make it back, but it’ll be dark soon and the temperature will fall like a stone so I wouldn’t wait too long before making up your mind.’
‘If I get out of here I shall tell my granda what you’ve done.’
‘And I shall say you’re a liar, like your mam, and we’ll see who folk believe. Either way it’ll cause trouble at the farm and is that what you want for your grandfather? I’ll take him on any day but he’s getting an old man now. Not that my fight is with him, not really. He couldn’t help breeding something that went bad, now could he?’ He waited a moment and when she didn’t speak, he went on, ‘It’s a pity you came here, upsetting everyone. A great pity. But perhaps that might be taken care of today.’
She wanted to come back at him again but terror was making her shake so much she knew her voice would tremble and she didn’t want him to see her fear. Her eyes wide, like those of a trapped animal, she stared at him and he watched her for a moment more.
‘I’m going now, Abby,’ he said very softly. ‘I know a couple of short cuts so it won’t take me long and I shall make sure the first sight of me anyone has at the farm is my working in one of the barns, and who knows how long I’ve been there? Most of the afternoon, I shall say.’
Despite herself, she found she was pleading with him as he turned to walk away. ‘Don’t do this, don’t leave me.’
He looked at her for a moment over his shoulder. ‘Funny, but that’s exactly what I said to Molly the day she said she was going. Begged her, I did. Course, it made not a scrap of difference. And I told her then I’d see me day with her, her and her fancy man. Well, I can’t give them their just deserts, can I, the fever did that for me, but you . . . You’re here. A little mini Molly if ever I saw one. An’ really you could say I’m doing the lads round here a favour because ten to one you’d cause a whole heap of trouble among ’em in a year or two. You’ve got the taint of her about you, do you know that? But the lads’ll think it’s a sweet, enticing thing, like I did with your mam. From when we was bairns I wanted her, never so much as looked at another lass. No, I never did.’
As Abby watched him he seemed to shake himself, as though throwing something off, and then in the next moment he had stepped out of sight at the top of the bank.
She called after him until she was hoarse, but the steep sides of the Cut heavily covered with vicious brambles and thorns muffled her cries. Only someone passing very close would hear her, she knew that. For some time, in spite of all he had said, she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t come back after giving her a fright, but the only sound beyond her grave-like prison was the twittering of birds as they settled down for the night and the occasional harsh call of the carrion crow in the field beyond the Cut.
As she looked back the way she had wandered she knew she wouldn’t dare retrace her steps. The image of the ice breaking and dank black water covering her head as it drew her down into the bowels of the earth wasn’t to be borne. So that left attempting to climb up the sides of the embankment. The barren tangle of briar and hawthorn festooned with thick masses of old man’s beard and bark fungi stretched above her on both sides like the walls of a stockade, gorse intermingled here and there and snow and ice clinging to parts of the
jungle of vegetation.
What if she got part of the way up and then slipped and fell and hit one of the pools with enough force to break the ice? Trying to edge carefully over it would be better than that.
No. She shuddered. She couldn’t walk back along the Cut, she just couldn’t. And doing nothing wasn’t an option. Like Joe McHaffie had said, she wouldn’t survive the night in the open. So that left nothing for it but to try and climb.
She looked down at her knitted gloves. They would offer no protection against the vicious thorns and brambles she’d encounter but that couldn’t be helped. Taking a deep breath, she said out loud, ‘Help me do this, Mam,’ as tears ran down her cheeks. She had never felt so frightened and alone.
It took her several attempts before she could even begin to climb because each time she grasped the web of brambles and thorny shrubs the pain instinctively caused her hands to spring back. But somehow, after a few minutes, she was several feet from the bottom of the embankment, scratched and bleeding and still with a long way to go. The winter sun had set now and the charcoal sky only had a few fleeting wisps of silver tingeing it; soon it would be completely dark. A thin crescent moon gave little light and all was desolate and still; even the birds were quiet.
It was when she reached a large and cruel gorse bush that had been partly hidden by briars that Abby gave a sob of despair. Her lacerated hands were agonizingly painful as were her legs, and her face was raw and smarting. Her feet had formed some sort of precarious hold in the midst of the thick brambles but she was virtually hanging like a starfish, as much by the thorns piercing her clothes as anything else. She knew she had reached the end of herself.
Snowflakes in the Wind Page 9