Something nicked the corner of her awareness, the corner of her eye as they raced past—the cottage before the turn. She threw up her arm for a second (you could trust Jo to rely on the briefest signal) and busied herself with the problem of coaxing Scrub to a walk without letting him fall. The brake grated harshly just as she let him feel the pull of the bit.
“Too good to last, boy,” she said.
He understood at once, slowing as fast as was safe on that surface and with the danger of the sledge banging into his hind legs. (No horse is really happy about pulling something which hasn’t got shafts down a slope—he can’t hold it back.)
The ten yards into the lane after the turn is very steep, as steep as Edge Lane, but they took it slowly. After that it levels out and they were able to trot several times, but the exhilaration of the ride down the main road was lost. The night was wheeling on; the high, untended hedges closed them in; they began to feel the secrecy and strangeness of the Vale; the empty city now seemed very near.
“Cheer up, Marge,” said Jonathan while they were all rearranging themselves to allow Scrub to cope with a slight rise. “We’ve just about caught up with the time now. You tired?”
“Not if I don’t think about it.”
“Is there any way round Hempsted? Someone’s bound to hear us with everything so quiet.”
“I don’t know. Anyway, I probably couldn’t find it. This is much the best way in, because the houses are only just on both sides of the road, and not spread out in a great mass. If we try some other way we might meet the dogs.”
“All right.”
If anyone heard them in Hempsted they gave no sign. It was impossible to tell when they were out of the little inhabited village and into the derelict suburbs. Scrub was tiring now, difficult to coax out of his stolid walk. Margaret dismounted and walked beside him. Tim came and strode on the other side of him, as though he felt some mysterious sympathy with the weary limbs. The moon blanked out, and then there was a swirling flurry of snow, much more wind-driven in this open flatness than it had been up in the hills. Margaret bent her head and plodded on, looking only at the faint whiteness of the road a few feet in front of her. The level crossing told her that they were nearly there—otherwise she might have trudged on forever.
The snow shower stopped again just as they reached the docks, but the moon didn’t come out for several minutes, during which she edged forward onto the quay in a panic lest someone would fall into the bitter water. Her memory was mistaken, too; there seemed to be far more obstructions and kinks in the quayside than she’d remembered in the quick glance from the bridge. Then suddenly the light shone down between the blind warehouses and they could all see the whole basin.
“Those were the ones I meant, Jo,” she said.
“Yes, the middle one’s no good. It must be half full of water. I’ll nip ahead and nose around. You come on slowly.”
He flitted off between the shadows and was lost. Margaret heard a faint clunking. Scrub was worried and restless, and she herself was too tense to calm him. The water in the basin looked as black as polished slate. Jonathan came back.
“I’ve found one which will do for the time being,” he said. “There’s enough room for all three of them, and we needn’t try and get Otto down a ladder—I forced the door of the wheelhouse. We can cast off one hawser and slack off the other one and just shove her out into the middle of the basin. Then there shouldn’t be any trouble from dogs. But I’m worried about water.”
“Water?”
“For them to drink. The stuff in the basin doesn’t smell too good.”
“Couldn’t we melt some snow?”
“Good idea. You scout around and see if you can find something big enough to hold it. Tie Scrub up. Lucy, bring Tim along and I’ll show you what I want.”
Margaret explored all along the side of the quay, groping into shadows and waiting until the faint light reflected from the snow allowed her to distinguish the blacker shapes of solid objects amid the general blackness. She had in her mind’s eye some sort of galvanized iron washtub, and didn’t pause to wonder whether any such object was likely to be found in a commercial dockyard, so she came back to the tugs empty-handed after twenty minutes’ search. The witch had vanished from the sledge and Tim was gone too. Jonathan and Lucy were performing a curious dance round a chimney-shaped thing, hopping, bending and half straightening before they hopped again. As Margaret came up Jonathan dragged the chimney thing a couple of yards further on.
“No luck, Marge?” he said. “Never mind. Lucy found an old oil drum with the lid off. I think it’ll be all right—it holds water because we tried it in the dock, and it’s not too dirty. Give us a hand.”
So Margaret joined in the bending and hopping ritual, scooping up the light snow and throwing it into the drum.
“That’ll do,” said Jonathan at last. “We won’t be able to carry it if it gets any heavier. Hang on, Lucy, while I make a lashing; we’ll have to get it down into the hold or it won’t melt. Fetch that bit of rope you found while I try and get my fingers warm enough to make knots.”
Margaret suddenly felt the bitter numbness in her own fingers and put her hands under her armpits and jigged up and down in the puddled snow to get her blood moving. Jonathan swung his arms against his ribs with a dull slapping noise while Lucy slid off into the dark. When she returned there was a long period of just watching and feeling useless while Jonathan fiddled and fussed with the rope. Then Lucy fetched Tim and persuaded him to lift the drum onto the tug and lower it down a hatch.
“That’s fine,” said Jonathan. “There should be enough melted by morning to drink. Don’t drink the water in the basin. Now we’ll put you out to sea. All aboard. Got that pole, Lucy?”
“Yes, master,” said the quiet voice.
“Show Tim how to push against the quay. I’ll shove with my leg. Marge, hang on to my hand so that I can let myself go a bit further, otherwise I’ll fall in. Off we go. All together now.”
Margaret held his hand and prepared to lean backward against the weight of his stretch out over the water. Lucy found a good hold for the tip of her piece of timber; Jonathan began to shove; Lucy made Tim hold the pole where she’d been holding it and said, “Push. Push. That’s right.” Nothing happened for what seemed a long time, so that Margaret was sure that the basin must be silted up and the tug stuck. Then, suddenly, she saw a gleam of light between Jonathan’s feet, and the oily blackness of the water around the ripple of reflected moonlight.
“Hang on, Marge,” said Jonathan. “Don’t let him fall over, Lucy. That’s enough. We don’t want to shove it right round the other way.”
He hauled himself back onto the solid stone, and together they watched the tug drift, inch by inch, out over the water.
“That’s fine,” said Jonathan at last. “Lucy, you’ll have to keep an eye open. If you find yourself drifting too near the quay again Tim can pole you off. And if you want to get ashore just haul on the hawser. You’ve got enough food for three days, I should think. Marge or I will be down again with more before Friday. All right?”
“Yes, master, and my thanks to you. And to you too, Miss Margaret.” Her silky whisper drifted over the water. Far off in the city a dog bayed. Then the moon went out.
“We must be off,” said Jonathan. “Do you think Scrub can stand it?”
“Yes. He’s been eating snow, which is just as good as drinking, and I think he’s found some grass in that corner. He’s had a good rest, haven’t you, boy?”
She knew he had heard the baying of the dog, and could feel the slight shivering of fright through his hide as she patted him in the pitch dark. He moved eagerly as she untied his reins from the stanchion, and she had a job walking as fast as he wanted to go along the treacherous cobbles, all littered with frozen hawser and rusting chains beneath the snow. Out on the road she climbed into the saddle and heard Jonathan settling at the back of the sledge. Scrub chose a quickish trot and bounced along the windi
ng flat. They both got off to walk up the slight slope into Hempsted, but rode again down to the bridge over the canal.
“Marge,” called Jonathan as they crossed the black water, “couldn’t we have come along the towpath? It must be quicker.”
“I expect so. I didn’t think of it. Anyway, it was too dark to be safe.”
“Let’s try next time we come down.”
“Yes.”
Then there was the easy straight along the big road that leads to Bristol and another fair stretch along the winding lane toward hills which seemed darker and taller with every pace. In one brief patch of moonlight she saw that it hadn’t snowed here since they came down, for the lines of the sledge’s runners slashed clear through the soft whiteness and between them were the scuffled ovals of Scrub’s hoof-prints. Her legs were very tired when she dismounted to begin on the long climb up to Edge, and felt tireder still when the snow started again before they were halfway up to the main road. So there was nearly an hour’s slow plodding (head bent, shoulders hunched, little runnels of melting coldness beginning to find their way into the cringing skin) before they could once again start down the hill to the valley. Margaret was too tired to think about risks; she let Scrub take it at a dangerous, wallowing canter through the dizzying flakes. Jonathan had to shout to warn her at the two very steep places, but she didn’t even dismount then, only slowing the pony to a slithering walk while the brake scraped behind them. She had to walk up the far edge of the valley, and it took years of darkness (though she knew from daytime blackberrying that it was really only ten minutes’ stroll). Then they were in the village again, coming down between houses with the snow falling as thick as flour from the runnel of a millstone. She could see neither sky nor star nor horizon through the swirling murk, but the habit of living without clocks told her there were two hours till dawn. She led Scrub into his paddock, heartlessly leaving him to lick snow and rummage for grass, while Jonathan dragged the sledge back into the timber store.
When she came reeling back to the tack room with the harness and the heavy saddle he was waiting for her.
“Marge!” he hissed, as though he had something vital to tell her. “She’s called Heartsease.”
“Who is?” said Margaret.
“The tug. I spelled it out by moonlight. It’s the name of Mother’s favorite flower—I thought it might be lucky.”
“Luck’s what we need,” said Margaret crossly. She hung her gear in the darkest corner, shifted a dry saddle and reins to the place where she usually kept hers, and then, wet and miserable as a storm-wrecked bird, climbed the freezing ivy, crept along the passage, hid her wet clothes under the bed, snuggled between sheets and allowed herself to drown in sleep.
Chapter 5
WE NEED A BOMB
But even in sleep there was no safety. She dreamed about the bull which had chased her at Splatt Bridge, and woke from the nightmare in a wringing sweat, to lie in the faint grayness of first light and remember how huge and murderous he had seemed, how slowly Scrub had answered the rein and then had vanished, so that she was standing in the sopping grass while the bull hurtled down toward her, foaming, mad, untethered.… It was a long time before she slept again.
The proper morning began with bellowings, not a bull’s but Uncle Peter shouting and slamming around the house. Luckily this happened when the light was already broad across the uplands and the unmilked cows beginning to low plaintively in the shed, because (as often happens when the first snow falls) everyone slept longer than usual. Margaret dozed on, conscious at moments of the rummaging and thumping, until in the middle of a meaningless dream her shoulder was grasped and shaken hard. She opened her eyes and saw Aunt Anne, still in her nightrobe, face taut with worry, bending over the bed.
“Marge, Marge,” she whispered.
Margaret sat up into the numbing air.
“What’s the time?” she said.
“Marge, they’ve gone, Tim and Lucy, and they’ve taken Pete’s second pair of boots and a shoulder of mutton and some bread. What shall I do?”
“Does he know what they’ve taken?” The habit of secrecy kept Margaret’s voice low.
“No. I noticed the boots. He’s mostly cross because the stove isn’t lit and the porridge not on.”
“I’ll light it. Lucy must have heard Mr. Gordon talking to you. I shouldn’t tell him anything. Can’t you just be sleepy, Aunt Anne? If he’s really angry he won’t notice.”
“He’s milking the cows now. But what’s happened to them? In this weather, too?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re all right. Lucy knows what she’s doing.”
Margaret realized as she spoke that she’d got her emphasis a little too strong. Aunt Anne stared at her, opening and shutting her mouth several times.
“What about Jo?” she hissed at last.
“Jo?” said Margaret, misjudging the surprise this time. “Has he gone too?”
Aunt Anne’s bony fingers dug into her shoulders and she was shaken back and forward until her head banged the wall and she cried out aloud.
“You know what I mean,” whispered Aunt Anne.
“Yes,” said Margaret, “but you can’t stop Jo doing what he wants to, can you?”
Aunt Anne sat on the bed and said, “No. No. Never.”
“I’ll do Lucy’s work until you can find someone else. Can’t you tell Uncle Peter it’ll be two mouths less to feed through the winter? And you could tell him what Mr. Gordon said too—then he’d know why they’ve gone—I’m sure he’s worried about it. I was talking to him in the cowshed last night.”
Aunt Anne began to rock to and fro on the bed, moaning and saying, “Oh dear, oh dear.” Margaret sat and waited for her to stop, but she went on and on until Margaret was frightened enough to slide out of bed and run along the passage to find Jonathan, who was yawning while he dressed.
“Come quick,” she whispered. “Your mother’s not well.”
He walked to her room and stood for several seconds in the doorway, watching the rocking figure. Then he slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her wrist over his shoulder and walked her back toward her own bedroom.
“Get some breakfast for Father,” he said as he went through the door. “Don’t dress—go down in your gown.”
So there was kindling to be fetched from the scullery and the fire to be lit in the still-warm stove and little logs to be fed into it through the reeking smoke (that chimney was always a pig in a north wind) and the pots and kettles to be arranged in the hottest patches. Uncle Peter stormed in before anything was ready and threw himself into his chair where he glowered and growled. Margaret tiptoed to the larder and found a corner of boiled bacon and one of yesterday’s loaves; while she was looking around for something to appease an angry and hungry farmer she noticed the little bottles of cordial, so she unscrewed the top of one and poured it into a pewter mug, which she carried into the kitchen and put on the table at his elbow. He picked it up, sniffed it and took a sip. When she came back with the bread and bacon he was tilting the mug to swallow the last drop. He banged the pewter back onto the table.
“Ah, that’s something like,” he said. “You’ve the right ideas, Marge girl.”
“I’m afraid it will be twenty minutes before I can give you anything properly hot, Uncle Peter.”
“Never mind, lass, never mind. I’ll make do.”
He picked up the thin, gray-bladed knife and hacked off a crooked slice of bread and a crookeder hunk of bacon.
“Gone!” he shouted through a mouth full of yellow teeth and munched crumbs and lean and fat.
“Aunt Anne told me,” said Margaret.
“But why, but why?” shouted her uncle. “After all we did for ’em, too!”
“I think she must have overheard what Mr. Gordon was saying about Tim. Shall I fetch you another bottle of cordial?”
“Aye. No. Aye. No, better not. Bring me a mug of cider. What was Davey saying, then?”
“About Tim really being a witc
h. You were talking about it too, yesterday evening.”
“Ah. He’s a deep one, Davey. What do you think now, Marge, hey?”
“I don’t know. I still don’t see how a zany could be a witch. This porridge is warm enough to eat now—would you like some?”
“Leave it a minute more. I like it proper hot. You go and dress, lass, and I’ll fend for myself. I must go and tell Davey Gordon what’s up, and soon as may be.”
Margaret spun out her dressing, and when she came down again the kitchen was empty. She opened the door into the yard and looked out; Uncle Peter’s footmarks were the only blemish on the level snow, great splayed paces striding up toward the gate. If you knew what you were looking for you could just see two faint dimplings running side by side toward the shed—the lines made by the sledge runners when they’d come back, but covered with new-fallen snow; the marks of their outward journey had vanished. She turned at the sound of a light step behind her; Jonathan had sidled up to study the black-and-white landscape.
“Jo, I thought of something,” she whispered. “Won’t someone notice that the sledge is wet?”
“I left it under the hole in the roof, where there was piles of snow coming in. I put some bundles of pea-sticks over the place when we left, so the ground’s fairly dry underneath too. It ought to look all right.”
“How’s Aunt Anne?”
“I don’t know. Tell anyone who asks she’s got a fever.”
Then Mr. Gordon and his cronies came catcalling down the lane and trampled to and fro over the yard until even the marks of Uncle Peter’s first crossing were scuffled out, let alone the lines left by the sledge. Mr. Gordon stood in the melee, head thrown back to sniff the bitter air.
The Changes Trilogy Page 20