by Ruth Thomas
The blank eyes swivelled briefly in her direction, then wandered indifferently away. Clearly the worst was about to happen. Clearly he was fading fast.
‘Oh, Nathan,’ Julia burst out, in uncontrollable anguish, ‘I don’t want you to die!’
‘Die? . . . I ain’t going to die, you stupid Rat-bag!’
‘Nathan!’ said Julia, joyfully, ‘you’re better!’
‘If you really want to do something useful,’ said Nathan, irritably, ‘you can make a cup of tea.’
Gladly, Julia hobbled to make it. The sound of Nathan’s rasping cough followed her as she went and while she waited for the pan to boil, she searched her mind for a memory. Where had she heard a cough like that before? Recently?
Suddenly she remembered. A bus journey, and an annoying little girl with spots. Julia went back to Nathan’s tent, and threw the flap wide open.
‘My eyes,’ he complained. ‘Ju, I told you – the light!’
‘I want to look at your face,’ Julia insisted.
She examined it carefully, touching the cheeks with her fingertips to make sure, while Nathan wriggled uncooperatively, and tried to push her hand away. On Nathan’s dark skin the rash was not noticeable to the casual glance, but it was there all the same. Julia smiled a big radiant smile that lit up her plain face and made it, for one moment, quite beautiful.
‘I know what’s wrong with you,’ she announced, triumphantly. ‘You’ve got measles!’
16
Disaster in Porlock
Now they knew it was only measles, the children expected Nathan to get well quite quickly, so he did. It was fortunate, probably, that they did not know that measles can be quite a serious illness. To them it was a joke, something to be made fun of in comics and on picture postcards.
‘You must have catch it from that little girl on the bus,’ said Julia.
‘Will you catch it from me then?’
‘Nah – I had it already. You can’t only have it once.’
For several days Nathan continued to feel poorly. He pecked at his food, and was cross with Julia, and she bore it all with admirable patience. When he turned his nose up at something she had just cooked, she took the food away without comment, and offered to cook him something else. She was so glad Nathan was not going to die that nothing was too much trouble. Even walking on her hurt foot was not too much trouble, because Nathan was getting better, and she was doing it for him.
‘Wish I could read,’ Nathan grumbled, one afternoon.
‘Shall I read to you?’ Julia offered.
‘What, for instance?’
‘I could read The Empty Heart.’
‘Do me a favour!’
‘I started a new one now – it’s called The Dawn of Love.’
Nathan groaned. ‘Sounds worse than the other. Wish I brought Treasure Island. You couldn’t read that one yet though, Ju, it’s got a lot of hard words in it.’
‘I’m getting on though, aren’t I, Nathan.’
‘All right. Not bad.’
‘Mrs Henrey would be pleased with me, wouldn’t she? All of Class 8 would be surprised at me, wouldn’t they? That I can read.’
‘I suppose so. . . . Did you think, Ju, there isn’t no Class 8 any more?’
‘Isn’t there? Oh no, that’s right. It must be the holidays now.’
And after the holidays—’
‘We’re all going to our new schools. . . . I mean, they’re all going to their new schools. . . . I mean – Nathan, ain’t we ever going to our secondary schools?’
‘What you want to go to school for? You can read now, nearly.’
‘I dunno. . . . I wonder if they’d like me in my new school.’
‘Don’t matter though, ’cause you ain’t going.’
‘Nobody ever liked me,’ said Julia, pursuing her theme. She thought for a moment of Elizabeth, and Mrs Parsons, but those encounters had been so brief they hardly counted. ‘My mum don’t like me even,’ she added.
‘Well I like you.’
‘Do you really?’ said Julia, flushing with pleasure.
‘Yes I do. Actually – you’re different than you used to be. When we was in Class 8, I didn’t like you then.’
‘Nor I didn’t like you neither. You’re different, too.’ She didn’t count him being cross with the measles. Anyone was allowed to be cross when they weren’t well.
There was a long pause.
‘Nathan.’
‘What?’
‘Do you think our mums are really missing us?’
‘Nah – probably forgot all about us by now.’ All of a sudden though, Nathan felt an uncomfortable stab of conscience. He thought of his father, and the leather belt that came off too easily. But he also thought of the look his father had given him in Mr Barlowe’s office – the look of deeptroubled hurt, when he thought his son had been stealing. At the time, that look had seemed a threat. It occurred to Nathan now though, that perhaps it was more like sorrow. He thought of his mum as well, and that thought was too painful to be borne, so he squashed it down and trampled on it, and told himself his mum had all the others so she couldn’t be minding too much about him. She couldn’t. Could she?
There was another long pause.
‘Nathan – do you think my mum would like me now?’
‘I should think so. I should think anyone would like you now.’
‘Even with my hair like this?’
‘I like you even with your hair like this.’
‘Oh yeah – so you do. . . . Nathan – why did we run away?’
‘You know.’
‘No but – why did we?’
‘They was going to take our money away.’
‘Our money’s going to get used up anyway. . . . What else did we run away for?’
‘They was going to do bad things to us.’
‘What things though?’
‘I forget,’ Nathan admitted. ‘I know what, they was going to put us away.’
Julia pondered. ‘I don’t think they’d really do that though, not really. . . . I don’t think they’d do anything really bad to us, if we say we’re sorry and we won’t do it again.’
‘You don’t want to go back though, do you?’
Julia was silent, poking at the ground with her foot. ‘I might,’ she confessed at last. ‘If my mum would like me I might.’
For a moment Nathan also toyed with the idea. He could go back, and go to his new school, and work hard and pass all sorts of hard exams. He could make his mum and dad proud, and make it up to them for what he did.
But he wasn’t going to go back, was he! He was running away, wasn’t he, and having a great time, him and Julia.
‘Julia,’ he said in sudden anxiety, ‘you wouldn’t go home and leave me on my own, would you?’
‘Nah – I’m staying with you, Nathan.’
‘Good. That’s good. Good old Rat-bag. . . . How’s the stores going?’
‘All right. Wait till you see my larder I made.’
‘How many days’ food we got enough for?’
‘Plenty.’ She went to count. ‘About four. It does use up quick Nathan.’
‘I’ll go back to Porlock and get some more soon.’
‘You ain’t well enough.’
‘Yes I am. Nearly. Few more days I will be.’
‘You’re catching,’ said Julia, doubtfully. ‘You suppose to be in quarrelling.’
‘Quarantine, Ju. Yeah, I know. I won’t go near nobody. I won’t go near no kids anyway.’
‘Well mind you don’t.’
Julia was not happy to see Nathan go off on the bicycle three days later, but she accepted that it was necessary if they were to eat. He was certainly better. The rash was gone and he had been proving how strong he was all through the day before, running up to the wood and back, collecting fuel for their fire. Julia could not do that too well with her bad ankle, and anyway Nathan wanted to show he was useful again.
She clucked round him like a mother hen, th
e morning he set off. She made him wear his anorak, though the day was quite warm, and privately he decided to take it off as soon as he was out of sight, and tie it round his waist by the sleeves as usual.
Just as he was setting off, Julia had a thought. She had almost forgotten; she had meant to mention it before. ‘Nathan,’ she said, ‘you don’t need to take all your money, do you? Why don’t you bury most of it like I done, like I showed you – under the tent?’
Nathan frowned, and shook his head. ‘Nah – I rather carry it.’
‘Suppose you lost it.’
‘I won’t lose it. How can I lose it? I rather carry it.’
He felt safer with the money on his person, where he could touch it, feel its comforting bulk in the lining of his coat. There was no way the money could possibly be lost. Nathan examined the coat every day to make sure no hole was coming through which it might fall out.
Once on the road, which was high above the valley, Nathan realized that the weather was not nearly as warm as he had thought. There was a blustery wind, with little pink scudding clouds in the sky. Nathan decided to keep his anorak on, at any rate for the time being.
He felt well and happy, and strong enough for anything, even Porlock Hill. He walked down the steep part of course, carefully, gripping the brakes as hard as he could. There was a notice halfway down, and Nathan went close to read it. The notice said about looking out for cars out of control. Nathan imagined a car out of control, and then he imagined a bicycle out of control. Hurtling madly, somersaulting on the bend, breaking its rider’s neck, most likely. Nathan shuddered at the thought. It was deliciously horrifying, but not really frightening because of course he, Nathan Browne, was much too clever to risk such a thing. In fact, it was quite marvellous to think how clever he had been all through this adventure. And Julia, of course. Not taking undue risks, not getting caught, outwitting everybody!
Continuing this pattern of cleverness, Nathan looked for a food shop he hadn’t used before. He was just about to padlock the bicycle, before going in to make his purchases, when an idea struck him.
Ships!
He hadn’t seen any ships for weeks. The sea was near here, wasn’t it? Porlock Weir! Nathan had a picture in his mind, from last time, of a stone jetty with a row of cottages on the top. And below the jetty the harbour, with all sorts of fascinating little boats in it. He would go there first, it was only a short way. He would sit by the harbour, and look at the ships. perhaps even . . . ?
There was no need to tell Julia he didn’t go straight to the shops and back. She wouldn’t understand. Ships weren’t her thing, she had never read Treasure Island, and probably never would.
Anyway, he wouldn’t be long by the sea.
The tide was out, as usual. There were a few people on the beach, making the most of the indifferent weather, but not many round the boats in the harbour. Those that were round the boats seemed very busy and occupied, doing things with ropes and paint brushes and so on. No one took any notice of Nathan.
He had his eye on a little motor cruiser, and he walked all round it, assessing its possibilities. Because there was no water, the boat was tipped slightly to one side. Nathan chose the side that leaned towards the ground, reached up to grasp the short rail, and swung himself easily on to the deck. His luck was in; the hatch was not locked. Nathan lowered himself into the cabin, excited to be actually in a boat for the first time in his life.
It was something like the caravan inside, only smaller. There was a tiny kitchen, a table, and a long seat that was probably a bed as well. Nathan sat on the seat, and looked around the shiny interior of the boat. The slight tilt added to the illusion he made for himself, that he was really out at sea, on the tossing waves. Nathan thought himself in heaven.
It was warm in the cabin; quite stuffy, in fact. Nathan took off his anorak, and tied it round his waist. He didn’t double knot it, as usual. It was only going to be for a few moments, after all.
For those few moments he was not Nathan Browne at all. He was Jim Hawkins, in Treasure Island. No, not Jim Hawkins. Jim Hawkins lived a long time ago, when they didn’t have little cabin cruisers like this. He was a modern pirate then, off to the Caribbean in his own ship, to search for sunken treasure. Or better still – he was a lone yachtsman, sailing round the world, braving sharks and storms. . . .
Lost in his dream, Nathan was unaware of footfalls on the deck above. He had no idea he was not alone on the boat until the hatch suddenly yawned open, and an angry red face regarded him from above.
‘You thieving little brat!’ roared a voice. ‘What you doing in my boat?’ The owner of the face, and the voice, was clearly not pleased to see Nathan.
Nathan jumped as though he had been shot. For a moment he had difficulty in remembering where he was, the fantasy had been so real. But he was not on the high seas coping single-handed with a hurricane. He was in the harbour of Porlock Weir, trespassing on someone else’s boat. And what was more, the owner of the boat now stood between him and freedom.
‘Come on, come on out of it, you little pest.’
Nathan obeyed, with a sinking heart. He stood on the deck, frightened and penitent, the owner of the boat towering over him.
‘What did you steal then?’
‘I didn’t, I didn’t steal nothing.’
‘Come on, turn out your pockets.’
‘I didn’t steal nothing, I didn’t.’
‘You’re not going till you’ve proved it. Your pockets. Or do you want me to get the police?’
‘No, not the police, not the police!’
Fear was robbing Nathan of the power to think. He was aghast at what had happened. He looked round wildly, but there was no escape.
‘Pockets then, hurry up.’
There were only the pockets of his jeans, and not much in them. Two ten pence coins, a few coppers, a shell and a pebble from the beach.
‘All right – what about your coat?’
‘There ain’t nothing in my coat. There ain’t, I swear, I swear.’
‘Don’t bother to swear, show me.’
Without untying the sleeves, Nathan turned the pockets of his anorak inside out. The pockets were empty, but the hole in one of them was very apparent, and the big man did not miss it.
‘You put something through that hole? In the lining?’
‘No, no.’
‘Yes you did, you little liar, I can see the bulge.’
‘There ain’t nothing. It’s mine. It’s my own.’
‘Let me see.’
‘No.’
The big man put out his hand. Nathan saw his intention, but was not nearly quick enough. He dodged, but the man’s hand had already closed round the hood of the coat. Frantically, Nathan wrenched himself away from the big man’s grasp. He grabbed at the edge of the open hatch, struggling and pulling. Suddenly feeling himself free, he lunged over the side of the boat, falling painfully on to the stones in the empty harbour. He scrambled to his feet, and with weak and sagging knees ran to where he had left the bicycle. He fumbled with the padlock – would it never come undone? But it did, and no one had chased after him to catch him, and he was on the bicycle at last, pedalling as fast as his shaky legs would carry him.
Nathan had escaped. But the owner of the boat was still holding his coat. The anorak with more than eight hundred pounds in the lining.
The journey back to the camp was a nightmare. One part of Nathan could not believe that such a calamity had actually befallen him. He must be dreaming it. He kept putting his hand down, hoping to feel the anorak still there, tied by the sleeves around his waist. But of course, the sad truth was that it was gone. Meanwhile, the other part of Nathan was mortified at the thought of having to face Julia, having to tell her the dreadful news. No food, and half their money lost.
She’d warned him of course, and he hadn’t listened. If only he had! As he pushed the bicycle up Porlock Hill – an easier matter this time, of course, since it was carrying no weight – Nathan re-wro
te the sequence of events in his mind. In this version he had taken Julia’s advice, and buried his money under his tent. Now it didn’t matter that the big man had his coat. It was nothing but an old anorak, and he had plenty of money to buy another.
Only, of course, that was just make-believe. It hadn’t really happened like that.
Julia would probably be angry. She would probably say, ‘I told you so,’ and be all self-righteous about it. Well, she wasn’t so perfect herself! Who was it worked out how to get the bikes up the hill, for instance? And how to stow away in the caravan? Who did Julia Winter think she was, telling him off for just losing his coat? Pedalling over the moor, Nathan played out in his mind a scene in which he and Julia exchanged angry words. There was a nasty bitter quarrel, and it ended with each of them going into their own tents and not speaking.
Only, of course, that hadn’t happened either. That was only make-believe too. As Nathan neared home the silly trumped-up rage left him, and numb despair took its place. The tears came to his eyes and he couldn’t control them. They blurred his sight worse than ever, rolled down his cheeks, and trickled into his mouth as he rode. They were salty and warm, the only warm thing on this moor today – this cold, windswept moor, that had been so friendly, but had turned so bleak and cruel.
Julia was waiting for him, with the pan already hot for tea. As she saw him bumping the cycle down the grassy slope, she gave him a bright smile of welcome. Through his misery, as he came near, Nathan saw that her hair really was growing again. He could see it sticking out, from under the cap. Soon she would be able to look quite nice again, like she did in Brighton. It was a shame, it really was a shame, to have to wipe that smile off her face.
The smile disappeared anyway when she saw that he was crying.
‘Nathan, what’s the matter?’
Nathan tried to tell her. He wanted to tell her and get it over with, but the words would not come, only great gulping sobs.
‘What is it?’ Thoroughly alarmed now, Julia looked for clues. ‘Where’s the food? Haven’t you brought none?’
Nathan shook his head, the sobs now a torrent of grief.
‘Nathan! Stop it! Where’s your coat?’