by Alan Garner
“Poor you.”
“Not at all.” He stood with his legs astride. “Where am I?”
“Are you being melodramatic?”
“Just daft.”
“You’re on Mow Cop.”
“Is that all?”
“If it was, you wouldn’t ask. Go on.”
“My right leg,” said Tom, “at this moment, is in the township of Odd Rode, in the parish of Astbury, in the hundred of Northwich, and the county and diocese of Chester, in the province of York. My left leg is in the township of Stadmorslow, in the parish of Wolstanton, in the hundred of Pirehill, in the county of Stafford, in the diocese of Lichfield, in the province of Canterbury. You see my predicament.”
“Tom—”
“But,” he skewed towards the castle, “it’s worse in there. There, the map says, the boundary is undefined.”
“Tom, I love you.”
“It’s raining bell-ropes. Why don’t we shelter?”
“It’s your turn to keep the Bunty,” said Jan.
“Why do you call it that?”
“It—seems right.”
“Fine.”
“Will you manage the bikes in the rain?”
“Easy. How about you?”
“I’ll dry off before Euston.”
“I’m sorry it went a bit wrong today.”
“It didn’t.”
“I take great joy in you. Rain isn’t good for poached eggs.”
“It isn’t the rain.”
“Jan.”
“You’re too vulnerable. Haven’t you ever—? Was there nobody else before—?”
“Not enough to be a threat. But now. I can’t conceive of existence without you. You’re too valuable.”
“That’s a lot. You’re asking.”
“A future without your eyes?”
“Take the Bunty.”
He put the axe in the saddlebag.
“Thanks for ‘Cross Track.’ I’ll play it as soon as I’m home.”
“Tom?”
“What?”
“You can love without being disloyal.”
The rain was all about them.
“Where’s the salt coming from? High tide?”
“You’re kissing a mermaid.”
“That’s usually fatal, isn’t it?”
“Invariably.”
“Invaluable.”
“Invulnerable?”
“Us.”
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“There’s many another day at the back of Mow Cop,” said Randal Hassall.
Thomas swung. “Eh?”
John smiled at him. Randal had left them and gone down.
“You’re not vexed at me?” said Thomas.
“No.”
“I was wrong road. They’ll not come from up there, will they?”
“But we need a lookout so we don’t have a sneak attack. Is your musket primed?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t point it at me.”
“Sorry.”
“They counted the smoke about Crewe.
“Randal said you weren’t talking.”
“I was thinking. Lots.”
“Would you like to go to Margery?”
“I can do sentry same as the best.”
“Where’s the thunderstone?”
“I give it her before I come up.”
“You seem borsant.”
“I’m all right.”
“Why do you keep watching Mow Cop?”
“I don’t! I don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”
“Musket! Thomas!”
The tower wheeled about Mow Cop. Thomas felt his cheek grate the stone.
“I’m not badly. I’m not.”
“What’s wrong, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me. I want to help.”
“Happen.”
“We’re all scared.”
“I think that much on her. She’s good.”
“You love her.”
“I do.”
“Then don’t be scared. You’ve had luck today, finding the thunderstone. You’ll be all right. You’re nothing to me.”
“I’ll not leave you.”
“You’ll get clear, and no messing,” said John. “It’s not as if you’re skriking brats.”
“That’s our business! I know what they say, them and their laughing. But we can!”
“Are you starting a fit?”
“I wish I was. If I was badly, I’d not know.”
“What’s it like? What do you see?”
“Colours. All blues and whites. I hear things. Noises. Sounds. Like. Same as. I know he’s sorry.”
“Who?”
“He’s scared. He’s caught. I know him, but I can’t tell him, I’ve seen him that often. But I know him. All about him, I do. Would you reckon he’s me?”
“I’m not interested.”
“John! Is it? Is it me?”
“You fool.”
“Is it me? Is it me? Is it me? Is it me?”
“Why were you gawping at Mow Cop when I came up? Were you looking for Thomas Venables?”
“Shut your trap!”
“Is it Venables? He went for a soldier, didn’t he? So how can he be up Mow Cop? How did you take Madge from him? It must’ve hurt. How did you manage? What’s the secret? How is she?”
Thomas flailed at him, but John held him off with one hand. The helpless fists swung beneath John’s long arm. He could do nothing about the mockery, the cold, bantering face.
“She has you, doesn’t she? Not like Venables. He wouldn’t come running. She didn’t fancy that. She wants something she can bend, and Mow grit’s too stiff, isn’t it? Go on, cry, you great soft mardy.”
She came from behind, and hit John back-handed across the face. Thomas fell into her arms, and she held him.
John tried to smile.
“Interesting,” he said.
“I hope I live to see your coffin walk,” said Margery.
He turned away, to the dark of the tower.
“There,” she said. “I’m here. I’m here.”
“Madge,” wept Thomas.
“He’s gone.”
“I love you so much.”
“I know.”
“Why’s John like that? He’s always looked after me— learned me—all my life— I can’t plunder what he’s at. What does he want?”
Notes and open textbooks covered Tom’s bed. He examined the stone axe with a magnifying glass. “Cross Track” was low on his headphones. He compared references again. There was no doubt. He took a clean sheet of paper, and wrote, “Dear Rector—”
His mother shook his arm.
“Enough’s enough.”
“What?” He swivelled the cans.
“You’ve done enough. Scarcely a bite all day.”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
“It’s morbid.”
“I must finish.”
“What about the jig-saw?”
“What about it?”
“If we don’t start, we’ll not be through before your father comes home.”
“Let me check,” said Tom. “I’ve got to be right. You set the table, and I’ll be with you by the time you’re ready.”
“It’s no fun for me, all alone in there,” said his mother. “The table’s cleared.”
“You could do the straight edges.”
“It’s not the same by yourself. Anyway, I’ve a good one this week. Circular.”
“Heck,” said Tom.
He left his work and followed his mother into the lounge. The table was ready, the fire as hot as it could be, a box of chocolates opened, and a flagon of sweet cider. Two glasses.
Tom sat down and rubbed his eyes.
“Morbid. What’s all the delving for?”
“It’d take as long to explain.” He began to spread the mound of jig-saw pieces over the table, turning them the right way up. His mother’s hands darted for the e
dges. “I think you’d like chess.” She did not answer. Her concentration matched his.
“I’m sorry I forgot it was jig-saw tonight.” Their competition was to put the last piece in. “Can I see the picture?”
“No.” Already she had completed the circle and was building into a quadrant.
“There’s a lot of blue sky.”
“You’re good at that.”
“What’s the title?”
“ ‘Romantic Cheshire.’ ”
“How many pictures?”
“Three. Pour the cider.”
“Dad’ll be late. It’s Mess Night.”
“That’s why I bought a big one. A treat.” She chose the marzipan.
Tom separated the different skies, then the obvious textures and the significant lines. His mother snatched wherever she saw a pattern.
“You can be pretty certain of Chester,” said Tom. “It’s favourite. I keep finding bits of legionaries with the wrong armour. Then there’s quite a lot of thatch, and black-and-white timbering. It’s the bluey-green I can’t— Wait on.” He left the table.
“Where are you off?”
“There’s Mow Cop, isn’t there?”
“Yes: all right. You do that bit.”
“I’ve got to work.”
“But it’s jig-saw!”
“I’ve got to. I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Not far.” He sat down at the table.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at his mother.
“I’ve a decision to make.”
“Is it her?”
“Who?”
“It’s a question, isn’t it? But since the last exhibition, I daren’t open my mouth.”
“Why?”
“You’re that highly strung—”
“Mother—”
“Going off like a bottle of pop, and no cause—”
“Mother—”
“Neither sense nor reason. Is it her at the end, or her in London?”
“Eh?”
“I’ve been that worried. Whatever’s driving you?”
“ ‘Her at the end’? Lay-by Lil?”
“But I daren’t speak. Not after last time. I’d have my head bitten off. Or worse.”
“Lil Greenwood? You thought I’d been to old Lil?”
“You have. You’ve been seen. At her caravan. I daren’t tell your father.”
“Look at me,” said Tom. “No, not at my ear. Look at me. You didn’t even begin to think that. You know you didn’t.”
“Well.”
“I borrow Lil’s bike when I go to see Jan at Crewe.” The look slipped back to the jig-saw.
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said his mother, and gave a mock shiver.
Tom stood up. “You’re saying more about you than me.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Going out.”
“Where?”
“For a walk. I shan’t be long.”
“I’m lonely.”
“And no wonder.”
He went between the lakes to the M6. Cars dazzled. He looked across the flat water. Birds safe on quicksand roosted, marking his presence. He felt the texture of the motorway fence. There was grit in the angle of a post. The rain had not taken all of Jan away. In the spun flicker of light he could trace the hollow of her scooping hand under the bank. But she was going. No thing matched her presence. The galaxy turned faster than thought, but did not move for him. Nothing stayed.
“Only poached eggs.”
On the way back he saw that his father had come home: he was not ready for his father yet. The cinder road through the caravan site and the birch trees took him by the lane. He crossed to the houses where Jan had lived. He felt in his anorak pocket. The key was there. He went to “The Limes“: no lights showed but the doorbell. He pressed it. The same chimes. His muscles clenched. Whoever they are, they might have had the decency: whoever. He pressed again. The same lurch.
“Conditioned reflex.”
Nobody came. He slid the key through the letterbox, but pulled back before he had let go. The road was quiet. He fitted the key in the lock. It turned. The door was open.
Tom went in. The smells of the building hurt. They were smells he had forgotten. The varnish, the plaster, the wood surprised him. He was not ready. Whoever they were, they still used half a lemon to clean the sink. Only Jan’s mother had done that.
“Association of ideas.”
But the lemon stung. There had been no change. He reached in the dark to the light switch. “Jan and Tom.” She had pricked their names in the wallpaper with a pin, but newer wallpaper covered it.
“No need for that.”
He walked into the living room. New smells mixed with the old, changing them now that he could see furniture and carpets, pictures. Everything wrong in the right room. The stone fireplace had been painted white, but he found the now shining fossil, its ribbed shell clotted. “How are you?” he said. It was all the Welsh he knew.
The rooms in the caravan were stale with beer and tobacco. Tom’s mother had done most of the jig-saw. His father was watching television, but through bright, flat eyes. Tom switched the television off and stood in front of it. His mother did not notice, but his father said, “What the bloody hell.”
Tom looked, but could not see his father in those eyes.
“Mother.”
She held a piece of jig-saw, did not break her concentration. “Yes, love.”
“I need help. Both of you.”
Her head snapped up. She was in her eyes. “I knew it!”
“If you had known, you’d have spoken earlier,” said Tom.
“What are you standing there for?” said his father. “Are you Excused Boots, or something?”
“Will you listen? Please.”
“Well?”
“Are people more important than things?”
“Eh? Why’s he talking like a blocked drain?”
“He’s morbid.”
“Are people more important?”
“Than what?”
“Things.”
“Brooded on his bed all day. A few bits of jig-saw, and I suppose that’s duty done for the next couple of years.”
“Point of honour,” said his father.
“What is?” said Tom. He leant over him, eager, ignorant of the breath, the eyes. “What is?”
“Skinful the night before, first on parade in the morning. That’s our mob.”
“Mother!”
“It depends, doesn’t it?” she said. “All according to what you believe.”
“Where do babies come from, sergeant-major?”
His father tried to focus his eyes. “Eh?”
“Mother, where do they come from?”
She picked up another piece of the jig-saw. “Now you’re being hestyrical. You know very well.”
“Then who told me? Not you. I remember asking when I was seven. You were putting your hat on. I asked, and you said, ‘You’ll find out in good time.’ I knew I mustn’t ask again. But who would you blame? You? Me? Jan?”
“She’s not, is she?” said his father.
“No. That’s just an example—”
“Who knows what she gets up to in London?” said his mother. “You want to watch that one. She could catch you yet, spin you any yarn. So you watch out, my lad. You make sure she can’t put your name against it.”
“What are we talking about?” said Tom.
“—Her.”
“Jan?” said his father.
“We are not. We are not talking, we are not listening, we never have, but please, please, please, just for tonight. Are people more important than things?”
“As your mother said, it’s all according—”
“Blood’s thicker than water—”
“Please!”
“Aw, it’s late,” said his father. “Get to bed with your mithering. You make a better door than a win
dow.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Enough of your lip.”
“You are a sot.”
“Don’t speak to your father like that!”
Tom turned on his mother. “If I ever speak to you,” he said, “God help us all.”
He went from the lounge. The caravan swayed. He heard his father’s belt creak as it was unbuckled.
“He’s not too big—”
“Mind my puzzle—”
But no one came. No one shouted. He reached his bed.
The bed was freshly made. Clean sheets. The candle-wick cover taut. By his lamp there was a blue cane basket from among his toys which were still kept in a corner. The basket was for two velvet dogs, boggle glass-eyed: a mother and a puppy together, their tongues hanging out. His notes were bunched at random with the books under the bed. The axe had gone.
He tore at the dogs, and ran, one in each hand, by the throat.
“I’m sorry,” said his father. “It was the beer talking.”
“What’ve you done?” Tom shouted.
“Done, love?”
“My notes!”
“I could see you were over-working. Never mind just now: you’re tired.”
“Pip and sodding Pongo, for Christ’s sake!” He threw the dogs at her, and missed.
“They were your favourites—”
“The stone axe.”
“The what?”
“The stone!”
“Is that what it was? I thought you’d finished. I put it out.”
Tom jumped down the caravan steps to the dustbin. He lifted the lid. The axe lay undamaged among tea leaves and soup tins. He picked it from the wet, and cleaned it, wiped the grease with his hand.
His parents were looking at him in the doorway. He looked at them.
“I forgot Orion.”
“Language,” said his father gently.
“I know,” said Tom. “I know.”
His mother had finished “A Quiet Corner,” a thatched inn, black oak, white plaster. He recognised it. He had seen it from the graveyard at Barthomley.
“I’m glad it wasn’t the church.”
“Would you like something?” said his father. “A drop of scotch?”
“No. Thanks. I’m sorry. I’ll not behave like that again.”
“I thought you’d be tired,” said his mother. “I made your bed specially. I thought you’d’ve had enough of all those papers.”
“Thanks. Thanks,” said Tom. “Good-night.”
He put on his cans, and turned “Cross Track” up as far as it would go. The third time through, he fell asleep, and woke to the last hiss of the batteries. He would have to buy new.