He was near now. Near to the biggest drummer. And then, in the last ghost of light, he saw it: the huge water-wheel, red-leaded turning in its tomb of black stone, turning, turning slowly; leaking water like a rainstorm, sometimes throwing down whole sheets. The metal of the axle, inside the huge rumbling noise, whimpered like a small hurt animal; or chirruped like a canary. The wheel was barnacled with rust, like a rock at low tide.
All these sounds the miller must have known; been deafened by for years. Or did he get so used to them that he could still pick out the softest footfall behind him . . . ?
Simon whirled in terror.
There was nothing there. But he knew that if there had been a footstep, he wouldn’t have heard it. Soaked with sweat and spray, he ran, and did not stop running till he was again on the topmost platform, panting. He pushed the starting lever back the way it had come.
Nothing happened. Inexorably the mill ground on. He pushed the lever harder. But dared not push too hard, because there were worm holes in the whitewashed wood, and if the lever snapped he could never stop the mill and its terrible sound would pursue him right across the turnip field and into Mill House and then . . . something awful would happen.
But the mill was growing quieter. Dying, dying, dying. He waited with his fingers crossed until the last rattle died away.
It was utterly silent; even the rain had stopped.
Then he thought about the cat, and his body relaxed into a state of . . . everydayness. He made his way downstairs, shut the slatted window and began picking his way through the garden. The long vegetation soaked through his anorak; drenched him to the waist so his trousers rubbed the inside of his legs. But he didn’t mind; that was part of everydayness too.
When he got there, the cat’s nest was surprisingly obvious. A brick coalshed built against the massive red-stone wall of the mill, round the corner. On the low heap of coal was a collapsed cardboard box marked, barely discernibly: Dried Egg, 36 cans. Produce of U.S.A. Inside the box was a mixture of hay and torn-up newspaper. On top, the cat lay with her kittens, who were sucking at her furiously, pushing each other away with a savage paddling of tiny perfect paws. Only they were thin, dreadfully thin, like their mother. So thin that even Simon, who’d handled plenty of kittens, couldn’t guess how old they were. Kittens should have fat turns that felt like tennis balls. These didn’t.
Three kittens. Odd number. Until he saw the fourth, lying dead out on the rain-soaked grass. Long dead. Little more than a leather-skinned skeleton. Had it crawled out of the nest, lost its way and died alone? Or had the cat removed it when it died?
He stroked the cat sadly. She purred with pleasure, and didn’t mind when he picked up a kitten; though she mewed and watched him anxiously. The kitten felt light as a bird in his hand. White and ginger, like its mother. Its dark eyes watched him, lively enough. He returned it, and the cat licked it back towards her nipples.
The second kitten seemed much the same; thin, but OK.
The third did not have its eyes open. They were stuck up with terrible green stuff that spilled down its cheeks, almost to its mouth. Unlike the others, it squealed with pain and terror, and writhed in his hand. He thought of the first-aid kit, back in Mum’s duffle-bag, back in the mill . . . But he knew cure was beyond him. Even if he could mix clean water and TCP, he could never stand the squealing while he bathed those eyes . . .
Mum.
But it wasn’t just Mum. It was bloody Jane and bloody Joe Moreton too. Did Moreton have to follow Mum wherever she went, like a bloody puppy-dog? Did he have to stand there, hovering like a helpless flabby ape, opening and closing his hands in misery, while Mum looked sorrowfully at the blind kitten?
‘It’ll have to be put-down,’ said Mum, finally. Sad, but businesslike. ‘We can probably save the other two, but this one’s too far gone. If we’d only found them a week ago . . .’
‘No, no, NO!’ Simon stormed at her, in a rage of tears, knowing Joe Moreton was watching with those great gloomy eyes and hating him for it. ‘There’s injections . . .’
‘Even vets can’t work miracles,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll always be blind. You wouldn’t want it to live on, blind.’
A great agony burst out of Simon; a great hatred of death that left him shaking, like an empty torn envelope. ‘Why shouldn’t it live blind? We can look after it. It doesn’t have to go out of the house. It’s got the right to live, even blind . . . If it doesn’t want to live, it can always choose to die. But it can eat and drink and we can stroke it . . . If we hadn’t found it, it would have gone on living . . . we came here and interfered and killed it. We’re the murderers . . .’
‘You really want it to live, even if it’s blind?’ asked Joe Moreton.
‘Yes, yes, YES!’ It was the first time Simon had ever looked Joe Moreton straight in the face.
‘OK,’ said Joe Moreton. ‘But you look after it. We might find homes for the others, but that’s your cat.’
‘You pair of soft buggers,’ said Mum. ‘I just hope it won’t get dumped like your poor hamsters.’
Simon carried the mother cat. Mum carried the kittens in her garden trug. The cat didn’t seem to mind, provided Simon carried her where she could see the kittens. She only mewed anxiously when the kittens squeaked. Joe Moreton walked behind carrying Jane, who was, as usual when she was being carried, sucking her thumb; but asking why an animal-doctor was called a vet, then announcing she was going to be the greatest vet in the world, and cure nellephants in the jungle.
There was a nasty moment at the real vet’s. He made no fuss about the mother and the healthy kittens, though he shot them so full of injections, he made the kittens squeal. But he made all kinds of professional fuss about the blind kitten; hinted at dooms too awful to mention. But the whole family just stood and glared, and Joe Moreton said, with a return of his old sharpness, that he was paying . . . The vet obviously thought them all mad; but they drove home together in the Range Rover, glad of their own madness. Simon was sent to get a new cardboard box from Cosima’s, the village shop. And Mum turned the kitchen into something that felt very like a hospital.
Simon didn’t mention starting up the mill; happily, nobody had noticed a thing.
NINE
Simon spent the afternoon being glad. Roamed the garden, poked the soil, climbed several apple trees and occasionally looked over the gate down the road. But his mind wasn’t really on it; he was too busy being glad. He kept nipping into the kitchen. But the cat and kittens were always asleep, in their new box by the Aga. The cat wouldn’t even wake up when he opened a tin of ham and held it under her nose; though her nose twitched. Finally Mum threw him out. But he didn’t stop being glad.
It was about four when he heard the creaking in the road; and a singing. Not a kind of singing he’d ever heard before. Deep, huge and sonorous, like a cathedral organ on the march.
‘Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.’
Any cleft would have needed to be as big as Grand Canyon, Arizona, for the creaking was from a wheelbarrow, and the barrow was being pushed by a huge old man. He rammed the gate open, removing a long sliver of white paintwork without worrying in the least.
He was a sandwich of an old man. His middle very ancient; an old man’s jacket hung unbuttoned in rigid folds under his armpits, dragged-down by pocketfuls of string, trowels and wooden pegs. But his legs were clad in faded jeans, and his feet in filthy training-shoes. From the hips down he looked like a long-shanked teenager. And above the jacket, his white hair was cut short, almost skinhead. Brown skinhead face too; long, leathery and hard, with deep grooves round mouth and forehead.
He progressed along the crazy-paving path towards Simon. The wheel of his barrow gave a little wiggle to avoid Simon’s outstretched feet. But no other acknowledgement was given. He proceeded to the nearest flower bed, sat in his wheelbarrow (making the wheel sink a good four inches into the earth) and slowly rolled a cigarette with an orange plastic device.
Since the device was very small, and the man’s fingers large, the end product was thin, measly and bent in the middle. Still, he stuck it in his mouth and patted his bulging pockets for matches.
No rattle rewarded him. He patted again, looking at Simon. Simon stared back, silently.
‘Gorra match, son?’
‘No,’ said Simon.
The man looked at the house hopefully. Simon looked with him, but there was no one in sight. The man puffed and tutted.
Simon ignored the hint; went on staring at him inscrutably. The man looked towards the gate, as if considering whether to go home for a match. Then he looked at his fag, wondering whether to throw it away. The wheelbarrow settled another inch, under his indignant bottom-wiggling.
‘You his or hers?’ asked the man.
‘Hers,’ said Simon.
‘Proper gentry, she is. Always a word. Don’t get many o’ her sort, round here.’
‘I’ll get you a match,’ said Simon.
The man lit his wretched fag, and started to put the matchbox in his pocket. Simon held out his hand. The man took out a few matches and handed back the box, a new glint of respect in his eye.
‘Home from school then? Wheer’s tha dad?’
‘Dead. He was a major. Killed in Aden.’
‘Ah. ’Tis always the good officers go fust.’
‘Were you a soldier?’
‘Aye, in Fust War. Jerry sniper saved me life.’
‘Saved your life?’
‘Aye – nineteen-futten. In a brickyard near Arras. Jerries were at one end, us on t’other. Not enough room to fight nor die. Tom Mercyfull, I said to meself, you’ll not last t’day. Not enough time to mek your will. Any road, us had no dinner till four o’clock, then just tea and bully-beef, one tin to every three lads. Us were passin’ t’mugs round, between t’piles o’ bricks, when mine jumped a yard in t’air. I looked an’ saw it lying theer, wi’ a hole right through it and tea spillin’ out, and a finger still stuck through t’handle. Theer’s a finger, I said. What’s a finger doing theer wi’ no hand? An’ corporal said, it’s thy finger, Tom. An’ I was spoutin’ blood all down me tunic an’ feeling nowt. The major said, it’s Blighty for you, Tom Mercyfull, an’ thank your stars t’corporal saw it happen, otherwise ye coulda been on a court-martial on a charge o’ self-wounding . . . right nasty he was, an’ looking to be nastier.’
‘Self-wounding?’
‘Aye, lots o’ lads tried that in Fust War. Shootin’ theirselves in fut or hand, to get out on a battle. But corporal had seen what happened and there was no getting past that. An’ a rifleman isn’t no good wi’out his trigger-finger.’ He waggled his right hand, showing a rounded shiny-red stump. ‘They put me on hosses after that, which were a lot healthier nor brickyards. But they soon got rid on me altogether. I answered back too much for a sowger.’
His fag had gone out. He pulled it out of his mouth, broke it in disgust and threw it among the rose trees. Then heaved himself out of his wheelbarrow. ‘Can’t sit here talking all day.’ He began hoeing weeds; then tried to pick them up with a rake, but they kept falling off. Simon wondered why he was doing it that way; then realised he couldn’t bend at the hips.
‘I’ll do that,’ Simon offered.
‘What’s in it for you?’
‘I’m a stranger round here. I like hearing you talk.’
‘Fair enough.’ Mr Mercyfull stood with his head on one side, like a singer asked for an encore, considering his repertoire. Then he launched forth. ‘Most of me life I were a hoss-brekker. Me father was a hoss-brekker an’ all.’
‘What’s a hoss-brekker?’
‘Some hosses wun’t wok – bone idle. Lovely hosses too, most of ’em. Ye could pick ’em out at hoss-fairs ’cause their price was too low – owners trying to dump ’em – but word got round. Me dad would buy ’em up at rock-bottom price, and tek ’em home and put ’em in t’ old hoss-mill. Wheer a pair o’ hosses had to walk round and round in a circle, wokkin’ t’millstone for grindin’ corn. We had another hoss that were a grand wokker. But the idle hoss, he would just stand theer, not movin’, tryin’ it on . . . Me dad were a hard man – he’d use t’whip, throw buckets o’ watter over it, hold a bit o’ burning wood to its head – even put a Guy Fawkes cracker up its arse – anything to get it moving. I’ve seen ’im have our other hoss drag it round by main force, hooves trailin’.
‘Them hosses allus wokked in t’end – they was glad to. Then we could sell ’em for a grand price. Mercyfull’s hosses was guaranteed to wok or bring ’em back. It were a kindness really – though I don’t suppose yer RSPCA would think so today. But if we hadna broken ’em, they’d a gone for cats’ meat, an’ what sort o’ kindness is that?’
Mr Mercyfull bridged sixty years with a sigh. Then said, shrewdly, ‘What do ye think of yon feller then?’ He nodded at the house.
‘Oh . . .’ Simon couldn’t help his feelings showing, though he knew it was bad form in front of a man like Mercyfull.
‘I thowt so,’ said Mr Mercyfull. ‘A right rum ’un. Meks out he were born in this place, an’ he weren’t. He come from Manchester in t’ Second War, a bairn in his ma’s arms. And he were gone off to grammar school afore he were twelve. An’ we didna see him again till he brings yer mam, an’ starts spendin’ money like watter an’ playin’ Mr Big. Drawing pictures in books – what kind o’ job is that for a grown man?’
Simon grunted doubtfully, a bit guilty since Joe had been so decent about the cat.
‘Thowt so,’ said Mr Mercyfull again, triumphantly. ‘Ye can’t stand ’im either, can ye? Marryin’ a lady like yer mam. Anybody can see he’s not gentry, just be lookin’ at ’im. Got a lot o’ money an’ don’t know the value on’t. When he was havin’ this place done up – I can tell ye one or two ways them builders stung ’im. An’ him too busy to notice, followin’ yer mam round like a slavering lapdog.’
Simon nearly said, ‘He can’t help what he is.’ But he didn’t want Mr Mercyfull thinking him soft. So he just said, ‘I must go and do something,’ and walked off into the kitchen.
Jane was busy colouring-in a map of Middle-earth, with about three hundred felt-tips.
‘Where’s Mum?’ asked Simon.
‘Probably having a little lie-down,’ said Jane, not looking up. ‘She usually does. Gets tired with all the extra housework – it’s a very big house.’
‘Oh.’ He felt unaccountably desolate.
‘’Spect Joe’s gone for a lie-down too. They won’t be long.’ Her tongue slid round the corner of her mouth, as her felt-tip slid round a corner of her picture.
Desperation seized Simon. He stared at the door that led to the stairs that led to Mum’s bedroom.
‘’Sno good,’ said Jane. ‘They always lock the door. They won’t be long.’ She gave him a sly peep from under her lashes. ‘Why don’t you like Joe, Simon? He’s nice.’
‘What do you mean, nice?’
‘Big an’ cuddly an’ all hairy – he tickles you an’ makes you laugh. He gives us wet sloppy kisses and Mum and me say pooh.’
The devils sang in the air. His palms turned sweaty; his hair prickled. He saw again the loo door at school – the smashed door with the shocking star of splintered wood, and inside, Bowdon making disgusting noises.
‘I don’t just not like Joe Moreton – I hate him!’
‘Why, Simon, why?’ Her juicy slyness was gone. Eyes as big as saucers. Face starting to pucker up.
‘Because-he-is-not-my-father.’
‘Well, he is my father an’ I love him – you hear? I love him!’ Her voice rose to a shriek.
‘You never knew Father – he died before you were born. But he was your father. Little traitor . . .’ He was yelling, too, at the top of his voice.
Jane threw a felt-tip. A red felt-tip. It made a red mark on his white shirt. She threw another, and another . . .
He let go; let the devils in. Ran. Not to the bedroom door; to the mill.
The moment he left
the house, Mum burst into the kitchen, a woollen sock in one hand, and a darning-needle in the other. ‘Whatever is going on?’
A door banged open upstairs and Joe Moreton appeared, thickly-laden paintbrush in his hand. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Simon. He’s gone potty,’ said Jane huffily.
‘What about?’ asked Mum, picking up the scattered felt-tips.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘He just is potty. I hate him.’
‘But what happened?’
‘I threw my felt-tips at him.’
‘If we try to get to the bottom of every quarrel . . .’ said Joe, with a bored sigh. He picked her up. She immediately slipped her thumb into her mouth.
‘Don’t do that, Jane,’ said Mum.
‘Want to!’
Out in the garden, Mr Mercyfull watched Simon go, thoughtfully. Then he settled into his wheelbarrow and took out his little orange device.
Simon knew nothing until he was sitting at the wooden table, on the wooden chair, twisting the rough-bitten wooden pipe from the table-top between his hands, round and round. Smelling the acid smell of bare earth coming up through the floorboards from the cellar. His hands and legs were stinging all over; from rose trees and nettles he must have crashed into without even noticing.
The mill was silent, cool, green. The silence and the coolness and the greenness dripped into his empty aching mind, slowly filling it with peace. He was grateful to the mill; he did not resist. There was nothing else to fill his mind with, that was not agony.
He looked round at everything slowly and in great detail, as his breathing grew quieter and the shuddering in his body stopped. How he loved everything here . . . if only the cat and kittens had still been here. But Mum and Joe Moreton and that rotten little cow Jane had taken even the cat and kittens away from him. Still, he had the coats hanging there on the wall; and the hats above them. If only their owners were still here. They would be kind . . . He went on staring hungrily at the coats, till he laid his head on his hands and fell asleep.
Scarecrows Page 7