Scarecrows

by Robert Westall

  ‘Why the hell’d you marry him?’

  ‘My parents were pleased . . . I was nineteen and scared of being left on the shelf.’

  ‘How the other half lives . . .’

  ‘But – now – I – have – you – lovely – bastard.’ Her voice had gone treacly again.

  Why did they have to keep on doing it? thought Simon.

  Then: traitor, traitor, traitor!

  Whore, whore, whore!

  The words boomed through his mind like great gongs. Until his whole skull was a belfry for the words. The devils whispered . . . He didn’t even struggle. Threw open the door of his mind and welcomed them.

  When he came back to himself, the kitbags from the cupboard were open and sagging in the pale dawn light. And all round the room, neatly arranged, were items of his father’s kit. Dress-blues on a chair, tunic draped across the back, peaked cap on the carefully-folded trousers. Khaki on the bed, with the webbing belt, holster and revolver. A camouflaged para-jacket hung on the door and even shaving-things on the wash basin.

  He knew exactly what he had to do.

  ‘Now you sure you’ll be all right?’ asked Mum. ‘We won’t be late. I’ve left the phone number of The Bells of Peover on the pad. Any bother, and we can be back in five minutes.’

  Simon smiled up at her. ‘We’ll be OK. There’s a good film on telly. Have a nice time.’

  ‘See that Jane goes to bed by nine. Don’t take any nonsense. Any later and you know how ratty she gets.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can handle Jane.’

  Mum kissed Jane goodnight, with big ape Moreton queuing up for his kiss too. He, of course, got three, and a big hug, and jam on his face from the cream cake that Jane had conned out of Mum as blood-money because she was going out for the evening.

  ‘And see she cleans her teeth, Simon,’ said Mum.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Simon, going back to his motor-racing magazine. Would they never push off? He had so much to do.

  He listened to the Range Rover pull out of the drive.

  ‘Play with me, Simon,’ said Jane.

  He played with her; building enormous castles that somehow she always managed to knock down with a swish of her hair or the back of her hand, just as they were nearly finished. How mad that rotten little game used to make him. But he didn’t care at all now.

  ‘Are you feeling better now, Simon?’ asked Jane. ‘Do you love Mum again?’

  ‘Course I do.’ He concentrated very hard on putting the top on the castle.

  ‘And do you love Joe now, as well?’ Her voice was prying, wheedling. She was lying full-length on the carpet, trying to peer up into his face because it was hidden by the curtain of his hair.

  ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s lovely. Tell me he’s lovely, Simon!’

  ‘I said he was all right,’ Simon said, between clenched teeth.

  ‘Tell you a secret about Joe?’ wheedled Jane.

  ‘What?’ He looked up suddenly, and she flinched.

  ‘I was only going to say . . . he’s going to buy you a big bike.’

  ‘Really.’ Simon ducked his head again. Jane was a bloody sight too sharp. A lot harder to fool than grown-ups.

  ‘Simon? You look different. You look funny.’

  ‘If I look funny,’ said Simon, ‘it’s because you gave me a funny look.’

  ‘Si-mon. Be serious. Si-mon, what’s the matter really? You can tell me. I can keep a secret.’

  Like hell, he thought. Little Miss Tittle-tattle. But he said, ‘You see this castle – it’s the biggest and best I’ve ever built. ’Cause it’s the Castle of Count Frankenstein, in Transylvania . . .’

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘I saw that on the telly. On Joe’s knee. Mummy was ever so cross, but I didn’t care. And Joe was much more frightened than me. But I hugged him tight and that made him feel better.’

  ‘But Frankenstein’s not just on the telly. He was a real man; and he made a real monster out of bits and pieces. And then it got away and went potty, and Frankenstein had to destroy it and it destroyed him, and they all died . . .’

  Her hand came down so hard, the castle flew in a hundred pieces all over the carpet. He looked up, amazed at the violence. Her eyes were blazing, like Mum’s. He’d never realised before how like Mum she was.

  ‘I hate you!’ said Jane. ‘You’re wicked. You’ll be sorry. I’m not playing any more. Now put on the telly.’ And she went and composed herself in the big leather armchair. Joe Moreton’s armchair. Its arms surrounded her; she made it actually look as if she was sitting on his knee. ‘And I want you to ring up Mummy, to come home. I don’t want to be with you any more. And I shall tell her the wicked things you said.’

  He broke out in a sweat. The last thing he needed was them home now.

  ‘Sorry, Jane,’ he said, in a voice so sugary it sickened him. ‘I was only fooling. Sorry I frightened you.’

  She gave him the same hard unforgiving stare. ‘You won’t get round me. I know what you’re doing. You go and ring up Mummy this minute, or I’ll ring her up myself. I know where the number is. Even if you hide it, I can ask the op– operator.’

  She would too, little bitch. Or have hysterics if he tried to stop her; claw and bite and scratch until she was totally out of control. And tell Mum every detail when she got home. And he would be in the wrong. And how much did she know of what he was going to do? He’d packed all Father’s kit away again, but she still might have seen it. She was always going to the loo in the middle of the night, and in the old days had often come into his room afterwards, prising open his sleeping eyelids to wake him up . . .

  ‘Please, Jane, please. I really am sorry, I really am. Shall I get you an ice cream?’

  She considered a long time. Icecream was her weak spot. She could never get enough, and she was still just too small to lift the lid of the freezer herself. Her eyes ceased to be angry; now they were hard and wavy. ‘A chocolate one . . . two chocolate ones . . . three chocolate ones. With six wafers.’

  ‘You’ll make yourself sick!’

  ‘Do as you’re told, Simon!’

  Did she really know anything? Had she been spying, following him? Or could she merely home-in on his unease? You could never tell with Jane. Best to take no chances. He went to fetch it.

  ‘And don’t forget, I’m watching you,’ she said. ‘Always.’

  She was asleep at last. Teeth uncleaned, chocolate ice cream all over her face, and cherubically innocent-looking. There would be hell to pay in the morning, when Mum found her like that. But he couldn’t wipe her face without waking her up again.

  And then he smiled, a little sadly, at how childish he was being. Mum being mad about ice cream belonged in the far, far away past of Croydon. There would be a lot more hell to pay than an ice-creamy face. And it would be a long time before morning.

  He gathered up the cleaning rags and the Brasso, and crept to his room. The smell of Brasso reminded him of Corporal Briggs, with his cropped hair, and the fag that stuck to his bottom lip, and the tales about Old Rommel. The smell of Brasso was safe and home. He shook the bottle like Corporal Briggs used to. Always shake the Brasso thoroughly, lad! Once, Corporal Briggs had sat too long drinking tea in Mum’s kitchen, telling Mum for the hundredth time about Old Rommel, and then he had caught sight of the clock and knew it was too late to get ready Father’s dress-blues for the Mess that night. And Mum said Corporal Briggs would cop it and be on a fizzer. But Corporal Briggs had bet Mum a bob he wouldn’t; he knew a thing or two . . .

  And Corporal Briggs had just laid out Father’s kit uncleaned; but taken the loose change from Father’s pockets and polished up the pennies till they shone like silver and laid them out in a pattern on top of Father’s trousers. And Father had been so pleased with the shining pennies, he’d never noticed the kit was dirty, and went on and on about what a thorough chap Corporal Briggs was. And Mum had laughed afterwards, and paid Corporal Briggs his bob. But it was all rig
ht for Corporal Briggs to fool Father, because Corporal Briggs loved Father and would have died for him. He often said so. Not like some people . . . Simon’s face hardened. Two deep narrow lines appeared on his forehead that Father would have recognised. Very thoroughly, he began to clean the blackened metal on Father’s dress-blues.

  When he was finished and satisfied, he carried the clothes and the highly-polished boots down to Mum’s bedroom, and arranged them neatly on and under the bedside chair. It was funny how you didn’t forget things, even after eight years . . .

  He sat on his bed in the dark. When he heard the Range Rover, he looked at the luminous hands of his watch. Half past ten. At least she had kept her word about not being late. He moved across to the hole in the cupboard. There was no patch of light; the room below was in darkness.

  He heard them in the hall downstairs.

  ‘He’s gone to bed,’ said Joe Moreton.

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry,’ said Mum. ‘For once I feel great. I wouldn’t want to spoil it.’

  ‘He seemed better . . . this evening.’

  ‘Optimist!’

  ‘I’m always optimistic when I’m a bit tight,’ said Joe Moreton. ‘Optimistic and amorous. Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘Why d’you think I drove us home?’ But she didn’t seem cross; that giggly note was back in her voice.

  ‘Me for bed,’ said Joe, pleased at her giggle.

  ‘I won’t be a minute, love,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll just look at Jane.’

  ‘Don’t be lo-ong.’

  ‘I wo-on’t.’

  He heard Mum’s quick foot on the stairs, and got into bed, just in case. But Mum just closed Jane’s door, and went along the corridor. So he nipped quickly out to the cupboard again.

  ‘I haven’t put the overhead light on,’ said Joe Moreton, sighing luxuriously. ‘Only the bedside. More romantic.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘Thank you for the new gear,’ said Joe.

  ‘What new gear?’ asked Mum.

  ‘The policeman’s set in the chair. I’m not sure it’ll fit me, though.’

  ‘What policeman’s set?’ For a moment, Mum sounded puzzled.

  Then silence. Silence that went on and on, worse than a great terrible scream. Silence that seemed to echo and echo round the old house.

  Silence and silence and silence.

  Finally, Joe Moreton’s voice, wobbling all over the place. ‘What’s the matter, love? For God’s sake, what’s the matter? What’s the matter? WHAT’S THE MATTER? Speak to me. You look like— Deb, what is the matter?’

  Still silence. And Joe Moreton flapping round like a wet hen, still trying to get her to tell him what the matter was.

  Upstairs, Simon crouched, smiling, feeling like a god. We did it, Father. We did it.

  Until the door was flung open and the light crashed on, and a pair of huge hands grabbed him with unheeding savagery and carried him bodily downstairs, banging his head again and again in the process. So strong and brutal were the hands that Simon was quite sure he was going to die . . . Well, he’d die happy, after that.

  But the hands merely dumped him down in front of Mum, though they kept their vicious grip. Mum was crouched on the bed, shrunken, looking lined and cold as an old woman. Simon could not read the expression in her eyes. They were lost eyes.

  ‘Tell her what you did,’ said Joe Moreton in an awful voice. ‘Tell her what you did, you despicable little sod.’ And he shook Simon like a rat.

  But Simon made himself stand up straight. Shook the great ape-hands off. He looked at his mother.

  ‘I cleaned Father’s kit and put it there. To remind you he still exists, you whore.’ He had thought carefully what to say while waiting in the dark.

  Something hit him, and he ended on his knees in the corner of the room.

  ‘Whore,’ he shouted. ‘Whore, whore, whore!’

  Joe Moreton came at him again. He prepared to die with dignity.

  ‘Stop!’ said Mum. She got to her feet, and came across to Simon. ‘Bring those clothes, Joe. Come upstairs, Simon.’

  Up in the attic, she opened the kitbag and stuffed the clothes back in, as if they were jumble. She never noticed the hole in the floor of the cupboard. Then she said, ‘Take those things downstairs, please. Joe. And lock them in your studio.’

  Simon went mad then, clawing for the kitbags. ‘They’re mine, mine, mine! My father left them to me. By law.’

  ‘When you are twenty-one,’ said Mum. ‘When you are grown-up enough to use them properly and with respect.’

  Simon clung to the canvas desperately, but Joe Moreton pulled his hands away, and walked to the door, one bag under each great arm.

  ‘I hate you!’ screamed Simon. ‘I hate you both.’

  ‘And I think I hate you as well,’ said Joe Moreton, quietly. ‘I just hope one day I can get over it.’

  ‘Where are they going? Where are you taking them?’

  ‘They’re going to Nunk,’ said Mum. ‘They’ll be quite safe with Nunk. Nunk will know what to do.’

  TWELVE

  Simon sat weakly on the edge of his bed. His rage had been flattened by the rage of Joe Moreton. His head ached where Moreton had banged it against doors and banisters; his shoulders ached where Moreton had gripped them. His lip was cut, where Moreton had slapped him right across the room. And yet Joe Moreton had not really done it for hate; he had done it like a great hurricane, without hate. All Joe Moreton had done, he had done because Mum had been hurt. You had to be fair; you had to admit that.

  Just for a moment, Simon felt he’d done wrong. He’d thought Joe Moreton a great slobby lump; and Joe had not been a great slobby lump. Joe Moreton at least was a man . . . And he remembered that look on Mum’s face: as if she was being murdered . . . and he was sorry, in a way.

  But they had done wrong to Father. And now they had bundled Father away like he was jumble. Father had been far away enough; and now they were taking him away even further. Eight years, before he could even touch Father’s things again. That was wrong.

  He had done wrong; but they had done far greater wrong.

  Slowly, reluctantly, as if drawn by some force stronger than himself, he went back to the hole in the cupboard. He had to know; he had to know what they were doing, saying.

  ‘Drink it down,’ Joe Moreton was saying. ‘Get it down you – it’ll make it hurt less.’

  ‘I can’t stand whisky. It always makes me sick.’

  ‘Me too. But get it down.’

  Mum made gulping noises.

  ‘What we going to do?’ asked Joe Moreton. ‘What we going to do with him?’

  ‘Don’t talk about him like that; he is my son.’

  ‘I could kill him.’

  ‘No you couldn’t. You’re not a killer, Joe. I should know. I married into a whole breed of killers. Quiet, cool, decently-behaved killers. Killers who will tip their hat to a lady, go to church because it’s church-parade, are decent with horses, cry over a dead dog, and kill because it’s their duty. For King and Country. Derek had killed men, you know – that one in Aden . . . Cyprus, Borneo . . . Trucial Oman. He never talked about it. But I knew. You should have seen him handling a gun at the grouse-shooting. So efficient . . . I could have screamed. And his father . . . that dreadful old man . . . you heard tales . . . a riot in India during Partition. He had to put it down . . . law and order . . . a few too many got killed and he – retired early. Never really got over it. Oh, the Woods are bred for it – like foxhounds – generation after generation. I used to think there was probably a Wood at the Battle of Hastings. And in peacetime, they get so bored . . . I don’t blame them . . . society breeds them.’

  ‘And what do we do about this little killer upstairs?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m tired now. Leave it till morning.’

  ‘I’m not going to let him kill you. I’ll have him put away first.’

  ‘You couldn’t. He’s not mad. Anyway, we will put him away – t
o school.’

  ‘That’s five weeks, yet. What do we do in the meanwhile? Build barricades? Put up barbed wire? He’s not safe to have around. He could set fire to the house when we’re all asleep.’

  ‘He’ll not do that – that’s illegal.’

  ‘There’s plenty he could do that’s not illegal. It’s like living with a time-bomb.’

  ‘There is . . .’ said Mum hesitantly, doubtfully.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is one person who might be able to deal with him . . . it’s only a thin hope.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Not now. Let me sleep on it. I think I could sleep now.’ Mum yawned.

  ‘I’ll lock that bloody door.’

  ‘He won’t try anything else tonight . . .’

  And, fools, they were soon snoring like pigs. Full of whisky. But at least they hadn’t made the noises. He’d stopped that; for tonight. He wondered, wolfishly, whether there was something else he could do, while they slept. It seemed too good a chance to miss. But when he got to his feet, he found his legs and arms shook so violently, he could hardly move. And the terrible uncaring strength of Joe Moreton’s hands had taken away his courage. He was good for nothing more.

  Except to limp downstairs, and out through the back door.

  The night was dark; only a few stars breaking through swirling clouds. The grass of the orchard was soaking, and squelched and slipped under his bare feet. There was still rain in the wind.

  He went and stood at the gate that led to the turnip field. Drops spattered on him from the sodden hedge, every time the wind blew. He could smell, overpoweringly, the rich smell of wet turnips; and something deeper and danker beyond: the smell of the mill-pool. Though he did not realise what it was.

  Then he did something he’d done sometimes before. Waited for the constellation of the Plough and the Pole Star to appear, through a gap in the dark blanks of cloud. That gave him north. Father had shown him how to do that; taking him out in his arms on a night when the whole sky was full of stars like a great city of lamps. Father saying, ‘If you ever get lost in the dark, Simon, look for the Pole Star. That will see you home.’