‘Good God, Midge!’ he said. ‘What on earth’s happened to you? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!’
For once, the observation was accurate. In her flight from the forest, Midge had become covered in scratches and cuts, her arms and face were streaked with blood and dirt, her clothes were torn and stained – and, yes, she had indeed dragged herself through a hedge backwards. She looked ruefully at her sore hands, put them in her pockets – realized that it was futile to attempt to cover them up, and took them out again. She stood awkwardly by the door and could find nothing to say. George allowed his outstretched fingers to pick up the sandwich he had been reaching for. He bit into it mechanically, and continued to regard his cousin with astonishment – impressed, apparently, to see what an interesting person she had become in the years since he had last seen her. Katie closed her mouth and swallowed her piece of cake, her expression now cool and slightly disdainful. She glanced at Uncle Brian.
Midge was still speechless and Uncle Brian said, ‘Dear oh dear oh dear. What have you been up to now? Come here – let’s have a look at you.’ But his voice was kind and full of concern, not anger. He had a little blob of cream on his chin. Midge suddenly wanted to cry again. This was all too much. On top of everything else, this was all just too much.
‘I . . . I . . .’ she began, wanting to blurt out the whole story, to tell everything, to be free of the burden she felt she was carrying. But she couldn’t do it. It was impossible. There seemed to be no place to begin. She sought frantically for some reasonable explanation for the state she was in – and somehow the words began to spill out, words which were as close to the truth as she dared tell.
‘I tried to get into the Roy . . . the wood,’ she said. ‘The old wood. I wanted to see . . . like you did, Uncle Brian, with Mum, when you were . . . I just wanted to see, that’s all. I got stuck. In the brambles. It was horrible. I got stuck, and I couldn’t get out . . . I . . . it was horrible.’ She could allow the tears to fall, she realized. It was all right to cry. Even in her misery she dimly realized that the words sounded true – were true – and that it was all right to be upset. ‘I got all scratched trying to get out again . . .’ Her nose had started to run, and she could feel the tears, hot, on her cheeks. Uncle Brian moved towards her, uncertain as to what he should do – and found a practical solution in grabbing the roll of paper towel that stood near the sink. He tore off a great hank of the stuff and Midge took it gratefully, burying her streaming wet face in the clean soft texture, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
‘It’s OK,’ said Uncle Brian, putting his arm around her sore shoulders and leading her to the big old carver chair that stood at the head of the table. ‘Sweetheart, it’s OK. Come and sit down. This isn’t your fault – it’s mine. I should have been here, and then perhaps this wouldn’t have happened – whatever has happened. Anyway, you’re safe, and that’s the main thing. Are you sure it’s nothing serious? No broken bones or anything? George, be a good chap and find me a damp flannel or something will you? Let’s get this adventurer cleaned up a bit. All explanations can wait.’ He took the balled-up handful of paper towel from Midge and pulled some more from the roll, as George ran upstairs to get a flannel.
Midge sniffed and said, ‘I’m starving – could I have a sandwich?’ Uncle Brian looked at Katie, who, without getting up, pushed the plate of sandwiches down the table. Uncle Brian stretched forward and brought the plate towards Midge.
‘You tuck in, old thing,’ he said. ‘Eat something first, and get cleaned up later.’ He winced as he saw the torn material on the back of the child’s shoulders – the cuts and grazes around her neck – and was reminded of that other time, so many years ago, when he had arrived home with Midge’s mother in more or less the same state. And had been whacked for it.
Midge, truly hungry, grabbed the biggest sandwich she could see and took the biggest bite she could manage. She didn’t know what was in the sandwich, and she didn’t care. It was half gone before the content had even registered. Ham and pickle. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
‘That’s right,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘We’ll soon have you back on your feet.’ Katie remained silent.
George came back with a cool damp flannel, and Midge wiped her grubby hands and face with it. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, her mouth full of food, ‘I’m such a mess.’ She wiped the flannel around the back of her neck, and held it there for a few seconds. It felt so good.
George pulled a chair up to the corner of the table and sat looking at her, taking the flannel back from her when she had finished with it and absently folding it into a neat square. He flicked his hair back again. I bet he does that a hundred times a day, thought Midge, biting into another sandwich. He had a nice face, though, open and curious – old-fashioned somehow, with his floppy haircut and plain grey open-necked shirt. There was a small white scar on the bridge of his nose. Katie sat further down the table, detached, crumbling her unfinished rock cake and rolling a sultana between her fingers, squeezing it, looking at the sultana, not at her.
‘Did you actually get in there?’ said George, now that the crisis seemed to have passed and a decent interval had been observed. Katie stopped playing with the sultana, but continued to look at it, waiting.
‘I . . . don’t really feel like talking about it right now,’ said Midge, her voice sounding oddly prim. ‘Sorry – I’m just so . . . Uncle Brian, is there any tea?’ Funny. She never used to drink tea. She’d grown to like it.
‘I’ll make a fresh pot,’ said Uncle Brian, glad, again, to be dealing in practicalities. Tea he was good at. Cleaning up wounds he was good at. Coping with emotional crises he was . . . less good at. ‘And after that you must have a shower and get into some clean clothes. Your mother will have a fit when she sees what’s happened to the stuff you’ve got on. Was it new?’
‘Cost enough,’ muttered Katie, speaking for the first time since Midge had arrived. ‘I think if I had a pair of Ozarks,’ she said, referring to Midge’s green dungarees, ‘then I’d stay well clear of brambles in them.’
Hullo, thought Midge – what’s your problem? But she said, ‘I know. It was stupid.’ She glanced at George who rolled his eyes slightly and pulled down the corners of his mouth.
Later, when she had showered and changed – and rubbed Germolene into as many of her scratches as she could reach – Midge sat on the corner of her bed and wondered what to do next. She didn’t feel much like going back downstairs again, but supposed that she ought to. It was too early to sleep, and she could hardly just sit here until it was dark. She felt cross that Katie and George had been sprung upon her so suddenly. They were a week early. Why hadn’t Uncle Brian told her that they were coming today? Wanted it to be a surprise, probably. Well, she could have done without it – Katie especially. What was the matter with her? At least George had been a bit friendly. And helpful.
She looked out of her window and saw the fields, still warm and golden in the early evening sunshine – but tried to avoid looking towards the long dark shadow of the Royal Forest perched on top of the hill over to the left. She would think no more about that today – she had promised herself not to. It was all a dream, just a dream. Better, then, to find some other distraction. She turned her attention to her dirty clothes, which lay in a heap on the floor. They were a reminder in themselves, however, of what she had been through, and the act of picking them up inevitably made her think back to the events that had led to their ruin. All a dream, all a dream. She could wash them, at any rate, and maybe they wouldn’t look so bad then.
Then she remembered something else. She searched through her dungarees and drew out the little metal bowl – Henty’s gift – from a side pocket, carrying the object over to the window where the light was better. It was delicately made, finely turned, and the weight of it surprised her. Once again she studied the tiny engravings, the small figures that surrounded the outer rim, trying to make out what they represented, but it was unclear �
� the surface of the metal was so blackened and tarnished. She would have to polish it up. And that would have to wait – besides, she didn’t want to think any more about the forest. Not today. She put the little bowl on her window-sill, determined to concentrate on normal things, like washing.
Gathering up her battered little bundle of clothes once more, she went downstairs, quietly entering the kitchen to find that Uncle Brian was sitting there alone, reading a magazine. He put it down rather hastily as she entered and she realized that it was a girl’s magazine – Katie’s presumably – with pictures of popstars and makeover tips plastered all over it. She giggled. ‘Uncle Brian! You’re such a fashion victim!’
‘Oh dear,’ he laughed, blushing slightly, ‘caught red-handed. I’ll never live it down with the darts team. How’re you feeling, old thing? Any better?’
‘Much. I’m just going to put these things in the washing machine. My trainers had better go in as well. Where’s George,’ she said, looking around, ‘and Katie?’
‘Oh, just having a wander round I think. Um, Midge, are you sure you’re OK? You’re looking rather pale, you know. I’m a bit worried about you, to tell you the truth. You’ve been really shaken up. Should we get someone to have a look at those scratches, and maybe give you a bit of a check up . . .wouldn’t do any harm, I mean . . .’
‘Really, I’m fine. I just got . . . frightened, that’s all. Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have gone there. It was stupid.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Midge, another thing, whilst the others aren’t here – I should perhaps tell you to take no notice of Katie, if she’s a bit, ah, stroppy. She can be a moody old thing sometimes – but it’s just her way. She’s fine once you get to know her. But the fact is that they’ve had their holiday with their mum cut short. They were supposed to be going to some resort, some park place, and now they can’t – so they’re here instead. Don’t think George minds too much, but Katie’s a bit jarred off about it, so if she seems grumpy with you, don’t take it personally.’
‘Oh, I hadn’t noticed,’ Midge lied, politely. ‘But thanks.’ She carried her bundle into the washroom, and stuck her tongue out at no one in particular.
* * *
She found George and Katie leaning over the gate that led into the Field of Thistles. George turned round as he heard her footsteps on the cobbles and gave her a smile.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What do you get when you cross an elephant with a jar of peanut butter?’
‘An elephant that sticks to the roof of your mouth,’ said Katie in a very bored voice, continuing to gaze out across the fields, her back still turned. ‘That is sooo old, George.’ She punched his shoulder and he lost his balance, slithering down from the metal bars of the gate. But he was laughing all the same.
‘I saw your mum on the telly at Christmas,’ he said. ‘I think it was her. With an orchestra on BBC2. Our mum said it was her, anyway.’
‘Yes,’ said Midge, cautiously, slightly awkward. ‘Probably.’ It wasn’t something she cared to talk about much. Once or twice a year there would be a televized concert in aid of something or other, and she had seen her mum on a number of occasions, doing that other thing that her mum did – playing, or perhaps waiting to play, concentrating, watching and reading the music until it was time, raising the instrument gracefully to her chin, poised for a second – and then dipping forward, launching herself, drawing the bow across the strings in confident purposeful strokes, neat, precise, in perfect unison with all the others. Doing what she loved, being what she was. And not thinking about Midge.
She changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry about your holiday,’ she said. ‘What happened?’ A sore point, she realized instantly – though she didn’t much care, it was just something to say.
Katie grunted and turned to face her, acknowledging her presence at last. ‘Yes, we’re pretty sorry about it too,’ she said, bitterly. ‘Stuck in this dump, instead of Center Parc.’ She looked at the little blue surfer top that Midge was wearing, unbuttoned, over a clean white T shirt. ‘Hey, get you,’ she said. ‘Nice top. Off to Newquay, are we, dude?’
‘What?’ said Midge. But Katie had already turned around again, hunching her shoulders against the world. ‘What a dump,’ she muttered. ‘You’d think he’d at least pretend to make an effort.’
Midge was getting cross, but said, as calmly as she could, ‘I really like it here. I like it how it is. It’s friendly.’ Which is more than you are, she wanted to add. She looked at George, hoping for an ally, and George responded by flicking his hair back and saying, ‘I don’t mind it.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t mind rock cakes. You don’t mind disgusting rice pudding with skin on it. You don’t mind rusty old cars. You don’t mind stupid music, like jazz. You’d live in a shed full of sheep manure, and not mind it. Hick.’
George looked at Midge, and gave her an exaggeratedly loopy grin. ‘It’s true,’ he said, with a mad cackle, ‘I don’t mind anything.’ He jumped about, suddenly full of boy-energy, pretending to tap dance. He couldn’t tap dance. Boys never can. ‘How old are you?’ he said, pirouetting gracelessly and coming to a standstill.
Midge laughed at his antics. What a twerp. ‘Twelve,’ she said.
‘So am I,’ said George, and then added ‘nearly,’ realizing that if he didn’t correct his statement then Katie soon would. ‘Do you remember when we went to Exmouth?’
‘I remember the seaside,’ said Midge – and suddenly she really did. There had been swingboats on the beach. And men with trumpets, playing on a balcony – a hotel? – and George . . . crying. That’s right.
‘I remember you crying!’ she said, marvelling at how clear the picture was. She could see his little-boy face, screwed up in anguish. ‘You had an ice cream – we all did – and you dropped yours. It was pink. The ice cream fell out of the cone and landed plop in the sand. I can see it! And then someone bought you another one, and the ice cream fell out of the cone again! The exact same thing happened twice!’
‘Typical,’ muttered Katie.
‘And you had to give me some of yours,’ said George, glancing at Midge with a faintly puzzled look on his face, trying to remember. ‘And yours was . . .’
‘Banana!’ They both said the word at the same time.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ said Katie, jumping down from the gate. ‘And I really, really, hope the video’s working.’ She walked away across the yard, immaculate, with all the self-conscious grace of a pretty thirteen-and-a-half-year-old who believes herself to be the object of all attention.
‘She’s mad because you’ve got her room,’ said George, once Katie was out of earshot.
‘Oh,’ said Midge.
‘Though I don’t know why it would bother her,’ continued George, leaning back against the warm bars of the metal gate. ‘She always says she hates it, and wishes Dad would make her up a bed in the little end room – which is where she is this time.’
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said Midge. ‘I mean, I’ll swap if she likes.’
‘Shouldn’t bother. That’d be wrong too.’
‘Which is your room?’
‘The one next to Dad’s. I shall sleep there tonight,’ George glanced surreptitiously at Midge, ‘but most of the time I shall probably sleep in my tree house.’ He watched her reaction to this.
‘You’ve got a tree house?’
‘Yes,’ said George, airily, pleased that Midge had obviously not discovered his hideaway. He flicked his hair back. ‘I’ll show it to you tomorrow. You can help me set it up, if you like.’ He looked at his hands shyly, putting his knuckles together and waggling his thumbs. ‘That time with the ice cream,’ he said quietly, ‘you didn’t have to give me some of yours. Nobody told you to. You just did.’
A few yards away, behind the half open door of the first of the disused stables, the four woodlanders listened to the muffled rise and fall of the children’s voices outside. The sound entered the stable through the gaps between the loose pan t
iles and the whitewashed end wall. Half-buried beneath the frowsty old hay, Tod, Pank, Spindra, and Grissel had spent the last eighteen hours or so waiting for nightfall to come round once again. It had been a dismal time. Pank’s injury had hardly seemed any better after a restless and wakeful night, and it was clear that he would be quite incapable of walking all the way to the Far Woods and back again in the search for Pegs. In fact it was doubtful whether he would even be able to return to the Royal Forest unaided. The four had discussed the possibility of dividing – two to go on with the search and one to return with Pank – but this idea seemed unworkable. Spindra had been willing, desperate even, to press on regardless, but neither Tod nor Grissel would return without the others. Tod felt that if Grissel and Spindra were allowed to continue alone, then their lack of knowledge regarding the ways of the Gorji would almost certainly bring them to grief. Grissel, for his part, felt that if Tod and Spindra were to continue alone then it would seem as though he were deserting his post – running away from danger whilst leaving others to brave it. He had no wish to try and justify such an action to Maglin – or to face the inevitable jeers of his fellow archers. In the end they had decided that they must all return – and this made the fate of poor Lumst seem doubly pointless, for what had been gained by this expedition? Nothing, it would seem. And yet what else they could do? Again, nothing. Spindra was heartbroken at having to give up the search, and Pank, of course, felt thoroughly miserable at having been the cause of all their problems.
And so they had passed the long hours, without food or water, in more or less perpetual fear, sometimes arguing, sometimes comforting one another. Every tiny sound ravelled their fragile nerves. The vruma-vruma that came and went, the big red birds that scratched and clucked or, worse, appeared silently and unexpectedly in the doorway before passing by; the voices, clumping boots, unexpected bangs and clatters – all served to keep their senses at an almost constant snapping point. There had been a period of respite. The heavy heat of the mid-afternoon had finally brought a long humid silence upon the yard, and the woodlanders had talked some more, examining their situation in reckless whispers, going over the same ground again and again, trying to find another solution, another plan. They had no choice, in truth. There was no plan. From the outset their mission had been dependent upon good luck, and they had found only bad. Lumst was dead. Pank was injured. They had failed on all but one count: they at least knew where Pegs was not.
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