Elidor (Essential Modern Classics) Page 11
“Yes, but how?” said Nicholas.
“That’s it,” said David. “We’re lumbered. Have you any brilliant schemes, Roland?”
Roland shook his head.
David switched on the television set. “And it must be tomorrow,” he said. “Remember this?” As the set warmed up, the screeching and whistling began, and the picture, when it came, was a herringbone of black and white. “It won’t be long before Dad’s razor starts, either. There’ll be fun tonight.”
“They look so harmless, don’t they?” said Helen. “This cup: it’s ugly: nothing like that bowl with pearls all round it, and full of light.”
“But can’t you feel that they’re still the Treasures?” said Roland. “They’re still the same.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said David. “The real sword and these two bits of wood have the same kind of ‘swordness’ about them. That’s not changed.”
“Let’s try it,” said Helen. “I’ll go and bring an ordinary cup from the kitchen, and we’ll see if there’s any difference.”
“For crying out loud!” said Nicholas. “Are you all off your rockers? – There! And I bet it’s Mum’s best china!”
They had heard a cup smash on the floor in the kitchen. Helen came running through the middle room and slammed the door behind her.
“I was – I was taking a cup,” she said, “off the – the shelf. And someone – lifted the latch on the back door. It went up – and down. I’d never have heard it: it was so quiet.”
“Is the door bolted?” said Nicholas.
“Yes.”
“But you’d hear anyone coming round the side of the house.”
“I didn’t. Nothing. Somebody tried the latch. I couldn’t hear it.”
“They know we’ve got ’em,” said David. “Obviously. They’d know straight away.”
“Wait a minute,” said Nicholas. “Keep calm.”
“Dial 999,” said David.
But before he could say any more there was the sound of falling glass in the middle room.
“Out of the way!” shouted Nicholas.
He pushed Helen aside and threw open the door. A window pane had been broken, and a thin arm was feeling for the latch inside. The telephone was on the windowsill.
Nicholas grabbed the poker from the hearth and crashed it down on the arm. There was a howl, and the arm jerked out of sight.
“Everybody here, quick!” said Nicholas. “Shove the dresser across! And the other window! Stack the chairs on the table in front of it!”
“What about the kitchen?” said David.
“Leave that. Only the fanlight opens. Now bring your coats and the rucksack into the other room. Hurry! I’ll put the light off in here.”
“Nick: what’ll we do?” said Helen, when they were together in the sitting room.
“Quiet a minute,” said Nicholas.
He went to the front door and listened at the curtain.
“There’s one of them in the porch. We can’t keep them out. The dresser and the chairs will hold them up a bit, but that’s all. We’ve got to move. We’ll be safe in a crowd, or where there’s plenty of light. They won’t risk being caught.”
“Where’ll we go?”
“Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”
Nicholas packed the stone in the rucksack. “Here, give me your cup,” he said to Helen. “There’s room for it.”
“No,” said Helen. “I’ll carry it. I’d rather.”
“Please yourself. Now listen. Have we any money?”
“I’ve some from Christmas,” said Roland.
“So have I,” said Helen.
“How do we get out, first?” said David.
“We’ll crunch him behind the door,” said Nicholas. “Like Dad, only better. We wait till we hear the other one climb through, and when he’s sorting himself out from the furniture we’ll flatten this one against the porch and run for it. Mind you don’t trip over the curtain.”
“Here he comes,” said David.
The dresser pitched forward on to the floor.
“Ready?”
“Mum’s Willow Pattern,” said Helen.
There was a sound of scuffling, and more glass tinkled, and then someone fell heavily over the dresser.
“Now!”
Nicholas slipped the catch. They thrust their shoulders against the door and lashed it open. They felt the resilience of a body trapped between the door and the wall. A man cried out. And the children were running down the middle of the road, their legs hammering the smooth surface till their thighs burned.
Roland glanced over his shoulder and saw a figure lope from the porch and cross the lamplight to the darkness of the hedge along the footpath.
“They’re coming!”
“Make a row! Fetch people out!”
“Help!”
“Help!”
Helen screamed.
“Help! Help!”
Lights were switched off all down the road.
“Help! Help!”
Visitors were leaving one house, but they stepped back, and shut the door. On the other side of the dimpled glass a broken pattern of a man reached up to slide the bolt.
“Please! Help!”
Christmas trees in front windows disappeared as the curtains swirled across.
“You lousy rotten devils!” yelled David.
“Keep moving!”
The children ran from pool to pool of the street lamps and sometimes they glimpsed a shadow, and sometimes there was a tall silhouette: and there was always too much darkness. When they turned the corner the white fluorescence of the railway station at the end of the road was like a sanctuary. They drove themselves towards its glass and concrete, as if the danger behind, the danger of spear-edge and shield-rim, would be powerless in the neon glare.
They jostled through the barrier on to the platform. An electric train was idling its motor: the porter was waving to the guard, and when he saw the children he opened a door.
“Come on, come on, if you want it.”
They were carried forward by the impetus of their running, and almost all the porter had to do was to deflect them by the arm into the compartment, one after the other, like dominoes falling.
“Right away!”
The train glided out of the station, and quickly gathered speed.
CHAPTER 18
PADDY
“‘R ight away’,” said David. “‘Right away’! As easy as that!”
“Too easy,” said Roland.
“How do you mean?”
Roland pulled a face. “Too easy: I dunno.”
“I thought we’d had it then,” said Helen. “I could feel those spears. Any second, I thought.”
“We were lucky,” said Nicholas.
“Yes, we were,” said Roland, “weren’t we?”
“How far shall we go?” said David.
“All the way,” said Nicholas. “Into Manchester. It’s safest.”
“We’d better tell Mum and Dad,” said Helen.
“I’d like to see you try,” said Nicholas. “We’ll say there was someone breaking in, so we cleared out. There’ll be enough of a shambles to prove we weren’t kidding.”
“And then what?” said David. “There’s the rest of the night left for the Treasures to be pinched. What time does the dance end?”
“One o’clock.”
“Right. We shan’t do anything now. We’ll meet Mum and Dad out of the dance, and then it’ll be three o’clock at least before all the fuss is over. With luck, we’ll not go to bed at all.”
They paid their fare at the terminus, and walked down the long slope from the station into the city. The streets were brilliant with lights and decorations. People hurried along in groups, making a lot of noise, and very cheerful.
“We want the cheapest place to keep warm in while we’re waiting,” said Nicholas. “Let’s try a coffee bar.”
The children sat at wrought-iron tables in a room that was all bam
boo and rubber plant. Non-stop South American music came from a loudspeaker and was killed by the gush of the coffee machine. The children sat there for an hour, ordering more coffee when the waitress glared hard enough.
“It’s not going to be cheap, at this rate,” said Nicholas.
“I’m still jumpy,” said Helen. “I feel as though everybody’s watching us, though I know they’re not.”
“Me too,” said David. “And we ought to move. We’re not all that safe. It’s about a three-hour walk into Manchester from our house: give them another hour to allow for dodging people: so they’ll be arriving about two hours from now. They’ll home on to the Treasures wherever we are. The only thing to do is to stay on the move, then they won’t be able to lay a fix so easily.”
“I know!” said Roland. “Let’s ride on buses. If we keep changing, they’ll never track us down.”
“That’s it,” said David.
They drank their coffee and went out into the street.
“Which one?” said Helen. “There are dozens.”
“Any bus’ll do,” said Roland. “The first that stops. There! That Number 76!”
They ran along the pavement to the bus stop.
“Inside,” said the conductor, a West Indian. “Plenty of room inside.”
The children took the front two seats behind the driver. Nicholas put the rucksack on his lap.
“Where do you go?” said David.
“Brookdale Park,” said the conductor.
“One and three halves all the way, please,” said Nicholas.
The bus crawled round the city centre. The traffic was dense, and people were using the streets as footpaths, but in a short while the Christmas glitter dropped behind. The bus was passing through an area of garages, public houses and government-surplus stores.
“It’s a bit grim up this end, isn’t it?” said David.
“Don’t you know where we are?” said Roland. “We’ve just turned off Oldham Road. We’re near Thursday Street.”
The bus stopped. “Hurry along, please,” said the conductor. “Both sides.”
“Shoor, a little bit of Heaven – fell-l-l – from out the sky one day—!”
The voice sang, blurred and loud, on the platform. The children looked round, and saw the conductor help a big Irishman up the step. He caught at the overhead rail, missed, and slumped heavily on to the back seat. He wore an army greatcoat, and he was very drunk.
“Man, you started your New Year early,” said the conductor.
“Good luck,” said the Irishman.
“Where you for?”
“Home.”
“I don’t know where that is. You tell me.”
“Ballymartin, County Down.” He was staring straight ahead of him. “There’s a rocky old road I would follow,” he sang, “to a place that is Heaven to me. Though it’s never so grand, still it’s my fairyland—”
“We don’t go there, man. Brookdale Park any good?”
The Irishman held a coin between his fingers. The conductor took the money, and put a ticket and the change in the Irishman’s coat pocket.
The other passengers were trying to ignore him. They became interested in their newspapers, or the advertisements in the bus, or the view from the window.
The Irishman hung over the back of the next seat. “Eh, missus,” he said to the woman sitting there. “Missus.” She froze. “Good luck,” said the Irishman, and appeared to go to sleep.
The woman moved, and went upstairs. At once the Irishman lurched round and sat on the edge of the empty seat. His shoulder filled the gangway. He leaned forward to tap the arm of the man in front.
“Eh, guv’nor.”
David gasped. “Don’t look!” he whispered to the others. “Don’t let him see your faces! It’s him! Paddy, from the demolition gang!”
The children shrank in their seats and used the window behind the driver as a mirror.
“And we’ve still got the Treasures!” said Helen. “He’ll murder us!”
“Would he remember?” said David. “It’s more than a year ago, and he’s properly sloshed.”
“If someone had swiped me with an iron railing, I’d not forget ’em,” said Nicholas. “Stick your head down, Roland.”
Paddy tried again. “Eh, guv’nor. Have yez a piece of paper I could be writin’ on?” The man twitched his arm away. “Oh, it may be for yeeeears—” sang Paddy, “and it may be for ever—!” The man stood up, and pushed past him.
“Ruddy Micks!” he said.
“Good luck,” said Paddy, and moved forward another seat.
“Here, you wanting paper?” said the conductor. “I got some you can have.” He tore a couple of sheets out of a notebook and gave them to Paddy.
“That’s dacent,” said Paddy. He felt in his pockets and fished out a stump of pencil, and became absorbed in trying to write on his knee in the swaying bus.
“Brookdale Park!” shouted the conductor. The bus stopped, and the engine was switched off. The conductor went round to talk to the driver. The children and Paddy were the only people left.
“Shall we run for it?” said David.
“Not a hope,” said Nicholas. “We couldn’t get past him.”
“Eh?” said Paddy. “Are yez there, then?” He strained to focus on the children, hauled himself upright, and crashed down again on the seat opposite Nicholas.
“Eh, a-vic,” he said. “Would yez be helpin’ me with this letter?”
“Er – yes: sure,” said Nicholas.
“I’m not the illiterate, yez’ll understand. I can put a letter together with the best of them. Oh, yes. But it’s a terrible night I’ve had. A terrible night.”
There was no recognition.
“Yes, of course. What do you want me to do?” Nicholas relaxed his grip on the rucksack.
“I’m resignin’,” said Paddy. “Oh, they don’t see me again. It’s me letter of resignation. If I tell yez what to say, will yez be puttin’ it down? Ah – eh – ‘To the foreman. Dear Sir. – Dear Sir’. Eh – have yez written that?”
“Yes,” said Nicholas.
“Ah, well then. ‘Dear Sir.’ Oh, it’s a terrible night.”
“Is that in the letter?” said Nicholas.
“Eh? Oh, no. No. ‘Dear Sir, Herewith me resignation’ – That’s good: that’s good – ‘me resignation I won’t be comin’ no more it’s no place for a good Catholic yours truly Mr Patrick Mehigan’.”
“Do you want to sign it?” said Nicholas.
“No. Eh, no. No. Leave it, a-vic.”
Paddy took the letter, folded it, and stared at it in silence. Nicholas was about to give a signal for them to creep away, when Paddy spoke.
“Am I drunk?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Nicholas.
“I said, am I drunk?”
“Er – perhaps: a little.”
“And no wonder,” said Paddy. “But is horses with horns any sight for a workin’ man?”
“What?” cried Roland. “Where? Where did you see it?”
“Hello there,” said Paddy. “It’s a terrible night.”
Roland bobbed on the seat. “When? Was it today? Here?”
“Lay off him,” said David. “He can’t follow you. Hey, Paddy: tell us about it. We’re listening.”
“Arragh: yez’ll not believe me.”
“We shall. I promise. Please, Paddy.”
“Well then,” said Paddy, “yez’ll understand it’s not a livin’ wage on this job if yez can’t make a bit extra on the side, like. So I’m goin’ back after dark to pick up the odd scrap or two of lead I’d seen lyin’ about the place. So there’s this yard where I’ve put a few pieces by under an old bath, see? So I goes in – and there’s this horse, all white, and this horn on its head yez could hardly stand up for the sight of. Well, as soon as it has wind of me it’s away out of it, and divil a care whether I shifts or no, right past me, and there’s me on my back. There now. Yez’ll not believe that.”
“Yez’ll not believe it,” said Paddy. “I didn’t meself.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a wallet. “But when I’m in the pub afterwards recoverin’ like, I find these caught in me buttons.” He opened the wallet, and lying between two ragged envelopes were a few wisps of hair.
The children had never seen anything like them. They were neither white nor silver. They were strands of pure light.
Roland caught his breath. “Let me hold them,” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Paddy, drawing back. “I’ll not let no one touch them. There’s no luck in it. I has a drink to see if they’ll go away, but they won’t. I takes a peep after every drink, but they’re still there. Oh, it’s a terrible night.”
“Hi, you waiting for something?” said the conductor. “It’s the end of the road, man.”
“The same again, please,” said Roland.
“It’s a free country,” said the conductor. “But where’s he going?”
“Home to Ballymartin,” said Paddy. “I’ll not be stayin’ here.”
“We want the stop where he got on,” said Roland, holding out the money.
“Wait a minute—” said David.
“OK,” said the conductor. He took Paddy’s fare out of his coat pocket and put another ticket in.
“Good luck,” said Paddy, and began to read his letter. It was upside down, but he admired it.
The bus left them at the corner of a gaslit street. Paddy seemed to be feeling better for the ride.
“Will you show us where you saw this horse?” said Roland.
“I will not,” said Paddy.
“Hold on, Roland,” said David.
“Please,” said Roland.
“I’ll show yez the way, but I’ll not go.”
“Me neither,” said Helen.
They walked to the next corner, and Paddy stopped by instinct outside the frosted glass door of a public house.
“If yez goes on down the next street,” he said, “yez’ll be near enough.” His attention was wandering, drawn to the sound of a piano and laughter from the other side of the door. “Eh – I think I’ll be havin’ a drop to keep out the cold,” he said. “It’s been a terrible night.”
He pushed open the door. Noise swamped the pavement and he disappeared among the faces, smoke, heat, and din of the public house. The door swung shut.