State of Emergency

by Hilary Green

  I asked, “Did you have a young man, a student, through here —a few days ago? He’d been —badly treated by the police.”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “Know him, do you?”

  I shook my head. “No, I was told about him, that’s all. Did he —get through all right?”

  Jim nodded. “Yes. Don’t you worry. We got him across. It was what he told us made us so mad with Olly Martin for sending those other poor souls back. But, any rate, he’s safe enough now.”

  Next morning I slept late and woke to a sense of blissful relaxation —like the first morning of a holiday. The sun was shining across my bed and I could hear the voices of Simon and Tim chattering happily with Cliff down in the farm-yard. A few moments later, to complete my euphoria, Mrs Furniss arrived with my breakfast tray.

  We spent the whole day relaxing. The boys were happy following Cliff and Terry around the farm, though Jim insisted that they must not leave the yard and the buildings round it. I stayed with Mrs Furniss in the big kitchen, helping her to bake bread.

  When it was finished she took out of a cupboard a packet of dried yeast.

  “Here,” she said, “put that in one of your bags. I use fresh yeast mostly but I always keep some of this by for emergencies, like. I don’t know how you’ll find things over there. I don’t suppose they’re any worse off than we are, but you might be glad to bake your own bread sometime. Anyway, it’s not much to carry.”

  I thanked her warmly and put the yeast in my shopping bag. I was learning to value any commodity.

  Over the evening meal Jim said, “We’ll leave about eight. It’ll be full dark by then. They’re expecting you on the other side before midnight. It’s about a mile to where the boat is. Are you O.K. to walk it? It’s less conspicuous than taking the car.”

  I assured him that we were. An hour later we slipped out of the house. Jim leading, followed by Cliff holding Tim by the hand, then myself and Simon, with Terry bringing up the rear. All three men carried shotguns. There was a lot of cloud and no moon. I had forgotten how dark and how vast the countryside can feel when there are no street lamps and no headlights. We moved along the lane in single file, not speaking. I found that I was starting to shiver, although I was warmly clothed, wearing an old sweater of Terry’s under my jacket. I looked round at Simon close behind me. His face was solemn, but when I put my hand behind me and found his for a moment it was warm and steady.

  It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the river. We passed a cluster of lighted cottages and a pub, strangely dark and silent under the curfew. In the shadow of its wall Jim whispered to us to wait. He and Terry moved off stealthily into the darkness.

  “Where have they gone?” I whispered to Cliff.

  “Scout around,” he whispered back. “Wouldn’t put it past old Olly Martin to be hanging around somewhere.”

  My stomach went cold. Of course, he must guess that we would try to cross the river tonight. It was a perfect opportunity for revenge.

  “Suppose he’s told the army about us?” I whispered.

  “He won’t live long, then,” said Cliff laconically.

  A distant hum came to my ears, like the buzzing of a big insect.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Patrol boat —on the river,” he replied. “They go up and down all night, when the choppers can’t keep watch.”

  The humming grew louder, passed us and faded away. Jim and Terry swiftly crossed the open space of the car park and joined us.

  “No sign of anyone,” Jim breathed.

  “Trust Olly,” muttered Cliff. “Knows which side his bread’s buttered.”

  Jim looked at his watch and said, “Come on.”

  We followed a short track which ended in a slipway. I was surprised and uneasy to see no boat. Then Terry took a torch from his pocket and, pointing it at the opposite bank, flashed it in a rhythmic pattern. As he put it away again he caught my eye and said, half sheepishly, “I always did like playing smugglers.”

  We stood in a huddle under a little group of trees and waited. The silence seemed endless and universal, only enhanced by the slap of water and the ubiquitous rushing of the wind in the trees. Then we heard the patrol boat returning.

  Jim muttered, “Bloody ’ell! They don’t usually come back this quick. Here, get down behind these trees, all of you, and keep your faces hidden.”

  We crouched in the long wet grass with our heads in our arms. The boat drew closer. Almost opposite us the engine idled and then died. The silence stretched out. Then a voice spoke, indistinctly, from over the water and I was aware of a light from somewhere. I glanced up and had just time to bury my head again before the searchlight beam swept over us.

  They stayed about ten minutes, sweeping the bank and the river with the light. Then the engine roared suddenly and hummed away downstream. Slowly, wincing at our cramped limbs, we got to our feet.

  “Reckon they were looking for something special?” Terry said, with meaning.

  “Shouldn’t wonder,” grunted his father.

  There was a brief pause, then Cliff said, “I’ll fix that Olly Martin, one day.”

  Tim sidled close to me and looked up into my face, whispering, “What are we waiting for?”

  “Any point in hanging on, do you think?” Terry said.

  Jim shifted his feet and gazed up and down the river.“Give it another few minutes.”

  “You think the patrol boat has frightened them off?” I murmured.

  “Could have done,” he replied. “For the time being. We may have to wait until tomorrow now.”

  “Listen!” whispered Cliff.

  After a second or two I distinguished the soft, regular splash of oars. A moment later the dark shape of a rowing boat appeared against the lighter surface of the river. We moved out onto the slipway, hands seized the boat and pulled it in, other hands reached out to help us over the gunwales and before I had time to whisper more than the hastiest thanks and farewells the gap of water was widening between us. The three dark figures on the bank stood watching for a moment, then turned away and disappeared.

  There were two men in the boat. Neither spoke except for a low-voiced instruction to keep down in the bow. We huddled there, listening to the surge of water against the side and straining our ears for the hum of the returning patrol boat. On the map the river had not looked particularly wide at this point. Perhaps we were going against the current; anyway, the crossing seemed to take a very long time. I could feel Tim shivering against me.

  Then, out of the dark, there was the flash of a torch and once again the soft bump of the boat against the side and more hands reaching out to help us ashore. A few hasty, reassuring words, a walk of a few paces and we saw a pony and trap awaiting us. The muffled figure holding the reins turned as we climbed in and a woman’s voice said, “That’s right, love. In you get. You’ll be all right with us.”

  Florrie Evans, large, cheerful and forthright, was our guide and hostess for the next day or so. From her I learned how anti-government demonstrations had grown into several days of street fighting in towns like Ross and Monmouth before the civil authorities and the police had declared themselves on the side of the demonstrators and the new Civil Militia and other KBG supporters had been forced to lie low or flee across the river. There had been one rather half-hearted attempt by government forces to cross the river and re-establish authority, fiercely resisted by the local population. Now they waited, puzzled by the apparent inactivity of the army. Remembering Clare’s account of the state of affairs in the country as a whole I was able to supply the answer.

  The next day Florrie’s pony and trap took us to the old Speeche House in the centre of the Forest of Dean which had once been the meeting place of the foresters’ court. A hotel more recently, it now housed the men who were in charge of this rebellious territory, which was so much more peaceful than the areas I had recently passed through.

  Here I was interviewed by an oddly assorted group which clearly invol
ved several factions. They listened closely to my story, but many of the questions were pointed, some overtly hostile. I became aware of the rank smell of my own fear as I realized that some of them suspected me of being a spy.

  Finally they appeared to be satisfied with my answers and the meeting broke up. The man who had chaired it and who appeared to be in a position of some authority, although he never identified himself, offered me a cup of tea, which turned out to be a strange herbal brew. Real tea, it appeared, was unobtainable. As I sipped it he apologized for the harshness of some of the questioning.

  “You have to understand, Mrs Fairing, that this is a case of necessity making very odd bedfellows. Since our — defiance —of the authorities has been known, a number of very strange people have come to us with offers of help. We need them, but at the same time many of us are not prepared to go to the sort of lengths which they are advocating.”

  “Do you mean the IRA?” I asked.

  He nodded, giving me a shrewd look. “And others.”

  I told him about Reading.

  He sighed and sipped his tea. “It was to be expected, of course. A good many people will be only too happy to fish in these troubled waters. Part of our problem is to discover the exact source of these offers of help. If we knew for certain it might persuade some of our more impulsive friends to look at them a little more sceptically. However,” he looked up and smiled at me briefly, “I think you may have helped us to avert one very extreme course of action.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “The suggestion has been made,” he said quietly, “that we should embark on a campaign of sabotage, beginning by blowing up the Severn Road Bridge. Our so-called friends say they can supply the explosives and the technical expertise, and some of our own people were very much in favour. However, if we can convince them that there is no immediate danger of the army moving in here the whole idea becomes, well, at least less urgent. And if the Government is, as you suggest, on the verge of collapse, the enterprise is pointless.” He smiled and rose. “Your news has given me more hope than any I’ve had for some days, Mrs Fairing.”

  Seeing that the interview was coming to an end I took the opportunity to raise the question of my own journey. He compressed his lips and shook his head.

  “I really think that it would be a trifle fool-hardy to insist on continuing, Mrs Fairing. Why not stay here for the time being? After all, it may not be so much longer. There are a number of local people who have expressed their willingness to take in refugees like yourself, and the schools are still open. You would be able to live without any fear of reprisals or any harassment from the authorities. What do you say?” I wrestled with the new idea. The prospect of travelling no further was certainly attractive, but nonetheless we should be among strangers. I thought of my parents, who must already be worried by the lack of news from me. The foetal instinct was still strong. I needed to be with them.

  I said, “No, thank you for the offer, but I must get to my parents if I possibly can. They’ll be worried.”

  He looked at me for a moment and sighed. “I admire your courage, but I’m afraid there isn’t a great deal I can do to help. However, I’ll make some enquiries. There may be someone going north from here who could take you part of the way. See my secretary tomorrow.” He offered me his hand, and added, “If you find that you have to give up the idea, or you run into any trouble, don’t hesitate to come and see me again. It distresses me more than I can say to see innocent people like yourself being hounded around the country. Emerson and his crew will have a lot to account for when the time comes.”

  He was not the only one to try and dissuade us from continuing our journey but by mid-morning the following day we were wedged into the cab of a farm truck with a large taciturn farmer from Hay-on-Wye who had come into Ross with his produce because the siege economy offered higher prices than the government stronghold of Hereford. The truck ground along up the Golden Valley, serene and untroubled as its name suggested under the shadow of the Black Mountains. With the cross-questioning of the previous day behind me I was glad of the farmer’s silence and the boys were somnolent in the warm cab. My mood, which swung with increasing violence from anxiety and despair to euphoric optimism as each day passed, had reached another crest. We were on our way again. I did not doubt, just then, that we should find someone to take us on our journey once we reached Hay.

  My high spirits were abruptly deflated when we reached the farmer’s home. In a few monosyllabic answers he affirmed that he knew no-one who might take us further nor could he suggest anyone to whom we might safely apply. His tone implied that what we did and where we went next was no concern of his. I divined that he had taken my drowsy silence for haughtiness and that now my protestations of gratitude came too late. An offer of money ‘towards the petrol’ was accepted but produced no further assistance. Within minutes we were standing on the road, our two pathetic bags at our feet. I looked at the boys. They looked back at me, doggedly expectant. In that moment, more so than when we had sat in the growing darkness outside Philip Woodstock’s church, more even than when we had faced Oliver Martin with his rifle, I came close to panic and despair.

  I picked up the bags and we set off down the lane, following the course of the river, the broad valley green and still in the sunshine. After four or five miles we came to an ancient toll bridge, hump-backed and too narrow to take two cars at once. There were no guards. As we passed a woman looked out from the little window where the tolls were collected, but she only nodded to us with a kind of vague politeness.

  We left the main road for a lane which ran northwards and here we sat down on the grass verge and I took out my AA book, which was the only map I had for this area. My finger traced a route. Kington, Presteigne, Knighton—then where? Newtown, then on into the mountains. It must be —how far? Fifty miles? Sixty, perhaps. If we walked ten miles a day for six days. ... Was I mad? What had possessed me to leave the Forest? I looked at the boys. Already Tim was complaining about being tired. And what about food? All I had in my bag were three Cornish pasties and a bottle of milk given to me by my hostess of the night before, and it was already past lunch time. I got the food out and watched their faces brighten. But where did the next meal come from? And where did we sleep tonight?

  Horse hooves sounded from around the bend. A young man appeared, leading a sturdily built brown horse. He was as thick-set and sturdy as the animal, but there was something about the way he led it, keeping well ahead of it with the full length of the rope between them, that suggested to me that he was not used to handling horses. When he saw us he half checked his stride, as if surprised and disconcerted. Then he walked on, dropping his head and looking sideways at us. I had the impression that he was inclined to stop and speak, but he obviously thought better of it.

  As he was about to pass, I spoke on impulse. “Excuse me. . . .”

  He stopped sharply and looked at me. “Yeah?”

  “I was wondering if you could help us . . .” I rose and went nearer to him. “Do you know any way we might get transport into Kington, or even further on, if possible?”

  He looked from me to the children. When he spoke, it was with the accent of urban Birmingham, strangely out of place in this setting.

  “Travelling far, are you?”

  “I’m hoping to get to Dolgelly.” If this turned out to be a KBG supporter, it was just too bad. I was too tired to weigh the possibilities any more.

  He sucked his lips. “That’s a fair step, that is. On foot, are you? You’ll never make it.”

  “We’re hoping to get a lift—-or something.”

  He shook his head. “Not much chance of that. What with petrol rationing and travel permits and that people aren’t going far.” He continued to scrutinize us. “Live round here, do you?”

  “No,” I said flatly, and met his eyes.

  “Look,” he went on after another pause, “I’m —sharing a house, with some mates of mine near here. If you’ve nowh
ere to stop you’d be welcome. Maybe one of them could think of something.”

  I hesitated. I was certain he had guessed our predicament. Was this a genuine offer of help, or a trap? I had only my instinct to go on.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “We certainly could do with a bed for the night. If you’re sure there would be room for us.”

  “Oh, no problem there,” he said. “Great big rambling old place it is. Come on then. It’s about three miles from here.”

  “Come on, boys,” I said, and they scrambled unwillingly to their feet.

  The young man looked at them. “Would you like to ride on the horse?”

  “Yes, please," they said with one voice.

  I held the halter rope while he lifted them up, one behind the other. Their faces had broken into delighted grins. He turned, grinning too, and took the rope from me.

  “My name’s Barney, by the way,” he said, and added, jerking his head at the horse, “I don’t know what he’s called. We’ve only just met, and he doesn’t talk much.”

  FIVE - IDYLL

  The farm stood at the head of a shallow valley, the hills rising steeply behind it but the land in front sloping away more gently towards the now distant Wye. There was a sprawl of grey stone buildings, not pretty but solidly determined to ignore the rotting window frames and other evidences of long neglect. By the creaking iron gate which barred the lane a faded and drunkenly angled sign bore the name ‘Brynwcws’.

  “That means ‘Mount of Health’ in Welsh,” Barney said, leading the horse through while I held the gate open. “Least, that’s what they say. I wouldn’t know myself.”

  “Are you sure it will be ail right for us to stay here?” I asked, voicing the anxiety I had stifled while we plodded up the lane. “I mean, who does it belong to?”

  He grinned. “Nobody, I reckon. Not now. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

  As the horse clopped into the yard a door opened and a young man came out. Seeing us, he stood for a second, one hand resting on the door post, looking us over. He was dressed in jeans cut off above the knee, a tattered shirt open to the waist and sandals. His dark hair was long, lying thickly on the back of his neck, and his skin wherever it was visible was deeply tanned.