Margot & Me

by Juno Dawson

  ‘Oh, what rot!’

  ‘It’s true. I’ve been in. And there were bones.’

  ‘What kind of bones?’ Doreen’s pretty eyes were wide with fear and I wondered if her act might be for real. Perhaps she really is as feckless as she seems. How unfortunate.

  ‘Human bones of course.’

  ‘Bryn, stop it! You’re scaring her,’ Bess protested.

  ‘But it’s true. If you don’t believe me, take a look for yourself.’

  ‘Not a chance!’ Doreen clutched Bess’s hand.

  ‘You’ll do it, won’t you, Andrew? Go on, be a man …’

  ‘I’m not scared!’ Andrew said quickly. ‘Water pixies! I never heard anything so ridiculous.’ Andrew’s voice is clipped, well bred, like the men on the wireless.

  ‘Go on then. We haven’t got all day.’ After a pause, Andrew hopped onto the lowest ledge of the rock face and hesitated again, seemingly uncertain. ‘Come on, you great nancy!’

  Poor Andrew. ‘I’ll come too,’ I said suddenly, hitching up my skirt and striding onto Andrew’s rock. ‘We can help each other.’

  ‘I can manage perfectly well by myself, thank you.’ Andrew started to scrabble up the rocks toward the opening. The male ego bruises more readily than an overripe peach, I couldn’t help thinking impatiently.

  ‘Well, I want to see too, and I’m not going in by myself.’ That seemed to mollify him. ‘You’re so brave,’ I added, entirely for his benefit.

  ‘Very well.’ Andrew offered his hand and I took it, allowing him to pull me up. I turned back and saw Bryn’s jaw clench. Good. I put on a little show of my own and grasped Andrew for support. He looked like the big matinee hero and it knocked Bryn down a peg or two as well.

  I scraped my knee on the way up, but not so badly that it tore the wool of my stockings. Soon Andrew and I stood at the cave mouth, if you could call it that. ‘Do you think you’ll fit?’ I asked, mentally measuring his shoulders.

  ‘I might if I go in sideways.’

  ‘Well, after you?’ I offered with a small smile. Now that we were there, I didn’t feel nearly so plucky. The air coming from within was dank and earthy, old somehow. Ancient and foreboding … sepulchral.

  Andrew frowned and stuck his head close to the opening. ‘Well, I can’t back down now, can I? But suppose there’s some sort of wild animal living in there.’

  ‘Such as? We’re in Wales!’

  ‘I don’t know. Wolves?’

  ‘Do they have wolves in Wales? I thought they were extinct now.’

  ‘How the jolly hell would I know?’

  ‘We’re waiting!’ Bryn hollered from far below.

  ‘Oh, have at it,’ I said. ‘I’m not giving him the satisfaction.’

  ‘Me either. Oh well, tally-ho!’ Andrew sat and stuck his feet in first, and then slid through the gap. ‘Ow! It’s awfully narrow.’

  ‘Be careful. We don’t want to get stuck.’ More slender than Andrew, I was able to crawl through the gap. The rocks were slimy from the waterfall’s splashing and soon I was soaked. The old duffel coat I’d borrowed from Glynis would be filthy – I’d have to wash it.

  I slithered over the rock on my front. ‘It’s getting wider,’ Andrew said, grunting as he went. ‘Oh! There’s a drop! Watch out.’

  With every inch I crawled, darkness enveloped me. I recalled an old school lesson about light being unable to travel around corners, and suddenly I wished I had a lamp of some sort. I gasped as hands grabbed me, before realising it was Andrew trying to help me down. ‘I’ve got you. Careful, it’s a sheer drop. You’ll be able to stand when you get down though.’

  Fumbling in the blackness, my hands first took hold of Andrew’s face before finding his shoulder to support myself. I felt his arms wrap around me and I dropped to the floor. It was pitch black, the blackest black I’d ever known. My eyes blinked uselessly, trying to scoop in light that wasn’t there.

  ‘Well, it could be brimming with water fairies – how would we ever know?’ I said.

  Andrew chuckled. ‘Hang on. I think I have a book of matches in my pocket somewhere.’

  ‘Always be prepared.’

  ‘Well, quite. Here goes …’ Andrew struck a match and a pathetic firefly of light erupted, illuminating little more than his own face. He held the match out for a few seconds in which we saw only rocks. ‘Do you think it’s safe in here?’ he asked, as the match burned his fingers. He dropped it with a curse.

  I reached out and felt the clammy cold of the cave wall. I gave it an experimental push. ‘It feels solid enough.’ The cave here was big enough to stand up in, but when I stretched my arms up, the tips of my fingers grazed the rocky ceiling.

  ‘How deep do you think it goes?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s a gateway to Hades.’

  Andrew struck another match and inched forward, his left hand groping into the dark. ‘Oh, it smells,’ he muttered.

  ‘It is musty.’ The damp smell was mixed with something rotten, almost sulphuric.

  ‘Ow!’ Andrew said again. ‘I hit my head. It’s getting lower.’

  ‘This must be it,’ I said. That meant the cave was only a few metres wide and long.

  I stumbled over something, but something soft – and not bones or wolves. I held on to the wall with my left hand while my right unhooked my foot from whatever it was wedged under. I felt coarse material. ‘Andrew, I’ve found something. Light another match. Over here …’

  Andrew bumped into me. ‘Here …’ He struck another match and, as it briefly flared, we saw the body.

  Chapter 10

  What? I read the paragraph again. The body? There is NO WAY Margot found a dead body. I look at the clock on my bedside table. It’s way after midnight and my candle has almost burned to a stump. I reach for my bedside lamp and find it comes on. The electricity is back.

  I’m tired, but there’s no way I can stop reading now. I sit up straight and continue.

  We both let out a yell and recoiled, and Andrew dropped the match. ‘What was that?’ he cried.

  ‘I don’t know … It looked like … Quickly, light another match!’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘Andrew, just do it!’ I heard him crawl over. I reached out in the dark and poked warily at whatever it was. It was cold. There was a spark as the match ignited and, with trembling hands, Andrew held the flame nearer.

  The boy could have been asleep if his skin weren’t so grey and his lips so blue. He was younger than me, but older than Peter.

  ‘Is it real? Is this a joke?’ Andrew said shakily.

  ‘No,’ I said. I touched the boy’s cold, stiff hand. ‘He’s dead.’

  My first dead body. Even during the Blitz I never saw one at close quarters. He was so lifeless, so empty, so sad. I didn’t know what to do or say. He made me feel empty and sad too.

  ‘Margot, we have to get out of here right now! People might think we …’

  ‘No, I think he’s been dead for days. I mean, look at him …’ The match stuttered out again and I grabbed Andrew by the shoulders. ‘Come on, we have to get help.’

  Naturally the others thought we had concocted an elaborate joke when we came screaming down the rocks. Bryn at once clambered up to get a look. Paying him no heed, we ran pell-mell through the forest until we tumbled out of the trees near the farm. Thankfully there’s a telephone line there and, once we’d caught our breath and hurriedly told her what we saw, Glynis called the police. It seems I have earned her trust; not once did she question what I told her.

  It was almost dusk when the constable arrived alone. I honestly think he thought it was a hoax until Bryn confirmed our story. As the mayor’s son, I assume he had a certain authority. Indeed, the mayor himself – a portly man with a permanant self-satisfied smirk – arrived at the farm soon after, along with Bess’s mother and Andrew’s host. Everyone crowded around the kitchen table, clutching mugs of tea. Ivor went with the constable into the forest and, as much as we protested,
we were made to stay at the farm. When they returned, they carried between them the body, wrapped in a tarpaulin. He was placed on a stretcher and taken away in an ambulance, although it was much too late for that.

  Everyone swarmed on Ivor as soon as he set foot in the kitchen, demanding to know more of what he’d seen. ‘It was the lad from the Old Parsonage,’ he muttered gravely. I saw it brought him no pride to bear such sad tidings.

  Glynis’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, the poor thing. What happened?’

  Ivor shrugged his Atlas shoulders. ‘Who knows, like?’

  With no further answers to be found and fresh snow falling, the farm emptied out and those of us living here ate a subdued supper of broiled rabbit and cabbage.

  ‘Who was he?’ I plucked up the courage to ask.

  ‘I can’t remember his name,’ Glynis admitted, sorrowful. ‘He was living with Geraint at the parsonage.’

  ‘Is Geraint the vicar?’

  ‘The organist.’ There followed a pregnant pause. Glynis sipped on her ale. ‘He’s … Well, he’s a funny sort.’

  ‘Glynis …’ Ivor said with a warning tone.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t say. He’s harmless, I’m sure, but he’s a queer chap.’

  ‘Glynis!’ Ivor said more firmly, ending the conversation.

  I settled Peter and Jane with a story – I’m trying to teach Peter to read – and then came to write about this extraordinary day. My hand is sore from gripping my pen, but I shan’t sleep a wink tonight. Every time I close my eyes, I see the awful … absence in the boy’s face, recall the unnatural wax of his skin. The poor, nameless stray. My heart breaks.

  Tuesday 21st January, 1941

  Is there any better way to wake up than to the smell of smoky bacon sizzling in the pan? I intended to write yesterday, but I was simply too exhausted. Another day of high drama in the village. I hardly know where to begin, but I do feel better after a good night’s sleep. I write wrapped in my eiderdown, looking out of the frosted window over the snowy meadow. It’s almost magically white. With every new day comes a clean page, ready to be written on.

  Monday started with a fateful trip into town. The road was deemed too treacherous for Ivor to take out the truck, so Glynis asked if I’d mind awfully cycling into the village to collect our rations. She produced a trusty red pushbike from a shed and, although I thought the journey unwise, I felt unable to refuse. ‘Just take the path slowly,’ she told me, stating the obvious.

  As it was, the forest had largely shielded the path from the worst of the snow, so the ride wasn’t as deadly as I’d feared.

  I went directly to the grocer’s, ration books in hand. As we have our own supply of meat, butter and milk, I was to collect sugar, tinned fruit and cereals. I confess I was daydreaming as I waited in line and it took me a few minutes to tune into the hum of conversation. I gradually picked up on the salacious, outraged tone. ‘Well, this is what happens, isn’t it?’ said Hilda Llewellyn, her hair still in plastic rollers, which I thought a touch uncouth.

  ‘Aye, you can’t trust them, that’s what I’ve always said.’ That came from Ted Morgan, the grocer himself.

  ‘It’s just basic science, isn’t it, like? They’re a primitive people.’

  My ears pricked up. I hadn’t heard talk of ‘the colonials’ since Grandfather died. ‘Let’s hope he swings for it.’ Ted tutted.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘am I to take it someone’s been arrested over the death of the little boy in the woods?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Morgan. ‘That nigger staying with Pam and Lloyd.’

  My stomach kicked violently, threatening to regurgitate my breakfast. ‘You mean Reg?’

  ‘Is that his name? Aye.’

  I know that I had only met him once at the market, but, as a fellow-Londoner, I felt some sort of kinship with him. I mean, I grant you murderers don’t go around advertising their homicidal tendencies, but all I had sensed from Reg was a quiet warmth. ‘Oh my gosh,’ I managed to say. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  Hilda was only too ready to share, her pop-eyed thirst for gossip bordering on frenzied. ‘People are saying they saw them go into the woods together. Only poor Stanley never came out, did he?’

  So Stanley was his name. ‘That’s hardly evidence though, is it?’ The others weren’t expecting such impertinence and stared in shock. ‘Well, it isn’t.’ I collected our rations with as much haughtiness as I could muster and flounced out of the shop with indignation. As soon as I was clear, I shoved the rations into the basket and pedalled home like I’d never pedalled before.

  I crashed into the kitchen half frozen and dishevelled like Scott of the Antarctic. ‘Good heavens!’ said Glynis. ‘What on earth happened here? You look like you’ve returned from the front line.’

  ‘Glynis,’ I gasped, ‘they’ve arrested Reg for the murder!’

  ‘Pam and Lloyd’s boy? What? Why?’

  ‘Oh, why do you think?’ I snapped. ‘I’m sorry … It’s just …’

  ‘I see … Margot, I’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise.’ Glynis’s face had taken on a determined air as she set out to make some enquiries, leaving me, Peter and Jane to help Ivor clear as much snow as possible from the farm and the road. The animals took care of themselves, huddling for warmth in the cosiest corners of the barns.

  When Glynis returned some time later, it was with a deep frown. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, placing a steaming mug of tea before her.

  ‘Peter, Jane,’ she said, ‘go and play upstairs, please.’ They left the warm kitchen begrudgingly and as soon as they were out of earshot she continued. ‘It’s all true. Reg was seen going into the woods with Stanley, although he’s denying it.’

  There was something else, I could tell. Glynis’s eyes were stormy.

  ‘Glynis, sweetheart, what’s wrong?’ Ivor asked, shrugging off his filthy overcoat and hanging it on the stand.

  Glynis shared a pointed look with her husband. ‘Well, what about the other boy who was staying with Geraint Tibbet?’

  Even Ivor, man of granite, flinched at that. ‘He ran away.’

  ‘What? Who? What boy?’ I threw my hands up, exasperated.

  Glynis stood and downed her tea in a single gulp. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Margot, enough. There’s enough rumour-mongering without me adding to it. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’

  Maybe Glynis was satisfied, but I was not. There’s more than one way to skin the proverbial cat and so I set off to Bess’s house. By that time a meek sun was out and the worst of the snow was receding at the field’s edges.

  ‘Oh, Margot, it’s terrible!’ Bess wailed as soon as I walked through the door. Bess, her mother and Doreen lived in a humble but immaculately kept terrace in the heart of the village: no surface without a doily, no cup without a saucer. ‘People are saying they’ll hang him!’

  ‘Not without a trial they won’t.’ I tried to calm her, offering to put the kettle on. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Only what Geraint Tibbet told the constables, and that’s only because Gethin Williams told Mam at the post office. Stan went into the woods with Reg a couple of days ago and just never came home, so Geraint says.’

  One heaped spoon of tea leaves would stretch to the three of us to save on rations and we split a slightly sad-looking scone between us. ‘Well, I’m no Miss Marple, but that body seemed like it had been there for more than a couple of days.’

  ‘Tell her what you told me, Bess,’ Doreen said, her hair up in rags.

  ‘Well! That Geraint Tibbet is a dirty old man and everyone knows it.’

  This might explain Glynis and Ivor’s meaningful glances. ‘Really? What do people say?’

  Bess shrugged inside her chunky cable-knit cardigan. ‘You know, that he’s a … pervert. I can’t say it, Margot, it’s too terrible!’

  I didn’t pursue it further. In my experience, every stre
et has an oddball. If they’re men they’re perverts, and if they’re women they’re witches. I’m usually inclined to take it all with a pinch of salt, but this was something else when there was so much at stake. ‘Did you know the other boy who lived with him? The one who ran away?’

  ‘Yes!’ Doreen exclaimed. ‘We came on the same train! He was called Roger and he tried to get back to the south coast. Brighton, I think.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Lots of evacuees try to go home,’ Bess said, pouring the tea. ‘I suppose they’re homesick, like.’

  I arched a brow. ‘Something of a coincidence, don’t you think? One boy runs away, another dies in the forest.’

  ‘You think Geraint killed him?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe. Perhaps Stanley hid in the cave and died from the cold. After all, the nights are bitter. No one could survive that.’

  Bess’s eyes widened. ‘You saw the body, Margot. Do you think he died of cold?’

  ‘I’m not a physician, Bess, I have no idea, but there’s no way they can blame Reg. I think it’s purely because he’s a Negro.’ I took their silence to be agreement.

  ‘What can we do?’ Bess said glumly.

  I’ll be honest – did I trust the police in this backwards little town to give Reg a fair hearing? No, not for a second. I thought what Mother would do. Admittedly I suspect she’d look to Father to intervene first, but in his absence I think she’d stand up for what she believed to be right. And I would do the same. ‘I think we need to voice our suspicions, however scurrilous they are. I don’t see them as being any less substantial than the evidence they have against Reg.’

  And so that was what we did. We finished our tea and scone and marched right down to the constabulary – a thatched building not much bigger than a cottage next to the post office. Bess trundled alongside, her short legs struggling to match my stride. Doreen stayed at home, refusing to come out with her hair in rags.

  Mother once told me that an illusion of confidence is often enough and so, with head high and shoulders square, I strode to the front desk and rang the bell with a firm hand.