by Nina Bawden
“With Hilary?” Alice stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into her coffee. She had a very sweet tooth. “Why? Was she behaving oddly?”
“No. I just thought she looked …” The words faded in the moted sunlight falling on the breakfast table. He stared at the brown, smiling sides of the earthenware coffee jug, wondering exactly how she had looked, what it had been that made him uneasy about her. “A little tired, perhaps,” he finished, relaxing and rolling his napkin into his ring.
“It’s just one of her moods. She’s a bad-tempered little pig.” Janet was in a mood herself. Her expression was dark and lowering. She did not want to be Peregrine’s nursemaid for a week. She had expected Alice’s kindness of the night before to open the gates to a new and happier era: she resented being sent away like a naughty child.
Alice ignored her remark. “I expect she’s just tired,” she said to her husband, adding in a meaningful tone, “after yesterday.”
“Early to bed, to-night.” Charles stood, smiling at his wife. Her kissed her tidily on the side of her unpainted, morning mouth.
“Come along, Daddy,” cried Hilary from the door. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”
She wore her best dress of yellow muslin, seed pearls, patent leather shoes.
“Really, Hilary, what a get-up.” Alice clashed her cup in the saucer. “You’re not going to a party.”
Hilary glared. “It doesn’t matter.” She twirled round in the doorway.
Relieved, Charles saw that her trouble, whatever it was, had vanished. She had shed her small burden with her grubby frock and now appeared simply and childishly excited at the prospect of an outing. She grinned at her father and thrust her hand into his.
“Good-bye,” they cried. The front door slammed. Draped in his damask napkin, Peregrine waved mournfully from the dining-room window. The day was bright and glittering, the hard, salty wind blew in their faces. On the Downs, the coloured kites tore into the sky.
“Look,” Hilary shouted. “The kites …” She seized a whippy stick from the hedge and leaned on it, walking with an exaggerated limp. “Old didee, old didee,” she chanted in an exhilarated voice, “old didee.”
“What’s that, what’s that?” Charles caught up with her and bent his head. She looked up, ashamed. “Just a game.” She flung the stick into the gutter. “A baby’s game. I only play it because Peregrine likes it.” She strutted importantly beside him. “Daddy, what are we going to do to-day?”
Her plain, freckled face was illuminated. Charles pitied her precarious happiness. The morning was bound to end for her in shame and disappointment. She would find out soon enough that the present arrangement had not been made for her pleasure but merely to get her out of the way. She had not been told of Peregrine’s departure because she would make a scene—and a scene had to be avoided at all costs because Peregrine must be kept calm. He was inclined to be train sick.
“We’re going to the shop,” he said carefully. “And then perhaps we’ll get a taxi and go to an auction.”
“That’s not much of a treat,” she said flatly. “Can we go the Dairymaid and have an ice cream?”
“We’ll see. If you’re good.” Then, because she was an ugly little girl and because he guessed that life had not been and never would be as easy for her as it was for her brother, he said, “I expect it can be managed.”
Cooper’s taxi was bouncy and old. The seats were blown up with air and billowed round them like feather pillows. Hilary sang to herself, ate the liquorice allsorts that Miss Hubback had given her and watched the back of Mr. Cooper’s neck. It was as red as a boiled crab and bristled with sharp black hairs.
They drove back from the auction, along the coastal road. As they approached Grey’s Field, Hilary stood up and shouted, “Oh, stop, do stop, Mr. Cooper. The gipsies, look.”
There was no alternative. The first caravan was half-way across the road, blocking their passage. Cooper bumped off the road and halted on dusty grass.
Charles said impatiently, “What’s all this?”
Hilary turned a glowing face towards him. “They’re leaving. They’ve got to. They’re being sent away. Wally told me. The man the field belongs to doesn’t want them any more.”
“Nasty, dirty, thieving lot,” said Cooper.
“Poor gipsies,” said Hilary in a sentimental tone.
“I don’t suppose they mind, really,” Charles comforted her. “Gipsies are used to wandering all over the place.”
She wriggled her body inside her dress. “Wally says, if they don’t go, they’ll drive them away with sticks and guns. Bang, shee-ow.” Hilary stretched out her arms and screamed like a dive bomber.
“Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?” said Cooper.
Charles was slightly revolted by this sudden change in her attitude. “Go and watch them if you like,” he conceded in a cold voice.
She left the car and ran, yellow skirt flying, through a gap in the hedge and into the field. The coarse grass streamed like water before the wind, and high above her head the long line of poplars turned their leaves, like silver-bellied fish, to the sun.
There were about ten caravans in all. Men shouted at straining horses. Harness creaked and jangled, dogs, running belly to earth beneath the wheels, yelped hysterically. The gipsies were drably dressed and dirty but their caravans were romantic and magical. Gilded and painted, embossed with swags of golden grapes, they scraped their marvellous sides on the gate posts. Through the open doors at the back, Hilary saw swinging crockery, painted panels, dark women.
Before such splendour, her heart rejoiced and sang. Here was beauty, strange and wild. She longed to be going with them, over the hills and far away.
“What are you doing here?” said Wally, behind her. “You’ll catch it.”
“Does your mother know you’re out?” said one of his friends and gave a high, crowing laugh.
“My Daddy does. He’s waiting for me in the car.”
The four boys gathered round Hilary suspiciously like strange dogs. They wore jeans, check woollen shirts and furry Davy Crockett hats. They carried sticks. One of them, the jester, swiped at Wally’s leg.
“Here, cut it out, will you?” said Wally fiercely.
Hilary stood close to Wally and gazed at him admiringly. Her day was crowned. He was her star, her love.
“Wouldn’t you like to be a gipsy, Wally?” she breathed.
Wally hesitated. He shared Hilary’s romantic feelings about the gipsies. He had a tender, poetic soul but would have died rather than let it be known.
“Wouldn’t you like to be a gipsy, Wally dear?” mimicked the biggest boy.
Wally frowned terribly. “Me? Jesus Christ!” He poked Hilary in the ribs and roared with laughter. “Fatty,” he said.
At the end of the procession of caravans came an open cart loaded with sacks and pulled by a piebald pony, a prancing dandy in scarlet blinkers. On the top of the sack sat two men and a gipsy child. Her hair was long and ringleted, her eyes like black prunes. She was waving frantically at someone they could not see, a handkerchief held in her small, brown hand. The cart lurched in the ruts and she fell forward on her knees. Neither of the men made any move to help her and she rolled over the tail of the cart and sprawled on the ground. There was a shout of laughter, the cart rumbled on.
The boys giggled. The little girl scrambled to her feet, spat out a dreadful word and ran after the cart. She caught at the end of it, tripped, was dragged along on her knees. She screamed thinly.
“Jesus Christ! Cut it out,” shouted Wally.
The gipsy’s casual laughter floated back on the wind. One of the men, a scarf knotted on his bare chest, leaned forward lazily and hauled her to safety. She regained her seat, weeping, and immediately continued her desperate waving. Her little hand fluttered poignantly like a trapped bird. The cart moved on, into the road, vanished from sight.
The children were violently excited by this episode. One of the boys stood on his head and went red in
the face.
“Did you hear what she said?” cried Hilary. “Wasn’t it rude? She said …”
“Shut up,” said Wally virtuously. “She don’t know no better. There won’t half be a row if your Mum hears you say that.”
“I say worse things than that sometimes,” said Hilary proudly.
“She was saying good-bye to him,” said the boy who had stood on his head. He waved his stick. The man was standing on the other side of the gate, hidden from their sight until now by the gipsy cavalcade. He stood very still, looking through the gateway after the gipsy child, shrunken inside his enormous coat.
Hilary saw him with excited dread. She clutched at Wally’s arm. “I told you I’d seen the Devil, didn’t I?” She gave a wild, choked laugh and, flinging out her free arm, pointed to the man. “There he is, that’s him,” she screamed.
The jester laughed his high, crowning laugh. “Old devil, old devil,” he chanted.
The man looked in their direction. His face was thin and white. He did not move.
“That’s only Dotty Jim,” said Wally, scowling. He glanced uneasily at Hilary. “He’s mad. Sometimes, when the moon’s full, he barks like a dog. I’ve heard him.” He pushed her away roughly. “Don’t maul me about,” he said.
“Old devil,” shouted the biggest boy. “See him run.” He picked up a smooth, white stone and threw it. It plopped harmlessly in the long grass a few yards short of the man. For a moment, the children were shocked and ashamed. They were not bad boys, nor were they angels. If the man had stood his ground, they would have melted away, pretending the incident had never happened. But the man turned and ran. He limped fast and awkwardly over the rough ground, agitated hands flapping at his sides. He looked as clumsy as a big, grounded bird. His flight was an irresistible spur to violence.
“Old devil.” The boy who had flung the stone picked up another and began to run after him.
“Cut it out,” yelled Wally after him. “He’s got a bad foot, can’t you see?” His pale face had gone crimson, his lips trembled. The children saw, amazed, that there were tears in his eyes.
“Softy,” said another boy. “Cry baby.”
They all began to run, shouting and waving their arms. Wally sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Momentarily, he stood resolute, fighting his private battle. Then he stopped and picked up a bigger stone than had been thrown before and followed them, whooping louder than anyone. The man stumbled and fell sprawling. He was up in a moment, his fearful face peering over his shoulder. Wally’s stone, flung hard and true, caught him on the cheek and he gave a wild yelp like a hurt dog. Hilary seized a stone and began to run. Her heart beat painfully in her throat. She threw the stone and screamed with excitement.
“I say,” roared her father’s voice from the gate. “Stop it at once, d’you hear?”
He ran after the boys, a ridiculous, angular figure in his neat, black suit. He was shouting. Three of the boys dived for the safety of the hedgerow and disappeared. Only Wally, more susceptible to the voice of authority than the others, waited, abashed. Charles caught up with him, seized him by the collar of his shirt and shook him violently.
“Cruel little beast,” he yelled hoarsely. “You deserve a good thrashing.” He cuffed the boy once or twice round the head and aimed a few ineffectual blows at his rear. Wally twisted out of his grasp and ran, howling, across the field. Charles brushed his hands together with a gesture of distaste. Cruelty of any kind aroused him to a deep and passionate anger; faced with intentional cruelty, he became a dangerous man. He walked towards Hilary, his body trembling, his eyes cold as blue pebbles.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” he asked grimly.
She looked up at him slowly. He saw that her eyes had a blank, dark look, almost as if she did not recognise him.
“Come on,” he said, more gently. “Tell me.”
“It wasn’t Wally’s fault,” she said stoutly. “It was the others, really. And anyway, it wasn’t naughty. I told them who he was.”
“Oh. And who is he?”
She glanced at him sidelong, shuffled her feet and sighed. “Why him” she answered after a brief interval. “You know. The man in the newspaper. The man they’re looking for.”
He felt the blood beating in his forehead. “What on earth do you mean?”
Her voice was calm, almost monotonous, as if she had learned her piece by rote. ‘The one who took the little girl away. I saw him at the competition. I wouldn’t go with him, though. But I know him. He talks to me.”
She brought out these last two sentences with a kind of perky pride that dispelled his first, sharp fear. All children tell lies, he thought.
He said angrily, “Hilary, I hate a liar.”
“But I’m not” she cried, suddenly as angry as he. She stamped her foot. “Peregrine knows about him, too.”
“Knows what?” he asked coldly. “What you told him? What you read in the newspaper?”
She frowned. “Oh, no. I didn’t tell him that. I mean that Peregrine knows he is the Devil.”
She brought out this monstrous statement with what seemed to him a quite appalling air of innocence, looking him straight in the eye.
He said horrified, “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Of course I know what I’m saying,” his daughter replied impatiently. “I know all about the Devil. But it wasn’t me who knew he was the Devil first. It was Peregrine. He told me. He recognised him, you see, when we saw him taking her away.” The hectic colour rose in her cheeks. “And of course he must be right. He’s so good. He wouldn’t tell me a fib, would he?”
Charles stared at her. There was no question of this thing being some childish nightmare that she and Peregrine had dreamed up between them. In that event, she would have trembled, wept—certainly she would not have produced the lie in this bold, bright way. “Hilary,” said her school report, “has an unfortunate manner.” She could never look crestfallen or properly contrite. When she felt really guilty, she looked insolent. Now, this inability to express the correct emotion was her downfall. Although she was really very much afraid, she regarded her father with a hard, triumphant stare.
He felt a complete revulsion from her. She was trying to distract his attention from the main issue by a pack of blasphemous lies. He said, wrathfully, “Hilary, did you, or did you not, throw a stone at that poor old man?”
She gazed at him wonderingly. “Yes, I did. But I’ve told you why.”
Charles gave way to his righteous anger. His blue eyes grew hot with disgust, his lips trembled. To think that his child should have so little feeling for the weak and helpless! Heroically, he took some of the blame upon himself. His neglect of her must have been fearful to have led to this!
“That’s all I wanted to know,” he said in an ominous voice and, taking her arm, led her to a convenient tree stump at the side of the field. He sat down and, clasping her wrists, held her prisoner in front of him.
“Listen to me,” he said. “That man you read about in the newspaper is in prison. So you lied to me. That is quite bad enough. But you did something much, much worse. You threw a stone at a cripple, at a poor sick man who had never done you any harm. And then tried to make me forget about it by telling me a lot of wicked lies.” His voice shook with emotion. “Don’t you see that this was a dreadful thing to do?”
“But he is the man,” she cried, confused, “and he is the Devil.”
“That’s blasphemy. But I’m not going to punish you for that. Not for lying to me. I’m going to punish you for wanting to hurt someone who was poor and old and frightened.” He remembered Peregrine’s burnt lips and his resolve was strengthened. “I hope this will be a lesson to you will remember all your life.”
She saw his intention and her eyes dilated. “No,” she screamed, and tried to pull away from him.
He flung her, face downwards, across his lap. Fighting against him, arching her back, she saw, with terrible clarity, Cooper, standing a
t the gate and looking in their direction. With an anguished cry she clutched at her skirt. Charles did not notice Cooper. He was full of distaste for what he was about to do but he was sternly intent on justice and preventive punishment. Knowing that humiliation would make her remember the occasion more than any pain he would be willing to inflict, he deliberately raised her skirt and ripped off her knickers. He caught her flailing arms and gripped them between his knees. He beat her, with sharp, ringing slaps, until her plump behind was rosy. The sight of the red weals on her bare flesh roused in him a painful sympathy. Afraid that he might be diverted from his purpose by soft-heartedness, he continued to spank her with a heavier hand than he had intended. She hung, limp and screaming, across his knees. The birds, alarmed by her cries, rose from the trees and wheeled and called above them. When he had finished, he released her hands and pushed her off his lap. He rubbed his stinging hands against his trousers. She grovelled on the ground, choking, the saliva running out of her mouth. He was bitterly ashamed. Violence accomplished nothing and was always wrong. There was no excuse.
“Get up,” he said. “Put your knickers on.”
She obeyed him, fumbling with her underclothing. He averted his eyes. When she was tidy, he said wretchedly. “I’ve never done that before, have I? I hope you will never forget it. I hope I never have to do it again.”
“I hate you,” she said, between sobs, burning with shame and injustice. “I hope God will strike you dead.”
“Get in the car,” he said, and pointed to the gate. She turned and ran, yellow skirt blowing like a flower under the blue arc of the sky. She ran straight into Cooper, her head striking him hard in the softness of his ageing belly. He grunted and held her away from him, an amused grin on his face.
“Been a naughty girl, have you?” he said cheerily. “A bit big to have your bottom smacked, aren’t you?”
He was a horrible, hateful, vulgar man. Hilary longed to die: life, in face of this disaster, was insupportable. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
