by Alan Garner
The children stopped when they reached the first of the streets. Only three of the men had made any effort to catch them but they had given up and were now going back to join the foreman, who was waving his arms at the Irishman and Jack.
“I hope they’re all right,” said Roland. “But there wasn’t anything else to do, was there? I mean, we couldn’t tell them, could we?”
“If you’ve any sense,” said Nicholas, “you won’t tell anybody; ever; unless you want locking up.”
“Do you think they really will fetch the police?” said Helen.
“I doubt it,” said Nicholas. “Not now they’ve lost us. But let’s be moving – just in case.”
It was dark when the children reached Oldham Road, and rushing crowds filled the pavement.
“It’s lucky we want to go this way!” shouted Helen, and vanished behind a wedge of men all wearing bowler hats. She reappeared, the cup held at chin height to avoid being smashed.
David and Roland had less trouble with their laths and railing, apart from a few angry grunts from people who came too near. But Nicholas was struggling with his keystone, shifting it from one hip to the other, and he was grey about the mouth.
The pressure of the crowd eased as they came to the station forecourt.
“There’s a train in ten minutes,” said Helen.
The crowd split at the barriers. Nicholas wobbled on one leg, balancing the stone on his knee, while he felt in his pocket for the tickets.
“Here, David,” he said. “You take them.”
David handed the tickets to the ticket collector, who was so busy with his punch that he never looked up – until he noticed David.
“What’s all this here?” he said.
“They’re our tickets,” said David.
“Ay, happen they are. But you don’t think you’re fit to travel on a train in that state, do you?”
The children looked at themselves.
They were all coated with slime from the forest of Mondrum and on that were laid plaster, soot, and brick dust from the church.
“We’ll stand,” said David.
“You will not,” said the ticket collector.
“But we’ve paid.”
A restless queue was building up: people were muttering, stamping, looking at watches.
“Clear off,” said the ticket collector. “And take your junk with you. I don’t know how you’ve the cheek to try it on. There’s a copper by the book stall – must I give him a shout? Eh? I thought not. Go on. Off with you.”
The children slipped out of the queue and round the corner from the policeman.
“What do we do now?” said Helen.
“Move along to platform eleven,” said Roland. “We can cross on to our platform over the bridge at the far end.”
“But no one’ll let us through,” said Helen.
“No one’ll see us,” said Roland. “It’s the platform where parcel vans go, and there’s an entrance for them next to the barrier.”
“We’ll still be seen.”
“They’re too busy to be watching all that closely. Next time one of those trolleys comes along pulling mail bags walk beside it, and keep your heads down, and then once we’re through, nip over into the crowd.”
“There,” said Roland a few minutes later. “It was easy.”
“You’ve some nerve,” said Nicholas. “Where’s it come from all of a sudden?”
“You were pretty glad of it this afternoon,” said David. “Have you thought what’ll be said at home?”
“Gosh, no,” said Nicholas. “That’s serious, isn’t it? I tell you what: you and I’ll wash in one lavatory on the train, and Helen and Roland in the other. There are always two in the last coach.”
“OK. But we’ll only have about ten minutes.”
When the train arrived, the children jumped into the rear coach and locked themselves in the lavatories.
“There’s no plug for the wash basin,” said Helen.
“Screw up a paper towel and shove it in,” said Roland.
There was very little soap. Helen and Roland washed themselves frantically, using the towels to scrape away the mud. But although the paper was harsh to the skin, it had no strength. It rolled into shreds, covering everything with pellets of sogginess.
The electric train picked up speed, and the children were thrown about between the narrow walls. They collided with each other and the wash basin, which slopped water over them at every jolt. There was hardly room to share the mirror, and they were quickly knee-deep in wet paper towels.
In the ten minutes all they managed was to accentuate their wildness. The few patches of skin threw into contrast the mud and plaster.
The children inspected each other under the lamp at the bottom of the station approach. Their house was only fifty yards up the road.
“We’ve made things worse,” said David. “We need about six baths each.”
“Do you think we could all sneak into the bathroom without being nabbed?” said Roland.
“We’ll try,” said Nicholas. “But there’s going to be a row anyway. We can’t hide our clothes.”
“Let’s hope the key’s not been taken out of the shed yet,” said David.
A spare key to the house was always kept on a ledge above the door inside the coal shed. It was still there. The children crept round to the sitting-room window and listened.
“The TV’s on,” said David. “One of Dad’s Westerns.”
“Good: plenty of noise.”
“After me,” said Nicholas. “And I’ll murder anyone who coughs.”
He slid the key into the lock, and waited until there was the cover of gunfire before opening the door. A damp, carbolic air met them in the hall. Nicholas felt for the light switch and eased it on.
The hall floor and the stairs were carpeted with newspapers. All the furniture was gone, and the shade from the light.
Nicholas closed the door, and led the way. They were just on the stairs when they heard their mother call, “Is that you, Nick?”
“It was the switch!” said David. “It always makes the pictures jump.”
“Keep moving,” said Nicholas: then, louder, “Yes: we’re back!”
But it was hopeless. The sitting-room door opened, and there stood Mrs Watson, and behind her a thousand redskins bit the dust.
CHAPTER 8
THE DEEP END
N icholas ought to have had more sense at his age. What was he thinking of to let everyone get into this state? Didn’t he realise that all the clothes were packed? Their mother had quite enough to do without this. Couldn’t they be trusted to behave properly when they were out by themselves? And surely there were better ways of spending the time than acting like hooligans in the slums.
The television set was in a bare room among the packing cases. Its own cardboard box was waiting open next to it on the floor. The sound had been turned down at the beginning of the row, which was accompanied as a result by a silent counterpoint of gun battle and cavalry charge. And although the picture was badly distorted, even in the worst moments of the telling off everybody’s eyes kept sliding round to the screen.
“And what’s that rubbish?” said Mrs Watson.
“Some – things we found,” said Roland.
“And you brought them back? Good heavens, child, what will you do next? Take them outside at once: you don’t know where they’ve been.”
The children escaped to the bathroom while their mother unpacked the cases to find them a change of clothes.
Cleaning was a lot easier than it had been on the train, but the lime in the plaster set hard when they tried to wash their hair.
“Where’ve you put the Treasures?” said Helen.
“In the shed,” said Roland.
“How are we going to stow them in the furniture van tomorrow?”
“We’re not.”
“But we can’t leave them!”
“Of course not,” said Roland. “But the house is going to be empty for at l
east a month, so we’ll hide the Treasures here, and when we’ve found somewhere safe for them at the new house we’ll come back and collect them.”
“Where’ll we hide them, though?” said Helen.
“Through the hatch in our room,” said Nicholas.
“Yes,” said David. “No one’ll look there.”
In the wall of the boys’ attic there was a door about a foot square, leading into the space between the ceiling joists and the roof. It was too small for an adult to climb through without having a good reason.
“And when Mum’s cooled down, perhaps we can tell her about it: or at least ask her to let us keep the Treasures in the house,” said Roland. “They’ll be all right if we clean them up a bit.”
“I’ve not much hope of that,” said Nicholas. “You can’t blame Mum for going off at the deep end tonight, and she won’t forget it in a hurry. And what are you going to tell her? And who’s going to try? If we say, ‘Mum, we went into an old church and came out in a different place on the other side and these are really four valuable Treasures,’ what’ll happen? You know how hot she is on the truth.”
“But it is the truth,” said Roland.
“And would you believe it if it hadn’t happened to you?”
“Yes – if it was somebody I trusted,” said Roland.
“Well, perhaps you would,” said Nicholas. “But normal people wouldn’t.”
“Could we say they’re for something one of us is doing at school?” said Helen.
“But it wouldn’t be the truth.”
“Oh, Nick!”
“Have you ever tried lying to Mum?” said Nicholas.
“Then what can we do?”
“I don’t know,” said Nicholas. “We’ve got to manage it by ourselves. No one can help us.”
Among the confusion of the next morning it was easy for the children to hide the Treasures behind the bedroom wall. Roland squeezed through the hatch and laid them out of sight between two joists.
At last the tailboard of the furniture van was fastened, and the children went on ahead in the car with their parents.
The new house was only about six miles away. Mrs Watson spoke of it as a country cottage, which it may have been a hundred years earlier, but now it stood in a suburban road, and its front door, with the porch, opened on to the footpath.
It was a brick cottage with four rooms and a lean-to kitchen, but Mr Watson had had a bathroom and an extra bedroom built over the kitchen. The old black-leaded grates had been scrapped and replaced with yellow tiles, except for the one in the sitting room, which Mr Watson had made himself in rustic brick.
Mrs Watson had searched antique shops for horse brasses to hang on the walls, and she had also found three samplers, two coach lamps, and a framed map of the country, hand coloured, and dated 1622.
The cottage was convenient for the station, so that Mr Watson could travel to work in Manchester, yet being in an outer suburb there were fields half a mile away. It was a much smaller house than the one they were leaving, but Mrs Watson said that it was worth the sacrifice for the children to be able to grow up in the country.
The first thing Roland saw when the car turned into the road was the porch.
For an instant he felt that something would happen. The porch was out of place here now: it belonged to Elidor. His vision of it against the Mound had been so clear that the actual porch was a faded likeness by comparison. But suppose when they opened the door there was a passage beyond it, lit by a dead light…
“Here we are,” said Mr Watson. “Welcome home, everybody.”
There were newspapers on the floor, but the carbolic smell was going.
They set up base next to the kitchen – in the dining room, according to Mrs Watson, but the children called it the middle room. The stairs went up one wall, and under them was the larder.
The furniture was unloaded into the sitting room, which opened by way of the porch straight on to the footpath, without any hall.
By evening it was possible to eat off a table, to watch television, and to sleep.
The children went to bed early. The stairs came through the floor of the boys’ room, so they all sat in Helen’s, which, being newly built, had a well-fitting door.
“We’d better decide what we can do to keep the Treasures safe,” said Roland.
“Drop them in a lead box and bury them,” said Nicholas.
“We must be able to put our hands on them quickly,” said David, “in case Malebron wants them back at any time.”
“I don’t think he will,” said Nicholas. “We may as well face it at the start. You saw what came out of the forest, and what were climbing over the battlements. He didn’t stand a chance.”
“I thought that at first,” said Roland. “But I think there was one chance. Didn’t you notice something about Malebron right at the end? He wasn’t really frightened: he was more excited – as if the important thing was to send us through the door.”
“That’s just it,” said Helen. “He didn’t care what happened to him as long as the Treasures were safe.”
“I don’t know,” said Roland. “He said that it was Fear coming out of the Mound, and we were making all those things out of it with our imaginations. Well, he was right, because I’d seen some of them before.”
“You would have!” said Nicholas.
“That bird with arms,” said Roland, “and that thing with its face in the middle of its chest – they’re in those pictures in the art hall at my school. You know: where everybody’s being shovelled into Hell.”
“And did you see that tall thin thing covered in hair, with a long nose?” said Helen. “I can remember dreaming about it when I was little, after I’d been frightened by Mum’s fox fur.”
“What are you driving at?” said David. “Do you mean that those things were real only as long as we were there, or scared of them?”
“So once we’d left Elidor they’d all disappear?” said Helen.
“I think so,” said Roland.
“I hope so,” said Nicholas. “But we’ll probably never know.”
“What are we going to do about the Treasures?” said David. “Should we make a special place for them which we can keep a secret?”
“Better not,” said Roland. “If we don’t have them with us we can’t be sure they’re safe.”
“It’d be easier to talk Mum round if we had the real sword to show her,” said David, “and not two bits of stick.”
“But haven’t you noticed?” said Roland. “The Treasures still feel their own shapes when you hold them. They only look like scrap.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about that,” said Nicholas. “Yours may feel different, but a stone’s just a stone when you’re humping it around.”
CHAPTER 9
STAT
R oland decided to fetch the Treasures at the end of the first week in the cottage. Every Friday he brought his games clothes home from school in a rucksack, and there would be plenty of room for the cup and the stone, while he could manage the other Treasures easily.
It was left to Roland because he was the only one to go to school by train. He would get off at the station for the old house, collect the Treasures, and catch the next train home.
It felt strange to walk down from the platform with the usual travellers – other schoolchildren, and businessmen old and rich enough to leave their offices at half past three – to walk down the steps, and then to see not the hall light shining through the stained glass of the front door, but a ‘For Sale’ board behind the hedge, and the windows blank.
When Roland unlatched the gate he realised how much of his life had not moved with him to the cottage. The unique sounds of a house: the noise of that gate, of his feet on that path. Wherever he went he would never take those with him. And yet already there was something different about the house, even after a week. Roland felt it as a kind of awkwardness, almost uneasiness, in his being there, and as he reached the door this suddenly became so
strong that the hair on the back of his neck tingled, and his palms were cramped with pins and needles.
It was a sensation so close to fear, and yet Roland was not afraid – then the door opened in front of him as he put the key in the lock.
There was a man standing in the shadowy hall.
“What are you on, son?” said the man in a hard, flat, Manchester voice.
“Noth – nothing,” said Roland.
The man was wearing overalls and carried some electrical equipment. Once Roland saw this he was reassured.
“I used to live here. We moved last week, and I’ve come back to pick up a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, just some bits and pieces.”
“You’re not one of these here radio enthusiasts, by any chance?” said the man. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, you know. You could do yourself a mischief.”
“Oh, no,” said Roland. “My brother’s keen, and I’ve another brother with a transistor set, but I’m no good at that sort of thing.”
“Ay,” said the man. “There’s summat peculiar going on here: there is that.”
“What do you mean?” said Roland.
“Well,” said the man, “all this week we’ve had nowt but complaints at the post office from the streets round here about radio and TV interference, and a lot more besides – a proper deluge. So me and me mate comes out in our detector van this afternoon, and there’s no two chances about the signal we’re getting from this house. There’s summat here jamming every frequency we’ve got and a few more on top, I’d reckon.”
“But the electricity’s switched off at the meter,” said Roland.
“I know it is,” said the engineer. “I had to go to the house agent’s for a key, and I’ve checked mains and wiring. No, it’s summat like a generator going full belt – and then some.”
“Can’t you tell which room it’s in?” said Roland.
“Not a chance. It’s too strong. Every needle’s peaking high enough to kench itself as soon as we switch it on. We’ll have to come in the morning and try again. It may just be a freak, though I doubt it.”
He looked back up the stairs.
