“When does the bulk come, Mister?”
“Later this morning—we’re going to be busy.”
“The best of bloody luck to you, then.”
And the lorry lurched away on the track, sending the waving and torn grasses to whispering vicious conclave amongst themselves. Their stems cracked savagely, and knife-sharp they sang thinly in the gathering breeze.
“Mummy—there’s Elephants!”
She read on, her tea cold at her side. Ten minutes peace and escape on that grey Monday were not to be sacrificed easily. Nothing would tear her from the romance of the magazine; her world was coloured and alive; the clothes flapped and clamoured on the line outside in vain.
“Mummy—there’s Elephants—and Rhinos—and—and Porcupines.”
Bright colours in her life, rich and tender—all painted for her. Nothing for her to do but read, and little to imagine. The warmth of it cossetted her, and it was only when the door opened to admit the child that she shivered and looked up irritably, the spell broken.
“Come in—and shut the door. Can’t you see this is the only peace I get?”
“But Mummy, Mummy!” The child spluttered and stammered with excitement. “There’s Buffalo—and Lions—and Tigers—Come and look—oh Mummy, come and look!” The child stood at the door imploring Sheila, whilst the wind nosed the room with its wet-breathed curiosity.
“Will you come in and close that damned door, Sally. I’ll catch my death sitting here. What is all this nonsense?”
But Sally stood, and the wind, damp-eyed, continued to search the room for a warm corner to nestle in.
“Mummy—” she spoke slowly and clearly to this uncomprehending adult—“Mummy, there are animals coming up the road—animals and animals and animals. Giraffes—and Monkeys—and Wolves and Ch—do come, do come and look!”
“But it’s only a circus, Sally, you’ve seen a circus procession before.”
“But this is different, Mummy,” she pouted.
“And why is it so different?” demanded Sheila tolerantly.
“Because they’re in twos, Mummy—twos and twos and twos—all down the road as far as you could see—two of every kind of thing—every, every kind of animal I could ever think of—And there’s no one, not one single person with them—they’re all looking straight ahead—all their eyes are looking straight at Tabernacle Hill. And, oh Mummy—I was ever so happy—but now I’m frightened, ever so frightened. They were so stary and scary—and there was no one with them. All going up Tabernacle Hill.”
The child was in her arms, cold and frightened, her shoulders shaking. Sheila gripped her fiercely and firmly. The child began to sob.
“All stary and scary, Mummy,” she cried, and the breeze trickled through the room. They both shivered as the sun came out—but it was not even fleetingly warm now. There was a damp coldness to it—it looked like an orange sponge, lopsided and sad.
“And the sun, Mummy—the sun looks as if it’s going to cry.”
The empty boxes and cases on Tabernacle Hill had been piled high in a heap, and one part of the hillside had been cleared and beaten flat. The lorries had gone—the only evidence of their presence being the deep ruts and tyre marks—so had the check points, the officials, the solitary policeman and the loaded trestle tables on the hilltop. The pitch on the sides was complete and the entire three storeys had been similarly treated. The double wooden doors were open, and dwarfed by them a solitary figure stood watching the weeping sun that overshadowed the grey curve of Tabernacle Hill.
Sheila and Sally stood and watched the animals walk silently by, their eyes fixed directly ahead, not for one moment distracted by the occasional car that pulled quietly in to the side of the road at the sight of them. They merely manoeuvred themselves, two by two, so that they could effectively bypass them. Silently they followed the procession, walking fearfully on the pavements beside them as they turned with sedate dignity but intense concentration into the High Street that ran below Tabernacle Hill. More cars drew in and the animals quietly skirted them. A policeman waved the traffic forward on one side and the animals on the other. The two streams passed each other with little apparent interest; the drivers in the cars scanned the procession without any noticeable emotion and the policeman’s face was impassive. The sky was leaden now, but the sun was still there—a sad limp orange mass that seemed to be running at the edges.
“Mummy—Mummy, look at the poor sun.”
Sheila looked at the pulp above her, immersed in the grey cloud folds.
“It’s like a beach ball—but with a puncture,” said Sally.
“I think we ought to go home,” Sheila replied.
“But ask the policeman—ask the policeman about the animals, Mummy—please, Mummy.”
Sheila asked.
“It’s going to rain,” said the policeman.
“But these animals, officer—it’s a circus of course—but where are they going—and who’s attending to them? After all, they’re wild animals, you know—”
“It’s going to rain,” said the policeman. And the sad orange crumpled amongst its draperies in the sky, resting on them like a dying anemone.
The shoppers and the tradesmen, bus drivers and a roadsweeper—all eyed the animals dispassionately and without interest. They watched them quietly; then satisfied that they were going in the right direction went about their own business.
“These animals,” said Sheila to a passing woman, “where are they going?”
“To Tabernacle Hill of course, love.”
“But why?” she asked urgently.
“Because it’s going to rain of course.”
“Oh—I see—of course.”
“Well, why else would they go all the way up there?”
“Oh,” said Sheila, embarrassed, “no other reason of course.”
The woman smiled and walked on.
“Come on, darling, I think it’s time we went home. I must look a sight—you dragged me out in my apron and slippers—and it’s not as if I’ve got nothing to do in the house—it’ll take me another two hours to get round.”
They walked down the road past the animals, who two by two were still stretched in an endless line.
“Just look at that! There’s something for you,” said Sheila, as they passed two lizards who scuttled by, their eyes looking intently forward towards Tabernacle Hill.
Sally skipped beside her singing:
“Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling after.”
Soon she said:
“Look, Mummy, the sun really is crying now.”
And quite suddenly it began to rain.
A Note on the Author
Anthony Masters was renowned as an adult novelist, short story writer and biographer, but was best known for his fiction for young people.
Many of his novels carry deep insights into social problems, which he experienced over four decades by helping the socially excluded. He ran soup kitchens for drug addicts and campaigned for the civic rights of gypsies and other ethnic minorities. Masters is also known for his eclectic range of non-fiction titles, ranging from the biographies of such diverse personalities as the British secret service chief immortalized by Ian Fleming in his James Bond books (The Man Who Was M: the Life of Maxwell Knight).
His children's fiction included teenage novels and the ground breaking Weird World series of young adult horror, published by Bloomsbury. He also worked with children both in schools and at art festivals. Anthony Masters died in 2003.
Discover books by Anthony Masters published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnthonyMasters
A Pocketful of Rye
Confessional
Finding Joe
Ghost Blades
Hidden Gods
Murder Is a Long Time Coming
The Men
The Seahorse
Children and Young Adult Books
Cries of Terror
Dead Man at the Door
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark
Nightmare in New York
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1964 by Secker & Warburg
Copyright © 1964 Anthony Masters
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448211555
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