by Penny Grubb
‘I worry about her, Annie. No mother. Just that old woman to look after her. It isn’t right. A young girl of her age should mix with youngsters. You should speak to her.’
‘Me? I don’t know her. It’s only once in a blue moon I see her.’
‘Well, do try, dear. She needs someone to talk to.’
‘OK, I’ll keep a special look out.’ Annie felt in no position to deny any favour Aunt Marian asked. ‘But if you’re really worried, you should get in touch with Social Services.’
‘Now you know full well they wouldn’t help. And I don’t think she’s neglected in that sense.’
Annie had only vague second-hand memories of the time three of the Doll-Makers’ children were taken into care. It had happened before she was born, but she’d heard the tale. The old man, father of the three, had made mincemeat of the authorities for their heavy-handedness in denying their right to an alternative lifestyle. For a recluse who shunned publicity, he’d waged such an effective campaign that he’d not only got his children back, but had blighted the career of a local politician. The old man died when Annie was young enough that he marked her awareness only as legend. He’d probably been grandfather to the girl who now scuttled wraith-like through the streets.
‘What happened to the girl’s mother?’
‘I’m not sure, dear. She upped and left when Beth was just a bairn. It’s a shame. She wasn’t a bad lass, Ellie. Very intense, you know. Very religious. It looked as though she and her brothers might have grown up normal. They mixed in a bit after the old man died. Ellie took up with one of the tourists. He left her though, probably didn’t even know she was having a baby. It’s such a shame it didn’t last: she was a beautiful girl, and having a normal family might have been just the thing for her.’
‘Beth? Is that what she’s called?’ Annie was amazed, partly at her aunt’s knowing the Doll Makers well enough to know their names, and partly that she hadn’t found out till now. She’d grown up with the Doll Makers as background noise, never thought to wonder about them as people. Conversations years ago had been on a different tack altogether. Her aunt telling her that it was no sin to be different, that it was a sin to persecute people who chose a different way of life and that she must not join naughty girls like Margot who liked to go up there to make fun of them.
So the young girl she’d promised to look out for was called Beth, and her mother had been Ellie. Ellie and Beth. A combination of names from a different age, a different dimension.
The rain began to splatter down as they arrived back at Mrs Watson’s. ‘Just made it, dear. You’ll have a nice cup of tea before you go?’
Charlotte joined them and coped well, Annie thought, with the interrogation from Aunt Marian about the disreputable young man.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘I think it must have been a mistake.’
Annie admired the ease with which the lie came to Charlotte’s lips. If she hadn’t overheard the call, she’d have been fooled herself, despite the uncharacteristic glow on Charlotte’s cheeks and the cat-with-the-cream look that played in her eyes.
It was mid-afternoon when Annie pushed herself up from her chair and announced that she must be on her way. The rain outside shimmered down in waves. She said her goodbyes, promised Aunt Marian she’d ring, wished Charlotte well and pulled her hood over her head.
As she strode from the guesthouse, her feet splashed down on the pavement and the rain soaked through the guaranteed shower-proofing of her jacket. She turned to give a vigorous wave towards Mrs Watson’s, where her aunt and Charlotte watched from the big bay window, then turned to jog to the side street where she’d hidden the Nissan. Somewhere nearby, a car engine sprang to life. She glanced at a big silver beast parked opposite, and experienced a pang of envy at the smooth purr, barely perceptible over the drumming of the rain.
The sleek BMW Aunt Marian shelled out thousands for had been sold to keep the scavengers from Annie’s throat a couple of months ago. It had been a choice between the car and the flat. She’d seriously considered keeping the car and living in the lock-up she rented. But the car would convert to ready cash, the lease on the flat wasn’t so easy to cast off.
The door of the old Nissan opened with a metallic screech, and she slid in behind the wheel, relieved to be out of the downpour. It wasn’t cold, just wet, but she began to shiver as the damp seeped through to her skin. Glistening sheets of water pounded on the tarmac, and hammered on the roof of the car. That silver dream machine with the softly purring engine had moved along, and was now opposite the bottom of the side street. Or it might be a different vehicle. Maybe the if-only itch inside her head made her focus on symbols of what she’d lost.
It was good to know that Charlotte and her mini-mystery would keep Aunt Marian amused. Less fun for Charlotte of course, though the clandestine caller might return and whisk her off. Why hadn’t Pieternel rung?
Leaving the loch behind, she turned the car for the climb into the hills and headed for the smokehouse.
Chapter 6
‘How nice to see you, Annie. It must be a year since we saw you last. Nay, it’s no trouble. It isn’t late at all … We wouldn’t let your father down. We know how he likes his salmon.’
‘Thanks. That’s great. Only, it’s a long drive and–’
‘–and I want you to take this, Annie. It’s a new line. He’ll love it. Now, how about a nice cup of hot tea?’
‘Well, I …’
‘With a dash of something to warm you? You’re shivering, Annie. You must stay long enough to dry out.’
‘Uh … well, OK, but I mustn’t be too long. Thanks.’
The tea was welcome as was the sharp tang that warmed her beyond the heat of the liquid. As soon as she was seated with the cup in her hand, the interrogation began.
‘Now, about this terrible business. A body in the loch. Tell us everything, Annie. You were there, weren’t you? Is it true the rest of it was eaten? Some sort of animal …?’
‘It was a leg … part of a leg. I really don’t know anything. I haven’t heard about any animal.’
‘Gives you the shivers, doesn’t it?’
It was late when she left but the main road still had an air of summer-season bustle in the cars that thundered by. Another sleek, silver motor was parked down the lane from the smokehouse. The damned things haunted her. Maybe one day she’d climb back out of this pit, the way she’d climbed out of that other one all those years ago. Except now Aunt Marian was tangled up in it. If she went over the edge this time, there was nothing she could do that would be in time for her aunt.
She was tired. Too tired to go the long way round. She’d risk the pass, the road that cut a steep path over the high summit. Not a route for tourists in bad weather, but Annie knew these hills, and she wanted to be home.
The road was flat for its first mile as it skirted fields, but even here it was barely wider than a farm track. As she turned into the first hairpin to begin the climb, Annie saw a flash of headlights across the plain behind her. Two vehicles attempting this pass on such a bad night amounted to heavy traffic. A glance in her mirror showed the flickering of lights through the trees as the other car traversed the flat stretch by the fields.
She was well into the climb when the temperature gauge swung into the red. She gave a grunt of exasperation. No choice but to stop and let it cool. There was space under the trees to squeeze the car off the road. Water dripped in heavy globules, splatting down as the leaves they’d gathered on could hold them no longer. It seemed drier than the constant downpour of the unsheltered road.
All this water. Surely she could capture some for herself. She pulled her showerproof over her head, struggled out and took an empty whisky bottle from the boot.
A tree root gave her a handhold as she tipped the bottle into the path of a trickle of water making its way down the slope. Small stones rattled down into the glass. Water and mud seeped through her trouser legs as she braced herself, watching the downpour becom
e a meagre trickle when it found the neck of her bottle. Her mind wandered back to Aunt Marian’s. Where would Charlotte be now? Down the pub? At the Scrabble board? Out with her scruffy suitor? Where was the Doll-Makers’ girl? Beth, as she must learn to think of her. It was odd to look face-on at the scene she’d taken for granted all her adult life. Beth must be twelve … thirteen by now. Annie envisaged a primitive existence for her, but in all likelihood, she was far more comfortable at this moment than Annie, now mud-soaked as well as wet. The bottle filled and overflowed. Annie scrambled to her feet.
She heaved up the bonnet in a shower of rust and twisted the radiator cap. She held the bottle at arm’s length in case the water should fountain out again as steam, trying to be quick without pouring gunge into the system, because all the time the bonnet was up, the rain swept in and threatened the electrics.
A thought struck. Where was the car she’d seen starting the climb behind her? She squinted through the worsening light. Had it driven past without her noticing? No, it couldn’t have.
She slammed down the bonnet with a clang that reverberated round the small clearing. Maybe the other car had turned and gone back. A tourist taken a wrong turn. That was the most likely explanation, though its lights hadn’t caught her eye as it travelled back across the flat plain.
If it hadn’t gone back and hadn’t gone past, it must have stopped at the first hairpin. A small shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather. She peered through the trees. The lights of any car parked down there should show, but there was nothing.
The engine turned without trying to fire. She tried again. This time it coughed and rattled into action, but, as she pumped her foot on the accelerator pedal, the asthmatic engine laboured and died.
As the engine fell silent, she heard something that wasn’t the downpour. A low hum, just audible through the drumming rain. An overactive imagination might interpret it as a vehicle creeping up the hill. She twisted round in her seat and stared hard. Nothing. Only a madman would drive up this road without lights. She tried to force herself to laugh.
The hill was steep. In reverse gear, she rolled the car backwards and slipped the clutch with too much force for the engine to resist. Stamping down on the pedal, she made it drag petrol through until the coughing settled to a steady rhythm, then she rammed it into first and it began to hiccup forwards once more.
‘You’ve got water, blasted metal rust-bucket, what more do you want?’
Proper servicing, the engine spat back, but it dried itself of the rain that had crept in, stopped coughing and settled to a steady growl.
Annie let out the breath she’d been holding. It was vital to nurse the engine to the summit, but she couldn’t hold back a rising panic that made her floor the accelerator. The small car roared towards the next hairpin, its revs laboured, starting to protest.
Annie’s hands clamped round the wheel. The protesting engine drowned out everything as she swung the car back and forth round the narrow turns. The climb steepened. It was hard enough seeing ahead through the rain and mist to take any notice of an occasional flash of light from the rear-view mirror. Every nerve strained towards one goal. The summit. If she could get across to the downward incline, she could coast it home.
The car screamed as though it would explode. Twenty metres more and she’d be off the killer slope. Ten … Five…
She slewed the wheel, squinting through the fogged windscreen, knowing the road cut to the left, the outward curve wearing its only crash barrier.
A sudden glare of headlights blinded her.
Her gasp was involuntary. She scrabbled with the wheel, throwing a hand up instinctively to shield her eyes.
Her wrist hit painfully on the mirror. At once, the light vanished.
The road ahead was empty. Dark. It cut away from her round the rock face. She struggled to keep control. The sounds of an engine revving hard didn’t match what her feet were doing. The car scraped and juddered as it grated against the barrier. She fought to hold it to the road.
A view flashed across her peripheral vision. The bold stripe of the barrier and then … nothing … a dense grey mist … no sign of the patchwork landscape far below.
Her teeth clenched tight. She tasted blood as she accelerated out of the corner. The car rocked and steadied on to a short straight. Now she was off the killer climb. Just the gentle undulations across the top of the pass between her and the safety of the downward slope. But no more barriers.
The gale hit as she stamped the pedal down again, bouncing along the thin tarmac strip that snaked across the summit. Out of the trees’ cover, the storm smacked the car hard as though the wind would pick it up and hurl it over the edge.
She threw it at the bends in the road, relying as much on memory as what she could see. Bright beams of light exploded in her wing mirrors and lit the interior of the car like bursts of flash photography. She knew this road. Concentration was total on the twists and turns.
Ahead, the road vanished, fell away into a void.
A tightening curve that dropped the road off the summit. No barrier here.
It rushed up too fast. With a gasp, she wrenched her foot across to hit the brake.
A blinding flash lit the interior of the car. She couldn’t see. No time to think.
Her foot pushed hard on the accelerator. One hand wrenched the wheel, the other grasped the handbrake. The car skidded sideways round the outcropping of rock. Inches from the sliding wheels, a near-sheer drop to the bottom of the glen.
She slammed the handbrake back down, hearing herself whimper as though listening to a phantom passenger.
Something rational deep inside watched in horror as she hurled the small car at the oncoming brow and swung the wheel. The road dropped away in front of her. Now she could get maximum speed without forcing the car to its limits. The engine stopped screaming.
Safe now. Her panic faded. What in hell …? Adolescent Annie in her wildest days had never hand-braked that turn.
As the car flew back down into the cover of the trees, Annie straightened the mirror and glanced into it. All she could see was the short stretch back to the last hairpin, a grey and waterlogged view. She became aware of the pounding of her heart, and that she was panting as though she’d just done one of the killer staircases from the deep tube lines.
She was as high as the storm clouds. It was adrenalin … couldn’t be anything else.
Still geed-up, she raced through the village far too fast and jerked to a stop outside her father’s house. The relief flooded through her. What in hell had got into her? And over that road of all places. Had she seen one single thing to justify pushing herself to the edge like that? OK, so a car had driven up behind and its lights had blinded her. She hadn’t been concentrating. It had taken her unawares, that was all. She’d seen a few flashes of light. In the middle of a storm, for God’s sake! She had her secrets, but nothing anyone would run her off the road for. This whole business was getting to her in ways she’d never dreamt of. And what really scared her was the sudden high she’d experienced, a chilling reminder of how good it could feel.
There was a rap at the window and she jumped round.
‘You all right in there, Annie?’
‘What?’ She wound down the window and looked up into a lined and mournful face dripping with water, huddled in a scarf and narrow-brimmed hat.
‘Uh … yeah …’ She told her mouth to do its impersonation of a smile, as she opened the door. ‘Thanks, Mr Caine. Yes, I’m fine.’
Chapter 7
Early the next morning, Annie watched from an upstairs window as a small figure scuttled down the hill, head bowed, arms clasped around a fat basket. It was Beth heading towards Mr Caine’s shop.
Mindful of her promise to Aunt Marian, she slipped out and followed. It was too early for anyone to be about, and a long walk for the girl just to bring a basketful of dolls. She was such an accepted part of the landscape that Annie had never questioned her activities bef
ore. She waited at the slope to the moorland track for the girl’s return.
‘Hi Beth.’ She tried for a tone of mild surprise at an unexpected meeting; no threat.
The young girl stopped and stared, her mouth falling open in surprise. After a moment when Annie thought she might carry on without speaking, she said, ‘Hello, Annie Raymond.’
All these years, this girl had known her name and yet she’d only just learnt to say Beth. The small but solid form was topped by the ragged edges of badly cut hair peeping from under a hat pulled down tight.
‘How are you?’ asked Annie.
Beth’s face remained blank but her body language showed a desire to move away. She seemed in agonies in case they were seen. Annie struggled to remember what she’d learnt from years ago. Was segregation a part of whatever rules they followed?
Beth gave her a sideways glance, as though sharing a secret. ‘Annie Raymond. Special Branch,’ she said. There was awareness behind the deep blue of Beth’s eyes, and yet something was missing. Maybe Beth, with her strange way of living, hadn’t seen enough of life, or maybe that hint of inadequacy hid something fundamentally wrong and explained why she’d been kept away from people. Whatever it was, Annie knew the girl echoed Aunt Marian’s words without understanding them. But why? What was she trying to say?
‘If you want to talk … you can talk to me. I won’t tell anyone.’
Beth shook her head sadly, as though disappointed Annie hadn’t understood her.
Annie felt her jaw muscles ache from holding her smile. What now?
A crash in the undergrowth made her spin on her heel. A small deer broke cover and bounded up the hill. Annie watched until it blended with the scrub and disappeared. When she turned back, Beth was gone.
Back home, the smell of burning took her to the kitchen where her father was fiddling with the toaster, trying to pry free a slice of toast that had cooked itself to the element.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ she said. ‘No Mrs L today?’
