Long Lankin

by Lindsey Barraclough

  Dennis walked off quietly.

  Auntie Ida went in through the front door without so much as a look at us, and Mrs. Jotman rolled her eyes sideways in the direction of the back garden, so off we went and sat quietly and played Five Stones on the ground, straining our ears as if they were on stalks to hear what was being said in the house.

  Mimi ran off with Dennis and Terry to play a noisy game of commandos. All we could hear was the kettle whistling and the teacups rattling. With a bit of luck Mrs. Eastfield would eat one of Dennis’s cakes and be poisoned. After a while Mum came out, looking serious. She leaned over and gently rubbed Cora’s arm.

  “Mrs. Eastfield’s come to take you back for dinner, love,” she said. “Mimi! You’ll have to stop the game now! Your Auntie Ida’s said you can come back and play with the boys tomorrow!”

  Mimi got up off the ground and came running up, absolutely filthy with grass stains all over her nice frock.

  “Bit longer? Bit longer?” she asked, wringing her little hands together under her chin.

  “Sorry, dear,” said Mum. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Eastfield came out of the house, and immediately we shot up. Without looking at her, Cora took Mimi’s hand and led her round the side of the house to the front. Mrs. Eastfield followed them.

  “See you tomorrow!” I shouted after them. “Oh”— I looked at Mum —“is that all right? Are we allowed to play?”

  “Yes, yes, you can,” Mum said. “Cora will bring Mimi here first, to play with Dennis and Terry, and you must make me an absolute solemn vow —” She held up her fingers in the Boy Scout salute.

  “That we won’t go down to the church?”

  “There are plenty of other places you can play. Do you promise me?”

  I did the Boy Scout salute, too, and pretended to cut my throat and get hanged as well.

  “It’s really important, Roger. It really worries me that you’ve been down there with Peter when I’m always telling you not to. Me and your uncle Bill never disobeyed Granny and Grandpa like you’ve done. We never went there. None of the children did. It’s really naughty of you.”

  “But people go for masses, don’t they?”

  “They call them services, Roger, in the Church of England. Father Mansell does one a month there, to keep it open, but I don’t know if anyone goes down except Mrs. Mansell, of course, and possibly Mr. Hibbert, and probably Mrs. Campbell as well. It’s a bit of a trek for the old people up here, to be honest. Everyone else goes to Saint Mary’s at North Fairing. Come on, let’s go and have some tea.”

  We all walked up the steps into the kitchen. I opened a tin of Spam, and Pete got the bread and the butter.

  A loud thumping noise woke me, so early it was barely light. I didn’t dare make a sound. Something heavy was being dragged along the floor outside our bedroom, then down the passage to the other side of the house. After a while, I heard Auntie’s slippered footsteps coming back, then she went downstairs.

  The bed was dry for a change. I lay there for a while but could find no comfort in the weight of the heavy blankets pressing down on my sore body. I got out of bed and inspected the huge purple bruise that had spread across the top of my leg.

  Walking lopsidedly, I turned into the little passage to the bathroom and was shocked to see a big blank space over the door. A stepladder leaned against the wall. Old Peter had gone.

  In that dark place, I had never been able to make him out well, to see if he really was the man Mimi and I had glimpsed standing by the gate. If Auntie had put him somewhere else in the house, maybe I could find him and look at him more closely. What about the man’s twisted skin? I was almost certain that Old Peter in the picture didn’t have twisted skin.

  Mum had told Pete and me to get everyone some shredded wheat while she fed Pamela. Pete did the milk but slopped it all over the place, and Terry had almost emptied the whole sugar bowl over his breakfast before I stopped him. Dennis was brewing up for trouble again because there was only one shredded wheat left by the time I got to him. I fished out one of mine and stuck it in his bowl, but he started jumping up and down, yelling that it was soggy.

  Then the girls arrived.

  “Sorry, there’s none left,” I said to Cora. “The bread’s all gone, and that’s the last of the shredded wheat now.”

  “It’s all right. We’ve had boiled eggs.”

  “Why can’t I have a boiled egg?” cried Dennis.

  “Because you’ve got shredded wheat, you nit!” shouted Pete.

  Dennis’s face bulged red with temper. He stamped both feet hard on the lino and flailed his arms as he tried to reach Pete, who stuck bits of shredded wheat on the back of his spoon and flicked them at him while dancing around on the floor. Dennis climbed up on the table and trod in Terry’s breakfast, spilling milk and sugar everywhere. Terry stood up and wailed.

  Mum came in with Pamela, who started shrieking at the noise.

  “What’s going on here?” she yelled. “Who’s hit Terry?”

  Before we were able to go out to play, Roger and I went to do some shopping for his mum at Mrs. Aylott’s.

  “Hello, love,” she said to Roger. “Mum all right?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Aylott. Oh, this is my friend Cora.”

  “Nice to meet you, dear.”

  “Same to you,” I said.

  Roger put the list down on the counter, and as Mrs. Aylott went around the shop getting the things, she kept looking over at me out of the corner of her eye. I pulled my sleeve down over my arm but not before she’d spotted the bruises.

  Just as another lady came into the shop, Mrs. Aylott asked, “So where are you from, then, dear? London, by the sound of you.”

  “Yeah. Me and me sister are stopping at Mrs. Eastfield’s — just for a bit.”

  She and the other lady glanced at each other, and Mrs. Aylott made a clicking noise with her tongue.

  She added up the bill. “That’ll be three and fourpence, Roger,” she said, “and take a sweet from the tin — and you, dear.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Aylott.”

  We stood outside the shop. It was getting hot.

  “Auntie Ida’s took that picture down I told you about — you know, Old Peter — remember? I’m going to find it. I’m going to look at it properly in the light — see if it’s the man down the church.” Roger didn’t look at me as he unwrapped his toffee. “You never believed me, did you? You thought I was fibbing — and Mimi an’ all.”

  He gazed across to Mrs. Wickerby’s. “I don’t think you’re pretending, but”— he popped the toffee in his mouth —“I’m just not sure.” Chewing, he stared at the post office. “You see, one day last summer — no, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You can’t not tell me now.”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “No, I won’t. Promise. You know I won’t.”

  “Well, we — Pete and me were playing down there — you know, down the church. We were playing hide-and-seek, and it was my turn to look for Pete and — and, well, I thought he’d come out of his hiding place and spoiled it. I was just going to shout something rude when — when I realized it wasn’t him. It was —”

  “What was it? Come on, Roger —”

  “It was another little boy, much smaller than Pete, standing by himself in the shadows. I looked around to see if his mum or someone was there. Then when I turned back, he’d gone.”

  We started to walk back up Fieldpath Road.

  “Don’t say anything to Pete, will you, Cora?” Roger added. “To tell the truth, it gave me the pips. He looked — um — well, scary.”

  “How on earth can a kid be scary?”

  “I’m telling you, this one was. I didn’t see his face, but the skin was peeling off his hands, and he had wispy grey hair, like an old man’s.”

  We took the shopping into the kitchen. Mimi was helping Mrs. Jotman feed rose-hip syrup to Baby Pamela with a teaspoon. As we left the house, Pete came tearing down the veranda steps aft
er us.

  “Shall we do Patches or woods?” he asked Roger as we strolled back down Fieldpath Road.

  “Let’s do woods. I ain’t never ever been in woods,” I said. “What’s Patches?”

  “It’s just where some people live,” said Roger. “People from London.”

  “We’ve got some camps down there, but they’re not as good as the ones in the woods,” said Pete.

  “Not sure I’m that bothered, then.”

  “If we did woods, we could show Cora the bomoles,” said Pete.

  We turned left into Ottery Lane, then took a track off to the right.

  “This is the cinder path,” said Roger, “where we made our igloo in the snow last year. Tooboy helped, but it was so small we could only get two in at a time. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to light a fire inside an igloo so the ice melts and seals up all the cracks, but we didn’t have enough room for a fire, so Pete and me took a candle in, but when we lit it, we were so squashed it singed his balaclava.”

  “And me eyebrows went frizzy,” said Pete. “Then this man off the Lokswood Herald was going to take a picture with us standing in front of our igloo. He called at our house with his camera and we were all excited and brought him down, but when we got here, someone had kicked it in.”

  “I think it was most probably Figsy, or Tooboy’s friend Malcolm,” said Roger. “But Mum and Dad tried to make up for us not being in the paper, so that night when we were in bed, they crept out and made a great big snow-woman in the garden.”

  “She had big bosoms sticking out,” said Pete, showing me what they looked like, “and she was sitting down with her legs straight out and we called her Marilyn Monroe.”

  “And do you know,” said Roger, “there was a little heap of Marilyn Monroe in the garden right up till April.”

  Ahead of us was a wall of trees. At the edge of the woods, the cinder path became a narrow track that wound its way around the trunks. I looked up as we walked along to see little sparkles of sunlight gleaming every now and then through the whispering leaves above us.

  The bomoles were three miserable bomb craters from the war.

  All around us at home in London, there were places that had hardly been cleared up since the bombing, even at the end of our street. Dad said the government didn’t have any money to do anything. They’d started building new flats, but it was going to take ages. Some people had lived in prefabs for years. My friends and I played in ruins all the time and found all sorts of stuff in the rubbish — sometimes a few coppers to buy sweets with.

  To be frank, these bomoles in the woods weren’t up to much — just holes in the ground with wet mushy leaves in the middle. I didn’t say anything.

  There was a huge rope-swing, though, made by this big boy, Figsy. It was so high you had to climb the giant tree it was hanging from, lean over the fork made by two thick branches and have the swing handed up to you. You sat on the plank of wood with your legs on either side of the rope, then jumped off the tree and swung backwards and forwards. I could wrap my legs right around the plank, then lean back and dangle my head and arms upside down as I went, leaving my stomach behind on the tree.

  Roger and Pete showed me some of their camps. The best one was in a tall tree that had a platform of branches halfway up. Roger and Tooboy, Figsy’s brother, had found an old black car door on the cinder path, and they’d dragged it up the tree and wedged it across the branches so you could sit on it, although it did slope down a bit. Pete slid sideways and flattened our bag of jam sandwiches. They ended up squashed thin, but we ate them anyway, sitting on the door, looking out over the tops of the trees and across the yellow cornfield beyond. Roger pointed out the faraway tower of North Fairing church.

  When we got back to Roger’s, Mimi had fallen in the pond and was wearing a pair of Terry’s shorts. Mrs. Jotman told me to say sorry about it to Auntie Ida. She’d washed her frock, and it would be dry for tomorrow.

  “You’d better hurry back,” she added. “It feels really close, and look at those big dark clouds. You don’t want to get caught in a thunderstorm.”

  Mimi wanted me to carry her all the way down Old Glebe Lane to Auntie Ida’s, but I told her if she didn’t walk, I’d leave her behind. I couldn’t have lifted her if I’d wanted to. Everything ached, and now my shoulders were throbbing, too, from hanging off the rope-swing.

  As we got to the top of the hill, the light was changing. The sky on the horizon became an eerie yellow-green, and above us, thick navy-blue clouds like monstrous cauliflowers rolled and gathered. A chilly breeze came whipping up from the marshes.

  We heard the first rumble of distant thunder. I noticed Mimi shiver as I held her hand.

  “Where’s Mum?” she said.

  It was the first time Mimi had said anything at all about her.

  “I don’t know. Nobody’s told me nothing.”

  Even though Mimi’s small fingers were locked in mine, I felt so alone, gazing down from the top of the hill over the flat wasteland to the faraway river. It was like standing on the edge of the world.

  Suddenly my heart jumped. Something — somebody — was moving up the hill towards us.

  Whoever it was, they were between us and Guerdon Hall. We wouldn’t be able to get there without passing them. If we turned and ran, I didn’t know if we could get back to the main road before they caught up with us. Mimi was so tired, I was so sore — how fast could we run?

  “Mimi, we’ve got to get back to Roger’s, fast!” I whispered.

  “Why, Cora? Look, it’s Auntie Ida down there,” she said, pulling away from my hand and beginning to run down the hill. “Auntie Ida’s coming.”

  “Mimi, no —” I began, then stopped.

  I must have gone mad for a moment.

  It was Auntie Ida. It was.

  What was the matter with me? What was happening to me in this place?

  I shouldn’t have left it so late before going to meet them, but when the darkness came, it came suddenly. The storm is quite far away still, but with every roll of thunder, it gets closer.

  They looked so pathetic, the two of them up there on the hilltop.

  Probably a waste of time writing to Harry. It wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t even reply, let alone turn up.

  I can’t believe Cora took Mimi down to the church and then left her on her own. I can’t bear to think about it.

  But it’s been so long now … and with the flood … I thought the water would have finished him off. I thought so, or maybe just hoped so, until Mimi mentioned the man in the graveyard. Would she make it up, a little girl like that? Maybe it was Reg Hibbert she saw. I just assumed … The old fear … it will never go away.

  I should have taken Old Peter down when Cora first asked. I don’t know what is the right thing to do anymore.

  He’s out of the way now. I’ve forbidden them to go exploring upstairs. I don’t want them snooping around up there. Cora had better not disobey me again.

  Harry’s just going to have to sort out something else. I can’t cope with this. They must go home.

  That was a huge flash of lightning. The thunder’s right behind. The storm must be overhead. I’d better go and fetch the pails. I can’t keep this old house going. It’s all too much for me.

  I’ve been trying to keep myself awake for ages now. I’m waiting until Auntie Ida goes to bed. A while ago, I heard her come up and clatter around, unlocking doors, going into different rooms, clanging buckets down on the hard floors.

  I haven’t heard her since. The storm is blowing stronger, the wind whistling so hard it’s rattling the window frames, and the rain beats in furious waves on the old glass.

  I might have dozed off and missed Auntie’s footsteps. I haven’t noticed her candlelight under the door, either. She must have gone to bed by now.

  The wind sounds like people crying.

  Water is dripping onto the floor somewhere near the cupboard, like the tick of a clock. It’s annoying because sometimes
it comes when I’m expecting it and at other times it waits on purpose to irritate me.

  I’m surprised Mimi’s asleep at all, especially when the room flashes bright with lightning and the thunderclaps crash like the whole world is splitting apart. Mum used to make us sit under the kitchen table when there was a storm. I wonder if she can hear this same storm tonight.

  If I don’t find Old Peter this time, I’ll have to try again tomorrow. Auntie might have put him in a locked room. I don’t know where she keeps the keys.

  She must have gone to bed by now. Why would she stay up all on her own?

  I’m very nervous, but I think I’ll have to do it now. My heart’s beating very fast. I hope it’s not going to be too cold.

  I tuck Mimi up really close and creep to the door. I know which one of the floorboards creaks, so I step over it and carefully lift the latch. It’s stiff. I hold my breath, waiting for the loud click. The wind is gusting strong. I’m hoping it will muffle the sound. I pull the door to but daren’t close it right up after me in case the noise wakes Auntie Ida.

  A little light comes up the stairs from the hall below. It throws the long shadows of the spindles up onto the wall. Auntie must have left the lamp on for Finn.

  There’s no sound from her room. She must be fast asleep.

  I creep along the passage. It becomes darker with every step. My shadow goes ahead of me, shifting and changing like a phantom, as if it has a life all its own. I try the latch of a door on my right. It opens quietly, and I make out the odd shapes of furniture covered in sheets. Their black shadows leap up onto the wall behind. On the floorboards, where the door swings open, there is thick undisturbed dust. Nobody has been in for a long time.

  I go to the room on the left on the other side of Auntie Ida’s. The door is heavy. When I push it into the room, something moves — a thin curtain, hanging from the roof of a huge bed draped with spiders’ webs. There are no footprints or marks of dragging in the dust on the floor behind the door. It creaks slowly as I shut it, and the bottom scrapes a little on the wooden boards. I think I can hear some other noise in the house, but then the thunder crashes again.

  At the end, before the passage turns a corner to the left, there is a small window looking out over the cobbled yard and the back garden. As I wait, I can hear my breathing over the noise of the rain spattering the black panes. Sweat prickles out over my chilled skin. My pyjamas stick to me, yet I am cold.