by Nina Bawden
It’s all right, ‘Mary said.’ You can look now. Though if you like fishing, you ought to be able to do this part of it, too.’
But she felt relieved herself. She hated it, when the trout was big enough to kill.
‘It was under eight inches,’ she said to Simon, who had appeared at the top of the bluff.
He nodded, squatted on the bank, and fitted a fresh lot of worms on the hook. ‘Not much chance of a big one, really,’ he said as he threw the line out. ‘Sun’s getting round to this part of the lake.’
‘Why eight inches?’ Krishna asked.
‘It’s the law. If you eat all the little ones, they get no chance to grow big and breed.’
‘I thought we were outlaws,’ Krishna said. ‘Outlaws do not take notice of the law.’
‘Some laws make sense and some don’t,’ Simon said. ‘And we’re not outlaws, really. More refugees.’ He replaced the tin can on the pile of stones.
‘Me from the English police,’ Krishna said, trying to see if he could hop one-legged up the steep bank. He collapsed halfway up and rolled down and lay on his back, grinning. A shaft of sun shone in his dark eyes and on his hair, which was shiny but dusty. Like blackberries at the side of a busy road, Mary thought. ‘And Mary from her horrible Aunt,’ Krishna said.
Mary glanced at Simon, who was fastening the heavy line round the tin, and then on to a tree root that stuck out of the bank. She had the feeling that he was deliberately not looking at her.
She said, to change the subject, ‘What about Noakes? What’s Noakes a refugee from?’
Simon said, ‘Noakes? Oh, Noakes is a refugee from civilisation. He’s the biggest refugee of us all.’
*
After the first few days they had hardly seen him. He had gone wild. Now he came sometimes, when they were cooking fish, and crouched, waiting for his share, but mostly they only saw him at a distance: a flash of fur in the undergrowth. Once, when Simon had got up in the night, he had seen him playing on the bluff in the moonlight; a lolloping creature, a black shadow, dancing on three legs and growling and playing with his own tail, like a kitten. In the daytime he was often near, but liked, it seemed, to remain unseen; stalking them through the rhododendrons and the brambles, and lying still, belly to earth, whenever they came close to him. His bandage had fallen off and he had grown fat and glossy. He caught his own food: field mice and birds that he scrunched up delicately, leaving only feathers, and once Mary had found him with a small rabbit. He had snarled at her menacingly, glaring with his one eye, and she had backed away.
She was afraid that one day he would disappear altogether, but Simon said he would stay.
‘He can’t get away, actually,’ he said. ‘Not unless he learns to swim. I mean, there’s only one way, across the bridge, and I don’t suppose he can balance on the beam, not with only three legs. He’ll never leave the island.’
‘Nor am I going to,’ Krishna said. ‘Never.’
‘Never is a long time,’ Simon said.
‘Not too long for me. I shall stay until I am an old, old man.’
‘In this book I read,’ Simon said, ‘the people who built the grotto hired a man to live here and pretend to be a hermit. They thought it would be romantic to have a real live hermit living in their grotto to show their friends when they brought them on picnics, and they paid him two hundred pounds to wear ragged clothes and sit and think, but he got fed up after a while and went away.’
‘He must have been mad,’ Krishna said.
‘Oh, I dunno. I expect he just got bored, being on his own.’
‘I would never be bored,’ Krishna said. ‘I shall stay here and be a hermit, Simon, when you go back to school.’
‘Don’t use dirty words,’ Simon said, and groaned.
Krishna giggled. ‘Don’t you like school, Simon?’
Mary said quickly, ‘No one does, in their right mind.’ She thought this was an unfortunate subject to have got on to. Simon was looking thoughtful, which was a bad sign. He had never said how long he could stay on the island, away from home, and she hadn’t asked him. She didn’t want him to start thinking about it now.
She said, ‘Do you know, the nuts are ripe? I looked this morning. The cob tree, by the rowan.’
They knew which tree she meant. They knew every tree, every bush. The island was perhaps half a mile long and a quarter wide; the boys never left it, and every morning when she came, balancing easily on the bridge beam now, Mary felt as if she were entering a fortress, a castle. The lake was the moat round it and the grotto its inner keep, its sanctum. Sometimes they built a fire in the centre chamber and watched the flames change the colour of the crystal roof.
It was damp there, because the lake ran through it, but the inner room where Simon and Krishna slept, was warm and dry. They had covered the floor with dried, crinkly bracken that smelt sweet and musty.
Mary envied them this heavenly bed. Sheets seemed so dull—as indeed, everything seemed so dull now, off the island. Leaving it at night and going home, was like stepping into a black and white film, after colour …
*
‘I’m afraid you’re having rather a boring time, Mary,’ Grandfather said. ‘My fault. I’m sorry.’
He had rheumatism in his knees and couldn’t swim. ‘Typical,’ he grumbled, ‘absolutely typical. Best summer for years, and here I am, laid up!’
‘You’d only get heat stroke on the beach,’ Aunt Alice said. ‘Filthy, too. All that oil.’
‘It’s nicer inland,’ Mary said. ‘In the woods.’
‘Which woods?’ Grandfather looked at her frowning.
‘Oh—just woods.’
‘Not the same as the beach, though. What d’you find to do? With that chum of yours—what’s his name? Trumper?’
‘Trumpet,’ Aunt Alice said.
‘Nothing much,’ Mary said. ‘Just messing about.’
‘You must do something. Day after day. Out of the house as soon as breakfast is over, not back till supper. Can’t just mess about all that time!’
Mary wished her grandfather would stop asking questions. He didn’t usually pry, but the pain in his legs made him fretful.
‘There’s nuts to pick,’ she said. ‘And blackberries …’
Even if she could tell him the truth, it would be hard to explain what they did. Every day was the same, and yet marvellously different …
‘Leave her alone, Father,’ Aunt Alice said. ‘Messing about’s a good occupation, for someone her age. I used to like the woods, too. More than the beach
She smiled at Mary, as if they shared a secret.
‘All right,’ Grandfather said. ‘All right, Alice. I’m a crochety old man. A crochety, tetchy, curmudgeonly old man with creaky knees. Don’t get old, Mary.’
Mary shook her head. It seemed easy advice to take. She felt quite sure at this moment that she would never change from the person she was now, and that things would go on as they were, for ever and ever …
*
They had picked all the blackberries on the island. ‘There’s some good ones at the side of the path coming down,’ Mary said. ‘Before you get to the lake. By the fallen tree. They’re a bit high up, but we could reach them with sticks.’
Simon shook his head. ‘I want those for my Mum. I always pick her a good lot for jam, before I go back to school.’
‘Who’s using dirty words now?’ Mary said.
*
‘Look at this leaf,’ Krishna said. It was browny-red and crisp, like a cornflake.
‘Autumn,’ Simon said. ‘Witless loon. Leaves change colour and fall in the autumn.’
‘Witless loon yourself,’ Krishna said, and punched him in the stomach. ‘We don’t have autumn in Africa.’
*
‘Tins are running low,’ Simon said. ‘No more baked beans. No more peaches. No more tomato soup.’
‘Peach tins are heavy,’ Mary said. ‘But I can get beans. And soup.’
‘We want more line, too. I put out an eel line las
t night across the culvert, but it rained and it got washed away.’
‘It didn’t rain last night,’ Mary said.
‘It did, you know. Everywhere was soaked this morning.’
‘Just dew. It didn’t rain.’
Simon looked at her stubborn mouth. ‘All right, have it your own way. All the same, we need new line, and some tins, and Krishna ought to have another jersey. He’s torn that old one of yours to shreds and it gets a bit nippy now, evenings.’
‘I can get him another,’ Mary said. ‘And some vests too, if he’s cold. I’ve got hundreds of lovely, thick, woolly vests. And I can get the tins and the line. I can get anything you like …’
*
She stood in the queue at the Post Office, fretting. It was five o’clock and the shops closed at half past. Everyone in front of her seemed very slow and old; old men buying postal orders and stamps, and old women drawing their pensions. They took ages, taking their money, counting change with stiff slow fingers, putting notes away in one part of their purses, coins in another. Some of them lingered for a nice little chat with the clerk behind the counter, and some of them had dogs on leads that got tangled up with other people’s legs.
The woman behind Mary said, ‘Goodness, what a time! Patience on a monument!’
She had a pointed, witch-like face. Simon s Gran. For a moment, Mary’s heart bumped—absurdly, of course, because there was nothing to be afraid of. Or so she thought …
‘How are you, dear?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ Mary said, and added, cunningly, ‘How’s Simon? I haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘Away camping. He likes to get off on his own for a bit, and I can’t say I blame him!’ Simon’s Gran smiled, and her face was all lines, like a nut. ‘That family! Monkey house at the Zoo!’
Mary had reached the counter now. She had two pounds and fourpence in her Post Office book, and she drew it all out except for a shilling. She turned to say goodbye to Simon’s Gran—and saw that someone had joined her.
‘Your turn, Mother,’ Mrs Carver said to Simon’s Gran, and then, to Mary, ‘Well, you’re quite a stranger! Always gone now, time I get to your Auntie’s in the morning!’
Mary stared. Mrs Carver’s hair was red and her mother’s grizzled black and white like a shaving brush, but otherwise, seeing them together, the likeness was unmistakable. Two pale, sharp faces …
Mary caught her breath. She had thought Simon’s mother had reminded her of someone! Now she knew who it was. She and Mrs Carver were sisters. Mrs Trumpet’s hair was dark like her mother’s, like the twins. But Simon had red hair, though it wasn’t as bright as Mrs Carver’s. More gingery …
‘… having a lovely time, your Auntie tells me,’ Mrs Carver was saying.
Mary nodded. Her stomach was screwed up. What else had Aunt Alice said? She’s found a friend, a boy called Simon Trumpet? She had told Simon’s Gran, she hadn’t seen him for ages …
Mrs Carver said, ‘I must say I’m glad to hear it. You know, your poor Auntie was quite worried about you, mooning about on your own. It’s not natural, Mrs Carver, she said to me, a child should have other children to play with.’
Mary fidgeted. ‘Yes. Well. I’ve got to go now …’ She gave Simon’s Gran one last, forced smile, and darted for the door.
Two small, solid figures barred her way, both wailing like fire sirens.
‘Gran.’ GRAN. I dropped me lolly.’
‘So she pinched mine.’ Poll stamped her foot. ‘Gran, tell her. It’s NOT FAIR.’
‘It is. You joggled me.’
‘Not a-purpose.’
‘You did.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Liar. PIG LIAR.’
They fell upon each other in the doorway. Mrs Carver pushed past Mary and separated them.
‘What a noise! I’m ashamed of the pair of you.’
‘I want GRAN.’ Poll pushed Mrs Carver’s hands away and opened her mouth to scream—long, high, piercing screams, like a train whistling.
‘Gran’s getting her pension,’ Mrs Carver said, and slapped Poll on her fat, bare leg. ‘Move out of the way now, how d’you think people can get by?’
‘S’not people,’ Annabel said. ‘It’s Mary. Poll, look, it’s Mary.’
Poll’s screams stopped, as if someone had turned a switch. Two dear little faces were lifted, four bright eyes, two red, button noses.
‘Hallo,’ Mary said, gloomily.
‘I didn’t know you knew Mary,’ Mrs Carver said, dabbing away busily at their tear-streaked faces. The twins jerked their heads up and down, like ponies.
‘’Course we know Mary, Auntie.’
‘She came to lunch. Just once, though. She didn’t come again.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Carver said, giving a final, twisting wipe to Poll’s nose, and standing back to survey the result of her efforts.
‘She was hungry,’ Poll said indignantly. ‘She was jolly glad to come and have lunch with us.’
‘Hungry?’ Mrs Carver looked curiously at Mary, who wished the earth would open beneath her.
‘She’s a Norphan,’ Poll said.
‘A poor Orphan,’ Annabel said, in an oozy, sentimental voice. ‘She’s got a strict Auntie, who doesn’t give her enough to eat.’
‘Really?’ Mrs Carver looked at Mary. Her mouth twitched, and there was a bright, sardonic gleam in her eye.
Mary thought of flinging herself to the ground in a fit. Or killing herself. Instead, she ran: out of the Post Office and along the High Street, head down, blundering into people …
She felt she would never stop running. That if she did, something awful would catch up with her …
ELEVEN
‘Chip-chop weather change …’
MARY PACKED A jersey for Krishna, and two of the thick woollen vests Aunt Alice had bought her. She packed a spare pair of jeans for herself, extra socks and shoes, her anorak and her hairbrush. She went down to the kitchen, stepping carefully over the stair that squeaked and took some cheese and bread from the larder. Then she went into the garden to put the bag in the bushes by the gate, ready for leaving.
It was so early that mist lay on the ground in curls, but she had already been up for hours, sitting on the edge of her bed with a hollow feeling inside her.
It came from sadness, not hunger, but now, standing in the cold, pearly grass, she decided that food might help. She went back into the house, into the kitchen; ate four thick slices of bread and raspberry jam, and put the kettle on the stove. The boiler in the kitchen murmured and sang; she warmed her cold hands on the pipe above it, and sucked the raspberry pips out of her teeth.
The hollowness in her stomach persisted. She stared at the faces that seemed to rise up in front of her, and listened to voices in her mind.
Mrs Carver’s face, sharp and pointed; Aunt Alice’s, rabbity and pale. Mrs Carver saying, Well that’s what she told them, true as I stand here, the wicked girl! An orphan, living with a cruel Aunt …
And Aunt Alice’s face, turning a piteous, slow red …
Mary moaned softly and leaned her forehead against the pipe until it began to burn her.
She thought—Perhaps it won’t happen like that, after all! But what could prevent it? Only Mrs Carver dying suddenly in the night. Or being run over on the way to work this morning.
She was the sort of woman who would feel it her duty to tell Aunt Alice what her niece had been saying about her, behind her back.
And Aunt Alice would believe that Mary hated her …
The kettle began to sing and Mary looked at the kitchen clock. It was nearly seven-thirty, and Mrs Carver would be here by nine.
She laid a tray and warmed the pot and made the tea, good and strong the way Aunt Alice liked it, but never made it for herself. She said it was a waste to make a pot for one person, and that strong tea was bad for Grandfather’s heart.
As she carried the tray upstairs, she thought the house seemed curiously dark. She looked out o
f the landing window. There was no sign of the mist lifting.
Aunt Alice struggled up in bed, fumbling a woollen bed jacket over her shoulders. She wore a hairnet, and her two front teeth reposed on a grinning, pink bridge in the glass on the table beside her. After one glance, Mary looked politely away. She said, ‘I just thought you’d like some tea, Aunt Alice.’
‘Oh,’ Aunt Alice said. ‘Oh! Mary dear …’
She blinked her eyes rapidly and gasped. She seemed overwhelmed—as if, Mary thought, suddenly wanting to giggle, she had been presented with a cheque for a thousand pounds, instead of a pot of tea!
‘I hope I made it right,’ Mary said. ‘I put in five shovels.’
Aunt Alice poured a cup. It looked quite black.
‘Just right,’ Aunt Alice said. ‘Perfect! Tea in bed! What luxury! I feel like the Queen of England.’
Mary stood at the end of the bed. She wanted to go and she wanted to stay.
Aunt Alice looked at the window. ‘Where’s the old sun this morning? Chip-chop, weather change …
Mary shifted from one foot to the other.
‘Oh well, I suppose it couldn’t last for ever. All good things come to an end,’ Aunt Alice said, smiling at Mary.
Mary wished there was something she could say to Aunt Alice, but there was nothing except Goodbye and she couldn’t say that. So she just smiled, awkwardly and shyly, and walked backwards to the door.
Outside, she stood still for a minute. Her eyes had misted over. Now she had taken the tea, there was nothing else she could think of to make Aunt Alice feel better.
Apart from leaving the note.
She pulled it out of her pocket now, and went into her bedroom to prop it up on the dressing table, where Aunt Alice would see it as soon as she opened the door.
Dear Aunt Alice,
I am sorry to go without telling you, but you won’t want me to stay any longer, now you know what I’ve done.
Yours sincerely,
Mary.
P.S. Give Grampy my love and say thank you for having me. P.P.S. It was all lies I told.
She had written the letter last night, and had spent a long time trying to think of the right thing to say. Now, reading it again, water came into her eyes and nose. She sniffed and pressed her knuckles into her eyes until coloured arrows shot across the blackness. She thought that in a way it would be comforting to be a crying sort of person; to He down on her bed and howl.
