‘Only thing was, people needed use on t’mill and Starkey still reckoned it wouldn’t work. So farmers complained to t’Ministry, and Ministry made a possession-order. They could tek your farm from under your feet in them days, if they reckoned ye weren’t runnin’ it right. One morning early they came wi’ a load o’ officials, an’ a millwright and a couple o’ polisses, in case Starkey turned nasty – two whole carloads there was.
‘But there was nobody about. They brok the little window in t’door an’ eased latch up. There was Starkey’s coat hanging on t’wall an’ his pipe on t’table, still warm. Like he’d seen ’em coming across t’fields an’ run. Millwright checked mill-workings an’ found nowt wrong wi’ ’em . . . so he opened sluice. There was a greet groaning from t’big wheel, but nowt moved, and water began spewing out all ower t’mill, and wheel sounding fit to crack.
‘Then wheel turned; and up came young miller three weeks dead. Jammed in t’wheel he was, an’ went round three times more afore they stopped it. The man from t’Ministry, he were took bad wi’ his nerves an’ were in Winwick Hospital for nigh a year, and even t’poliss was sick . . .
‘Then they went down t’village, to this very house, te see Josie Cragg, an’ she came out o’yon door in her nightie. An’ when they told her, she didn’t shed a tear, only asked where Starkey was.
‘But when they told her Starkey were gone, she shed enough tears then, and told a right yarn. How young miller had gone for Starkey, and Starkey pushed him down t’mill-race on purpose while it were wokkin’.
‘So they asked her why she hadn’t sent for poliss, an’ she said she was afear’d o’ Starkey. Which seemed a bit odd, since she hadn’t stopped slippin’ up to t’mill to see to Starkey’s welfare most nights. But they let her go, temporary-like, an’ she might ha’ got away wi’ it, for Starkey was known to be a bad ’fun, and women do queer things when they’re smit on a man . . .
‘Only Royal Navy caught up wi’ Starkey. He’d signed on at Liverpool, on a boat bound for New Zealand. Navy flew him back from a place called Sierra-all-alone. An’ when Starkey heard what Josie had told t’poliss, he blabbed everything. How Josie had been on at him for months, day an’ neet to do-in t’miller. An’ she would marry him, an’ he could have all t’miller’s money.
‘I went up to t’Knutsford Assizes, when they were browt to trial. They could neither on ’em think of owt, in t’witness-box, ’cept gettin’ one another hanged. An’ they managed that, both on ’em. Him at Strangeways in Manchester, an’ her at Holloway in London.
‘And nobody’s really used t’mill from that day to this. The Ministry tried puttin’ hired men in, one after t’other. Browt fellers from as far off as Bristol. But the moment someone told ’em about them two mekkin free wi’ each other, while t’miller lay at bottom o’ t’mill-race under their very bed . . . nobody would stay. Couldn’t pack their bags fast enough . . .’
‘What happened to the children?’ breathed Simon.
‘Oh, the lad – he were very wild. Brok his neck ridin’ t’hoss when he were fotteen. An’ the little girl just pined away, they reckon.’
Simon went quickly to the toilet and was sick. He spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, sitting by the Aga to keep warm, trying to read Watership Down. The cat helped a bit; when he took her on his knee she still purred, but she soon wanted to get down. The kittens helped a bit too, skittering around his feet with their crazy games. Even the once-blind kitten now, its eyes nearly wide open. Though it was not as good as the others at running and frequently squeaked as it got knocked down and bitten.
Joe Moreton came in several times; and every time he did, he tried to talk to Simon. About the weather, or the picture he was trying to paint, or about the book on Simon’s knee. But it all seemed unreal, like a bad, boring telly-programme that Simon didn’t really want to watch.
Only Mum seemed real, and she was narky. Wanting him out of the kitchen; asking why he didn’t get out and play in the sunshine.
But he knew what was waiting for him outside in the sunshine. Sooner or later, he would have to go and look over the gate, over the turnip field. And Starkey and Josie Cragg and the young miller would be there, watching him. And somehow he knew they would be nearer. Coming along the sunken path under the turnips; the path they had trod – the path all the millers had trod for hundreds of years since mill and mill-house were built.
Once, in a panic, he followed Mum to her bedroom, wanting to tell her everything. But at the bedroom door she turned on him and said, ‘For God’s sake, Simon, stop following me about like a bloody shadow. You’re getting on my nerves. Are you ill or something? If you’re not, you soon will be, mooning around the house like this. Now, stop it, and go and play, or I’ll take you to the doctor. Are you trying to drive us all mad or something?’
There was a desperation in her voice he’d never heard there before. He knew that if he told her the truth, she wouldn’t believe him. It would seem the latest of his bloody silly tricks. Make things worse . . .
Joe . . . he thought Joe might understand. But to tell Joe . . . Joe would know everything about him, then. Joe Moreton would know he was a coward. He would end up a slobbering heap in Joe Moreton’s large arms. Like Jane. Joe Moreton would have him for good. And that wouldn’t be fair to Father.
Father, he thought. Father. Father had been lonely like this. Lonely and on his own. But Father had charged the Flossies and killed one; and the other two had ended up under the jeep, screaming their heads off. Father had won; on his own. It was the only way.
Help me, Father.
But he couldn’t turn towards east-by-south.
They were in the way, now.
FIFTEEN
He sat at his window, watching. The window-glass was old and leaded, and the diamond-panes full of whirls and bubbles. He had to have the window open, or he couldn’t watch properly. It was pretty cold; an autumn nip in the air. He was wearing three jumpers and an anorak over his pyjamas, and he was still cold.
It was moonlight, though. So he could see Them quite clearly. He didn’t think They’d moved since dusk. But he couldn’t be quite sure, even with the aid of Mum’s binoculars. He surveyed Them carefully again. The stupid moonface of the young miller swam up quite clear. Just a sheet of thick white paper tucked up into the balaclava helmet, with eyes and nose drawn crudely in blue ink, and already smudged with rain. But it held all the miller’s uneasy cocky stupidity.
The fringe of rope-beard blew in the wind, making him jump. But They hadn’t moved. They were still behind that extra-high bunch of turnip leaves that looked like a huge rabbit. But he knew they would move; if he took his eyes off them for too long. Only if he did his damnedest, he could just hold them at bay.
He yawned; his mind drifted until he was back at school and they were getting changed for a match. Somebody – Hudson – was throwing his boots at people, who were laughing.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck three; and he jolted back awake. He must stay awake. He’d better get up and walk about for a bit. Only he’d better check on Them again first.
They still hadn’t moved. So he got up and prowled round the house, easing the stiffness in his bones. Listened at Jane’s door; heard her breathing; heard her say something in her sleep, and turn over and breathe steadily again. She was OK.
Downstairs. He could hear Joe snoring, but had to strain through the boards of the door to hear Mum. It made him feel good. They didn’t love him yet; they were still cross with him; but he was keeping them safe.
The kittens were safe too, huddled in their box into an incredibly tight heap that constantly struggled to get tighter and tighter. The mother-cat was out. That worried him. She had lived at the mill; did she go back there ratting in the night; up that path, past Them?
He raided the fridge and built a fat cheese sandwich and drank a glass of milk. The milk tasted great, even if it was so cold it made his teeth ache. It didn’t matter, with his backside against the Aga .
. .
The bang of the cat-flap made him jump. But it was only the mother-cat returning. She rubbed against his legs approvingly, and ate the piece of cheese he gave her.
If only he had a weapon to use against Them if They came. Something of Father’s. But all he had now of Father’s was the regimental cap-badge that he’d carried in the haversack from Nunk’s. And that was already on a string round his neck, under his pyjamas. Everything else was in the studio, locked away, ready to go to Nunk. If only . . .
Then he remembered where Joe kept the studio key: in the inside pocket of his duffle-coat. Which was hanging in the hall. He crept along and found it. Then nipped upstairs to have a look at Them again. But They still hadn’t moved.
Downstairs again, shivering with triumph now. Into the studio, which smelled not discomfortingly of Joe. The smaller kitbag – yes, there was the long hard lump. He unzipped the bag and slid his hand down the side without disturbing the other clothes, and pulled out Father’s webbing belt; with the khaki holster and little ammunition-pouches. He drew out the revolver, cold, heavy and oily-smelling. It was the old sort – a Webley. Father hadn’t used a Browning automatic like the other officers did; like he was supposed to. Father hadn’t given a damn for supposed-to. He carried the revolver his own father had carried. Had used – in the First War; in India. Simon was glad. He couldn’t have worked a Browning automatic, but he knew how to work this. Father had shown him once. You pressed a little lever and the revolver broke in half, on a hinge at the bottom. Leaving the revolving cylinder looking at you like a face, with six round dark eyes. Simon opened the ammunition-pouch (the brass press-stud was difficult) and put shiny brass cartridges in five of the round black holes. Not the black hole that lay under the revolver’s hammer – that was dangerous – that could make the revolver go off if you dropped it. Father had told him that. He clicked the revolver shut again, put it back in the holster and fastened the belt round his waist. He had to shorten the belt, but Father had shown him how to do that too. When he had finished, the webbing cut into him as he climbed back upstairs; cut into him even through three layers of pullover. But it was a good pain; he felt strong now; magic. Father’s revolver would shoot Them full of holes, if They dared come near. Mum’s binoculars to watch Them through; Father’s revolver to shoot Them with. They hadn’t a chance, now . . . and They knew it. They had stayed exactly as They were.
They’d better go back into their rotten mill, and unmake Themselves, if they knew what was good for them. Mill House was safe from Them now, forever.
Comforted, he slept. Head on the open windowsill; one arm lying outside on the dew-dampening roof-slates.
‘Simon! What in God’s name?’
He jolted awake with a start, a terrible pain in the side of his jaw where his head had rested on the windowsill. He looked outside, into a bright sunny morning.
They hadn’t moved; indeed (he checked carefully with the rabbit-shaped clump of turnip leaves) they were further away if anything; nearer to the mill.
He turned to her with a smile.
‘Hallo, Mum. What’s for breakfast?’ He felt he could eat a horse.
She began to smile back; then her eyes dropped to his waist.
‘What . . . what – where did you get that revolver? That was in Joe’s study, locked away. How did you get it. How?’
He hung his head and said nothing.
‘You stole Joe’s key . . . out of his pocket . . . sneaking about in the middle of the night.’
He sensed more people in the bedroom doorway. Joe was standing there, looking wary, summoned by the noise. Jane was with him in her pyjamas, huddling in close, all eyes, sucking her thumb. As he watched, she reached up and put her other hand in Joe’s.
‘Give-me-that-thing,’ said Mum. ‘Give-me-that-thing-this-minute!’
‘No.’ How could he make her understand? Understand how important it was?
‘Give-me-that-thing.’ Mum’s voice rose to the danger-pitch.
‘No.’
A clout on the side of his face set his head spinning.
‘Give-me-that-thing.’
‘No.’ He sat down hard on the bed, so she couldn’t hit him again.
‘Joe,’ said Mum.
‘C’mon, Simon,’ said Joe, advancing. ‘C’mon. Don’t upset your mother. Be a good lad. Give it up.’ His face was wary, but sorry too. And he meant what he said.
‘I can’t,’ wailed Simon.
‘Don’t make me make you,’ said Joe, sadder than ever. ‘You’ll get it back, I promise. It’ll all be yours one day. But it’s dangerous now, Simon. Be a good lad; give it up—’
‘I can’t! Don’t you see, I can’t.’
‘Take it off him, Joe,’ said Mum.
‘I don’t want to force him.’
‘Take it!’ yelled Mum. ‘He’s probably got it loaded. Is it loaded, Simon?’
‘Yes.’
‘For God’s sake!’
Joe reached down for the holster. Simon snatched out the revolver before he could reach it.
‘Stand back. Stand back. You can’t have it; you can’t!’
Infinitely slowly and sadly, Joe reached out to grab his wrist. Simon put his hand behind his back. Joe reached behind his back to take the gun. Began twisting it out of Simon’s hand, slowly and gently, but with irresistible force. A force that was making Simon’s finger tighten on the trigger.
‘Stop, Joe, stop!’ he shouted; knowing the danger.
But Joe didn’t know the danger. He went on inexorably twisting and shaking the revolver out of Simon’s hand.
There was a sharp kick that hurt Simon’s wrist, and a terrifying bang inside the little room. A shower of plaster descended from the ceiling, and they all gaped at a huge hole, with ends of worm-eaten boards. While Simon was still staring at the hole, Joe took the gun from him, broke it in half and emptied out the remaining cartridges.
Only then did Mum notice that Joe’s hand was bleeding; from a long, straight, red mark across the palm.
‘Joe, your hand . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ said Joe, wrapping a hanky round it, which immediately stained red. ‘I’ll just get this thing back to the studio. And I’ll give you the key this time.’
‘But it’s your drawing hand . . .’
‘Try and stop me drawing,’ said Joe grimly. And went out with Jane, who immediately began telling him, all the way down the corridor, what a wicked boy Simon was, and when was the man coming to mend the ceiling and would the rain come into Simon’s bedroom and serve him right if it did.
Simon and Mum were left alone. Mum was panting; her nostrils were flared and white. She didn’t look like Mum at all, but like his worst enemy.
Mum.’ He put out a hand pleadingly.
‘You little lunatic. You could have killed Joe. You’ve probably maimed him for life, so he can never draw again. You little bastard.’
And then she was hitting him and hitting him, like she would never stop. He took the first few blows in silence, sorry about Joe, feeling he deserved a bashing.
But it went on too long, and then he began to hit back.
They stopped; and glared at each other.
‘I saw you born; I saw you come out of my body. But I swear . . . you’re no part of me. You’re all Wood, Wood, Wood. You’re just another one of a long line of . . .’
But it wasn’t what she said. It was the way she said it.
He sat for a long, long time; wondering why he’d ever thought school could be lonely. How much worse could things get? There seemed just bottomless pits of worseness. I mean, you could break your leg; or become paralysed from the waist down; or go blind. Once you started falling into worseness, did you ever stop? Or once you were in it, was it like a whirlpool that sucked you down and down?
Still, you couldn’t sit here all day. You had to eat. And something decent might still happen . . .
Or something indecent; like a strange voice in the kitchen. A very loud yakky voice that
invaded the staircase every time the kitchen door opened, and threatened to invade the whole house.
He hated strangers at breakfast. He went in the kitchen door with a rush, flooded his cornflakes with milk that bounced off them onto the tablecloth, and plunged into them, head down.
The yakky voice paused, as if weighing him up as a potential audience, then continued.
‘I can’t get used to doing it, you know. If I do it as long as I live, I shall never get used to doing it. It just doesn’t seem right, somehow. Even if I was on the stage fifteen years . . . I started as a girl of sixteen . . . I was innocent . . . I didn’t know nothing. My mother didn’t like it, I can tell you . . . I think it drove my poor father into his grave. But what I say is, if the talent’s in you, you’ve got to let it out, haven’t you?’
Mum was moving about the kitchen, wiping this and that, almost as if she was keeping on the run in case the voice threw something at her. Mum being vague and polite, saying, ‘Yes, I know,’ and, ‘I see how you must feel.’ It was pretty obvious that this conversation had taken place a lot of times before. Both sides knew all the moves.
‘I can’t help wondering how you must feel about it,’ said the voice, ‘being married to him an’ all. It just don’t seem right . . .’
‘I’m sure you’re only doing the job you’re paid for, Mrs Meegan,’ said Mum, suddenly frosty. ‘It’s just a job like any other.’
‘Aye, you’d know that,’ said Mrs Meegan, ‘if you’d lived the life I’ve lived. All those men’s eyes on you. I just turn my mind to higher things. I let tunes run through my head, like Tchaikovski’s Piano Concerto number one. Lovely tune that!’ She pronounced it Cheekowski, and began to pom-pom the piano theme; very badly.
Simon stole a quick look at her, past the half-empty toast-rack.
She looked artificial. Her hair was a jet, unnatural black, right down to the roots, and so tightly-permed it looked like a wig. Her face was so made-up, with bright patches of rouge on her cheeks, that she looked like a doll. She wore a black satin-finish raincoat, black shoes and no stockings. And clutched a half-empty black shopping-bag on her knees as if she were frightened someone might steal it. It made her knees sag apart, so you could see the fat insides of her thighs.
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