by Amanda Wills
Chapter 21
Poppy woke late after a fitful night’s sleep. When she’d finally managed to doze off she’d dreamt of black panthers stalking grey ponies to a soundtrack of rushing water. Opening the curtains she realised why – heavy rain was falling in sheets from a thundery grey sky. The tor was completely concealed by low cloud curling around the trees at the edge of the Riverdale wood. Poppy gave an involuntary shiver. It was what Caroline called Hound of the Baskervilles weather. Unable to shift a sense of unease that had inexplicably settled on her like the mist on the tor, she followed the smell of toast downstairs and into the kitchen where Tory was unloading the dishwasher.
“Hello Poppy, there you are. I thought I’d leave you to lie in. Thought you needed a decent night’s sleep after the dramas of yesterday,” she said.
Poppy glanced at the clock on the oven. Ten to nine. “Has Charlie had his breakfast already?” she asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.
“No, pet. I didn’t want to disturb him either. Poor lamb looked all in last night. He’s having a lie in, too.”
“Crikey. I don’t think I’ve ever known Charlie to stay in bed past seven o’clock. Usually he’s the first up.”
Poppy yawned and smiled her thanks at Tory as the old woman placed a plate of buttered toast in front of her, although the butterflies in her stomach made the thought of eating impossible.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go out on the moor today, Poppy. Dartmoor can be a dangerous place at the best of times, but in weather like this it’s treacherous. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you or Charlie while I’m looking after you both.”
Poppy was silent. There was no way a bit of rain was going to stop her rescuing Cloud, but she didn’t want to worry Tory. “Perhaps it’ll brighten up later,” she ventured.
“Perhaps,” replied Tory, unconvinced. “What would you like to do this morning? Shall I teach you poker?”
“Yes, that would be fun. Thanks for breakfast but I’m not really hungry. I’ll go and clean my teeth and then feed Chester,” she said.
On her way back from the bathroom Poppy glanced into Charlie’s bedroom and saw the silhouette of his sleeping shape under the Thomas the Tank Engine duvet cover that, aged six, he now considered too babyish for words. She went back downstairs, fed Chester, then spent a companionable hour with Tory learning about flushes and five card draws, poker faces and tells. When ten o’clock had been and gone and there was still no sign of her brother Poppy put down yet another losing hand and said, “Tory, before you beat me again, I’m going to check on Charlie. I won’t be a minute.”
She crept into Charlie’s room and peered into his bed. Expecting to see his tousled blond head on the pillow, his thumb in his mouth, she gasped in shock when she saw the head of his biggest teddy bear instead. She whipped off the duvet and found Caroline’s fluffy cream dressing gown laying rolled up where her sleeping brother should have been. She looked wildly about the room as if he was going to jump out of his wardrobe and surprise her with a triumphant ‘Gotcha!’ But there was no sign of the six-year-old, just the usual jumble of dirty clothes, bits of Lego scattered like fallen leaves and the line of action heroes he’d set up the previous afternoon, their moulded plastic faces inscrutable. Her eyes fell on a piece of paper on his pillow. It must have slipped underneath the bear’s head when she pulled off the duvet. Scrawled in Charlie’s spidery handwriting was one word. Poppy.
She grabbed the note, unfolded it and, with mounting anxiety, read:
‘Deer Poppy,
I don’t think sniffer bel, beleaf, beleived me when I said I had seen a real live big cat. I have gone to find it and get a better picture for the paper. I have taken some sausages to use as bait. I will be back before tea.
Charlie’
Poppy grabbed a handful of the dressing gown and lifted it to her cheek. The soft towelling smelt of Caroline and she clung to it, wishing her calm, capable stepmother was downstairs and not in a hospital bed ten miles away. Magpie padded softly into the room and jumped up next to Poppy. The cat had an uncanny knack of making an appearance whenever anything interesting was happening. His two stomachs swinging beneath him, Magpie regarded Poppy with interest, waiting for her next move.
“You know what they say about curiosity, Magpie,” muttered Poppy under her breath.
What should she do? The moor was no place for a daredevil six-year-old on a day like today. She didn’t want to worry Tory, of that she was certain. She had no idea how long Charlie had been gone but he may not have got far. In an instant she made up her mind.
“I’ll go after him,” she whispered to the cat, who was now settling down for yet another nap, making himself comfortable on Caroline’s dressing gown. He tucked his head beneath his tail and within seconds was snoring softly, his stomachs rising and falling in time to his breathing. Poppy ran into her room, grabbed her thickest fleece top and pulled on another pair of socks. She could hear the television in the lounge. Tory was obviously watching daytime TV. Perfect. She stole down the stairs, took her waterproof coat and wellies and quietly opened the back door.
Her heart sank when she heard the television go silent. “Poppy, is that you?” called Tory from the sofa. Poppy took a deep breath, slipped off her boots and walked into the lounge. Smiling brightly, she said, “Charlie’s still comatose. I’m going to muck out Chester’s stable before the weather gets any worse. Then perhaps we can have another couple of hands of poker?”
Tory looked out of the lounge window. Although mid-morning it was as dark as dusk. “Alright, pet. Don’t be long though. You’ll get drenched.”
Practising her best poker face Poppy nodded. “OK. I’ll be as quick as I can,” she promised, her fingers crossed behind her back.
She grabbed a couple of lead ropes from the tack room and the torch she kept on the windowsill in case there was ever a power cut. She didn’t really know why – it just made her feel a bit better prepared. Like a Girl Guide or one of the Dartmoor search and rescue people, only on a bad day.
“Wish me luck, Chester.” The donkey gave her a friendly nudge and she set off into the gloom. The rain was sleeting down. Poppy pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and wished she’d worn waterproof trousers. The boulder where she and Charlie had seen the big cat seemed as good a place as any to start her search, so she set off towards the tor, her chin tucked into her chest.
It was hard going. There was no wind but the fog and rain were all-consuming and visibility was down to three or four metres. Following her instinct she found the spot where she and Charlie had eaten their makeshift picnic just a few days before. It felt like a lifetime ago. She started calling his name, but the swirling fog deadened the noise so she stopped shouting and kept walking, stumbling over rocks and tussocks. The ground was so marshy in places that once she almost lost her boot to the peaty mire which threatened to swallow her rubber-clad foot like quicksand. She looked out for familiar landmarks but realised the fog was playing with her senses when she walked past the same twisted tree twice. Or was it a different tree? She couldn’t tell any more.
Poppy felt a bubble of panic rising in her throat but she knew she had to carry on until she’d found Charlie. The two lead ropes hung like chains around her neck and her mud-covered boots felt as heavy as lead. She was saturated from head to foot. Keep walking, she told herself.
She had lost all sense of time and when she turned on the torch to look at her watch she realised with frustration that she’d left it in her bedroom. She had no idea if she’d been on the moor for one hour or three. Tory must have twigged that she had gone by now. She must also have seen Charlie’s empty bed. If she’d read his note she would have put two and two together and realised that Poppy had gone in search of her brother. Would she have called the police or the search and rescue people by now? Were they at this very moment preparing to launch a search for the two children? Poppy felt terrible for putting Tory in such a difficult situation. She trudged on. By her re
ckoning she had walked around the base of the tor and was heading deeper onto the moor. She and Charlie didn’t know this area as well as they knew their own tor and the Riverdale wood.
Poppy almost jumped out of her skin when a long, black face loomed out of the mist. She stifled the urge to scream, realising with relief that it was one of the black-faced sheep that grazed the moor. The animal gave her a baleful stare before turning and running off into the bracken. She tried to steady her breathing. She knew she needed to stay calm.
The fog seemed more impenetrable than ever. What hope did a six-year-old have in this? Poppy tried not to think about life without her brother – it was inconceivable. She knew Caroline would be heartbroken if anything happened to Charlie. But instead of wallowing in jealousy, Poppy remembered Tory’s advice and tried to see things through her stepmother’s eyes. Charlie was the apple of his mum’s eye but how did Caroline really feel about her? What must it have been like to take on someone else’s child? Poppy knew she could be reserved and self-contained. Caroline had described her as prickly. She’d been outraged at the time but knew deep down it was true. She’d always blamed her stepmother for not being Isobel. Caroline had tried so hard to break down the barriers Poppy had put up. Poppy wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d thrown in the towel years ago. But she never had.
Was it too late, she wondered as she tramped on through the fog. Caroline had been so sad recently. Would she ever forgive Poppy if Charlie was hurt – or worse? Poppy started bargaining with herself. If she could bring her brother back safe and sound everything would be alright. She and Caroline could try again. But that was all well and good, she thought grimly, as she tripped over yet another slab of granite lying in her path. First she had to find him.
After walking for what seemed like hours with no sign of Charlie, Poppy was beginning to feel tearful. She could hear the catch in her throat when she tried shouting his name. The rain seemed fractionally lighter and Poppy tried to convince herself that the fog was beginning to clear. But she knew she was kidding herself. Maybe she should return to Riverdale and make sure Tory had called for help. Then she realised with a sinking feeling that she’d lost all sense of direction and had no idea how to get home. Exhaustion washed over her. She found a boulder and sat down while she tried to marshal her thoughts. Under its blanket of mist the moor was deathly quiet. Poppy slumped with her head in her hands, wondering what to do. She loved Dartmoor but today it seemed the creepiest, most dangerous place on earth. To make matters worse she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.
She turned around slowly, hoping to see the face of another sheep and not a black panther on the prowl. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw two eyes staring intently at her through the mist.
