by Roger Curtis
‘It seems to me, Thomas, that you are being deceitful,’ Harriet said.
Thomas confronted the two pairs of eyes bearing upon his: Aunt Harriet’s possessive, protective and blind, Mirabelle’s beautiful, scheming, triumphant. He could see that neither would shift her position until he had capitulated. Hurt and confused, he fled the kitchen and for the next hour lay on his bed, trying to draw an arrow that had been tipped with the most intoxicating and seductive of poisons.
Later, in the bright evening sunlight, the children again found themselves at the place where the stream disappeared into the tunnel. Retrieving the branch he had used before, Thomas put his head inside. This time, in the far, far distance, he could make out the tiniest pinpoint of light. Mirabelle followed his example and stretched her lithe body along the length of the wood. But her objective was different and her efforts were not wasted. Thomas was not reluctant to accept her instruction to grasp her ankles to steady her. Neither was he aware of the water flowing over his feet as he helped raise her body from the log. Before they left he looked one more time into the tunnel, but a cloud was passing and there was only darkness.
Inside the house Aunt Esther was waiting for them. Mirabelle passed by without a word, her lips taut and her expression vindictive. Had she bothered to look back she might have seen Thomas being guided secretively into the drawing room.
It was getting dark and the woman’s features were indistinct. Thomas wondered why she did not put on the light.
‘Thomas, can you give an old woman credit for remembering her youth and all its problems?’
He was immediately out of his depth. ‘I don’t know. Well, I suppose so. Why?’
‘Because I was watching you both at the stream. Oh, let me be honest – as I believe one must be with children – I deliberately followed you. Does that surprise you?’
Thomas had already learnt that dreams are made only to be shattered. Without thinking he answered sullenly, ‘no.’ But, as he said it, he was aware of an incongruity. He should have been resentful and angry. For a fleeting moment it had seemed that the woman was involved as if by right; even that he welcomed her intrusion, as one might heed the advice of a long-departed friend. But the moment passed as the door to his subconscious mind closed. He was suddenly resentful. ‘You’ve no right…’
‘I admit it was slightly underhand. But it’s done. I just wanted to remind you that girls and boys of your age are not necessarily – how can I put it simply – at the same stage of growing up. Your cousin is a determined young lady. And other things besides.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘It would not be impossible for you to return home now, if you wished. Your mother is not well. With your father away she would appreciate having you back home. I can easily say she rang.’
‘No!’
In the fading light Thomas could just discern the transient whiteness of a smile.
‘I didn’t expect you to agree.’ Suddenly she was serious. ‘But Thomas, I did want you to think about your position here. Just promise me you will consider everything you do and not do anything foolish.’ She paused, withdrawing into the darkness behind him. ‘My, the moon has risen. Do you see it, Thomas? Beautiful things can still be found outside mere relationships.’
Thomas looked at the yellow orb in grateful relief, hardly aware that she had taken his hand and pressed something into the palm. ‘Yes,’ he replied a moment later, into an empty room.
Although Mirabelle’s fair image returned to dominate his thoughts, he could not quite expunge Esther’s admonition from his mind. And he was puzzled, as well as delighted, by her apparent gift of a double headed penny.
Thomas did not wish to sleep. He wished to dream in a state of sensual wakefulness. He left the curtains open, so that the light could stream in, and the window ajar to subject himself to the sounds of the night. He tried to scheme, to devise strategies, to construct rigorous arguments. He prepared fine speeches with which to impress and once he leapt from his bed to practice appropriate gestures in front of the mirror. Then he lay in quiet despair with his second pillow a pale imitation of her beside his restless body. I would do anything, he told himself, forgetting Aunt Esther’s warning. By the time the door opened hope had all but gone.
‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought we ought to talk.’
This may still be a dream, he told himself. Keep control. ‘What about?’ he asked. It was difficult to suppress the tremor in his voice.
‘About things. About you and me. It seems you don’t like me, Thomas.’
Was this the opportunity that he craved? The item of advantage that could be turned to useful effect. ‘I tried not to let it show,’ Thomas said. ‘Perhaps I could get to like you.’ He hoped desperately that she could not hear his heart pounding.
‘It’s what I feared.’ She sniffed twice and grasped Thomas’ hand, placing it on her thigh. ‘I think I’d better go.’
‘No! I mean, no, there’s no need to go.’
‘Mummy would be awfully cross if she found me here.’
‘You can stay.’
‘I thought we might talk about Horace.’
‘Henry.’
‘Whatever. I thought I might give him to you.’ She waited for a response that did not come. ‘You don’t want him then?’
‘I could just take him off you,’ Thomas said gruffly.
‘Of course, you’d have to prove to me that you’re serious about him.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘It’s something I’ve always wondered. Nothing difficult. Something you can help me to find out. Will you do it for me? Please.’
‘If I can I will.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘On this bible?’ She had a book in her hand.
‘On this bible I promise. Now tell me what it is.’
‘To crawl through that tunnel to see what’s on the other side.’
Thomas chose not to interpret her cough as she left the room as suppressed laughter. But he tried desperately to recall having seen the bible on his bedside table.
In the early hours of the morning Thomas’ dilemma assumed gargantuan proportions. Fear of the unknown was dwarfed by a more focused dread of being confined in a small space that had first come to light two years before in a traumatic encounter with Crighton, the school bully.
There was also the problem of when. If he went early it was just possible he could overcome his fears by being alone, but he would be missed; if late… well… all manner of unforeseen difficulties might be put in his way. In the end he decided on a compromise: he would slip away unseen just after breakfast, having misled Mirabelle as to his intentions. To his surprise it worked. ‘But you mustn’t leave it too late,’ she said. ‘The weather forecast said more showers.’
Under a dark sky only partially visible through the swaying branches above Thomas contemplated the swirling water. It must have rained during the night: what had been a benign trickle the previous day now seemed a cauldron of mutually hostile elements frantically competing to escape the light. By pinching his arm he forced himself into the tunnel entrance – just to see, nothing more. If he had to he could still swallow his pride, catch the next train home and never make contact with this wretched family again. Except that not seeing Mirabelle again was not an option.
The bite of the water across his feet had the same cold cruelty as its appearance. It filled his trainers and surged over his hands as he groped his way forward. To his dismay he found it was not possible to kneel. Worse still, he could not turn around. Any further progress depended upon squirming, eel-like, with lateral undulations of his shoulders and hips. Suddenly he panicked. He emerged backwards out of the hole like a piece of excrement.
In the rising water he cried bitter tears of frustration, unable to make any decision that might relieve his situation. For the first time in many months Thomas prayed.
The Almighty’s response began with a crackle of twigs on the embankment above. At first Thomas thought it was Mirabelle selecting a favourable position of vantage from which to crow. But a moment later a youth of about his own age and appearance, with torn clothes and bleeding scratches on his cheeks, climbed – or rather slid – down the bank towards him. Thomas stared in disbelief.
‘You’ve set yourself a difficult task there,’ the boy observed.
‘Yes, haven’t I just,’ Thomas replied.
‘Think you can make it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then why are you doing it?’
‘I promised someone I would.’
‘And what do you get in return?’
‘My self-respect… and a rat… and…’
‘A rat! Heavens, there are enough rats in that tunnel.’
‘Not seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
Thomas looked at him suspiciously. ‘How do you know?’
‘I know someone who went through once. Don’t worry, they leave you alone.’
‘I can’t decide.’
‘I know that feeling. Want to know what I’d do in that situation?’
‘What?’
‘Let chance decide. Got a coin?’
Thomas withdrew from his pocket the penny Aunt Esther had given him. ‘Ye…es,’ he stuttered
‘Toss it. I’ll call.’
‘I’d rather call myself.’ Thomas was becoming flustered.
‘Then it wouldn’t be chance, would it?’
‘I suppose not.’ Reluctantly Thomas threw the coin into the air.
‘Heads you go through. Heads it is! Best not to wait. Do it now.’
‘I can’t.’
‘If you don’t I shall have to make you.’ The boy’s laugh held no humour.
‘No.’
Thomas bent double as the boy’s fist embedded itself in his stomach. A moment later he was in an arm lock and being propelled towards the gaping orifice. His face was in the water. He had difficulty retrieving his twisted arm. A stone clattering after him came to rest just in front of his head. In panic he squirmed his way forward.
That was the moment – as Aunt Esther was to tell him later - that Mirabelle’s voice floated sweetly across the lawn. ‘Thomas, Thomas. Where are you? You don’t have to do it.’
The water rushed past with a desperation that seemed to match his own. Its currents might have been kindred souls fleeing a fire or an insurgent army. It was how it had been that day in the playground, with the mob upon him, when the classroom had offered no refuge and Crighton was leading the pack. Now, like in his recurring dreams, they seemed once more behind him, their exchanges just as vicious. ‘Lock him in the cupboard.’ ‘Christ, Crighton, can’t you shut him up.’ ‘We’re going to shut him up.’ ‘He won’t fit in.’ ‘Know what a coffin is, Thomas? Here, Midgeley, give a hand and push. Over she goes, mind your toes.’ ‘Look, there’s a hole. Can you see him?’ ‘I can see an ear.’ ‘What does Beaky say?’ ‘I don’t know, what does he say?’ ‘Beaky says, wash your ears out, boy.’ ‘Crighton, no! Not ink!’ ‘Bullseye!’ ‘Let’s get out, please Crighton.’ ‘So much as a squeak, Thomas, and you bloody know what will happen.’
He imagined the ink flowing down his face and dripping into the water beneath his body. Yet when he felt there with his hand there was only dampness. As he opened his eyes the brightness of the janitor’s torch was consumed by the brighter ball of daylight that was almost upon him. The clockwork of his squirming body wound down.
The nightmare over, he felt relief and a sense of achievement as the tunnel end came nearer. And there were noises: chipping, knocking, veritably human noises. He noticed that the floor of the tunnel was now dry. Already he could smell the fresh earth outside. His thoughts returned to Mirabelle.
But, in rapid succession, the sky, the sunlit meadow and human faces spun in a mêlée of pain and confusion. From where he came to lie he could see the jagged, broken end of the tunnel. Around him lay the scattered bricks, each with its buttering of fresh mortar.
And then the two men were circling him with shovels held like jabbing spears, as if waiting for a vulnerable part of his body to be exposed.
‘See what you bloody done?’ one said.
‘How long you bin hiding in there?’ the other demanded.
‘Hiding?’ Thomas said. I wasn’t hiding. I crawled through.’
‘You what? You lying bugger! Other end’s blocked. Has been for days.’
‘You shifted the logs, did you?’
Then Thomas remembered the dry floor of the tunnel as he approached its end. Inexplicably the man was credible. Perplexed, he said nothing. He felt the flat of a shovel pushing viciously against his head.
‘Course you didn’t. Couldn’t. Take an ’orse to shift those logs.’ He turned to his companion. ‘You get his legs.’
‘You be careful, Jed!’ This was a third voice, thin, musical, undeniably feminine, piercing the confusion like a shaft of light.
‘We’ve only just started.’ Jed growled.
‘I said be careful of him.’
‘Look, you don’t…’ But the admonition was converted into a rearward thrust of the shovel handle that caught the girl – for Thomas, with his body suspended between the two men, could now see her – just below her ear. She reeled backwards, clutching her face.
‘Now I’ve got an idea,’ Jed said. ‘Let’s put him back inside.’ He laughed. ‘So he can crawl back to the other end. Backwards.’
The sharpness of each brick was a knife in Thomas’ back as he was dragged to the tunnel and flung inside. But the real pain came from the manic laughter as the bricks were rebuttered and piled on top of each other until only a space the size of a letterbox remained.
‘We’re off,’ Jed told the girl. ‘If he tries to break out, hit him hard.’ From the clang of the blade it was clear to Thomas that he was instructing her in the use of the shovel. The scrunch of boots on the scattered bricks resolved into silence.
Thomas’ plight was horribly apparent, but its explanation still eluded him. It seemed at first that he was acting out a part in a set-piece drama devised by Mirabelle, or even Aunt Harriet, to force him back through the tunnel to face further humiliation on emerging rearwards and bloodied into their laughter. On the other hand, what Jed had said about the logs had the greater resonance of truth. Thomas sought guidance from the only possible quarter.
The girl sat with her back arched towards the space that was his window on the world. Her head was inclined backwards, the listening ear exposed now and then as the wisps of sunlit hair shadowed her cheek in the breeze.
Thomas pushed gently at the bricks. The mortar had not yet set and for the moment there remained a possibility of escape. If he dared. He needed to know more about the girl.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tessie.’
‘I’m Thomas.’
‘Well Thomas, you’ve got yourself into a fine pickle. Why did you lie to them like that?’
‘I told you, I crawled through.’
‘If you lie to them again they’ll kill you. You wouldn’t be the first.’
‘When will they come back?’
‘They take an hour, usually.’
‘Then what’ll they do?’
‘I really don’t know.’ The impatience in her voice was a warning, but he persisted.
‘But what do you think?’
‘Beat you probably. They’ll enjoy that.’ Something seemed to amuse her. ‘But they’ve got to finish the tunnel today, so it will be over quickly.’
>
‘What if I tried to escape?’
Suddenly the girl’s face filled the aperture, the eyes wide with apprehension. The blade of Jed’s shovel passed slowly before her face. ‘Then I would have to stop you with this.’
‘But just suppose, what if you were to let me go?’
‘Then they would beat me. You saw what happened just now.’ With her face inches from his the swelling of her cheek confirmed that her position was as precarious as his own.
Thomas placed his hand on the topmost brick. The response was a shower of sparks as the shovel struck, narrowly missing his fingers. For more than a minute neither child moved nor spoke.
For the second time Thomas prayed for guidance. It came in the form of scuffling tiny feet in the passage behind. Looking beyond his body into the gloom he could just make out a convulsing grey sheet from which arose a multitude of pin-point squeaks of anger. Had they too resented their new captivity, or was he their target? ‘I’m coming out,’ he shouted. The bricks flew from the violent thrust of his shoulder, dancing in the sunlight and choosing one from their number to be hooked like a cricket ball far into the distance by the force of Tessie’s shovel. But Thomas was ahead of the implement and his face and shoulders were already engulfed in the folds of her skirt. Locked together the pair fell backwards into the black and freshly dug channel that led away from the tunnel entrance.
His body thrilled to the struggling mass beneath him, but his mind was pierced by its desperation. When the writhing stopped he felt only the wetness of her cheek against his own.
He helped her to her feet and wiped the dirt from her mouth with the corner of his shirt-tail. Silently she took his hand and they crawled within the black channel until they were out of earshot of the men that must surely be returning.
‘Will they follow?’ Thomas whispered.
‘They know I have to go home. They’ll tell themselves they can wait. But I’ll stay out until they’ve drunk themselves silly. By morning they’ll have forgotten, or at least I can handle it.’
‘Are you poor?’ Thomas asked, without really knowing why.
