The Beggar's Curse Read online

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  What happened next couldn’t be blamed on the Edges. On the contrary, if they’d not been around it could well have been fatal. It was a good thing Oliver saw it, and not the other two; it would have sent them screaming out of Stang. Living with old people you got used to little accidents. It hadn’t been very nice, for example, when Mr Catchpole had fallen down the stairs and split his head open. But that was nothing compared to this.

  His two cousins had gone riding. Colin had never been on a horse’s back, but he was game to try. Oliver suspected that he wanted to keep an eye on Prill; they were both worried about her, she was so withdrawn and silent now, picking at her food and snapping at everyone. This dank valley, with its silent village and its round black pit lowering down below, had cast a dark shadow over her. Oliver didn’t read other people’s letters, and only eavesdropped on their phone calls when the need arose, but he knew how desperate she was to get away from Molly’s and to go back to her parents and that screaming toddler.

  He’d been sent up to collect some cakes from Winnie Webster – not just any old cakes, she informed him, but special fruit buns, always made on the day before Good Friday and distributed to the villagers. It was Winnie’s turn to bake them this year. Oliver had to deliver the cakes to Edges’ Stores. The Mummers would go round the village with them tonight after their play rehearsal.

  He listened patiently while she told him what he’d already found out in the public library. The buns were called Soul Cakes and the idea was that you ate them to increase your strength. “Of course, they’re supposed to be eaten at Hallowe’en,” she said, “when the year’s dying. Not in spring. You don’t need new life in spring, for goodness sake. But this village got it wrong as usual.”

  Oliver was looking out of the window at Porky Bover fiddling with the new lawn mower. It still didn’t feel like spring round here, nothing was growing, and it was a waste of time cutting those lawns. There was no grass to cut. “You’re eating the souls of the dead, you see,” Winnie went on, beating eggs vigorously and adding currants. “All the dead of the last twelve months. Their strength goes into you, basically. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s like being a cannibal,” he said thoughtfully. “Or a vampire, sucking someone’s blood out.” He wasn’t squeamish, but he didn’t really like discussing this while old Miss Brierley lay stiff and cold at the undertaker’s waiting to be buried. He mustn’t let Prill hear about the Soul Cakes. She’d throw up.

  They were having a cup of tea together and waiting for the buns to cool on their wire racks, when a loud cry from outside took them both to the window and then through the back door. Winnie’s neat and tidy lawns all sloped down sharply to her front fence, and Porky Bover was lying near the gate, hanging on to the handles of the new mower. The engine was making a great roaring noise, the blade must still be whizzing round, mangling the turf, and there was a broad skid mark in the grass. It looked as if Porky had been somehow pulled down the hill, as if the machine had suddenly gone out of control, dragging him after it. His right foot was hidden under the mower and his mouth was wide open in a terrible, silent scream.

  Oliver had once seen a man’s hand crushed in a car door. The pain was so horrific he’d made no noise at all. The boy had never forgotten that surprised, horrified stare, frozen in silent agony, and being Oliver he’d followed up the accident in the local paper. The hand had been amputated in the end.

  He approached Porky with icy calmness and pulled a red lever to Off. Then he looked at him. The fat, kindly face was greenish-white, the eyes were two slits, and still he didn’t cry out. Behind them, Winnie Webster gave a little moan and sank down in a faint. Oliver rapidly assessed the situation. There were no stones or walls for her to have hit her head on, and she was fortunately very small. He got her under the arms and dragged her across the grass like a sack of potatoes, propping her against the garden fence. Then he went back to Porky. He couldn’t put it off any longer, every second counted in a case like this. He must move the mower and find out what had actually happened.

  Half-closing his eyes, Oliver lifted it very gingerly off the hidden foot, then he forced himself to look. These things were dangerous, like a lot of machines. They were always issuing warnings about them on the radio.

  There was a lot of blood, and three toes were sticking out of the end of the boy’s sneaker in a sticky pink bunch. Oliver leaned across to pick a pair of smashed glasses out of the grass, and Porky moaned and gave a little cry. Then a violent spasm jerked him sideways and he started to scream hysterically.

  Winnie Webster was coming round and moaning, but Oliver ignored her and ran into the house. He picked up the phone and dialled Molly’s number, but it was engaged. Slamming it down and starting to panic, he looked at a list of useful phone numbers pinned on the wall. He must dial 999 and hope they didn’t get lost this time. But after the first 9 Oliver stopped and dialled another number. “Edge Bros, Butchers and General Store, Ranswick 440”. They had a van and they certainly had fridges. If Porky’s foot was as bad as it looked they might need ice.

  Harold picked up the phone. “Get off the line,” he hollered as soon as Oliver had blurted out his message. “And listen, kid, don’t try to move him, whatever you do. Throw a rug or something over him and get one for the old girl too.”

  But the old girl had perked up and was standing over Porky, swaying about. “Have some of this, Miss Webster,” said Oliver, giving her a glass of water. “Look, why don’t you sit on the bench? Someone’s coming. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  Porky Bover’s face had gone from green to white. Oliver took off his anorak, rolled it up, and pushed it under his head. “Porky,” he whispered, but there was no response. If the boy was breathing, something rather odd was happening, because his chest wasn’t going up and down, and Oliver couldn’t find a pulse.

  The turf under his mangled foot had turned dark red and all the grass blades were sticking together as the blood slowly clotted. Oliver’s stomach heaved. He ran back into the house and picked up the phone again, but someone was using the party line. All he could hear was two women discussing the crimes of a thieving builder called Roland Clutton. He slammed it down and ran through the front door, and down the lane towards Blake’s Pit. Harold Edge hadn’t turned up yet so he was going to alert the nearest neighbours, even though they were the people at Pit Farm.

  “Porky Bover’s had an accident with that mower,” Oliver said quite casually at tea. “I thought he might.”

  Prill was sitting by the fire in the little front room. She’d just bitten into a hot crumpet and the butter was dribbling down her chin. She was in a better frame of mind after her day’s riding, and her cheeks were glowing after several hours in the fresh air. Colin, on the other hand, had stiff knees and a sore bottom. At the word “accident” his heart missed a beat. Why couldn’t Oliver pipe down? He’d had quite a difficult day, trying to humour the moody Prill, and kidding her out of her wild imaginings about Stang. Now everything was going to be wrecked again.

  “What kind of accident?” she said, dropping the half-eaten crumpet back on to the plate again.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Oliver said carefully. “Well, not as it happened. Ouch!” Under the table, Colin had just aimed a hefty kick at his ankles and hit the target spot on.

  “What kind of accident, Oliver?” Prill repeated, in a dangerous voice. That appalling dead feeling was creeping up over her like a dank fog. It had happened again. The village was drawing its terrible net round them, tighter than ever. They would never escape from it, never ever.

  “Well it. . . it sort of ran away with him. . .” Oliver started, less confident now as he saw all the colour draining away from Prill’s face, and rubbed at his bruised ankle. “And it cut his foot rather badly. They’ll have to send the mower back to the manufacturers, I should think. Oh, it was his own fault,” he lied. Anything to stop Prill going on at him.

  But it was Rose w
ho did the real damage, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a plate of warm scones. She knew all the village gossip, and she thought she was doing Oliver a favour, telling the others what was being talked about all over Stang – how he had been the hero of the hour, phoning for the Edges and bringing Winnie round from a faint, running up to Pit Farm and fetching Our Vi back with him to look at Porky, because he thought he was “going”. Rose told the story with real pride. She rather admired Oliver.

  “And he had to have a blood transfusion,” she finished breathlessly. “Two goes they had at him before the doctor said he was all right. His dad and mam were that worried.”

  The effect of Rose’s speech on Prill was quite extraordinary. She had listened to the saga of Porky’s foot in silence, but with mounting alarm, and when Rose mentioned the blood transfusion she went into a kind of hysterical fit, throwing herself round the room and crying and yelling, “There you are! What did I tell you?” while Oliver looked on helplessly, and Colin grabbed her arm, trying to make her sit down again and drink some tea.

  Prill pushed cup and plate away from him savagely, and they crashed to the floor. Tut-tutting, the poor, bewildered Rose got down on to her knees and began to pick up the bits of china, muttering darkly to herself and wagging her head sorrowfully. This seemed to madden Prill even more; she was yelling at the top of her voice now “I told you we should post that letter. They’ll never come for us if they don’t know what’s going on in this place, now will they? They don’t know about Jessie’s foot yet, you know, and when they hear about Porky’s little accident. . .” she screamed shrilly. “I begged you to let me post that letter, Colin, but you said no. Now this has happened. I should never have listened to you.”

  “Prill. For goodness sake,” Colin began hopelessly, shooting a look at Oliver who was on his knees by the fire, picking up bits of china. They’d argued about Prill’s letter all the way to the riding stables on the bus. It was a desperate plea to her parents, telling them how unhappy she was at Elphins, and how she wanted to go back home.

  Colin had persuaded her not to post it, not yet anyway, and it was upstairs, zipped into the front of his anorak. He’d pointed out how hurt Molly would feel, how it would mean his father having to abandon the portrait, and what a disappointment that would be, and all because of them. As they’d jogged down the sunny lanes together, Prill had cheered up considerably. What was happening in Stang had all seemed rather remote and unimportant for a while, receding into the leafy distance.

  But this fresh development had turned everything black again. After tomorrow, when they’d booked another riding lesson, Prill would have no money left, and the Bostocks – her lifeline – were going away on holiday. She was determined to contact her parents.

  Molly collided with her in the doorway. The tinkling of china, and Prill’s throaty hysterics, had brought her in from the studio where she’d been privately dosing Dotty. The dog’s sojourn in the kiln had obviously upset its insides, and it kept coughing and being sick. “Prill, dear, what on earth’s the matter now?” The girl’s scarlet, tear-stained face was all screwed-up and ugly. She simply shoved past poor Molly, muttering something about writing a letter, and began to mount the stairs.

  Molly peeped into the front parlour. Oliver was still hunting for pieces of china in the hairs of the rug; Colin shrugged and rolled his eyes up to heaven rather comically. “Rose went on a bit about Porky’s accident,” he said in a low voice. “And Prill didn’t like it. She’s a bit squeamish, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, Rose,” Molly chided gently, “I wish you hadn’t done that. You’ve upset her, dear, and it may give her nightmares.” Up above, Prill’s bedroom door slammed loudly and the windows rattled. “As if we’d not got enough to worry about,” Molly muttered, going wearily up the stairs and wondering what on earth she could say to the girl. Thank goodness nobody knew about Dotty, anyway.

  Colin let her go. He’d had enough of Prill and her alarming changes of mood for one day, and his patience was at an end. Besides, he really must find out more from Oliver, and in particular, just how Porky had got tangled up in that mower. It was only a rotary cutter, like the one they had at home. Could it really have run away with Porky, as Oliver had suggested? There was no rhyme or reason to an episode like that.

  It was like the stone that had hurtled off the tower, like Posie Massey’s inexplicable disappearance. Like the meat safe door that had shut by itself. Like Prill’s doll. Colin was frightened. He must talk to Oliver now, while he had the chance, and hear his side of the story.

  By seven o’clock Winnie Webster was tucked up in bed with a sedative, and a neighbour had agreed to stay the night. The play rehearsal was cancelled. After Oliver’s phone call the Edges had come up trumps. Harold and Frank had torn down to the bungalow in their shabby old van, stowed the senseless Porky in the back like a side of beef, and driven to Ranswick Hospital at seventy. Oliver had found Vi at Pit Farm, all on her own, and she’d come back with him, hammering on the door of the caravan as they ran past to stir the occupants into life.

  The mother of the Puddings had caught them up as they turned into Winnie’s gate. She’d made gallons of sweet tea while the men got Porky comfortable in the van, and Our Vi had stayed with Winnie long after everyone else had gone, sitting quietly at her side and stroking her hand, because the poor woman couldn’t stop shaking.

  In the end Oliver had crept away. His brain was working overtime and he had a splitting headache. Everything had moved on to a different plane now. The Edges still frightened him, and he still hated that dreadful staring look they all had, even Our Vi, who was incapable of adding two and two, according to the heartless Winnie.

  The most terrifying thing was their kindness to Porky. If they had somehow brought these terrible things to pass why had they all helped him, Oliver wondered? Why hadn’t they passed by on the other side, and laughed?

  Molly spent ages upstairs with Prill and they eventually came down together, the best of friends, and took the three dogs out for a long walk. Prill hardly said a word to anyone for the rest of the day, and she looked very tearful and red-eyed, but at least she didn’t snap.

  Later that night they were all playing Monopoly round the kitchen table when there was a loud banging on the front door. “Da didee Da Da,” very slow and deliberate. “It’s the Mummers,” Molly said quietly. “Come on, Rose. Open the door and let’s get it over with. We’ll all come.”

  Before Rose was halfway down the hall the knocker banged again. When at last she opened the door they saw a dark knot of figures filling the narrow path, giggling and pushing at each other, with more people behind them in the shadows. Everyone was in costume, and most of the Mummers wore curious slit-eyed hoods. Some of the children had plastic horror masks looped behind their ears – skulls, and were-wolves, and grinning vampires. Rose stepped back a few inches.

  “Come on, Jason,” someone shouted. “Get to the front, will you, we’ve not got all night.”

  A small figure, dressed all in red, with a fat forked tail, was pushed from the back and forced on to the doorstep. “Do your stuff, Jase,” Sid Edge shouted.

  “Tony looks nice,” Rose whispered to Prill, as little Devil Doubt made a great show of clearing his throat.

  Bashfully Jason Edge held out a paper plate with five fruit buns on it. “Cakes for your dame, and Cakes for your squire, and Cakes for the stranger who sits by your fire,” he mumbled. Then, “Here you all are.”

  Rose stood dithering on the step. Tony’s new costume wasn’t as nice as hers, she was thinking wistfully. Vi had made it and she was a real codger with a needle. “Take them, take them,” Molly was hissing in her ear. “It’s cold out here, I want to lock up.” But before Rose could take the floppy plate Tony Edge had shoved forwards from the back. “Old Hob, Old Hob, Give him a tanner, Give him a bob,” he yelled, and old William’s huge skull, majestic with its bells and ribbons and flowing silk streamers, was thrust at them all in turn, with its jaws snapping
.

  Prill screamed and ran up the stairs, but Tony just laughed and jiggled the head about on its pole. “Smashin’ i’n’it?” he said to Molly, as she tried to close the door. “Best we’ve ever ’ad, I reckon.”

  “Prill won’t eat hers,” Colin said, looking at the plate of cakes on the kitchen table. “She’s gone to bed, I think. So has Rose.”

  Molly couldn’t think what to say, so she picked up her bun and took a small mouthful, to avoid talking.

  Oliver also chewed away in silence, but he kept taking the currants out of his mouth to inspect them. They were awfully hard, just like bits of gravel. It didn’t make sense at all. He’d helped Winnie to mix them and he’d seen all the ingredients.

  Colin found a piece of bandage in his, but he spat it into the fire without saying anything. He thought the Edges had made the Soul Cakes, and nothing surprised him about that lot.

  “Look at this,” said Molly, with forced cheerfulness, picking something off her tongue. “What on earth—ugh, it’s a fly. Honestly, I’ve eaten some funny things in my time, but this beats everything.”

  The church bell started a slow, monotonous tolling. Molly threw her bun on the fire and glanced up at the clock. “There’s a service tonight,” she said. “They’re getting ready for tomorrow. All the Edges’ll be there, you know they’re killing really. They go round terrorising everybody with that horse, then they pray like mad.”

  “What’s tomorrow, Molly?” Colin said, his mind going blank.

  “Good Friday, dear.”

  “And it’s St Elfin’s Eve tonight,” Oliver added firmly, but only to himself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Oliver made his preparations carefully, with the thoroughness of a man preparing for an African safari. He went to bed a few minutes after Molly had locked up, saying he was very tired and yawning his head off. But up in his bedroom he immediately came to life and checked through his small rucksack yet again – book, torch, spare batteries. Notebook, pencil, chocolate, Thermos flask – empty, as yet. He’d have to creep down and fill it when everyone had gone to bed.