The Beggar's Curse Page 14

  He was a creature of habit and usually slept with an alarm on the bedside table. But that might wake Colin. He got into bed fully clothed, snuggled down and closed his eyes; he would have to rely on his inside clock, it hadn’t failed him yet. Whenever he wanted to get up early for something he always found himself wide awake, long before he needed to be. Let’s hope it works tonight, he said to himself, closing his eyes and getting comfortable. Tonight of all nights.

  It was chiming midnight when Oliver crept down the garden path. He was late. He needn’t have stopped in the kitchen to fill a flask with cocoa, but he was going to need plenty of warm drinks if he had to stay out till two o’clock.

  There was a big moon, with shreds of cloud sailing across its face. The crooked steeple looked alive as the shadows patterned it, like a crooked finger beckoning him on. He pushed the lych gate open and walked up the path. The graveyard was very peaceful and the mossy tombs were dimmed to soft round shapes against the knotted trees, like little old women talking together.

  “Death is natural, Oliver,” his mother had always told him; as a nurse she’d had to get used to it. “Bodies are just like shells, dear. Little boxes that contain the human spirit. Think of it that way.” He only listened to half his mother said these days; as she got older she tended to repeat herself. But he clung to it now because fear was plucking at him. There were so many graves, so much rottenness under the ground. He couldn’t not think about dying, with Molly’s friend Kath Brierley laid out at the undertaker’s, all ready for her funeral.

  She’d been young once, he’d seen a photo of her on the cottage mantelpiece. Why did people have to get old and worn out, anyway? Why did they die?

  He sat down on a huge flat tomb on the left of the church door. It was only half-past twelve, and if he was really going to stay there for a whole hour and a half he’d have to get himself organized and keep himself awake. He ate two squares of chocolate and had a swig of cocoa from the flask, then he looked around. The churchyard slept under the quiet stars, little dark shapes scurried across the sodden grass, and he heard the odd squeak as some tiny creature met its end in the claws of a night hunter. Determined to sit it out he opened his book and switched his torch on.

  But nobody, not even Oliver, could have concentrated on a funny story in those circumstances. It was ridiculous to have tried. He started his favourite “William” adventure, where the Outlaws put notices all over horrid Aunt Emily’s bedroom, but he didn’t get any further than William sticking the label on her big false teeth.

  “Harmes be to all who over churchyard pass,

  Grim Death himself shall take the first and last.”

  The strange lines were written large on every page, and even when he shut his eyes they rang in his head like great bells. He was crazy to have come here, just because of an old story. Had anyone ever done it before? He’d nearly asked Molly but he thought she might get suspicious and stop him.

  The church clock suddenly struck one. Oliver jumped, dropped both book and torch, and shot bolt upright. It was pitch black now, the moon had been blotted out by swags of thick cloud, and he couldn’t see a hand in front of his face.

  Don’t panic Oliver. Find the torch and switch it on again, you twit. But the bulb must have broken when it hit the path, and he clicked it on and off in vain.

  He sat down again abruptly. There was a slight breeze now; perhaps, when it drove the clouds off, he’d be able to see again. Until then he’d better sit tight on this damp gravestone.

  Had the Edges ever done this for a laugh? Had they ever sat in the graveyard on St Elfin’s Eve just to see if there was anything behind that old saying? “No smoke without fire, Oliver.” His father was always quoting that. He wanted someone there with him, even someone like Sid or Tony Edge. Panic had started to gnaw at his insides like a little worm. It was ridiculous. He must pack up and go back to Molly’s. But Elphins was at the bottom of that hideous lane, with its dripping trees and its rustlings and its fantastic shadows.

  He got colder and colder. Damp was steadily seeping through all his layers, his two pairs of gloves, his bobble hat, his thick scarf. In the end he forced himself to his feet and groped round blindly, trying to pack his rucksack. He’d make a dash for it down that lane in a minute. Anything was better than staying here.

  Then something moved by the lych gate, a kind of fog, quite dense and white enough to make his eyes tingle, but with shapes behind it. Or was it making itself into shapes? Oliver stood rooted to the path in terror. His cold, aching body didn’t belong to him any more, his legs refused to obey messages from his brain. He wanted to run but his feet had become enormous weights and his skin was clammy and pimply with nerves. His arms swung uselessly at his side like dismembered limbs.

  The small, bright fog was moving slowly towards him along the path, silent, unhurried, bobbing about haphazardly like a big balloon, and as it came nearer Oliver could see that the blurred grey shapes inside were separating themselves into people.

  A huge horse led the procession and the figure on its back was small and female; she sat side-saddle, with a full skirt billowing down, hiding all but the toes of her tight boots. Oliver looked into her eyes. There was something familiar about that young, unlined face. It was Miss Brierley, but as she had been seventy years ago, the same sweet face he’d seen in the family photograph. Old William looked no different from usual. “He was the loveliest old horse I’d ever seen,” Prill had sobbed when she told them about the Head. He plodded patiently along the mossy path, whisking his ribboned tail.

  Another figure shambled behind on a pair of crutches – Porky Bover with an enormous bandage round one foot, gamely making his slow way down the path and grinning at his own awkwardness, trying to hop. They were like figures in a dream, silent, intent upon their own small world, a passing show that neither heard nor saw him. As he stared, the enveloping cloud reached the church door, thinned out and dissolved, till all that remained of it was a sore, prickly feeling behind his eyes.

  So it was true, and what it had told him was true. In a strange way the ghostly procession had given him comfort because it foreshadowed nothing that hadn’t happened already. Kath Brierley was dead, so was the old carthorse, and Porky Bover had certainly suffered “harmes”. Harms, but not death, thanks to the accident unit at Ranswick Hospital, and to the Edges.

  Oliver stood up shakily. He would never tell anyone about this, never ever. Let it remain a dream with Colin’s midnight row on the lake. No one would believe a word of it anyway, even if he trusted them enough to share such a secret.

  He took a deep breath and pulled up his anorak hood over his damp hair. The long, long night wasn’t quite over yet, there was the lane to face. He would just have to make a dash for it, but at least the moon was out again.

  And it was shining on something by the gate, a little grey shape that slowly became a person as Oliver began to walk down the path with his rucksack over his shoulder. It was a girl.

  In his great relief he’d forgotten the second part of the old rhyme, forgotten that whoever came last was also marked for Death. Porky Bover was still alive and kicking, how could he have been so stupid to think that was the end of it?

  The girl was in a hurry. She rushed anxiously along the path and swept past him in silence, urgently, as if she feared that the door might be shut in her face, and death denied her. He had a glimpse of thick, long hair as she passed into the porch, and he heard himself cry out desperately, “Stop! Please stop! Don’t go in there!” Knowing it was useless.

  He sank down on his cold tomb again, staring at the church door, willing her not to enter, then he looked up. The small ghostly figure was still standing there, and she was looking him straight in the eyes. It was Prill.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “For heaven’s sake. . . what on earth. . . Oliver!” Prill sat up in bed and put her hand over her eyes. “Switch that thing off, can’t you. It hurts.” She was staring at him in complete bewilderment, fuddled wi
th sleep and very angry. He had switched the light on and was standing at the end of the bed, gawping at her like some prize idiot.

  “I’ve. . . I’ve. . .” he stammered. “Are you all right?”

  “Well of course I’m all right. But just what are you doing in here? It’s – It’s half-past two in the morning. I was fast asleep.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Only something woke me up, and I thought—”

  “Clear off, Oliver. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had for weeks, till you came barging in. Go and take one of Molly’s pills if you’re so wide awake. There’s no need to disturb everyone else in the house.”

  But Oliver didn’t move. “I just felt like talking to someone,” he said lamely, inspecting her with his large pale eyes. She looked normal, a bit hot perhaps, but not as though she was sickening for something.

  “You felt like talking to someone!” she repeated incredulously. “So you come and disturb me, in the middle of the night. You’re cracked!”

  “Prill, I—”

  “CLEAR OUT!” And she picked up the nearest thing to hand and flung it at him.

  Oliver fled, only just managing to pull the door shut before a shoe crashed against it. He felt peeved; Prill had changed since they’d come to Stang, all her gentleness had gone. He’d quite liked her before, she’d always been more patient with him than Colin was, and less disapproving, but she had no time or patience for anyone now. It had all started after she’d seen the horse’s head.

  He scuttled back to his own room and got into bed, then he lay awake for a long time, worrying. Any normal person would have asked him what he wanted; you didn’t usually go round waking people up in the middle of the night. If she’d asked, he’d have tried to explain and they might have got somewhere. But Prill had gone away from them now, she was totally absorbed in her own little plans to get out of Stang. Wherever she went from now on, he decided, he would have to go with her. It wasn’t going to be easy though.

  The Friday morning dragged terribly; Oliver trailed round after Prill and irritated her to death. “Stop looking at me, you creep!” she yelled at him, brushing him away like some big bluebottle. He had insisted on helping her and Rose chop up vegetables for a stew, and he watched eagle-eyed in case the knife should slip and his cousin sustain some terrible injury. She was like the princess who was doomed to die by pricking her finger on a needle.

  Oliver never did anything by halves. Unknown to Prill he spent an anxious hour on guard duty outside the bathroom while she took a bath and washed her hair. Molly didn’t have one of those non-slip rubber mats, or handles to help you get out of the bath, and he knew quite well that you could drown in a few inches of water. But she sounded happy enough, humming pop songs and listening to the radio. Her mood was lightening because she was going riding in the afternoon, and Jackie Bostock’s company always cheered her up. He couldn’t stop her going, she’d been talking about it all morning.

  Colin was going too. They decided not to remind Molly about her promise to drive them to the stables. She’d been landed with all the arrangements for Kath Brierley’s funeral and Elphins had suddenly filled up with undertakers and vicars, and decrepit relatives of the deceased. So they swallowed lunch in record time and ran down to the Green to get the one-thirty bus. Just as the driver was moving off someone pelted across the road and scrambled aboard, panting noisily. It was Oliver.

  “Thought I’d come too,” he said in an embarrassed voice, heartily wishing he’d not said anything about his fear of horses.

  Their very size frightened him, he hated their great bloodshot eyes and he loathed their smell. He’d been the one toddler on the beach who always refused a donkey ride along the sands, and here he was, planning to shell out all his cash for an expensive riding lesson.

  Prill stared out of the window and ignored him. She was thinking about her mother and father, and about Alison. Oliver could do what he liked so long as he didn’t tag along after her all day. But Colin was puzzled. Uncle Stanley was very mean with Oliver, and he never had much money to spend; besides, he’d told Molly he was nervous of horses – she’d tried to persuade him to go riding herself. “Will your mother mind, Oll?” he said casually, as Oliver counted the money in his little brown purse. “Only, well weren’t you planning to go to church or something?”

  Oliver went red. She certainly would mind, and he’d forgotten. It was Good Friday, and she’d have taken him to a long, dreary service at St Matthew’s, if he’d been in London. She wouldn’t have let him watch television, or ride his bike or anything, and she’d be bound to ask him about Stang Church when he got home. She could be very disapproving at times.

  “I can go tonight,” he said firmly, knowing perfectly well that there would be no evening service. “I don’t see what difference it makes. There’s nothing else round here to spend my money on anyway, and. . . and I’ve always wanted to go riding,” he lied.

  Colin didn’t say any more. Oliver was working up to something, he was like a saucepan coming up to a slow boil. He’d driven Prill mad this morning, creeping round after her like a lunatic, asking her if she was all right every other minute. He must have come to spy on them, or perhaps he wanted some more information about Porky Bover’s accident. He was very interested in grisly stories. Perhaps he was planning to sneak off to the hospital to get the gory details from Porky himself. Whatever he was up to, he must think it was very important. Oliver was like his father, he didn’t part with his precious money easily.

  Getting him mounted was quite hilarious, and even Prill smiled. When he saw the string of ponies, saddled and bridled and ready for the off, Oliver backed away. Even the small ones looked enormous, and a couple of them were eyeing him suspiciously and tugging at their halters.

  Jackie Bostock gave him a leg up on to a little furry black thing called Paddington, but she could see he was nervous. “This one’s always half asleep, Oliver,” she whispered in his ear. “He won’t give you any trouble. Now, are you comfortable? Take the reins. . . no, like that. . . good. That looks fine.” Paddington took one step forward and Oliver let out a little yelp. Behind him Colin and Prill collapsed into giggles. “Look, I’ll take you on the leading rein for a bit,” Jackie said loudly, winking at the other two and mouthing, “Shut up.” “Now we’ve got to find a hat that fits properly. Miss Trent’s very strict about that.”

  Oliver really made a meal of it. The first hat came right down over his ears, the second was much too small, and he said the third and fourth had a funny smell. In the end, Jackie got quite annoyed. The Blakemans had arrived late and their two hours were already eaten into. She wanted a good ride this afternoon, and there was only so much time to waste on this nit Oliver. Prill was right, he was pathetic. She didn’t understand why he’d wanted to come anyway.

  He calmed down a little when they were on the move. The horses walked at a slow pace out of the stableyard and along the lane, and Paddington didn’t buck or rear and throw him off in a fit of bad temper. He was a fat little pony and kept stopping to eat grass from the verges. Jackie showed Oliver how to jerk the reins and keep them short. “Let him know who’s boss,” she advised him, and he started to get the hang of it after a while, though the whole thing struck him as extremely boring.

  Prill was two horses ahead on a brown mare. “She rides well,” Jackie told him, not realising what sweet music this was in the ears of the anxious Oliver. “She’s got a natural seat and no nerves. The horse can always tell.” It was a good thing his own greedy little mount was so dozy then, Oliver decided. Every time a car came past his stomach turned over, in case Paddington got frightened and bolted.

  As they ambled down the green lanes a watery sun came out. The trees and hedges were loud with birdsong and it felt quite warm. Up at the front Colin unzipped his anorak. “I’m hot,” he shouted back. “First time I’ve been really warm since we arrived.”

  “It’s going to be a lovely Easter,” Jackie said to Oliver. “I wish we hadn’t got to g
o away, I’d much rather stay at home, this time of the year. You’re lucky to be staying with Molly, Stang’s a gorgeous village.”

  He didn’t answer that. It wasn’t a bit like this in their dark little hollow. The sun never seemed to warm it up and you never heard the birds singing. There must be birds, but he hadn’t been aware of the usual chirruping and arguing that came with spring, even in towns.

  Jackie decided to take them to the wishing well on Saltersly Moss. Miss Trent, who owned the stables, had packed them off on their own, with Jackie in charge. She was busy getting ready for an Easter gymkhana and she was only too pleased to have the horses exercised. “Are we allowed?” Oliver said anxiously. “She only said, ‘down the lanes’.” He always stuck to The Rules and he wondered how far off this place was, and whether they’d get back in the two hours. He couldn’t afford to pay for extra time. Besides, the longer they were out the more risk there was to Prill. He wanted her back at Elphins where he could keep his eye on her.

  “It is down the lanes,” Jackie told him. “There’s nothing to see, but it’s quite pretty. Well, it used to be, I’ve not been for ages.”

  “Wishing well” sounded quite romantic and they all had their own ideas about it. If he could have one wish, Colin decided, he’d use it for Porky Bover. He couldn’t stop thinking about him, with his foot trapped under that mower. Rose had been quite right in what she’d told them, he’d checked with Molly. They’d had to give him a second blood transfusion before he was out of the wood. Please let him get better, Colin said to himself. Please let everything be all right.

  Prill was thinking about her parents, against hope that nothing would stop them coming down from Scotland on Easter Tuesday. They’d phoned to say they were now leaving the Camerons earlier than they’d originally planned. Mum hadn’t said why, but Prill thought Molly had got something to do with the sudden decision. She was banking on Tuesday anyway. Don’t let anything stop them, she pleaded silently.