The Beggar's Curse Read online

  Oliver couldn’t take wishing wells very seriously. In any case he had to concentrate on Prill. But he did feel more relaxed. It was such a lovely day and they must be out of the danger zone, up here. By now the Edges would be tearing round the village, getting everything ready for tonight’s big dress rehearsal, and enjoying another barney about Porky Bover’s replacement.

  Then, from somewhere across the fields, a church bell started tolling. Oliver started guiltily, and thought about his mother, down on her knees in gloomy St Matthew’s, in one of her awful hats. Paddington trotted for a few steps and he wobbled dangerously, then they slowed down again.

  Yes, it was right to be out here in the fresh air, jogging along the lanes with his mind fixed firmly on Prill. It felt right. Please don’t let anything awful happen, he begged. Wishing was a bit like praying really, not that his mother would understand that.

  Saltersley Well was the big build up for the big letdown. The approach was pretty enough, down a great sweep of hill with huge trees on both sides of the road, meeting over their heads in a dark green tunnel. But the well itself was filthy, and choked with litter; the sandstone sides were cut to pieces with initials and things like “United for the Cup” and “Val loves Eddy” And “Kevin Bates Rules OK”. And the whole place smelt horrible.

  “Sorry, folks,” Jackie said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s obviously gone down the nick. It was awfully pretty once though, we used to come here on picnics.”

  “Well, it must have been a long time ago,” Oliver said tactlessly.

  Jackie took no notice. She was getting rather irritated by this fussy young boy who squeaked like a petrified rabbit the minute his pony showed the least spark of life. She suddenly unfastened Paddington’s rope halter and put it in her pocket. “You can walk back on your own, Oliver,” she told him. “I’ll ride Meg, and we’ll stay behind you. OK?” Meg was the big grey she’d been leading with her other hand. Before he could protest, she had leaped up on to the broad back and was wheeling the horse round. “Let’s give them all a drink,” she called to the others. “Then we’ll go back. There’s plenty of water anyway.”

  The horses drank greedily from a ditch that had overflowed its banks and was seeping all over the road. Nearly every head was down, and the riders were chatting to each other, when something appeared over the brow of the hill and began coming towards them at great speed.

  Only two of them saw it – Oliver, who was yanking Paddington away from a clump of lush grass, and Prill, whose chestnut had drunk its fill and was now snapping irritably at the heels of the horse in front. At first it was only a little dot, silver and blue, flashing in and out of the leafy shadows, then it became a person hunched over low-slung handlebars, squealing with fright as the bicycle ran away down the long hill, helplessly ringing the bell and applying the brakes, then sticking his feet out.

  With nightmare accuracy the machine cannoned straight into the knot of horses, hitting two mid-on. Colin found himself cantering down the lane, Meg shied away, neighing loudly; Paddington, feeling a sudden slackness in the reins, cashed in, dropped his head and began tucking into the verge. But Prill’s horse, caught in the belly, reared up in terror. Its head went back and its front hooves splayed out wildly, thrashing the air. Prill lost the reins, the stirrups dropped away and bounced against the great flanks, and, as the horse reared for the second time, she was flung off backwards and fell straight down, hitting her head on the road.

  The demon bike rider was Sid Edge. As the dust cleared he got to his feet shakily, retrieved his cap, then looked up dumbly at the forest of legs, piebald, black and white, jostling and wheeling about as the riders reined in their frightened horses and Jackie tried to calm everyone down, before another took fright and bolted. “It’s these brakes,” the boy was mumbling, sounding rather bewildered. “I reckon they need tightening. Jus’ didn’t work. There must be some screws missin’. Me dad’ll have to have a look. Brand new an’ all.” Then he saw Prill, hatless, out cold in the middle of the road. “Hey, is she all right? That’s your sister, i’n’it?”

  She looked dead. Her head was lolling over at a horrible, twisted angle, and all the colour had been sucked out of her face. From one corner of her open mouth a thin dark thread fell slowly down.

  No one took any notice of Sid Edge. Colin didn’t even hear him. Numbly he obeyed Jackie Bostock’s icy instructions as she dismounted and covered Prill with her riding jacket. “Get off, and lead your horse over there, by that gate. Keep your eye on Oliver. There’s a farm up the road, I’ll phone from there. Don’t touch her, whatever you do,” and she’d gone.

  Oliver, who was usually so cool in a crisis, was shaking so much that he could hardly stay on the pony’s back. His reins were on the ground, getting all tangled up in its hooves. He didn’t notice Sid creep sheepishly over, shove his bike in the hedge, and sort them out for him. His eyes were fixed on Prill’s yellowy cheeks, desperate for the tiniest movement. In the awful quietness the little red worm reached her chin and dropped a tiny bead on the road.

  He shuddered and closed his eyes. It was his fault, he should have locked Prill up. He’d heard about horrific accidents like this, they could happen to the most marvellous riders. If only he’d told them about last night, if only he’d not pretended to Prill that he’d been walking round because he couldn’t sleep. She just might have listened to him.

  Now it was too late. It had been a terrible fall; she’d crashed down on to the road like a stone hurled from a great height, with all the strength a man could muster. People could die from quite small blows to the head. If Prill died it would be his fault.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Life gradually took on the tangled quality of nightmare. The two boys couldn’t remember just how they got to places, or who spoke to them, and the hours and days got hopelessly mixed up. At first Jackie Bostock was with them, then she went away and her father came, and they seemed to be sitting endlessly in cars and offices and waiting rooms while time crawled by, like something half dead.

  Now they were sitting on a hard bench in a room with sickly green walls, while a phone call was put through to Molly Bover. But there was no reply, and Colin couldn’t remember Judge Cameron’s number. A stream of doctors and nurses passed in and out of big swing doors, and there was a lot of mumbled discussion behind raised hands. Phone calls were whispered so they couldn’t make the words out, and a uniformed figure flitted over to them from time to time, uttered some polite, meaningless remark, then went off again.

  They were not allowed to see Prill, and in the end a doctor suggested they went home. Everything possible was being done, he told them, and the hospital was trying to contact Mr and Mrs Blakeman. “We can only wait,” he said cautiously, in reply to Colin’s hoarse questions. “There’s a taxi outside, ready to take you to your aunt’s. Mr Bostock’s arranged it. Off you go now.”

  The kindness of the elderly driver was almost unbearable, and he embarked upon a gentle prattle as soon as they were through the hospital gates. “Little girl’s had a bump on the head, has she? Well, that’s nothing to worry about. My two lads play rugby and they’ve been in and out of that hospital half a dozen times, I should think. Marvellous those doctors are. Now don’t you worry. She’ll come round, and then you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about. . .”

  In the back, Colin reached out and silently took hold of his cousin’s hand. Oliver was still trembling and he felt extremely cold. He’d hardly said a word in the hospital, except something ridiculous when Jimmy Bostock arrived, something like “my fault”.

  He stared out of the window as the budding hedges swished past, seeing nothing but that small face in the road, the cloud of auburn hair, the slow trickle of blood. His hand lay in Colin’s like a dead fish, his china-blue eyes were red and sore, and his pale cheeks were smudged with tears. Colin opened his mouth but the simplest sentence was beyond him now. He turned away and looked out of his own window, pressing the tears back, and the dreadful chatter of
the taxi man went on and on.

  When they walked through the front door of Elphins, Molly was speaking to the hospital on the phone. The tiny hall was very narrow and she more or less filled it. As they pushed past she put a hand out and touched them both.

  The tears ran down Colin’s face. He muttered an excuse about fetching something from his bedroom, and ran upstairs two steps at a time. Oliver looked as if he was cracking up, and Molly had to go to her best friend’s funeral in the morning. Someone must keep cheerful. He gave his face a good wash and blew his nose thoroughly, then he went back downstairs feeling oddly light-headed, as if he’d got flu.

  He confided how he felt to Rose. “Shock, that is,” she said calmly, shovelling three spoonfuls of sugar into a mug of tea. “Here y’are, get this down you. Sweet drinks are good for shock.” The dogs, catching the general mood, were trailing at her heels, hoping for scraps. When nothing appeared, Jessie hobbled over to Colin and slumped down on to his feet. His father would see her soon, thank heaven she was making a good recovery. Though however bad her limp was, he doubted that either of his parents would notice now.

  Molly spoke in clipped, short sentences, as if she was keeping herself on a very tight rein. The hospital had only told her what the two boys already knew. Prill hadn’t broken any bones but there was a massive blow to the head and she was deeply concussed. “They can’t tell us any more than that, dears,” she said, busying herself over the tea things. “We must just keep cheerful, that’s all. For Prill’s sake.”

  But her mirthless smile fooled nobody. Oliver wanted to know if they’d managed to contact his aunt and uncle. He was dreading that. He was fond of his Auntie Jeannie and he remembered vividly how she’d gone to pieces last summer, when the baby fell ill and they couldn’t get a doctor. He didn’t want the police to find them yet.

  It appeared that they’d gone touring for the weekend, in a hired car, because the judge and his wife had decided to go to Edinburgh, to stay with friends over Easter. An S.O.S. message was to be put out on the radio that night before the ten o’clock news.

  “In a way it might be better if they didn’t get here till she comes round,” Molly said thoughtfully, echoing what was in Oliver’s mind.

  “But will she come round?” whispered Colin, spelling it out at last.

  “Well of course she will, lovie. Look, you’ve got to believe that, Colin.” And Molly put her arm round him, and tried to make him eat something.

  His tears flowed freely then, and Oliver pulled up a stool on the other side and sat staring dully at the tablecloth. At their feet the dogs huddled together, the poodles whimpering in sympathy. But Jessie was growling uneasily – she didn’t much like the funny noise that Colin was making. Rose brewed fresh tea and banged the pot down on its stand, making all the crockery rattle, and down in the village the church clock began a miserable tolling. “It’s Good Friday,” she said savagely.

  They all went upstairs very early, closing their bedroom doors and resigning themselves to a long night of lying awake. No one had wanted to stay downstairs any longer, the old house was too heavy with their unspoken thoughts, and whenever the phone rang there was a sickening wait as Molly ran into the hall to answer it. But it was never the hospital.

  At one in the morning Oliver went down to the kitchen to refill his hot-water bottle. The low-ceilinged room, with its cooking smells and its copper pans, was very comforting. He made himself some Ovaltine and sat drinking it at the table, with his small bare toes buried in the silky hair on Jessie’s back; that was comforting too.

  Molly had tried to cheer Colin up by showing him his photos of the play rehearsal. Kwik Flicks had done them in twenty-four hours, in time for the Easter holiday. “He deserves to get on, that young man does,” she’d murmured approvingly. “Let’s have a look then, Colin.”

  But he’d been disappointed. The photos were no better than Oliver’s efforts, worse if anything. They were all dark and rather blurred, and none of the interesting details showed up properly. He just couldn’t understand it because he’d been extremely careful, and his flash had been working.

  “What a pity,” Molly had said sympathetically. “Do you think you need a different kind of film, dear? Only this kind of shot is always—”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter, Molly,” he’d snapped at her, shoving all the photos back in their envelope. “They’d have been hopeless anyway, people kept moving about.”

  “But they’ve cost you so much money, Colin. . .”

  “I said it doesn’t matter,” he’d repeated desperately, the hopeless tears for Prill creeping into his eyes again. What did a few old photos matter, compared with her? What did anything matter?

  Oliver sipped his Ovaltine and spread the twelve photos out on the table, then he looked at them for a very long time. Had Colin seen what he could see now? No, he decided. There’d been no terror in his voice, no wild alarm, just a great weariness that told everyone to go away and leave him alone.

  His brain was running ahead so fast now he felt quite feverish. So much was spinning round inside his head, so many dark threads were coming together into one awful whole, that he no longer knew what he saw in the pictures, or what his mind made him see.

  And he realised quite suddenly that there was no difference now, and that it didn’t matter any more. He adjusted his thick glasses and brought the photographs right under his nose, examining them minutely, one by one.

  Every single shot was marked by the outlines of a face, but it wasn’t contained in the features of the Mummers – in Tony arguing with Winnie Webster, or in Uncle Harold preening himself in gold and black. The pictures themselves were faces. Out of the blurry darkness, broken only by the top of a blond head or a flash of white arm, the hard, harsh lines that had become so familiar to him leered out yet again. This was the face in that hedge where he’d seen the dunnet, this was the face on Rose’s embroidered horse and the face on the doll that Colin had hurled into the pit. This was Sid’s face as he stared down at the unconscious Prill, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish.

  Oliver stared and stared at the twelve photographs, and his heart turned to ice inside him. Molly’s old pine table had become a treeless heath, and across it hobbled a filthy old beggarman, limping away from an ancient city whose people had hardened their hearts against him. He heard the gates clang shut, he heard the terrible curse and the waters rising, and he saw how the old man’s face changed slowly from meek hopefulness to murderous, blistering hate.

  Then he looked back at the drowned city, and he realised that the face of the keeper of the gates and the face of the beggar were one and the same. His curse had not withered and died in the waters of Blake’s Pit, it had grown and flourished like some monstrous tree, bearing no fruit, but tainting unborn generations with its evil, with its power to trick, and main, and kill.

  He burned the pictures in the grate, then dragged himself up the creaking stairs with a feeling of utter helplessness. Tomorrow, perhaps, he should burn all his other proofs. What use were they to anyone now? Who could put out a hand and stop what was happening?

  A great darkness had reared up out of the waters of that pit and had brought death in its train. Not just the death of a tired old woman but the cruel death of a young girl who had the whole of life before her. Officially Prill was still alive but she may as well die now, tonight. There was no hope of life for her at all, not any more.

  Mr Blakeman rang at breakfast time and spoke to Molly first. “No change, no worse,” she whispered over her shoulder, scribbling on a pad and explaining apologetically about Kath Brierley’s funeral. After a minute she gave the phone to Colin. “We’re in Carlisle,” Dad said, “and we should be in Ranswick by about eleven. Meet us at the hospital.” The pips went but he didn’t put any more money in, he wanted to get back on the road. Colin ached. His father had sounded so bright, so normal, it was Mum who sometimes panicked. He was looking forward to seeing his little sister again anyway. She was such a comic
and she had such wicked ways. Alison would cheer anyone up.

  The chatty taxi driver was coming to drive them to the hospital. Molly went to Stang church early, to wait for Miss Brierley’s relatives, and the two boys stood in the road, looking out for the car. Preparations for tomorrow’s Mumming were already underway, and the horse’s head was propped up in the Edge’s window with all the chops and sausages, gay with green and yellow ribbons, its thick new varnish gleaming. Colin looked away. There was a last rehearsal planned for tonight and the grand performance was to take place tomorrow, after Evensong. He was glad they couldn’t go now; Prill had hated the play from the very beginning. She’d told Winnie Webster she thought there was something terribly wrong with it, though she didn’t know what.

  When they got to the hospital they discovered that Alison wasn’t there. “Your mother just felt she couldn’t cope with her,” Mr Blakeman explained in an embarrassed voice, “and she wanted to be quite free, for Prill. So we’ve left her in Scotland for a couple of days. She adores Mrs Cameron, she calls her Nanna.”

  Colin was taken aback at first, then puzzled, then rather resentful. Sticky-faced Alison was normality, and he associated her with Prill. They needed life around them now, not all these stage whispers and this unnatural politeness. What was the point of Mum being free for Prill anyway? She was totally unaware of anybody’s existence.

  He just couldn’t get through to his mother. When they arrived she was sitting alone in Prill’s room and all he could see of her was a patch of brown hair and a few inches of blue coat framed in a little glass panel. His sister was surrounded by pieces of bleeping equipment, monitors and charts – a small pink blur against a mountain of white. Colin didn’t want to look at her in the middle of all those tubes and wires, it made him want to scream.