The Beggar's Curse Page 17

  All that was really necessary was to flatten the tyres, and Oliver systematically unscrewed every valve he could find and waited for a sudden rush of air. When nothing seemed to be happening he took out a pair of scissors from his trouser pocket and plunged them twice into the rim of each wheel. The blades were small but extremely sharp, and he’d pinched them from Rose’s sewing-box that afternoon. Now, at last, the tyres were really going down, and with quite a satisfactory hiss. But Oliver hadn’t quite finished. He was puny, with muscles like knots on cotton. Nevertheless, he managed to lug the machine away from the wall, and with one great shove he pushed it over and left it in a heap amid a litter of oil and rags.

  Feeling quite giddy with his success so far, he left the bike where it was and went on into the shop, squeezing through a tiny window at the back and jumping down into the smelly storeroom where they made sausages and mince, and where Colin had been trapped inside the chiller. He felt quite bold all of a sudden. He could probably have tampered with the lock and got into the front shop, but this wasn’t going to be necessary if his luck held. The night was young and there was no point in wasting energy.

  He found the old wooden wedge, undid the meat safe door and propped it open a couple of feet. Then he wrought havoc, pulling down bundles of paper bags from a shelf and spreading them all round the floor, upsetting two cartons of baked beans, heaping old cardboard boxes in the middle of the room, then jumping on them. When he was satisfied that it looked like a proper break-in he unlocked the door and went outside again. It was nearly six o’clock. In a few minutes the Mummers would be coming down from Pit Farm to get dressed in the school room. The last part of his plan was definitely the most tricky.

  Tony Edge was extremely stupid. He got the shock of his life when Oliver, in his sopping green anorak and with water dripping off his hood, stepped out from a gateway and said, “Psst!”, then put a cold hand over his mouth. “What the hell. . .” he began explosively, but the hand didn’t go away, not until the posh little voice had told him someone had been tampering with his bike, and that it thought whoever was responsible was doing more damage in the shop.

  It was still pouring down and the Mummers were fast disappearing in the murk. “Hey!” Tony yelled. “Hey, Dad. . .” But the wind was howling. It snatched away his words and flung them back down the valley towards Blake’s Pit. Oliver felt half drunk, with nerves mainly, but also because he saw the gleam of success. He felt reckless. “I’d come on your own, Tony,” he whispered in the large ear. “A large crowd might scare him off. Besides, it’d be good if you could spot him in the act. On your own, I mean. . .”

  And Tony Edge smelt glory. He crept up the hill after the little green gnome, went round the back of the Stores and followed the boy’s shaking finger from his motorbike up to the light in the dirty window, which Oliver had thoughtfully left on. When he saw his bike lying in a heap, with both tyres flattened, the youth let out a roar and began to swear. “Shut up!” Oliver whispered frantically. “You don’t want him to get away, do you? Here, give me that.” Tony needed both hands to pull the bike up off the floor. He handed Oliver the rolled-up costume and tugged till his precious machine was upright again. Then he wanted to examine it minutely, and squatted down on the dusty floor, determined to find out just where this maniac had slashed the tyres. He’d slash him, in a minute. . .

  “Come on, Tony,” urged Oliver, still holding on to the costume, and tucking it right under his arm just in case Tony asked for it back. “There isn’t time for that. I don’t know what he’s been up to in there, but the place is a shambles. He’s after the big joints of meat, I should think – all the turkeys and things. . .”

  The youth fell for it and stared round-eyed at the mess on the storeroom floor. His uncles would kill whoever had done this. People had nicked joints from the shop before, but they’d never wrecked the place. Silently, Oliver jabbed a finger at the open door of the meat safe.

  “In there?” Tony mouthed, creeping towards it.

  “Well, the light’s on,” Oliver whispered back. “Let’s—”

  “Oh, get out of the way,” the youth said rudely, shoving the boy aside. Whoever it was must be still in there, helping himself. He didn’t want this little twerp to interfere now. This was a man’s job.

  It gave Oliver immense satisfaction to kick the wedge aside and shut Tony in the chiller. The play wasn’t very long, so he wouldn’t die, and it might cool his temper a little. He paid no attention to the muffled yells and hammerings, but shook out the baggy white robe and looked at it thoughtfully. It was very long and he’d need all those pins he’d borrowed from Rose Salt’s sewing-box. As for Tony Edge, he wasn’t going to waste any more time on him. It was only tit for tat, after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A long queue of people were now shuffling into the old schoolroom. The tiny playground was flanked by a low wall, and Oliver was behind it, crouching down in the muddy darkness, listening carefully to all that was going on. The play always began at half-past seven. “And not a minute after,” Frank Edge told Winnie, through the door of his cardboard grandfather clock. One of his parts was Old Father Time and the costume was made of two big cardboard cartons painted brown. “Our Tony’s missing,” Jack Edge muttered through his hood, taking a swipe at Jason as he careered up and down the rows of iron desks, hitting people with a pig’s bladder tied to a stick. “Damned if I know where he is.”

  “Oh, he’ll have forgotten something,” Uncle Harold grunted, looking rather menacing in his black and gold doctor’s tunic. “I saw him going back down the hill. He’s not on at the beginning, any road. I’ll send our Vi to see what he’s playing at. He’ll be back. Stop meithering.”

  At seven-thirty precisely, one of the Puddings crawled out from under a bench and struck up a tinny gong. Winnie stepped forward and cleared her throat nervously. She was dressed in a curious floppy garment with huge sleeves that looked rather like a dressing gown. There was some feeble clapping, and a weak cheer from the back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “Just before we start I thought you would like to know that our young friend Porky Bover is making an absolutely splendid recovery. He wanted to be here tonight but, er, well, naturally, he has to stay where he is for a few days. His part will be taken by his father Eric, a stalwart member of our team, you’ll remember, till Porky took over three years ago. One or two other changes have been made but we now have a full cast again, and I can assure you that they have all worked very hard. So, without further ado, let the play begin. Over to you, Mr Bover. . .”

  As Porky’s father came forward with his broom, Winnie stepped across the thick chalk line that circled the acting space and plumped down near Molly with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness that’s over,” she whispered, and settled down to watch. Now that it had started she would take no further part, unless someone needed prompting. Everything would happen inside that thick white circle, and whatever mishaps occurred, nobody would dare to interfere. It was the most ancient rule of the play.

  Molly wasn’t listening. She was squashed up on a hard school bench next to Rose and fat old Elsie Dutton, wondering what Oliver was up to. She’d been going to give the play a miss and spend the evening at the hospital with the poor Blakemans, but the father had phoned just as she was putting her coat on, to ask if the child was feeling better.

  She’d been deliberately vague and reassuring, but she didn’t have a clue about Oliver’s whereabouts. Then it occurred to her that his disappearance might have something to do with the Mumming. He’d been fascinated by the whole thing since the day they’d arrived. She couldn’t see him in the audience though. Fortunately, the performance never lasted very long, and when she found him Molly intended to give him a big piece of her mind.

  The play got off to a noisy start, with Porky’s dad pushing at the people in the front row with his witch’s broom, yelling, “Room, Room, Gallons of Room,” and with Frank Edge capering round inside his cartons and be
llowing:

  “Here come I,

  Old Father Time,

  Welcome or Welcome not,

  And I do hope Old Father Time

  Will never be forgot.”

  And he banged two pan lids together, to imitate the sound of a clock.

  Uncle Harold stalked about pompously, showing everyone what was inside his huge black bag. There was a saw covered with thick red paint, some giant pincers for pulling teeth out, a heavy wooden hammer and a big glass bottle. He showed everything to the audience with great ceremony, but the most important item was the magic medicine. Whenever somebody got killed the Doctor was called for, to pour a few drops down his throat. At this point he always said exactly the same thing:

  “Here, take a little out of my bottle

  And let it run down thy throttle.

  And if thou be not quite slain,

  Rise Sir Knight and fight again.”

  When these lines were delivered, whoever was lying “dead” on the floor, stiff as a board with his toes turned up neatly, pantomime fashion, got up and ran off into the dressing room, miraculously cured.

  The play went through its motions with all the usual hiccups. Sid Edge, a small but sturdy figure in his purple Slasher costume, demolished three coloured knights in quick succession with his knobbly rubber club. Old Father Time wept each time a man died, the Doctor ran on with his magic potion and repeated his little chant:

  “A drop on his head and a drop on his heart

  And up he rises to do his part.”

  And the “dead” man walked off, amid stamping and applause from the audience.

  At one point the action stopped altogether and the Mummers all looked at Winnie. A slow hand clap started at the back. “Lights. . . lights. . .” somebody whispered, and the schoolroom was plunged into darkness. Then a chant began, “Old Hob, Old Hob, Give him a tanner, Give him a bob,” and a single spotlight revealed Frank Edge, running round in his tatty cartons, shoving the shiny, grinning skull of old William into the faces of the squealing children. This was the part they liked best.

  In the excitement, Jason Edge crashed into a desk and got a nosebleed. Things ground to a halt for a second time as he sat wailing in the middle of the chalk circle, saying he didn’t want to be Little Devil Doubt any more, and where was his mam? The lights promptly went off again while his father sorted him out, and Old Hob leered and dipped at the audience, his ribbons and streamers brushing across their faces like invisible cobwebs.

  After some confusion Jason was restored to his mother, and Slasher stood alone in the middle of the stage. He had now killed St Patrick, St David and St Andrew, Robin Hood, Oliver Cromwell, and a man all in yellow called Great Walloping Jack. Once more he issued his famous challenge:

  “Slasher’s my name, The Prince of Darkness I,

  With my club and my sword

  I all men do defy.”

  A shiver went through the audience, and those that were familiar with the play waited for the big moment. Now the dressing room door would open and admit King George, who would storm on and make mincemeat of him.

  But the familiar white-robed figure didn’t come out of the little kitchen, where the players waited when they weren’t on stage. It was making its way up the hall from the main exit, carefully picking its way between the rows of iron desks, and stepping into the charmed white ring. The Edges were bewildered. Our Vi had run all the way back from Pit Farm and reported that she couldn’t find Tony anywhere, and Harold had been all set to alert Winnie and ask her to stop the play for a minute. Now he’d suddenly materialized from nowhere. Well, somebody had.

  They knew that it wasn’t Tony the minute he opened his mouth, and anyway, this man was far too short. The white robe, with a red cross slashed on the breast, hung on him in great folds, and he’d already tripped over his pinned-up hem. But nobody laughed and nobody stopped him. Nobody could. It was as though the rough chalk circle had sent up great steel walls to keep out intruders. The Edges peered at each other through the slits in their masks, and at the two small figures facing each other across the dusty floor. They were bewildered, and for the first time rather frightened, and a strange silence had fallen upon the whole room, as if a sorcerer had cast a spell.

  King George delivered his lines flawlessly, in a thin, reedy voice which was trying hard to imitate Tony Edge’s flat Cheshire bleat. “But it’s Oliver,” whispered Winnie, and made a move to get up. She would have to do something about this, circle or no circle. Where in the world was Tony Edge?

  “Leave him,” Molly said, in a strange voice. She understood now. She saw more clearly than Winnie Webster with all her years of study and her knowledge of Mumming, and she watched carefully as Oliver levelled his big wooden sword at Slasher’s middle, held up his red and white shield, and uttered his great challenge:

  “George is my name, King George that slew the dragon of old,

  This shield bear I stronger than iron or gold.

  With this do I defy all manner of evil,

  With this I lay in dust world, flesh and devil. . .”

  At the word “devil”, Oliver lunged at Sid. He didn’t intend to let him spoil things now, by running away or by revealing that he wasn’t Tony.

  “Tremble thou tyrant, for thy sin that’s past

  Tremble to think tonight shall be thy last. . .”

  As he yelled, he dropped the shield, took his sword in both hands, and gave Slasher a great wham with it across the knees.

  “Ouch!” Sid cried, hopping up and down. He was too frightened to do anything but stand there and try to fight back. Whoever it was must be some kind of loony; he knew it wasn’t Tony. Perhaps it was someone from the Saltersly troupe, gate-crashing on Stang Play. They’d tried that once before. There was no need to overdo it though. “Give over, will you,” he hissed, as Oliver chased him round the circle. “You really hurt me that time, mate. Trying to kill me or something?”

  But King George appeared to have gone mad. “I’ll spill thy blood, thou black Moroccan dog!” he howled, and when Sid backed off he kicked sword and shield into a corner, then grabbed the rubber club and flung it into the audience, amid great cheers.

  But this time Slasher was ready for him. Inside that dark hood Sid had had a change of heart. If he wanted a fight he could have one. The Edges weren’t going to be shown up by some sneak from Saltersly Mummers. He pushed his flowing sleeves up, away from his wrists, and bared his knuckles. Oliver did the same. With a gasp from the mesmerized spectators the two figures met and locked together in a tangle of purple, white and gold.

  Inside the baggy costume, Slasher’s wiry little body was tough and unyielding, and he returned Oliver’s punches with iron fists. His first blow hit King George on the mouth, and the soft hood that covered his face did little to soften the impact. Oliver went tottering backwards, feeling the warm blood spurt between his teeth, and hit his back on one of the old desks. The audience gave a suppressed roar. The King was out of the circle, but he bounced into it again, like a boxer coming off the ropes, and went for Sid with both hands, feeling for his throat underneath the purple folds, and digging his nails in hard.

  Sid jerked his head back and tried to break free, tearing at Oliver’s face, determined to rip the hood off and expose this maniac, whoever it was. But suddenly, a foot went out and neatly hooked his left leg from under him. The small purple figure crashed down on to the splintery boards, so heavily, and with such a cry of pain, that the audience let out a little cry of sympathy. This was some fight.

  Within seconds both the knights were on their feet again, and each was trying to push the other over. Sid hurled himself bodily at Oliver in an effort to topple him, but although he was much lighter, and not half as strong, the miniscule King George stood his ground, like a sturdy little tree buffeted by the wind. He met every blow the other boy dealt him, he anticipated every trick. Time and again the grunting, sweating Sid attacked him with fists, nails and palms; time and again Oliver met him stoically a
nd turned the blow away, with skills he didn’t recognize as his own, with courage he didn’t know was in him.

  The fight couldn’t have lasted longer than five minutes, but it felt like Oliver’s whole life. In the end it was dream-like and calm, as if he’d left his body far, far behind, and sat looking down on the magic ring from a great height, while down below two tiny robed figures sweated and heaved and strained in silent anguish. They didn’t spill each other’s blood, they felt no pain, all they were conscious of was the power between them, coming together like two enormous tides, then falling back only to meet and shatter again like the waves of the sea.

  Oliver’s mind was full of dragons and deeps. The waters threshed and boiled in it like the waters of Blake’s Pit. But when the flood had ebbed away he could see that it had become a cool, echoing cave, whose mouth had been sealed up with rocks and mossy stones. Above his head the world turned slowly, and a huge, bright figure, all the colours of Superman, had his hands locked round it, trying to slow it down on its axis. At last it stopped, and at the same moment all the boulders rolled away, bouncing down the mountainside, and a figure walked out of the cave into the bright sunlight, a small figure with a rope of auburn hair, in a hospital nightgown.

  He came out of his dream to find he was trying to sit on Sid Edge. He’d managed to push him right over, but the stocky little figure was still endeavouring to get up. His hood had come off, and the round bullet head was jerking up and down, as if wired to his shoulders with a spring. In the end, Oliver actually lay on top of him, and stared up at the ceiling, totally exhausted. Someone threw his sword back into the ring, and he managed to catch it. As Stang clock started to strike, King George pulled his own hood off, flung it away triumphantly, and held his sword up to the roof.

  What a fabulous ending! It was the best fight the audience had ever seen and they started to clap and cheer enthusiastically. But then Slasher’s head fell back for the last time and hit the floorboards with a sickening crash.