Black Harvest Read online

  Mum was already well ahead. “Oh, come on, Colin!” she shouted. “Leave it, whatever it is. This is the quickest route back, not so pretty as the way we came, but I must phone a doctor, and we’d better find out what Oliver’s up to.”

  “Hope he’s OK,” Colin said thoughtfully, catching up with Prill. “Wonder how his hole’s getting on?”

  “He said he’d get our tea,” Prill reminded him. “Some hope.”

  “I’ve got hunger pains,” Colin said suddenly, putting one hand across his stomach. “Hope it’s something good.”

  “You can’t be hungry now,” Prill said in disgust. “You’ve just eaten an apple and a great hunk of cake. You’re just greedy. You’ll get fat.”

  “Leave him alone, Prill,” Mrs Blakeman shouted. “And stop dawdling. I want to get back. You really shouldn’t have let Oliver go home, you know.”

  She was worrying now, not just about the baby but about him too. The boy was her responsibility and he wasn’t very strong. That long spell of illness couldn’t have improved his health. She’d told them to keep an eye on him. She didn’t want to get back and find he’d collapsed or something.

  It was only when they reached the crack at the bottom of the cliff that she discovered he’d been left behind.

  “That boy needs watching!” rang and repeated in her head like a gong. She walked ahead of the two children, trying to shake off a steadily growing anxiety. Nothing was really going right on this holiday, in spite of the marvellously equipped bungalow and its glorious setting. The baby was ill and the other two had complained of feeling unwell. Oliver didn’t seem to approve of anything or anybody. And it was much too hot. The moist, sticky atmosphere was becoming unbearable. Something was wrong, with everything.

  When they were about half a mile from the bungalow they met Kevin O’Malley on the cliff path. Under the thatch of dark curly hair his usually reddish face was very pale.

  “Mrs Blakeman,” he began uncertainly. “Mam says will you come up to the house? There’s been an accident.”

  “Oh God no, Oliver!” Her voice was a harsh shriek. The sheer helplessness in it, out of all proportion to what the boy had said, frightened Colin and Prill. It was so unlike their mother. Kevin put out his hand awkwardly. “No, missus, he’s all right, only there was a bit of a blaze you see, in Morrissey’s field. His van nearly went up, and the boy was there. If you could just come…”

  “What on earth made you do it, love?” Mum whispered, taking a cup of tea from Mrs O’Malley. She had to say something, though Oliver’s face was all red and puffy from crying. “If you really thought the old man’s vegetables needed looking at you only had to—” then Mrs O’Malley shook her head and frowned. They’d been through all that once.

  The farmer sat at the kitchen table brooding over his tea. He was a short, stocky man with curly hair like Kevin and a permanently anxious look. He was very grave.

  “Y’see, missus,” he said quietly, “Oliver here thought it was for the best. He thought Donal’s crop had got the potato beetle and that burning the tops off was the surest way to get rid of it.”

  “I tried to tell him,” sniffed Oliver. “He just wouldn’t listen.”

  “I don’t know if the boy was right. There’s nothing left of the plants. It’s a pity you emptied your jar on to the fire, Oliver. I’ll have to report this, you see. I could have shown it to them. Everyone round here will have to be told and put on the alert now. We do get pests from time to time, of course; farmers have to be on the lookout for them. But potato beetle, well that’s more or less a thing of the past with all the modern pesticides. But of course it’s no laughing matter. Let’s hope you were mistaken, anyway.”

  “They weren’t just… big ladybirds, were they, Oll?” Prill said. She was only trying to be helpful.

  “No,” he said, with a look of withering scorn. “I know what a ladybird looks like, you know.” And Colin knew they weren’t ladybirds, he’d seen them feasting on green leaves in the middle of the night. But he said nothing.

  There was an embarrassing silence, broken only by Oliver’s sniffing.

  “You see, Oliver,” Mum began again. “What you did was so dangerous, so drastic.”

  “It had to be drastic,” he said, his voice suddenly quite firm again. “Drastic things need drastic cures sometimes.” He sounded like a headmaster.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father told me all about Ireland, before we came; there was a time when the people went hungry, a million starved to death, they say, because of the bad potato harvests.”

  John O’Malley looked across at him and his face cleared with sudden understanding. “You’re right, Oliver, they did suffer, back in the 1840s, all over Europe, and it was at its worst here in Ireland. But it wasn’t beetle, boy, it was blight. Oh, people still look out for it, even today. Sure, it was a terrible curse.”

  “What’s blight?”

  “Something carried in the air—tiny spores. It attacked the plants and made them go bad, whole fields went rotten, overnight virtually.” He loosened his collar. “Weather like this’d be perfect for it, hot, and a bit sticky. Oh, we think we have a hard time on a tiny farm like this, but I’m telling you, we don’t know we’re born.”

  Nobody said anything, there was such passion in his voice. Sensing the embarrassment, he went on uncertainly. “Perhaps you know all about it anyway, from your history lessons? The Hungry Forties it was called.”

  “No,” Prill said. “We’ve only reached the Normans.” It sounded so pathetic.

  “Old Donal’s the one to ask about what went on round here,” Mrs O’Malley said. “He knows a fair bit of history. He was quite a scholar in his day and he’s got all kinds of bits and pieces in that van of his. You’ll have to ask him to show you.”

  “I don’t suppose he’ll ever want to speak to me again,” Oliver said bleakly. He wanted him to, somehow.

  “He will, he will to be sure. Just give him a bit of time. He’s kind enough, underneath, but he’s had a bit of a shock… and we all get old.”

  “Where’s he gone?” asked Oliver.

  “He’s staying with Father Hagan tonight. He’ll be making him have a bath, if I know anything.”

  “I’ll pay for the van,” the boy said solemnly. “Whatever it costs, I’ll pay. I’ll… I’ll write to my mother and ask her to send me the money, then I’ll save up and pay her back.”

  It would take him years. His father was very stingy about pocket money. “No, Oliver,” Mrs Blakeman said emphatically. “Don’t worry your mother.” She could just see Aunt Phyl coming out on the next boat. “We’ll sort it out. Don’t you worry about it. And that’s an order!” And she smiled at him.

  The atmosphere was easing slightly. “Did anyone come to the telephone?” Mrs Blakeman asked.

  “Yes, missus, you were in luck, and it’s been put right for you. I let them in,” Kevin replied.

  “Thank goodness for that. I want to speak to a doctor, Mrs O’Malley. I really don’t think Alison’s too well.”

  The farmer’s wife looked at the baby. For once she was quiet and sitting pudding-like on Mrs Blakeman’s lap. “Hmm. She’s a bit flushed, I suppose.” She plucked gently at the tiny wrist. “They always say thin babies are healthier. I wouldn’t know about that. All mine were little barrels.”

  “Thin? But she’s not thin, Mrs O’Malley? Well, I wouldn’t say so.” She sounded quite alarmed. Prill looked at Alison. She did look thinner, the little bracelets of fat on her wrists weren’t quite so pudgy now, and her hands no longer looked like little paws. Only her face was fat-looking and it was swollen with heat and constant grizzling.

  Mrs O’Malley realized she’d said the wrong thing. “Now don’t you worry yourself, Mrs Blakeman, I’ll ring Dr O’Keefe myself. He’s grand. He’ll be down to see you first thing tomorrow, if I know him. Now, how about something to eat for all of you? It’s a long time since you ate, I’m thinking.”

  “Oh no, thank y
ou.” Mrs Blakeman got up abruptly. She looked distracted. “No, we’ve got food at the house. It’s not fair to wish another brood upon you. The cup of tea was lovely but we’ll get back now. Colin, can you get Jessie? Come on, Oliver.” All she wanted was to get back to the bungalow and speak to her husband. Thank God they’d mended the phone.

  The four of them walked slowly up the track in complete silence. The weather was changing, the sky was yellowish and the moist air stickier than ever. There were mutterings of thunder over the sea.

  “We’re in for a storm,” Colin said.

  “Good,” Prill muttered. “We could do with some rain.”

  She reached the front door first and Mum handed her the key. She pushed it into the lock but could hardly bring herself to turn it. The key had become a lead lump, impossible to move, so desperately did she not want to enter that house.

  “Hurry up, can’t you?” Colin badgered impatiently.

  Fighting tears back, wanting to run a million miles away, she pushed the door open slowly.

  Chapter Eight

  A CARD FROM the telephone engineer lay on the small table in the hall. Mum read it. “Thank goodness for that, I’ll phone Dad in a minute.”

  “I’ll get the exchange for you, shall I?” Prill said, pushing past the two boys and going into the kitchen. It had to be now. She picked the receiver up and listened, then she jiggled the black buttons up and down.

  “It’s not working.”

  Colin came up behind her, grabbed the phone and listened for himself. “That’s ridiculous. This card says, ‘An engineer called today as requested and we are pleased to inform you that—’”

  “Oh, shut up, will you? It’s just like it was before. It’s as dead as a dodo.” She went off to tell her mother.

  “Why don’t we use the O’Malleys’ phone? Can I come with you? We could go now.”

  “No-o, Prill,” Mrs Blakeman said slowly. “They must have had enough of us for one day, after Oliver’s performance with the petrol.” Then something made her turn round. He was standing in the bedroom doorway in his pyjamas.

  “That was quick. Don’t you want any supper?”

  “No. I just want to go to bed.” His face was smeary from crying.

  “All right, love, sleep well then. Do you think you should send your mother a card in the morning, just to tell her you’ve arrived and everything? She’ll be missing you.”

  “She’s not written to me. She said she’d write. She said there’d be a letter waiting for me when we got here.”

  Mrs Blakeman had noticed. Nobody had written, not even Prill’s best friend Angela who always sent letters when they were separated. There had been no letters at all.

  “I’m sorry about what happened, Auntie Jeannie.” A tear ran slowly down Oliver’s left cheek.

  “Don’t worry about that now, no harm was done. Off you go to bed.” She hugged him but he went off looking utterly miserable. Prill felt sorry for him.

  “So much for the wonderful engineer,” Mum said gloomily, putting Alison on the bed to change her. Prill went away. She didn’t know exactly how phones worked but she felt secretly that if a man came a thousand times to mend this one it would make no difference. The fact that it didn’t work was nothing to do with cables or electrical impulses.

  Something was closing in on them and driving them slowly but relentlessly into a dark place, where there was loneliness and some kind of immense suffering. Wherever that place was, phones did not ring, letters were not delivered, pain and sickness came inexplicably and were not relieved. Over everything was the stink and rottenness of death itself.

  And all of them had been touched by it in some way. Except Oliver. Why was he on the outside of everything? He was only unhappy now because of what had nearly happened to Donal Morrissey. The house itself held no terrors for him. In a little while he would probably drift off to sleep quite peacefully.

  She and Colin hadn’t really been fair to him. If they’d been a bit more friendly from the beginning he might not have gone off on his own, then the fire wouldn’t have happened. She decided to talk to him tomorrow. Oliver was clever. He was so clear-thinking and cool, wise beyond his years. Talking to him might actually be a relief.

  In Dr Moynihan’s dream kitchen there was an electric deep-fryer the size of a small aquarium. Mum switched it on.

  “Right. Chips, beans and sausages,” she announced firmly. “Come on, we’re all hungry. Don’t mope around, Prill, let’s just be grateful Alison’s nodded off. You can speak to Dad tomorrow morning.”

  Prill didn’t reply. Her mother’s forced cheerfulness grated on her; she hated people jollying her along when she felt really miserable. She decided to feed the dog. When the human race got too much to bear there was always Jessie, faithful, loving, a bit mad.

  But even she was in a mood. At the first sniff of dinner she was usually there at your feet, wagging her tail and butting her head into your legs till you gave her the dish. But now, when Prill put her meal down on the glossy kitchen tiles, she hardly looked at it, and when the girl stroked her neck and made a few coaxing noises, she shook her off irritably and gave a low growl, slinking off to her lair under the table where nobody would bother with her.

  “I’ll peel the spuds,” Colin said, wanting to hurry the meal up. He had griping pains in his stomach again. He felt like eating a horse. Silently Prill got cups and plates out and banged them miserably on the kitchen table. “D’you know where the vegetables are, Mum?” he asked.

  “In the utility room, on that tiled counter. I thought it would be the coolest place to store them.” She was trying to use the electric tin opener. “Never seen one of these before. Wonder how it works?”

  Colin was soon back with a polythene bag. His mother looked across at him. “What on earth’s the matter? You’ve gone really pale.”

  “Are these the ones?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember? We stopped and bought them on the way out of Dublin.”

  Prill had gone to get ready for bed. He shut the door into the hall so she wouldn’t hear him. “Look,” he said.

  The bag had held ten pounds of potatoes. All that remained of them was a blackish slime. It looked as if they had somehow burst open; now they were just empty skins covered with a dark, spongy substance that had oozed out into the bag and was turning rapidly into a greeny-brown fungus. The bad smell was indescribable, and a black liquid was dripping from the corners of the bag, making inky stains on the kitchen floor.

  “I just don’t believe it. I bought ten pounds of them. Ugh, close the bag for goodness’ sake and throw them away. It must be this weather, though I chose the coolest place I could think of.”

  Colin went outside to the dustbins. He threw the bag in and covered it with several layers of newspaper. Then he rammed the lid on tight. Even then he could smell it, that stinking sweetness that made his stomach curdle and brought a foul taste into his mouth. The heat was nothing to do with it. The heat had nothing to do with the milk either, the milk that had turned to a grey jelly in the jug.

  He still had stomach pains. In the kitchen his mother was standing in front of the fridge-freezer. “Look what I’ve found,” she said triumphantly. “A bag of frozen chips. I’m sure Dr Moynihan won’t mind if we use them.”

  “Mum, I really don’t think I want any. I had an enormous piece of cake up at the farm. I’m… I’m not hungry any more.”

  “Neither am I,” Prill said. She was sitting at the table in her dressing-gown, brushing her hair. From her bedroom window she’d watched Colin throwing the potatoes away.

  “What’s the matter with everyone?” Mrs Blakeman said. “Doesn’t anyone want anything to eat?” Neither of them answered, then Prill said blankly, “Alison’s crying again, by the way. That didn’t last long.”

  The night was so broken up with noise and climbing in and out of bed, nobody could say whether they’d actually been to sleep or not. Only Oliver slumbered on blissfully through everything. Nothing se
emed capable of rousing him, not even the storm that blew fitfully all night, rattling the windows and hurling bad-tempered squalls against the glass. Colin and Prill lay awake, listening to the thunder, hoping that the violent showers would bring the temperature down. But it felt hotter than ever, and Colin was sweating inside the sleeping bag.

  He could smell that mustiness in the room again. At one point he shone his torch on the ceiling. The faint grey lines he’d noticed yesterday were thickening gradually and the corners of the room were blurry, as if festooned with cobwebs. Oliver had said it couldn’t possibly be mould, either he’d dreamed it or it was dampness coming out of the plaster. The builders should have waited much longer, he said, before decorating. He was such a know-all.

  Prill heard her mother get up with Alison and traced her steps to the kitchen, bathroom, then back to bed. It happened half a dozen times and the baby never seemed to stop crying. Poor Mum. No wonder she was irritable.

  Why was everything so much worse at night? Prill could bear the day, if they could get right away from the bungalow, swim, take Jessie for long walks, or just lie in the sun on that peaceful headland. But now, in the small hours, there was no escape. As she lay in bed a fearful darkness seemed to press down upon her, like a great hand, and her mind would not let her sleep.

  Three or four times she found herself standing by the window, so hot she could hardly breathe, staring out at the sweep of green field with the gate in one corner.

  And the woman came again, quickly this time, as if she’d seen Prill. The girl saw her move rapidly down towards the house, stumbling as she ran and falling forward into the slime of the field, her dark cloak plastered to her by the streaming rain.