Authors: Eleanor Updale
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the farmhouse. I want to talk to the farmer,’ Johnny said.
‘I’m the farmer. What can I do for you? There’s no work here – if you’re looking for work, that is. You seem a bit young for that.’
‘No, I don’t want a job. I’m looking for information. I’m trying to find someone who used to live here.’
‘Well, there’s no one at home. And I’m on my way to a funeral. That’s why I’m all dressed up like this,’ the farmer said, running his finger inside the stiff collar of his shirt. ‘I can’t stop for long, but you can get in if you want, and we can talk in the warm.’
Johnny climbed in and sat beside the farmer. He’d hardly ever been in a car before, let alone a big van like this. It was a real treat. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to get out of the wind. Do you mind if I ask you questions?’
‘Not at all,’ said the farmer. ‘But you’ll have to
speak up. I need to leave the engine running, otherwise it could conk out and I might never get it started again. Now, who are you trying to find?’
‘It’s a girl called Olwen. She came to my school in September. But she had to leave again. I think her baby sister died.’
The farmer gripped the steering wheel. ‘I wish I could help you. I’ve been trying to find her myself, poor love. It’s her father’s funeral I’m off to now. He’s being buried near that big sanatorium up at Emberley. Her mother’s only been gone a couple of weeks. Olwen’s all alone now – though she probably doesn’t know it. Her folks packed her off to try to keep her safe, and now it’s too late to ask them where she is.’
‘Olwen told me you knew her dad in the army.’
‘He saved my life – dragged me from a shell-hole at the battle of Ypres. He carried me on his back all the way to the dressing station. We lost touch after the war, but I couldn’t refuse him when he wrote saying he was in trouble. I’d promised I’d do anything for him. He was desperate. I thought I could give him a roof over his head and a job.’
Johnny had read stories like that in the
Boy’s Own Paper
. It was thrilling to hear that such heroism and gratitude happened in real life. He’d often wished
that someone would appear on his doorstep with a tale about his own father’s war exploits, but this was the next best thing. He was proud on Olwen’s behalf, and glad that the farmer had done the decent thing.
‘It was kind of you to help them,’ said Johnny. ‘I know Olwen was grateful. It was one of the first things she told me when I met her. Hasn’t she written to you since she went away?’
‘Not a word. I think that’s odd, don’t you? You’d think her people would be in touch. I wish I’d taken more notice when they sent her away, but it was all such a rush, and it wasn’t my business, was it?’
The farmer sounded as if he wanted Johnny’s forgiveness. Johnny tried to make him feel better. ‘Oh, I’m sure you did everything you could. They were lucky you helped them in the first place.’
‘To be honest, there have been moments when I’ve regretted it. People don’t trust my milk since they brought the TB here. And burials don’t come cheap, even without fancy carriages and flowers.’
‘So there won’t be anyone else at the funeral?’
‘Probably not, unless the hospital’s found somebody. But it’s not fitting for anyone to be buried without a friend at the graveside, so I’m going: as a last thank-you for what he did for me, and on behalf
of the relatives, you might say. It doesn’t seem right for young Olwen to miss her chance to say goodbye, but what can I do?’
‘Dr Langford said she’d gone back to relatives in Wales.’
‘Ah, but Wales is a big place. I know they were from Swansea, but who’s to say where their relations live? I couldn’t even track down their old home. I must have had their address once, when her dad first wrote to me, but I’m darned if I can find the letter anywhere. If I’d known all this was going to happen, I’d have taken more care. I never expected them all to drop dead before I had the chance to ask where Olwen was.’
‘Do you think I could come to the funeral too?’ asked Johnny. He remembered a phrase he’d heard his mother use. ‘I’d like to pay my respects.’
‘Well, that’s fine talk from one so young. You’re not really dressed for it, but I don’t see why not. There won’t be anyone there to take offence.’
Johnny looked down at his tatty clothes. In his mother’s absence he hadn’t paid any attention to washing or ironing, and he knew he must be even more grubby than usual after his long walk. ‘I really would like to come, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘It will be a pleasure to take you. And good company for me,’ said the farmer, releasing the brake.
The van rolled forward, let out a couple of loud bangs, and moved off, bumping so much on the uneven road that Johnny’s bottom kept bouncing off the seat. They both started to laugh. That didn’t seem right on the way to a funeral, so they decided to sing hymns instead. After ‘All People That on Earth Do Dwell’, ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’ and ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’ they arrived at the graveyard at Emberley.
A young vicar was waiting for them. He supervised the burial with minimal ceremony. The gravediggers started filling in the hole, and Johnny and the farmer returned to the van. Johnny was trying not to cry. He was sad about Olwen’s father, even though he had never met him, and about Olwen’s sister and mother in two fresh graves nearby; but really he was thinking about his own mother, and how she might be buried soon unless he could do something to save her. He wanted to tell the farmer about it. But he couldn’t find the words.
In the end, it was the farmer who brought the subject up as they drove back towards Stambleton. He wasn’t meaning to, but he recalled that Johnny had mentioned Dr Langford.
‘So you knew the old doctor?’ he said. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d been murdered.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ve known him all my life. He was a really nice man.’
‘A terrible business. Dr Langford was a real gentleman. And so good with children. He took good care of a fair few at that sanatorium. They were his two specialities, see: children and TB. You should have seen him when we had the epidemic in 1916. I don’t think they’d ever have built that sanatorium without Dr Langford raising money and making speeches everywhere. It was thanks to him that Olwen’s family were taken in there as charity cases. We’ve been robbed of a good man. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. That evil barmaid had better swing for it.’
Johnny didn’t know what to say. Should he risk letting on who he was? Should he try to explain that Winnie wasn’t guilty? Best to say nothing, he thought. He’d be out of the van in a few minutes. He might never see the farmer again. He stayed quiet. But the farmer filled the silence: ‘Do you know her? You’re from Stambleton. She has a kiddie about your age. You must have seen him at school. You must have come across his mother?’
Johnny started to stutter a reply. He could hardly get any words out. He didn’t want to sound as if he was disowning Winnie, but he didn’t know how to explain why he hadn’t mentioned her before. He wanted to tell the farmer all about her, and how she couldn’t possibly have committed the crime. All he managed to do was make himself sound shifty.
The farmer was suddenly suspicious. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, glancing across at his small passenger, ‘why aren’t you at school today?’
‘I don’t go any more,’ said Johnny. ‘I can’t because—’
‘What’s your name?’ said the farmer, driving faster and faster as it dawned on him who his passenger might be.
‘Johnny …’
‘Johnny what?’
‘Johnny Swans—’
‘You’re that boy, aren’t you?’ gasped the farmer, slamming on the brakes so hard that Johnny was thrown forward against the dashboard. ‘You’re that woman’s brat. Get out. Get out! You’ve got a nerve. I can’t believe you tricked your way into my van.’
‘But you asked me in. I was only—’
‘I should have known. A boy of your age wanting
to go to a funeral? You’re sick. Go on. Get out. Now!’
Johnny fumbled with the door handle. At last he was able to climb down onto the road. They were still a couple of miles from Stambleton. The farmer tried to move off, but the engine had stopped, and he had to get out and crank it with a handle. He stood in front of the bonnet, cursing.
‘She didn’t do it,’ Johnny shouted, with tears in his eyes. ‘She’s innocent.’
The farmer didn’t look up. Swearing under his breath, he kept cranking the engine until it spluttered and started running again. Then he pulled out the heavy iron handle and waved it at Johnny. ‘Get out of my sight!’ he yelled; and, terrified that the man was going to beat him or fling the handle at his head, Johnny turned and started running towards town. A few seconds later, the van swept past.
Johnny was shocked by the speed with which the kind man had turned on him. His words had revealed more about local gossip than Johnny had dared to imagine. People really hated Winnie. And there was no hope now of finding Olwen, the one person who might not know what had happened; who might listen to Johnny’s version of the story, take pity on him and understand his grief.
A
t least Johnny had Hutch. He went straight to the shop. It was quiet. A few people came in to buy stamps or cash their pensions at the post office. Some had Christmas parcels to send. One or two used the phone booth just inside the door. But several people cancelled their papers, and even more followed Miss Dangerfield’s example and decided to shop elsewhere for their food.
‘It’s because of me, isn’t it?’ said Johnny as he and Hutch tidied the stockroom to make space for goods that wouldn’t sell. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘No, it’s because of me,’ Hutch said. ‘Because I’m standing by you. And it’s the fault of no one except the small-minded people of Stambleton. I’ll take over the paper deliveries for a while. I don’t want you to have to face abuse every day. You can do extra jobs for me here instead.’ He brought down some cardboard and paint from a high shelf. ‘And you can start right now. I want you to make some notices. We’re going to
have to have our post-Christmas sale a little early. This year, it’s a pre-Christmas sale. If cut prices don’t lure people back in here, nothing will.’
Hutch had a large stock of aluminium teapots filled with Christmas biscuits. He’d ordered them as a seasonal novelty before his customers had deserted him. Other shops were selling them for five shillings. Hutch was marking them down to 3/6. Cheese, ham and bacon were all reduced to a shilling per pound. But the real crowd-puller was to be Keiller’s Assorted Chocolates at only tenpence for a half-pound box, with boxes twice the size going for only sixpence more.
So Johnny set to work. Hutch gave him a list of discounts, and Johnny translated them into posters, using bright colours, with lots of red, to make them look Christmassy. He got a ladder and climbed into the window to put up the posters and to build towers of chocolate boxes to attract passers-by. He painted
CHRISTMAS SALE
in huge letters at the top of the display, and set about arranging tins of crab meat in the shape of a crab, and iced cakes in the shape of a snowflake. Johnny was concentrating hard, determined to produce a show that would bring back the customers Hutch had lost because of him. He didn’t
notice the growing crowd that was watching him work until they started a rumbling chant. Maybe it was the sign saying
KEILLER’S CHOCOLATES
that set them off. Soon they were all shouting: ‘Killer’s son! Killer’s son! Killer’s son! Killer’s son!’ Johnny looked up. It was already dark outside, but in the light from the window he could see a few faces he recognized. Some of them were people he knew from his paper round: folk who only a few weeks ago had given him a cheery wave every morning. Albert Taylor and Ernest Roberts were both there on their way home from school, and in the thick of it all was an elderly woman. She looked strong and feisty – you might even say ‘in robust health’. It was Mrs Slack, who had apparently recovered from her ailments now that Winnie was no longer available to care for her.
As the abuse grew louder, Johnny went to the front of the window and put his face close to the glass so that she could hear him. ‘Mrs Slack,’ he cried. ‘Please! You know my mother is a good woman. Please tell everyone. Please tell them everything she has done for you!’
‘Done for me!’ shrieked Mrs Slack. ‘Done for me! I’m lucky she hasn’t done for me! Every day she
came round my house – looking for things to steal, I shouldn’t wonder. Or trying to poison me. Strange that I’ve been better since she’s gone, isn’t it? String her up, that’s what I say!’ And she joined in the chant, which was growing louder and more vicious: ‘Killer’s son! Killer’s son!’
A brick flew in, showering Johnny with glass. Hutch rushed to the window, drawing jeers from the crowd, to pull Johnny back into the shop. His weak leg trailed behind him, bringing down the ladder, and with it the paint pot. Red liquid spilled everywhere, and the crowd screamed, ‘Blood! Blood! Killer’s son! Killer’s son!’
The mob was frightening, but its members were not brave. The sound of a police whistle quickly dispersed them; but not before some had reached through the broken glass for chocolate boxes and teapots.
When the crowd had gone, Johnny started shivering uncontrollably. ‘It’s shock,’ said Hutch. ‘Come and sit down.’ He took Johnny into the stockroom, sat him on a crate and wrapped a sack around his shoulders. ‘You’d better keep warm,’ he said. ‘They say sugar’s good for shock, you know. I’ll see what I can find.’ He was back in no time with a chocolate bar and a fizzy drink. ‘Perhaps you’d better go home.’
‘No, Hutch,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. Let me stay here. I’d rather be with you.’
Hutch was touched to have Johnny’s confidence. ‘You sit here for a while then,’ he said tenderly, ‘and I’ll start straightening out the shop. You can join me when you’re feeling better.’
So Hutch and Johnny spent the rest of the day clearing the mess and boarding up the window.
‘Shouldn’t the police arrest those people?’ said Johnny. ‘We know most of them. We could tell the police their names.’