Clara decided it was time to investigate. After all, she had ignored that ‘Private - No Entry’ sign. Maybe the owner had come to move them along. She stepped outside and didn’t like what she saw. Two lads of about the same age as the bikers came towards her. One had a baseball bat and was smacking it against one of his palms. They both looked her over. She swallowed, every instinct in her screaming that these two meant trouble. She moved back a pace to shield Ned who was still leaning out of the window. ‘Get down,’ she whispered, turning her head to the side, ‘and don’t say a word.’ They came in close and, one on either side of her, they pushed her hard against the driver’s door: they smelt of sour beer and stale cigarette smoke.
‘Please,’ she said, conscious of Ned behind her and their gaze flickering from her to him, ‘just take what you want and leave us alone.’ Outwardly she was doing her best to appear calm, but inwardly she was frantic.
They both laughed, and a coarse, fleshy hand stroked her throat.
For a split second she considered bringing her knee up into the youth’s groin, but as the hand began to exert more pressure on her windpipe, squeezing it painfully, she heard another man’s voice say, ‘Take your hands off that woman and get the hell out of here.’
The grip loosened. Twisting her head, Clara saw an elderly man dressed in a flat cap and a waxed jacket coming towards them. A patch covered one of his eyes and raised to the other was a double barrelled shotgun. Her legs began to wobble and she hoped to God that the old man knew what he was doing with it.
The gun still held high, he drew nearer. ‘And do it before I lose my patience and blast both your heads off!’ The voice that had started with a low warning rumble, had now pitched itself forward into a snarl of intent. ‘Go on, get out of here!’
The hand dropped from Clara’s throat. ‘Take it easy, Granddad, don’t go giving yourself a heart-attack.’
‘Less of the lip, you scum. You’re on my land and I want you off it.
Pronto! Do you understand that, or do I have to spell it out into simple words that louts like you can understand?’
The two lads started backing away. ‘Bloody cocky with your words, aren’t you, you stupid old git?’
Tightening his finger on the trigger and lowering the shotgun until it was aimed directly at the youth’s crotch, the man growled, ‘So tell me, just how cocky do you feel? Get out of here.’
They fled to their car and, with the gun still trained on them, they turned it round and shot off down the track, leaving a dusty cloud hanging in the air.
Clara realised she had been holding her breath and let it out now, in a long sigh of relief. Her legs were still shaking and the sky spun.
She leaned against the van, steeled herself, then opened the door and reached in for Ned. His face was as white as she felt hers must be. He trembled in her arms and she hugged him to her.
She turned to face the formidable man who had come to their rescue. ‘I’m so grateful to you,’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t turned up …’
She swallowed, then tried again. ‘Well, I’m not sure how I would have got out of that. Thank you very much.’
To her surprise, the man made no attempt to offer any further reassurance. He simply stared at her, bristling with disapproval.
Then with a loud crack, he broke the gun and shoved the butt under his arm. ‘You can save the fawning pleasantries,’ he growled. ‘I’m not interested. Maybe in future you’ll think twice about trespassing on private property, especially somewhere as remote as this. Damn stupid of you to put yourself and the child in danger. Women!
Bloody fools, the lot of you!’ He turned his back and started to walk away.
Clara was outraged. ‘Why, you miserable old bugger!’ she burst out angrily. ‘Come back here and apologise this instant.’
He slowed his step and twisted his head round. ‘What did you call me?’
‘You heard. And if I wasn’t holding a terrified child I’d call you a lot worse.’
‘If that child is terrified, then you have only yourself to blame.’
‘Oh, because I’m a woman on my own I’m not allowed to take my son paddling. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Paddling?’ he echoed. ‘Paddling in my water? I ought to bloody charge you for that.’
‘Do that, you old skinflint, and I’ll report you to the police for behaving in a threatening manner with a dangerous firearm. It’s crazy old fools like you with guns who get innocent people killed!’
Her voice was filled with rage.
‘I’ll wager that wasn’t what you were thinking a few moments ago.
I bet you’d never been so pleased to see a crazy old fool with a gun.’
‘If I’d known it would be you, I’d sooner have taken my chances single-handed.’
‘The hell you would have!’ he guffawed.
They stared at each other. In the silence that followed, Ned lifted his head from Clara’s shoulder. ‘I need a wee,’ he murmured, and started to sob. Then Clara felt a wet warmth run down her front.
The grumpy old man lowered his one eye to the puddle forming on the ground at her feet. ‘Poor little beggar,’ he said gruffly. ‘Get him changed and I’ll make you some tea.’
Near to tears herself, but determined to hang on to her self-respect, she said, ‘I can manage, thank you. I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your valuable—’
He silenced her with a fierce one-eyed stare. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, young lady, until you’re sure you can really do without it.’
Winnie seemed terribly cramped with the three of them inside it: their guest, as he fumbled around making a pot of tea, was too tall and bulky for such a confined space. By the time Clara had calmed Ned and changed their clothes, and they were sitting at the little table with their tea, she thought she should introduce herself.
‘My name’s Clara Costello, and I’m sorry for some of the things I said out there. This is my son, Ned.’
He took off his cap and laid it on the table. ‘Well, Miss Costello, the name’s Liberty, Mr Liberty, and I never apologise for anything I say.’
In spite of herself, she smiled. ‘You know, that doesn’t surprise me.
Do you often go for an afternoon stroll with a gun?’
‘When I feel like shooting something, yes.’
‘Well, much as I disagree with the ownership of guns, I’m glad you felt the need to shoot something today.’
‘Don’t be so bloody patronising. Drink your tea and be quiet. That goes for you too, young man.’
‘But it’s got sugar in,’ Ned said, taking a sip from his mug and screwing up his face that had now resumed its usual healthy glow.
The man gave a snort of derision. ‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood! Don’t tell me your mother’s one of those new-fandangled creatures who doesn’t believe in sugar.’
‘I’m allowed sugar on cornflakes,’ Ned said proudly. ‘And
grapefruit,’ he added.
‘Very generous of her, I’m sure.’
‘What’s wrong with your eye?’
‘And what’s wrong with your manners, Mr Nosy Parker?’
Unabashed, Ned carried on, ‘You look like a pirate.’
This seemed to amuse their guest. ‘A black-bearded, buccaneering, lash-him-to-the-mainmast-m’hearty type of pirate, I hope, not some white-frilled, swashbuckling nancy-boy.’
The distinction was lost on Ned. ‘If you chopped a hand off, you could be Captain Hook.’
The man looked down at the badly swollen fingers that were wrapped around his mug of tea. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Come on, Ned,’ Clara said gently, ‘drink your tea and leave our guest alone.’
‘Do I have to? It’s horrible. It’s too sweet. Can’t I have some blackcurrant juice? Please.’
Sliding out from the seat she was sharing with Ned, Clara went over to the fridge, poured a cup of blackcurrant juice, and reached into a locker for a packet of biscuits. She had no desire to prolong their rescuer’s stay with them, but she felt she owed him a Jaffa Cake at the very least.
She sat opposite
him and offered the packet of biscuits. His distorted fingers poked clumsily at the plastic wrapping as he helped himself and she wondered just how good a shot he would have been if he had fired that wretched gun. Thinking of it now, she gave it a censorious glance. It was resting against the wardrobe at the far end of the van, along with its owner’s smelly old waxed jacket.
‘Stop worrying,’ he said, seeing her face. ‘It’s safe enough. I’ve taken the cartridges out. They’re in my coat pocket.’
She made no comment, but thinking that she could take advantage of his local knowledge, she said, ‘We’re trying to find a campsite for the night. Perhaps you know where it is.’ She got to her feet to fetch the map.
‘I doubt that very much,’ he said, when she returned. ‘Camping’s hardly my scene.’
‘Heavens, are you always this helpful?’
He swallowed the last of his tea. ‘You’ve got me on a good day.’
‘Lucky old us.’ She put the map down on the table between them and pointed to where Ron and Eileen had said the campsite was. ‘It’s called Hollow Edge View. I was told it was—’
‘It’s gone,’ he interrupted. ‘The owners beggared off down south last winter. Bankrupted themselves. Not an ounce of business sense.
Softies from London who thought it would be an easy option playing Old Macdonald Had a Farm. I knew they’d never make a go of it. I told them so too.’
‘Wow, and to think they dida’t stick around to enjoy more of your warm neighbourliness. What were they thinking of?’
He looked up sharply, nostrils flaring. ‘Nothing wrong in speaking one’s mind.’
‘Depends on the state of the mind. Can you recommend anywhere else for us to stay?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then, and since we’ve clearly exhausted you of your charm, you can leave us to sort ourselves out. I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you. Close the door after you, won’t you, Mr Liberty?’
Gabriel was smiling to himself as he trudged home across the fields in the late-afternoon sunshine. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long while. It wasn’t often he came up against somebody brave enough to cross words with him, but that spiky, sharp-tongued young woman had made more of a go of it than anyone else ever had. Dr Singh had tried it on, although he was too conscious of his professional status to take a real verbal swing. But that Costello girl hadn’t cared a jot for what his response would be. And fair play to her. Though he still maintained that she was a damned fool to go wandering about the countryside on her own with a young child.
Asking for trouble in this day and age. One never knew who or what was around the corner.
Back at Mermaid House he let himself in and went through to the gun room. It was only then, as he stood in front of the locked glass fronted cabinet, that he realised he didn’t have the gun with him.
Damn and blast! He had left it behind with that girl and her son. A shiver of unease crept over him as he recalled the cartridges he had put into his coat pocket, which he had also stupidly left behind. He hoped to God that just as that little boy had been indoctrinated with the evils of sugar, he had been instilled with the belief that guns were a no-go area for children.
He was about to retrace his steps across the fields, to see if the campervan was still there, when the telephone rang.
To his surprise he heard Jonah’s voice at the other end of the line.
Now what was this about? When was the last time any of his children had phoned him?
It was Ned who spotted it. ‘Look, Mummy, Mr Liberty’s forgotten his coat and gun.’ He reached out to the twin barrels and Clara shouted, ‘Don’t touch!’
Ned jumped. ‘I was only looking,’ he said, hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but those things can kill, and it’s better that you never get within touching distance of something as dangerous.’
‘What shall we do with it?’ he asked, anxiously.
‘We could either wait and see if Mr Liberty comes back for it, or we could go and find him.’ She turned and looked at the map that was still laid out on the table. ‘My guess is,’ she mused, ‘and since he claimed to own this land, that our friend Mr Grumpy-Pants Liberty lives here.’
Ned climbed on to the seat to see what she was pointing at.
‘Where? Show me.’
She indicated with her finger.
‘If we go back the way we came, join the main road, then turn right, just here, it’s likely we’ll find ourselves once again in the company of the rudest man on earth. What do you think? Is it worth the trouble?’
He stood up on the bench seat so that he was eye to eye with her. ‘I thought he was funny.’
‘I didn’t. He was rude to us.’
Ned looked thoughtful. ‘He stopped those horrible men from hurting you. And he made us tea because I was frightened.’ He lowered his gaze beneath his long lashes. ‘I’m … I’m sorry I wet myself.’
At the poignant reminder of what the old devil had done for them, Clara put her arms around her precious son. ‘I nearly wet myself too,’ she admitted. ‘It was scary. And you’re right,’ she added decisively, ‘it’s time I learned to be more tolerant of other people’s shortcomings.’
After Clara had put the gun inside a wardrobe, they washed up their cups, stored them away and set a course for Mermaid House.
As to be expected, there was no helpful sign at the end of the track that Clara was convinced would lead them to where Mr Liberty lived. She turned off the main road, juddered over a cattle grid, and pressed on. She soon realised that she had to slow to a steady crawl.
They rattled along for almost half a mile before they set eyes on the most extraordinary sight. Clara whistled. ‘Now that’s what I call a house.’
Ned was impressed too. ‘It’s a castle, Mummy!’
There weren’t any battlements, but there was a tower built into one of the corners of the house and it didn’t take much imagination to picture a cursing Mr Liberty standing at the window, shotgun in hand, ready to defend his home from the onslaught of double-glazing salesmen.
They came to an archway that led to a central courtyard. Clara parked alongside a battered old Land Rover, pulled on the
handbrake and turned off the engine. Close up, the house was gloomier than it had appeared from a distance. The sun was low in the sky now, and the cobbled courtyard was in shadow. The