The Forget-Me-Not Summer (11 page)

It was the first time Miranda had ever been out alone this early; on the only other occasion when she had abandoned her bed at such an early hour she had been meeting Steve, but now she was on her own and able to appreciate the coolness and quietness of the streets. To be sure there were one or two people about, mostly making their way down to the docks, and she saw several cats, going about their mysterious business without so much as a glance in her direction. She saw a dog as well; a miserable skinny stray with sores on its back and a look in its eyes which caused Miranda to stop her onward rush. She knew that look too well, knew that her own eyes often reflected the desperation she could see in the mild gaze of the little brown and white cur. She held out a hand to it and it came slowly, clearly more used to kicks than caresses, but when she produced her jam sandwich and broke off a generous piece, hunger obviously overcame fear and it slunk closer, taking the food from her fingers with such careful gentleness that she could have wept. Instead, however, she squatted down on the pavement and fed the little creature a good half of the sandwich before tucking the food back into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Tell you what, dog,' she said to it as she straightened up once more, ‘if you're still around when I'm headin' for home later today – if the ghost hasn't killed me, that is – then I'll try to make do with a few apples, so you can have the rest of my bread and jam.'

It sounded like a generous offer but Miranda knew, guiltily, that she was unlikely to have to make it good.
Stray dogs don't hang around in one vicinity, they are for ever moving on, and she was sure this dog would be no exception. However, she was rather touched to realise, after half a mile, that the dog was still following her. She told herself firmly that it was not she the dog followed but the bread and jam, yet in her heart she did not believe it. The dog had recognised a fellow sufferer and wanted her company even more than he wanted food.

But he'll never stand the pace, Miranda told herself. I've simply got to hurry because I must be in the garden before the shift change, and I don't know when that is. Come to that I don't know if the factory works twenty-four hours because Steve and I only ever come here during the day, and then of course we avoid the times when we hear the hooter and know there will be folk about. I think Steve said he thought the chaps on the factory floor worked from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., but for the office workers it's 9 to 6. Oh gosh, I wonder what the time is now? I really am an idiot; it's all very well coming early but I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of the wall when there are crowds about. Someone would be bound to spot me and start asking questions, questions which I wouldn't want to answer, even if I could.

She told herself that there was no point in lingering, however, and she and the dog continued to twist and turn through the many little streets which separated them from the mansion. Presently her doubts were resolved when the breeze brought them the sound of a clock striking six times. Miranda smiled to herself, then glanced back at the little dog, trudging wearily along behind her, with what looked like a foot of pink tongue dangling
from between its small jaws. Miranda slowed, then stopped, and addressed her companion. ‘Am I going too fast for you, feller? Tell you what, when we reach the garden I'll get you a drink of water; I can see you could do with one.'

The dog glanced up at her, seeming to smile, definitely indicating that a drink of water would be extremely welcome, Miranda thought. And the dog wasn't the only one; as the heat of the day increased she grew thirstier herself and began to think longingly of the apples and greengages which still hung from the trees in the garden. She wondered if the dog's thirst could be slaked by fruit, but doubted it. Time, however, would tell, and if the little dog took to fruit then she would have no need to go into the kitchen in order to find him a drink.

Judging by the chimes of the clock she had heard, Miranda thought she must have left Jamaica Close well before six and it was still early – only around seven o'clock – when she and the dog slid quietly along the rosy brick wall and approached the garden door. No one was about, and Miranda paused to listen. She was relieved to realise that there was no sound at all coming from the big ugly factory next door, which during the daytime buzzed with every sort of noise: talk, laughter, the clattering and clash of machinery and many other sounds. It was pretty plain that whatever the factory made – Steve had told her he thought it was munitions, though why such things should be manufactured when the country was at peace she had no idea – they did not work twenty-four hours, which meant that if they were careful their presence need never be discovered. However, habit made Miranda open the garden door as softly as
possible and take a quick look round the walled garden, which she thought should more accurately be called the wilderness, before closing the door behind her. When she glanced back she saw the little dog standing uneasily in the aperture, wearing the expression of one who has too often been rudely rejected to take acceptance for granted.

Miranda patted her knee. ‘Come along in, little feller,' she said encouragingly. ‘This here is our place – yours and mine, and Steve's too of course – so don't you hesitate, just come straight in.'

The dog did hesitate but then he trotted through the doorway and moved as close as he could to Miranda without actually touching. She could see he was shivering and put a protective hand on the top of his smooth brown and white speckled head. ‘I told you it was all right for both of us to come in, and so it is,' she whispered. ‘And now we're going to get you that drink of water. I wonder if there's a well anywhere in the garden which we've not noticed? If so, we could get the water from there.'

But even as she said the words she knew she was kidding herself, knew she was still none too keen on entering the house itself. That was why she had nagged Steve so relentlessly, begging him to accompany her. She, Miranda Lovage, was frightened of sounds which she did not understand. How ashamed her mother would be if she knew that her daughter was hesitating before giving a poor little dog a drink, just because of a noise which, after all, she had only heard once – she did not count the time she and Steve thought they had heard giggling in the kitchen because they had bolted out so quickly that it had probably been their imagination. She
produced her bottle of raspberry cordial and took a quick swallow, and watched with guilty dismay as the little dog's eyes followed the movement of bottle to mouth with obvious wistfulness. Thinking back, Miranda realised that it had been at least a month and possibly more since it had rained. Puddles had dried up, gutters had run dry; a stray dog would have a long walk before finding even the tiniest puddle.

Miranda had come here determined to investigate the house. One pocket in her skirt contained half the jam sandwich and the raspberry cordial. The other was full of candle ends and a box of matches. Yet having arrived at her destination, she found she was still reluctant to actually walk into the house. If only it wasn't so dark! There were shutters at most of the windows, and the ones without shutters had been boarded up.

Miranda stood for a moment with her hand on the knob of the kitchen door. She wondered what Steve was doing, imagined him wading through the shallows with the hot sun on his back, then plunging into deeper water, whilst Kenny jumped up and down at the water's edge, shouting to his brother to give him a piggy back so that he too might get wet all over.

How Miranda envied them! How she wished that she too was on a beautiful sunny beach with the sea creaming against her bare feet and the whole happy day in front of her. But it was no use wishing; she had promised the dog a drink and a drink he would jolly well have even though it did mean entering the old house and fumbling her way across to the low stone sink. She had never been anywhere near it, had only glimpsed it as she had crossed the kitchen, heading for the corridor which led to the
rest of the house, but now, she told herself firmly, she was going to stop acting like a superstitious idiot and get the dog some water. Resolutely she turned the knob and pushed the door open wide, letting in the dappled sunlight, making the place seem almost ordinary. Standing in the doorway, still hesitating before actually entering the room, she glanced cautiously around her. She saw the huge Welsh dresser which she had glimpsed on her first visit and a long trestle table; also the low stone sink with a pump handle over it. There was another door to her right which she imagined must once have opened on to the pantry, and a door to her left which she knew led to the passageway, and now that her eyes were growing a little more accustomed to the gloom she could make out piles of pans, dishes, and other such paraphernalia spread out upon the shelves which ran from one end of the room to the other. Good! She would fill a bowl or dish with water for the dog and then, if her courage held, use one of her candle ends to investigate the rest of the house.

She was halfway across to the sink, her hand extended to the pump handle, when once more she began to suspect that she was being watched. Uneasily, she glanced around her, then down at the dog, and she knew that had he shown any sign of wanting to bolt she would have been close behind him. But the little animal's attention was fixed on the pump and the enamelled bowl she held. Sighing, she seized the pump handle and began to ply it, and immediately two things happened: a trickle of water emerged from the big brass tap and something scurried across the sink, making for Miranda.

She gave a shriek so loud that she frightened herself.
The dog backed away, whining, and then ran forward, put his front paws on the side of the sink and began to lap at the narrow stream of water emerging from the tap, whilst Miranda, clutching the bodice of her dress against her thumping heart, backed away from the enormous spider which had been driven into activity by the action of the pump.

‘Oh, oh, oh! You hateful horrible creepy-crawly!' she shrieked, unable to stop herself. ‘Don't you come near me or I'll stamp on you and squash you flat.' She turned reproachfully to the little dog. ‘Why don't you defend me?' She peered into the sink but could see no movement and, keeping well back, held the enamelled bowl beneath the trickle of water until it contained a reasonable amount. She looked all round her, but it was much too dark to see where the spider had disappeared, so she placed the dish on the floor with extreme caution, clutching her ragged skirts close to her knees as though she feared that the dreaded enemy would presently creep out of cover and climb up her bare legs. She stood very still, trying to convince herself that the spider was probably long gone, having spotted the open door and galloped into the sunlight. She wanted to pick up the bowl of water and carry it outside, but the little dog was still drinking and it seemed a mean thing to do, to interrupt him when he had had so many disappointments already in his short life. And anyway, Miranda was growing used to the kitchen. To be sure, she had felt she was being watched, but she now concluded that it must have been the spider and wondered why it had never occurred to her to open the shutters. There was light coming through the back door – sunlight, what was more
– but if anything it tended to make the rest of the room seem even darker in comparison, whereas if she were to open all the shutters . . .

She had actually stretched out a hand to the nearest pair when she realised that by opening up she might be letting in more than sunlight. Safely hidden away in the slats there might be whole colonies of spiders similar to the one which had apparently been living in the sink. Miranda decided that opening the shutters would have to wait until Steve returned from the seaside. Boys, she knew, were not afraid of creepy-crawlies. No, she would not touch the shutters, but as soon as the dog had finished drinking she would light one of her candle ends, protect it as far as she could with a hand around it, and investigate at least a part of the house. She had never seen the stairs, but today for the first time she'd noticed that the window of one of the attic rooms gaped black and open, neither shuttered nor boarded up. If she could find that room she might be able to see why it had not been blacked out like most of the other windows.

The dog finished lapping and glanced up at her, apparently to give her an encouraging grin; he actually wagged his disgraceful little tail, which had formerly been clipped so firmly between his back legs that Miranda had thought it had been docked, before giving one last sniff at the enamelled basin. Miranda took a deep breath and set off across the kitchen, and just as she entered the shaft of sunlight coming through the back door she discovered where the spider had gone. It was crouching in that very shaft of sunlight, its hateful legs forming a sort of cage around what looked like a sizeable moth. Poor Miranda gave an even louder shriek than the one which had
heralded the spider's first appearance, and even as the echoes of her scream died away a soft voice spoke, seeming to do so almost in her ear. ‘I no like spiders either,' the voice said sympathetically. ‘I shriek like the factory hooter if I see one near my bed.'

Miranda nearly fainted and her heart, which had speeded up with the spider's reappearance, doubled its pace. She looked wildly round but could see no one, though she noticed that the door leading into the corridor, which had been firmly closed, now swung open.

There was no doubt that, had she been able to do so, Miranda would have cut and run, but fear nailed her to the spot. Once more her gaze raked the room, including the open doorway into the corridor, but she could see nothing, only darkness. ‘Where are you?' she quavered. ‘I – I hear your voice but I can't see you.'

The chuckle which greeted this remark no longer seemed threatening, but merely amused. ‘I here, in the doorway,' the voice said. ‘Can't you see me? Where your eyes gone?' The voice suddenly changed from mere curiosity to fear. ‘I done nothin' wrong. Why you come here, take my water and eat my apples and plums?'