Thimblewinter (5 page)

He saw the man’s gaze flicker past him and saw his head give a barely perceptible nod. It was only then he understood that there had been a sentry after all and, also, that he had been deemed not to present a serious threat, as no guard had emerged from the shadows behind him. Rather sobered by this realisation, he also became aware that there was another person, in the porch itself, with a weapon raised covering him. The figure by the fire, still not distinct enough to be clearly seen, said:

“I’d be obliged if you would take your hands out of your pockets and step more into the firelight”.

He did as asked.

“I dearly hope that you have something to trade or deliver, as I don’t appreciate having my peace disturbed.”

The ending to this was that the deal was done and that two days on they would meet us at The Services for the journey back. Saying it like this makes it seem easy, but there was much bargaining to be done and details to be sorted.

The Constable said that he left there not easy in his heart with them. The leader, who called himself Sergeant Summer, seemed a hard, cold man and the others, a younger man and a woman, were equally rigid. The Sergeant had the sort of eyes, the Constable said, that looked through you, as if he had seen a multitude of things and too many of them unpleasant.

He had presumed, he said, that the soldiers had come to Maddy Owen’s aid out of some sense of goodness, but the Sergeant had laughed at this and told him they were paid. It was like any other job, he said. But now it was a good time for them to lie low, what with the O’Briens taking some offence at their actions, and the job up-country came at a convenient time. They had drank together to seal the deal, but the doubt was written clear as the lines on the Constable’s face.

He had retraced his steps down the hill to the sea-town, which was a frightening place at this time of night, with crowds of people in various states of intoxication ready to fight at any slight or slur, real or apparent. He met Cal back at the first tavern they had visited with Owen, which was known for some reason as the Nag’s Head. This referred, according to Richards, to a horse’s head and did not signify the punishment meted out to scolding wives.

Though Owen was long gone back to the city on his tractor, the locals did seem to grudgingly accept them as friends or acquaintances of the man. Cal was sitting with two sailors, their profession recognisable by their yellow water-proofs and sea boots, two brothers who had jumped ship and were looking for alternative employment.

They were local men, from a village up the valley, further than ours, and they were minded to work their passage and to go on to see what remained of their home, when the job was done. Of these two Cal and the Constable were unsure, but, as the job of recruitment was harder than it had seemed, they made an agreement with them. Things being as they were, those who sailed the sea were well-acquainted with violence and fighting.

These things that had befallen them in the sea-town had not left them too happy. Added to this was the night they spent on the floor of the tavern, no better place availing itself and even this sparse comfort costing them dearly. The journey back in the morning had been uneventful, but the new day had not found them any more content.

Richards had tried to re-assure them, to tell them that they had, after all, done their best and the soldiers, at least, sounded as if they knew their business, which, I suppose, was killing. This seemed to hearten them somewhat, but I must admit that we all went to bed that night with unquiet minds and vagrant thoughts.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of heavy rain falling on the roof of the house and the dripping sound of the many leaks, all making their own kind of music, depending on the size and shape of the receptacle that had been put out to collect the water. I had thought to go out that day, as Nes had agreed to take me down to the foreshore to gather wood, but Richards had warned against it.

The rain, he said, was black with ash and soot, from the North American forests which were still burning, and the clouds were still carrying the poison from a hundred smouldering cities. If you went out in it, you had to cover up your flesh and wear a face mask, as it could irritate your skin. Of course, I knew all these things, but I still let him inform me of them; it was easier that way. He then went on to tell me all about his system for filtering the rain-water, but this description was cut short, as he had to go and empty some of the buckets which were getting perilously full.

By the afternoon the day had cleared somewhat, though the clouds still loomed up black on the horizon, and Nes ignored Richards’ advice and took me down to the shore. Apart from our waterproof capes, made from old tarpaulin, and the bandannas that served as masks around our necks, we took a wheelbarrow for the wood, heavy-duty rubber gloves for handling it and an axe.

The sun came out as we got to the shore and I could see that there were many other people there, working singly or in groups. Some looked well-organised with horses and carts and Nes told me to avoid the biggest groups, as they were jealous of their territory. I asked Nes if the people were looking for shell-fish or the like, but she told me that nothing like that could live or grow here anymore. There was precious little living in the sea now and, what there was, was sparse and uncommon.

Nes picked out her own strip of territory to scour, away from other people, and we soon filled the barrow up with driftwood. I had not realised before, when I had looked out from the house at the coast, that what I had taken as sand or mud-flats broken up by outcrops of rocks was instead the an old, ancient pattern of streets and houses, abandoned and eroded over the years. I wondered at this and how people had lived here once. But Nes only shrugged and said:

“The sea is still coming in. No-one knows where it will end.”

And then I thought of it chasing me, the never-ending ocean, back up the valley to our village and up to the highest mountain, till we would be like Noah afloat in an ark, or whatever we could nail together. But when I told her this, Nes laughed.

It was hard work getting the wheel-barrow, full as it was, back up the sands and onto the road. Rough going too, to navigate the pot-holes and the broken pitted tarmac of the road, where bushes and saplings were breaking through. It may have been, perhaps, because the work was so tough and it tired me, that we argued. I can’t remember exactly why.

Nes had been asking about the village and how it had survived so long and I had been answering her. But then she had said:

“It’s only a matter of time you know, you can’t survive up there indefinitely. You should stay here, where at least there’s some sort of law and order.”

Why I took so against this, I can’t really recall; all I know is that I spat out some answer to her and she did the worst thing imaginable. She laughed at my anger. I was so filled with rage, so blown up with this affront to me, so belittled by it, that, unthinking, I ran from her, into the warren of streets over the road.

Where the tarmac had once run smooth and flat, the surface now was rutted with craters and puddles of brackish water. In some places subsidence from old drains and sewers had caused pavements and garden walls to slide sideways into the road. The side streets that opened onto this ruined avenue were like a set of mouths with broken teeth grinning at me. I sped into one of them, stumbling, but feeling no pain, tearing past a smoking pile of rubbish, blinded by the acrid smoke, with no concern given to where I was headed.

Nes had pierced me to the heart, but I couldn’t tell why. Her cruel, blunt words had shaken me to some settled core that was within me, some dream or belief I had that things would be right, would be better. But there was a degree more to it than that. Though in my rage I had called the woman a liar, my anger was borne of the fear that she was telling the truth.

I stopped running after only a few minutes, but it was long enough for me to have mistaken the way back to the house. There was some pattern to these streets, I knew, laid out like an irregular grid, and I was sure that if I kept the sea on my left hand, with the sound of the gulls and the waves in my ears, I should be able to trace my way back to Richard’s house.

In this I was to be proved wrong, some of the streets and squares were less well-preserved than others, and the piles of rubble and tracts of ruined buildings helped to confuse me. In a very short space of time I felt the anger give way to fear and there, looming up beneath this fear, were the first sensations of panic, making me feel as if the earth was sliding away beneath my feet.

Then, suddenly, I knew where I was; through a gap in the buildings in front of me I could see some of the old, blighted trees that still stood in Richards’ street. I had marked them before, these old, dying, forest giants that still managed to keep their hold in the acidic soil.

I could see no way through the buildings or the ruined plots, but at the end of the road there was a lane or alley, which seemed to go in the right direction. I took it without thinking, not realising my mistake, until a series of figures stepped out of the undergrowth on either side of the lane. Nes had said to be wary of the gangs, but I had put no mind to it.

They had a uniform of sorts; red scarves tied pirate style about their heads, old car badges worn like medallions, rare things dug or rooted out of dumps. Otherwise they were ragged and scarecrowish, favouring leather garments of all shapes and sizes over faded and filthy clothes. A boy with a green leather coat, once part of a fashionable woman’s outfit, blocked my path. He had an unhealthy look about him; stick thin, with bad skin. A deliberately scarred face, the markings like parallel razor cuts. He stank like a wild beast.

“What have we here?” He asked. “Fresh meat?”

I admit to feeling terror then, breath-stealing panic, but I soon realised they didn’t mean to eat me, though their intentions were obviously not gentle.

“She’s not wearing colours,” another one said, a girl this time dressed in a parody of some ancient fashion, short skirt, boots and piercings.

“She’s ours to do with what we like, then.” Another voice, though I wasn’t sure where it came from.

Nes had told me about these gangs. They were feral, like the packs of wild dogs that haunted the outskirts of cities. They were street-children, orphan or abandoned, left to fend for themselves for the most part. Though not all of them; some of them had families, connections, but chose to run with the others.

They had started to close in on me and I had started to back away – conscious, though, of the fact that there were at least a couple behind me - unsure what they would do. I feared being tripped up or pushed to the ground more than anything. If I was off my feet, I was in their power. The fear I felt was taking away my breath, my voice and threatening to paralyse me, but I thought of my grandmother and I thought of the valley and knew that what I feared more than what these creatures might do to me, was to end here in this strange place so far from home.

I spun around and ran for the mouth of the alley way, keeping low as hands reached out to grasp me. I pushed through a rain of hands, fists and kicks, which threatened to stop me, but I was gaining ground until someone tripped me and I fell head long into the muddy ground of the path. I tried to get up, but the scarred boy was holding me down. As I turned my head, I could see that the others had hung back, as if they were leaving me to him.

From somewhere he had produced a blade, which he was holding close to my neck. He was pulling at my clothes and swearing at me. The wind was still out of me and I was somewhat dazed, so I could not make much sense of what he was saying or what he intended to do.

Someone shouted out behind me.

The scarred boy spat out and answered: “Stay away, we’ve got dibs on here. She’s our’n now.”

Then I became conscious of another figure, raising its arms to hit me. I glimpsed a half-brick in a hand, but as I flinched ready for the blow, it didn’t land on me. Instead, the thin boy groaned and rolled away from me. Another hand pulled me upright and pushed me towards the mouth of the alley.

“Keep going,” a voice said. It was Nes. We were past the alley now, but figures were emerging from it. Nes threw the brick at them and they ducked back. Up the road a crowd of people were gathering.

“Come on!” Nes scolded me. “We need to get out of here quickly.”

We walked briskly to the corner, then we ran. There was a confusion of ways and lanes and roads, which the gang were well-acquainted with. But so was Nes. I don’t know if we ever really lost them, but we got back to Richards’ house without being caught up, slipping in through a back entrance I was previously unaware of.

I sat at the kitchen table feeling sick and shaky, but also in some way bereft. I knew that Nes was angry with me and I feared things would not be the same between us from now on. I also felt foolish, but didn’t let this show.

Nes and Richards had carried on a whispered conversation and had spent a lot of time scanning the street from the windows. The Constable and Mrs. Sharma had come into the room, looking very concerned, but Nes had re-assured them, saying that I wasn’t hurt and telling them I needed some peace. Cal had also come to see me, angry and anxious, probably wondering what he would have said to Rachel if I had been hurt.

I can’t remember a great deal of the rest of the day. Perhaps my recollection is flawed, but it seemed to me that everybody kept close to the house and there was something unspoken lying between them all. The Constable and Cal had been at the market in the morning, but Cal had said that pickings were slim, probably due to the rain and the sheer misery of the weather. We all knew that the next day was our last, that the trade for the guns would be done and then we would journey back.

The Constable seemed overly quiet that day and given to brooding. I had thought it was all to do with me and what had happened in the afternoon, but later I overheard Cal and Nes talking. The woman was making conversation; there seemed some awkwardness between them that she was trying to allay. She had asked him if he was looking forward to going back.

“I suppose so,” he said. “I hadn’t really thought of it.”

He was silent for a while, as if thinking, as she moved in her usual quiet and graceful way around the kitchen.

“But so much is expected of us,” he went on, “and I don’t think we’ll have all that much to bring back.”

I hadn’t thought of this before really, what they - we - had been sent to do. There was this idea that salvation would be returning with us, some sort of fiery host to smite the foe. But in essence, we would be coming back with a handful of weapons and a ragtag of mercenaries.