A Sixpenny Christmas (24 page)

Without waiting for a tug on the binder twine, Nonny slid off the rock and followed closely as he began to descend the far side of the mountain. She was careful to put no strain on the cord between them, since she had almost managed to sever it. It would be pointless to make her bid for freedom up here, miles from any sort of help, but she knew that her nibblings and gnawings at the binder twine had at last weakened it so much that it only needed one sharp jerk and she would be free of him. This, however, was not the moment. If he realised, he might do something truly horrible, for he had started to talk in a low mumble of the things that men did to women, dreadful things which she had never heard mentioned in her life before. She wanted to put her fingers in her ears, to shut out the hateful voice, but that was impossible without revealing that the binder twine was almost worn through. She told herself not to listen, that he was lying, but she could not shut out his words nor the glee with which he repeated them. ‘You think when this is over and I’ve got that bitch to promise not to ask me for more money, then that’s an end of it,’ he said at last. ‘But it ain’t, you stupid little cow. Whilst I live I’ll make sure I allus know where you are and what you’re doing, and one day I’ll come for you, see if I don’t.’

Nonny made no reply, concentrating on putting as little strain as possible upon the twine, and followed him down the steep and rocky path. Not that it was a path; it was simply the way he imagined would lead to the dreadful scramble up the next peak.

The climb seemed both unnecessary and exhausting to Nonny, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he had not simply followed the valley when their way was barred by a deep gorge, so deep that when Nonny peered into it she could not make out the bottom. After not speaking for so long, it took a good deal of courage to turn to him and make a suggestion. ‘If you were to go down a valley – especially one with a river running through it – it’d be easier walking and it would lead us out of the mountains,’ she said. She was proud that her voice scarcely trembled at all and looked up at him defiantly, half expecting a slap or a shake for daring to address him at last. He started to reply, to say that folk lived in the valleys, that up here on the mountain tops he felt safer because he could see for miles, when something, Nonny did not know what, made him clap a great brawny hand to his forehead.

‘There’s grub in my haversack,’ he said. ‘A bottle of beer, an’ all. Fancy me forgettin,’ and I’m that parched.’

Right now, despite her fear and disgust of him, the mere thought of food and drink brought the saliva rushing to Nonny’s mouth. The man sat down on a convenient rock a good six feet from the edge of the gorge and began to pull the haversack from his shoulder. If he wondered why his captive sat so still he made no comment, probably assuming that she was as hungry as he and as eager for her share of the bread and ham. He
had begun to say, in a wondering tone, that he must be a great fool to have walked all that way without once recalling the food he carried, when a slight sound brought his head up sharply. ‘What was that?’

Chris was worried. The ten minutes were up, and if Lana really had seen Nonny coming up the lane, then she must have skirted the farmhouse and gone on up the valley. Had she tried to buy a present for her mother in the village, been unsuccessful, and gone on to the Pritchards’ farm? He turned to Lana, who was standing almost shoulder to shoulder with him at the kitchen window, gazing hopefully up the lane. ‘Did Nonny give you any idea of what sort of present she was buying for our mum?’ he asked. ‘It’s just occurred to me that if she wanted something alive, a puppy or one of the bantams Mrs Pritchard rears – something like that – then she might have tried in the village, been unsuccessful, and gone on to the Pritchards’ place. She and Mrs Pritchard are good friends; Mrs P says Nonny’s like a daughter to her and I know Rhodri treats her a bit like a young sister. So she could have gone there.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Damn the girl, why did she have to be so bloody secretive? It’s not as though we could have told Mum, even if we wanted to, because Nonny is bound to be home well before Minnie the Moocher puts in an appearance. I reckon they’ve run into some sort of trouble – a tree across the road, or a stream breaking its banks – which is why they aren’t back yet.’

He looked indecisively at his companion. She was a good couple of inches shorter than Nonny and nowhere near as sturdy; was it fair to ask her to go with him
into the village in such frightful weather? On the other hand was it fair to leave her alone in the farmhouse? He knew she was frightened of lightning, though his constant assurances that thunder was only noise and could not possibly hurt one seemed to have had the desired effect. And suppose he got to the village only to find that his half-guess had been right and Nonny was making her way to Cae Hic, the Pritchards’ farmhouse? He felt a surge of envy; he knew his mother admired the bantams and would be far more delighted with a bantam chick than with the most exotic bar of chocolate in the world. But there you were; Nonny was the one with imagination . . .

‘Chris? Why don’t we walk up to the Pritchards’? I think Nonny may have been heading there, like you said, but suppose she never reached them? Oh, Chris, if she fell . . .’

Chris reached up for his own waterproof and Lana’s, kicked off his slippers, hooked out his boots, and stepped into them, noting with approval that Lana, following suit, was almost as quick as he. Then he turned to what Molly called her ‘scribble board’, upon which every member of the family left messages from time to time.
Gone to keep Nonny company. Back soon, C
, he wrote. Then he went over to where Lana waited by the back door. ‘You’re right,’ he told his companion. ‘We won’t take the dogs because . . .’ He was opening the door as he spoke, and before he could prevent her Feather had slid out into the rain. Cursing, Chris followed her and tried to grab her ruff, already wet, but she eluded him. He gave a frustrated sigh, then turned back to Lana. ‘Oh well, one dog isn’t too bad. I just didn’t fancy taking all of them. Feather’s
a good old girl; she’ll wait by the back door at Cae Hic whilst we fetch Nonny out. I’m sure you’re right and she’s probably at the Pritchards’ simply sheltering from the storm, because the silly girl wasn’t wearing waterproofs or her wellies. Come to think of it, we’d best take them with us because she’ll be glad of them.’ He nipped back into the kitchen, grabbed Nonny’s outer clothing and boots and re-joined Lana, who was standing in the yard with a hand on Feather’s ruff, looking worried. As they crossed the farmyard and went into the lane she tugged at Chris’s sleeve.

‘Do you have a torch, Chris? We might need it.’

For answer Chris fished in his pocket and produced a grand big torch which had been a birthday present from his parents. He flashed it at Lana, then stuffed it back into his pocket, just as the girl beside him gave a squeak of dismay. ‘Sorry, Chris, I’m afraid Feather’s given me the slip,’ she said. ‘But she’ll come back if you call her; she’s awful obedient, isn’t she?’

Chris agreed that this was so and whistled, whereupon Feather came slinking down the mountainside, wagging a deprecatory tail and licking her lips. But when Lana tried to grab her again she danced just out of reach; and then, to both young people’s surprise, Feather, normally the most silent of dogs, began to bark.

Chris was immediately alerted. Feather was a highly intelligent animal; his father always said she was intuitive too, and often obeyed a command he was about to give rather than one he had already voiced. He turned to Lana. ‘Something’s up,’ he said briefly. ‘You stay here while I investigate.’

Lana was wearing a yellow waterproof with a matching
fisherman’s hat, which Chris had thought privately was a right cissy turnout, but now he realised that the girl showed up even in the driving rain and not only when the lightning forked to earth, either. ‘You’re as good as a torch yourself, so if you stay right here I’ll find my way back to you easy as winking,’ he shouted over his shoulder, but was not particularly surprised when Lana, shaking her head, began to scramble up the steep path along which Feather led them.

‘I’m coming too,’ she shouted. ‘You might need me.’

Chris chuckled to himself at the mere thought, but did not argue. He knew Feather better than to think she would lead them on a false trail, but what might seem important to a dog might not appear in quite the same light to a human being. However, he accepted Lana’s companionship without demur, even taking her hand to help her over the rougher patches, for this was a path which led only to a ruined cottage and in places was completely overgrown with gorse, brambles and the like. Because of the violence of the rain they were almost upon the cottage before they saw it, but there was no doubt that it was Feather’s destination for she whipped inside, then turned to make sure they were following. Only then did she begin to quarter the place, nose close to the ground, taking deep and noisy breaths as she did so. Chris shone his torch around the interior of the ruined building. It was only half roofed, though the walls stood firm enough, and Chris was easily able to tell his companion that someone had been camping, or at least spending time, here. There were crumbs of food amidst the dry bracken, in the middle of which was a deep indentation where someone – it was too large to be an
animal – had made themselves a cosy nest. A tramp? Possibly, but not, he thought, his sister. She had no need to make herself a hide-out in a ruined cottage or anywhere else for that matter. No, he thought it was probably the person who had stolen the loaf of bread from their dairy the night before. But just in case his sister had come up here for some reason best known to herself, he began to hunt diligently for some sign, and presently the strong beam of his torch lit up a dirty crumpled piece of white paper, upon which he could see that something had been written.

Chris grabbed the paper and smoothed it out with trembling fingers. It was damp and dirty, a good deal of its original message washed away, but he could make out some words. ‘
I’ve took the . . .
there’s a gap here . . .
whats half mine anyhow
,’ he read aloud. ‘Then there’s another bit I can’t read and after that it says
hounding me for money
.’ Chris and Lana stared hard at the paper but neither could make out one further word, and finally Chris propped it up on top of the bracken bed. It might mean something to someone else, but it meant nothing to him, and when he questioned Lana she too shook her head. ‘It’s no use, and it may have nothing to do with Nonny . . .’ he was beginning when Lana gave an excited squeak and pointed to Feather.

‘Take it away from her; she’ll kill it, even if she doesn’t mean to,’ she gabbled. ‘Oh, Chris, Nonny must have been here!’ Chris had removed from Feather’s gentle jaws a pathetic little ball of yellow fluff. He and Lana bent their heads over it, Lana almost in tears over the little creature’s fate, but Chris gave a crack of laughter.

‘It’s not a live chick, stupid, it’s just one of those toy
ones that Mrs Enfys decorates her window with at Easter,’ he assured her. ‘But what the devil is it doing up here? I don’t understand, but from what you’ve said . . .’ he looked long and hard at his companion, ‘I believe
you
do,’ he finished.

‘Yes, I think I do,’ Lana said slowly. ‘I didn’t tell you before because Nonny said it was to be a secret, but she meant to buy chicks from the post office for your mum. Only this isn’t a real chick, it’s just a pretend one. So what on earth was Nonny doing with it up here?’

Chris was beginning to reply when Feather lost patience. She jumped up, nosed first at the chick and then at Nonny’s waterproof, then set off, back into the pouring rain, the rumblings of thunder and the occasional brilliance of the lightning. Chris seized Lana’s hand. ‘Follow her, and keep an eye out for any sign of Nonny,’ he shouted above the screech of the wind. ‘I tell you what, Lana, I think Nonny’s been kidnapped by someone who thinks all farmers are rich, probably the same fellow who stole the loaf. I can’t think of any other possible reason for her being up here. If she’d meant to go to the Pritchards’ she’d have stuck to the lane. I think she’s been taken.’

‘And that note, the one we couldn’t read, probably explained it all,’ Lana said sadly. The two children continued to follow where Feather led and every few hundred yards they were rewarded by the sight of a soggy little chick, wire legs pathetically extended, bright-eyed little face almost buried in mud, though for the most part, since their way lay upward, it was more often glimpsed in shale or even through the waters of a tumbling mountain stream. Chris counted the chicks as he pushed each one into his pocket.

By the time the first pale grey light of dawn appeared beyond the far mountain peaks both children were exhausted, and Chris had collected ten chicks. He was having to help Lana over the rougher patches of ground and he cheered her up by telling her she was every bit as brave as his sister and by promising her that when they found Nonny he would make sure she knew what a brick her little friend had been. At one point they were so tired that Chris decreed they must rest, otherwise when they did catch up with Nonny and her captor, for by now they were convinced that Nonny had been kidnapped, they would be too tired for a rescue attempt. Lana was only too glad to obey, to sink down upon a large boulder and to sag wearily into Chris’s comforting arm, and Feather, too, though still bright-eyed, seemed pleased enough to collapse at their feet, though every now and then she gazed up the stony little track they were following and whined pathetically. She knows we’re getting close, and is beginning to be afraid of what we may have to face, Chris thought, smoothing a hand over the dog’s soaking wet head. I just wish I could think of some way of rescuing Nonny which wouldn’t be dangerous to us all. If only we weren’t in such wild country! If only I knew the terrain, come to that. Feather does; she knows we’re getting closer . . . oh, if only Dad were here!

The sound that had alarmed her captor was not repeated, and despite wanting desperately to have the strength of character to refuse the food Nonny, a sensible child, knew this would be the height of stupidity. She needed all her strength simply to keep up with this horrible
man, and when the moment was ripe to escape from him she would need all her strength to do that as well. So she ate her share of the food, drank water from the bottle he had filled from a nearby stream, and when he rose and walked to the edge of the gorge accompanied him closely, one hand in her pocket, the other, its wrist chafed and bleeding, staying near to his so that he should not realise how close the bond was to snapping. Together, almost like friends, they peered over the edge; it was a long, long way down. No one falling from here would hit anything for a very long time, and then they would disappear into the dark depths, the bottom of which could not even be seen. Nonny stepped back, feeling her stomach clench. She was not afraid of heights when she had ropes and crampons and a friend beside her, but this was very different. She was yoked to a madman, who might suddenly assume that they could jump safely from one side of the gorge to the other, a distance, she estimated, of ten or fifteen feet. But she felt a shiver pass through the man’s huge frame and glanced up at him. His face was greenish-white and his loose-lipped mouth trembled and suddenly she realised that this might be the end of her ordeal. He was in a blue funk, terrified of heights, terrified of the mountains, terrified of what he had done and of the punishment which awaited him.