Hills End (14 page)

Adrian worked hard, in a sweat and a flurry, with a hammer in hand and a pocket full of nails. He broke into sections a big crate in the store-room and dragged the pieces up to seal the window and would have boarded the lot up, without means of entry or exit, if Paul had not drawn his attention to it. The up-ended honey barrel still barred their use of the door. It was far too large and sticky a mess to tackle when so much else had to be done.

Frances, though she was terrified of the thing, managed to start an old primus stove that Paul found in the storeroom. She insisted upon using it rather than taking a new one down from the shelf. Frances was so much the little mother that Paul had taken it for granted that she knew how to cook, but, strange as it seemed, Frances's mother never dared to let her loose in the kitchen. Frances had one blind spot—to the despair of all the McLeod family—she couldn't even boil water without precipitating a disaster.

Paul mopped up the water at the rear of the shop. It was the drapery department, and he had to pile stacks of goods on the counter and push the racks of garments into the corner. Then he placed bowls to catch the drips that still came through the ceiling. That steady rain drumming against the iron roof must have been finding damaged spots, sprung nails perhaps, or loose ridging, because the ceiling was saturated and stained and sweating discoloured beads of water. Next, Paul placed layer after layer of brown wrapping paper over the floorboards and made six sleeping bags, each from a pair of blankets, and a safety pin. That was a trick his father, once a corporal in the army, had shown him. Two blankets folded double and interleaved like tissues in a packet, tucked securely under at the bottom and pinned at one top corner, quickly made a snug bag that was as difficult to enter as it was to get out of. He accomplished all that and realized suddenly that something was wrong. Gussie wasn't back. Maisie wasn't back. Harvey still hadn't appeared.

He didn't say anything, but he helped himself to a raincoat and made his way up to the front where Adrian was still hammering and trying to puzzle out a method of making a door.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Out.'

‘To get the kids?'

Paul nodded.

‘Don't be long. It's almost dark. Harvey's a little nuisance. It'll be his fault, that's certain.'

Paul shrugged and stepped through the narrow opening out into the cold. And it was really cold, dismal and disheartening. While he had been busy he had forgotten the frightful chaos of the main street. Fallen trees and debris prevented him from seeing far in any direction and heavy cloud drooped low.

He was conscious of a deep sense of misery, such as he sometimes had when he woke up on examination day. He glanced to the north towards Harvey's place and then glanced to the south, towards the clearing they had crossed to come back into town. He saw nothing in either direction at first, except grim destruction, and he had started towards Harvey's when some form of delayed awareness alerted him.

He had seen something peculiar. For the moment he didn't know what it had been, but he suddenly turned and faced back towards the clearing—the clearing he couldn't see for rain and gloom and intervening debris.

There was nothing. He had been deceived by the poor light. Or had he been? There must have been something or he wouldn't be trembling. He was shaking all over. What on earth could it have been? Hadn't this same uneasiness possessed him only a minute or two ago and compelled him to go after Gussie?

Paul was not exactly frightened, but never had he felt like this. He was far too practical a boy to be troubled by the dreams and fancies that haunted Adrian. But now he stood peering into the gloom, listening, quivering.

All he heard was the rain beating into puddles, striking tangled sheets of iron, gurgling in ditches. That was all. Only water.

Perhaps he had seen nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing. Perhaps the cause was within himself—tiredness, over-excitement, lack of food, or his awful anxiety for Miss Godwin and Butch and Mr Tobias.

‘Paul! Paul!
Paul!
'

He hadn't imagined that. No fear. That was Gussie, screaming. Gussie, from the direction of Harvey's place, not from the direction into which he was looking. Gussie, in terrible trouble.

Paul took off, yelling, ‘Coming!' at the top of his voice, over and over again, scrambling across the tangle of twigs and branches, and saw them both, Maisie and Gussie, fleeing towards him. Gussie floundered right into him, so suddenly did she appear. She was groaning for breath, paler than he had ever seen her, and Maisie was trying to speak, but couldn't; all she could make was a choking sound.

Suddenly Gussie got it out. ‘The bull! Harvey, Harvey—the bull!'

Paul felt his legs giving way underneath him.

‘Oh, golly!' He could only moan. If the bull had Harvey there was nothing he could do. How could he fight a bull? How could any of them fight a bull? A bull was stronger than a dozen men. That rotten bull! He hadn't given it a thought. It had never crossed his mind that such a danger could be.

‘What's it done to him, Gussie? Oh, golly, Gussie!'

‘It—it's trying to kill him.'

‘He's at his kitchen door,' stammered Maisie, ‘in a tree. There's a tree fallen there on the dog's kennel. He—he's in the branches on the ground, and the bull's there, too, snorting and pawing, and we thought he was going to go for us. He's so wild. He's terrible.'

‘And Buzz is barking all the time, on the chain, and Harvey's too frightened to move. If only he could get the dog off the chain!'

‘It's an awfully little dog,' said Paul.

‘But he's full of fight. If only Harvey would move, Buzz'd save him. Buzz'd do it. He'd die for Harvey. But Harvey won't move. You'd think he was frozen solid.'

Paul shivered. ‘I think I would be, too. Oh, golly, what am I to do? It's always been a terrible bull. Even the Rickards are scared stiff of it. Every time Mr Rickard goes near it someone covers him with a rifle. They should have shot the blooming old thing years ago.'

And that was his answer. A rifle. He looked at Gussie and Maisie and grabbed them.

‘Righto, you two. Let's get back to the shop. Adrian's father had a rifle. That's how we'll do it.'

Gussie shook him off. ‘You can't fire a rifle. Not a big rifle like Mr Fiddler's.'

‘Of course I can.'

‘You've
never
fired a rifle like that.'

‘Don't be silly. All you do is pull the trigger.'

‘You'll
kill
yourself.'

‘Oh for pity's sake, Gussie!'

He grabbed her again and ran. All three stumbled together, back through the rubble and the confusion of the main street, back towards the shop, and all the way Paul was bellowing for Adrian.

Adrian tumbled out of the boarded-up window and was twenty yards up the street when they met.

‘Wh—what's the trouble?' he stammered.

‘Get your father's gun,' Paul panted, ‘and get it quick. The bull's on the loose.'

Adrian's jaw sagged.

‘And it's got Harvey bailed up. Don't forget the bullets, Adrian. Go for your life.'

Adrian seemed to be stunned, but suddenly came to life. He bolted up the street, round and through the ruins of the hall, towards the big stone house on the hill, and he had vanished in a moment. Paul had never dreamt that Adrian could run like that.

‘Righto, girls,' said Paul, ‘into the shop. I want you two well locked up, out of harm's way, and for heaven's sake stay locked up. If the bull comes thundering down here you'd never stand a chance.'

Frances tumbled out of the window. ‘What bull?'

‘Rickard's! That's why Harvey hasn't come back.'

Frances's eyes widened in horror.

‘We'll have to shoot it. Adrian's gone for a rifle and Harvey was all right until a few minutes ago. Keep these kids under lock and key, Frances. In you go, the lot of you. Inside.'

Frances held up her hand. ‘Who's going to shoot the bull?'

‘I am,' said Paul, ‘but get inside, Frances, and we'll argue later.'

They clambered in, and Paul, following them, immediately checked Adrian's work on the window. It certainly would not resist the charge of a bull, but that was an unlikely event. The door was the main worry, and if the animal started tearing up this part of the town it might be attracted by the glow of the lights. The door might have resisted the attempts of the boys to open it against the pressure of the honey barrel, but a bull would make short work of it. Paul threw down a couple of sugar bags into the honey and stepped over them to push the partly unhinged door back on the latch. He turned and Frances was there.

‘How can you shoot a bull?' she said.

He glared at her. ‘How would you do it?'

‘With a gun, I suppose.'

‘Well, don't ask stupid questions.' He sniffed. ‘What's burning?'

‘Burning?'
Frances wailed and rushed to her primus stove. She had been watching the saucepan so carefully. But it was the stove that was at fault; she couldn't turn the silly old thing low enough. Three tins of stew she had emptied into the saucepan and now she'd have to scrape it all out.

‘Paul! Paul!'

There was a beating on the boards at the windows and Paul couldn't believe that Adrian was back so soon. He couldn't have covered the distance in the time, but he had.

Paul leapt into the window and Adrian was staring at him from the outside, panting, clutching at a stitch in his side.

‘Paul, quick!'

Paul didn't ask questions. This was something else. Just what that expression was in Adrian's dimly seen face he didn't know, but it had nothing to do with rifles or bulls.

Paul jumped to the ground. ‘Where's the gun?'

‘I've found Butch!'

Paul blinked in astonishment. For the moment he didn't really understand what Adrian had said.

‘But the gun—the gun!'

‘I tell you I've found Butch. You'll have to help me with him.' Adrian buried his face in his hands. ‘I thought he was dead, but he's alive, Paul. On the road. On his face. I thought he was dead.'

In that instant Paul grasped the significance of what Adrian had said. The mental jump from Harvey to Butch was wide, but Paul managed to bridge it, as Adrian, too, had done.

‘Miss Godwin?'

‘He's alone.'

Adrian straightened up, again with his hands pressed into his sides, and made off back down the street, and Paul went with him—poor, confused Paul, torn between his anxiety for Harvey and the new complication of Butch. He was beginning to understand that their isolation was indeed a dreadful thing. These were problems that would have daunted grown men, but Paul knew that somehow he would have to find the strength and the courage to face them. He hurried beside Adrian, knowing that he was only a boy, that they were both only boys. They were the little boys who had started school on the same day eight years ago. He could remember that day and he wondered why he thought of it now. He had felt lost that day. He felt lost now.

‘There he is.'

Adrian was pointing. Paul knew it was Butch only because Adrian had said so. Butch was a heap of mud, clothed in rags.

They dropped beside him, and Paul felt his pulse. It was a pointless thing to do because he had no idea how strong or how weak, how fast or how slow, one's pulse should be. He did not know why he did it; perhaps it was a gesture to hide his fear or to convince Adrian that there was no cause for alarm while he, Paul, was around.

‘Is he all right?'

Paul nodded and decided then and there, at that moment, to be a doctor. He could imagine nothing finer, nothing more wonderful.

‘Leave him to me,' he said. ‘You get up to the house and get the gun. Hurry, Adrian. Harvey's in trouble.'

So was Butch in trouble. He was unconscious, and Paul wondered what on earth he was going to do with him.

He heard Adrian's voice as though far distant. ‘I'll get the gun.'

Butch was the reason for that premonition of Paul's. It had had nothing to do with Harvey at all. This was the direction into which he had been looking when he had heard Gussie's terrified call. It had been Butch all the time. Butch must have been staggering down the road and through some gap in the debris Paul had seen the movement. It had been Butch all the time. Poor Butch.

He realized that he was alone with the fat boy. Adrian had gone up the massive terraced steps towards his father's house.

Paul squeezed the boy's shoulders and said earnestly, ‘Butch, wake up!'

Butch did not stir and Paul knew that he was absolutely worn out. Perhaps he had crawled for miles. Perhaps they had passed him that very afternoon. Perhaps they had been within a few yards of Miss Godwin. Perhaps Miss Godwin was really and truly dead. Or perhaps she had never found Butch at all. Perhaps he had been wandering alone. Perhaps. Perhaps. There were so many, many things Paul didn't know.

‘Come on, Butch. You're too big for me to carry.'

Butch was in a deeper state than sleep. It was the first time Paul had ever seen anyone in a state of unconsciousness. What was one supposed to do? How did one handle a person in this condition? No wonder Adrian had thought he was dead.

Paul tried to lift him, but Butch was so heavy, so big, so lifeless. There was only one thing he could do. He would have to drag the boy and hope that he didn't hurt him, because Butch could not be left here. There was a bull on the loose.

Paul heaved and strained and tugged, and foot by foot, jerk by jerk, he dragged Butch through the debris until he simply had to rest to recover his strength. And now it was dark and it was difficult to see, even dimly, in any direction. Adrian, in fact, had almost passed him before they saw each other.

‘I've got the gun.'

‘Good.' Paul was breathless and a little light-headed.