Long Lankin (24 page)

“I’ve heard those children before,” I whisper, still staring at the place where they were standing.

“What? When?” rasps Roger.

“I’ve heard them in Guerdon Hall, in the night. I thought I was dreaming. He’s the man in the picture, Piers Hillyard. He’s come to warn us.”

“Cave bestiam.”
Roger shudders. “Beware of the beast.”

I lie here listening to the kitchen clock chiming away the hours of the night. My eyes feel hard, like two lead bullets. I see the man’s face in the flower pattern on my bedroom curtains. I turn to the wall. I feel his fingers on my back. I shiver.

I can’t say anything to Pete. How could I tell him what we’ve seen?

I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t know what I might dream of. I make myself stay awake, listening to the mice scratching under the floorboards.

Mimi dozes. She’s kicked off the top blanket. It is such a hot night. My hair is wet and sticky. Mimi turns towards me, and her mouth falls open. I push her bottom lip up and move her head so her mouth stays shut, then take a deep breath and get out of bed.

My feet are cool on the wooden floor. I go to the window and pull the curtains aside. A great yellow moon hangs in a clear sky full of stars, so bright the garden is alive with shadows, rippling behind the dirty panes. The bar of the horizon glows turquoise.

I lift the rusty metal catch and try to open the window, but it will not budge. I push hard on the wood with my palms and feel a slight movement, then pound with my fists a couple of times. I listen for a while to see if I have woken Auntie Ida. Hearing no sound from beyond the door, I punch at the frame with all my strength. At last it rattles. Small splinters of wood break off, old paint flakes and dust come away, and gradually the window scrapes across the stone ledge and creaks outwards but will not open completely. The frame stops against the sharp broken ends of rusty nails.

I lean as far as I can into the gap and breathe in the warm air as I gaze down at the wilderness of a garden, the dark curve of the empty creek surrounding it, and the wasteland of marshes beyond.

A soft breeze bends the grass blades and rustles the leaves on the overgrown shrubs below. A smell drifts up to me, rotten and sweet at the same time, the smell of dead animals, of an opened grave. I smelled it today in the church tower.

I catch a movement in the trees near the henhouse. If a fox is coming for the chickens, I’ll make a noise, clap my hands, throw something — I hold my breath and wait for it to clear the bushes.

It is not a fox.

Moving slowly, creeping along the ground, it approaches a bright patch of moonlight by the wire fence. It is shaped like a long tall man, yet it crawls like an animal.

It draws closer to the light, closer, one hand stretched out and then the other.

My breath rushes out.

Heart thumping, I drag the window shut.

Swiftly it turns its head and looks up. Through the diamond panes, I see a bony face like a skull. It looks at me from the dark orbits of its eyes and opens its jaws wide, showing me long, pointed yellow teeth that flicker behind the old shifting glass like the flames of candles.

Somewhere in the house, Finn stirs and growls.

Pete was upstairs playing with his soldiers and said to call him when we were going out.

Mum had gone to feed and change Baby Pamela. Cora and I sat in the kitchen, hardly speaking. She looked messy, with her hair hanging down and dark rings under her eyes.

I stared at a crust of bread on the lino.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“’Course I’m blinkin’ sure.”

“Could’ve been a nightmare. You know, after what we saw an’ all.”

“I’ve had enough flippin’ nightmares since I’ve been here to know the difference. I ain’t stupid.”

“Moonlight plays funny tricks —”

“Shut up, will you! I saw the flippin’ thing! Just like we saw that man at the church!”

Mum came in. We both stared at the bit of bread.

“You two had a row?” she asked, then added breezily, “Couldn’t you find any ribbon, Cora? Do you want me to do your plaits for you? I don’t mind if you don’t want me to, but Mrs. Eastfield isn’t used to having kids around. She’s not in a routine. I’ll do it for you, if you like. I never get to do a girl’s hair in this house. Baby Pamela hasn’t got any yet.”

“Oh, ta,” said Cora, making herself smile. “Thanks. Auntie does it sometimes, but it’s really tight. Feels like she’s pulling me roots out.”

Mum took down her basket of odds and ends from the dresser. “What colour ribbon, Cora? This red’s nice, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah, very nice, lovely,” said Cora, and Mum reached over for her big black bristle brush and started to tidy up Cora’s hair.

“Mrs. Jotman, you know you said Mrs. Eastfield isn’t used to having kids around?” asked Cora. “Well, what happened to her little boy?”

Mum’s mouth fell open, and so did mine. She stopped the brush halfway down Cora’s head.

“Well, what a question,” she said, then started brushing again, but quicker.

“She did have one, didn’t she?”

Mum ran her fingers through her own hair. She always did that when she was flustered.

“Well, yes, to be completely truthful, she did have one as it happens,” said Mum, making a back parting. “Erm, I think he was called Edward. You mustn’t be too hard on your auntie, Cora. She’s had a tough time.”

“What happened to him?”

“Look, why don’t you ask her? I really don’t think it’s my place. You’ve got lovely thick hair, dear. You’re really lucky. Does it come from your mum or your dad?”

“What happened to her baby? I can hardly ask
her,
can I?”

“Well, Cora, if you don’t think she’d want you to know, it isn’t fair to ask me, is it? It’s just gossip, anyway.”

“What’s gossip? If it’s gossip and everybody round here knows, why shouldn’t I know and all? It’s my family, ain’t it. If anything ain’t fair, it’s me not knowing what’s gone on with me own flesh and blood.”

Mum sighed. Cora’s eyes went wet round the edges, and she sniffed. I honestly couldn’t tell if she was really starting to cry or just pretending, but Mum’s a sucker for tears, soft as butter, and Cora knew it.

“Oh, Cora, please don’t upset yourself. Oh, dear, you’ve put me in such an awkward position. Look, don’t tell anybody I said anything, especially your aunt. . . . To be honest, Cora, nobody really knows for sure. Nobody knows what happened to the little chap — that’s the problem. When I was a girl, I just picked things up here and there from bits of grown-ups’ conversations. All I know is, he died . . . disappeared . . . somewhere down there. . . .’

“Did her husband die as well?” I asked. Mum shot me such a look, I swallowed.

“Well, yes, he did, obviously — otherwise he’d be around, wouldn’t he,” she said uncomfortably.

“How did he die?” I asked, boldly for me.

“You’re going too far now, Roger. Why have you suddenly started asking all these questions? It’s Mrs. Eastfield’s private business. It’s nothing to do with us.”

“Did he kill himself?” Cora asked.

“Cora! What a question!” Mum cried. “Nobody — nobody knows what happened. He was found in the upper field, just below Glebe Woods, not long after the little boy went missing. He’d been out shooting rabbits or something. It was most likely an accident. These things happen. A gun can go off the wrong way.”

Mum went quiet. Then, to my amazement, she continued.

“Mrs. Eastfield started to give it all up after that. Her family, the Guerdons, farmed all the land round here. It went as far as Daneflete and the river, then over to Hilsea, and nearly to Fairing the other way — a lot of it marshland, of course, not much use to man nor beast. The Guerdons were a titled family many years ago, but sometimes titles go sideways or get lost, and the Guerdons ended up wealthy gentleman farmers. There’s no lack of money, never has been.

“When I was a child, I remember seeing Mrs. Eastfield quite often driving a tractor along the main road. During the war she had some help from land girls and labourers, but none of them stayed for long. It was all too much for her. Gradually she sold off some land to other farmers, and what she didn’t sell, she rents out.”

“Well, if she’s got money, why doesn’t she sort the blinkin’ house out, then?” said Cora. “It’s falling to bits.”

“Oh, Cora,” said Mum, twisting Cora’s hair around her fingers. “Sometimes, when an awful lot of rotten things happen to a person, they — they sort of lose heart, I suppose. It must be hard. After hundreds of years, with that old house never going out of the family in all that time, she’s — well, she’s the last of the Guerdons, the only one left to have been born with that name.”

That’s what old Gussie had said —
the last of the Guerdons
.

“She probably just couldn’t be bothered,” Mum went on, “and anyway, why should she? It isn’t worth wasting money on, is it? After she’s gone, who’s going to want to live down there, in that lonely place, near that funny old church . . . all those weird stories. Nobody in their right mind would choose to live down there. It’ll be pulled down or left to fall down all on its own.”

“Why don’t she move away, then?” asked Cora.

“Where would she go?”

Cora wouldn’t stop. “Why don’t people round here want their kids to go down the church, then, Mrs. Jotman? What’s the matter with it? What are them weird stories you said? And why doesn’t anyone like Auntie Ida? Why do they all whisper behind her back? Why do they go quiet when she walks in anywhere?”

“That’s an end to it, Cora! Quite frankly, they’re not the sort of things children should be asking. That’s enough now!”

“Why don’t grown-ups tell kids nothing?” Cora cried. “Like we’re stupid.”

Mum sighed. “It was the same when I was little.”

She tied up the end of the first plait, then busied herself brushing and then sorting the rest of Cora’s hair into three strands.

“Look,” she went on. “People around here are funny about the church, always have been. It’s probably a lot of old superstitious nonsense, but, well, some strange and, to be honest, awful things have happened down there that just haven’t ever been understood. As for your Auntie Ida, people are funny with folks who’ve been touched by tragedy. I suppose they think it’s catching or something, so best to keep your distance. People can be very self-righteous, especially in small villages like this. You have to know how your neighbours stand, what they think. You have to know where you are with them. It makes you feel safe. Folk can be uncomfortable with someone who is different, or odd or unpredictable. And, of course, it gives them something to talk about. All right?”

“But it’s cruel not to talk to Auntie Ida,” said Cora. “It’s bad enough if your whole family’s gone and died, without people gossiping about you —”

“Well, it’s other things as well, Cora,” said Mum. “It’s not just Mrs. Eastfield’s husband and son. I mean, more recently, during the war — Look, I’m really unhappy telling you this. It isn’t my place —”

“So you keep saying.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Cora. It’s awkward.”

“Sorry — sorry, Mrs. Jotman.”

“There are people who would be horrified that I’m saying all this, especially your aunt. If you breathe a word —”