Murdo's War (29 page)

At last he pulled an arm from beneath the curtains and scratched his head. His hand was filthy, smeared with soot and ash, and a scratch across the back was ridged with grime. The deep cut across his palm made him hold the hand half closed, and when he stretched his fingers slightly the black scab, already cracked open a dozen times, tugged sharply against the flesh. For a while he amused himself with it, enjoying the sensation as his fingers tugged gently against the cut. But the skin of his hands, apart from being dirty, was of a different texture. Normally weather-beaten and rough, it had become smooth and soft, slightly damp.

Carefully he pushed the coverings back and swung his legs to the floor. Immediately a trace of the old dizziness made him blink and lean back for a moment against the arm of the sofa. Then he rose, feeling very weak, and tentatively stretched himself at the fireplace. His clothes were twisted and uncomfortable from having been slept in, and he unfastened his battledress and trousers to tuck in the shirt and sweater. As he did so he became aware how hollow and empty his stomach felt, and for a moment pulled up the clothes to examine himself. He was thin as a rake, his ribs stood out sharply and his stomach had sunk almost out of sight beneath his chest.

‘It’s food you need, Murdo,’ he said to himself, tucking down his clothes once more and fumbling with the buttons.

He crossed to the window. A few sheep huddled under a wall in the sunshine a few yards away, their droppings scattered across the melting snow. The crown of the wall and the roofs of the out- houses were thickly covered: their long blue shadows reached across the dazzling turf. But the snow would not last very long if the thaw continued at its present rate, for the sun struck warm through the glass, and all the way along the roofs dripped, the sparkling drops carving caverns for themselves in the drifts below. As he stood there a great slab of snow, too wet and heavy to adhere any longer to the sloping roof of the barn, slid over the rone pipe and thudded to the ground in a long crumpled heap. The river, sixty yards beyond, gushed brown and brim-full between the snowy banks and roared over the boulders of a salmon pool.

Food! Murdo looked at the sheep. There might well be a stack of turnips in one of the sheds.

As he opened the front door the mild air surprised him. It was warmer outside than in. The sheep scattered, tails swirling, as if scenting danger as the boy appeared in the doorway. Blinking in the brightness, occasionally putting a hand to the rough wall for support, Murdo began searching through the old croft buildings.

At the end of the house was a lean-to, bare and deep in sheep dirt. Obviously the animals used it as a shelter in bad weather. A few yards away stood the barn and shed. The shed was locked, though through the window it appeared to be empty save for a few rusting tools. The barn, when he had unfastened the cord that held the door shut, proved to have a stack of hay in it and a few sacks of oil cake for the sheep. Not a sign of turnips, or any human food. Murdo fell in the hay and gnawed a corner of one of the drab cakes. It tasted terrible, like dust and dry grass, and made him cough. He lay back and closed his eyes.

He may have dozed a little, but slowly, as half an hour slipped by, an idea germinated in his mind. At first it seemed horrible, and he rejected it: then it came to seem only too realistic. He had to have food, and there was one food only – the sheep. Rolling over on his hip he dug the clasp knife from his trouser pocket.

At first his fingers could not open it, but with a black thumb nail he managed to push up the blade enough to grip it. With a snap it flicked open. The edge was still good, but it could be better. Picking a smooth stone from just inside the barn door, he spat on it and carefully whetted the concave blade back and forth until the edge gleamed steel-white, and satisfied the delicate tip of his finger. He laid it on a ledge, and gathering a big armful of hay, carried it outside and strewed it widely on the ground. From a safe distance the sheep watched with interest, looking from one to the other as if seeking an opinion. Around the hay Murdo scattered a few scoops of oil cake, leaving a trail to the door of the barn. Just outside he spread them more thickly, tempting the animals through the entrance to a positive feast on the barn floor. Then he settled himself out of sight in the hay and waited, fingering the sharp blade and planning how he would do it. Even in proper conditions, he knew, it was a bloody business, for over the years he had helped his father and Hector to kill several sheep, and a pig too.

It was a long time before the animals came up, then suddenly they were there, more than a dozen of them. The poor creatures were starving and tore at the hay ravenously.

Murdo stationed himself just inside the barn door and prepared for what he must do, trying to blind his thoughts and make it an instinctive act. The barn was well built and there were no chinks through which to peer. He waited for what seemed a long time, but at length a shadow appeared in the sunlight that streamed through the doorway, and then another one. He cautioned himself: ‘Don’t rush it, wait until you are certain.’

The shadows grew as the sheep became bolder and drew towards the doorway, until one must have been at the very brink, for in the low sunlight he could see the shadow beneath its knees. He drew a deep breath and set his teeth, gathering himself like a cat. Muzzling at the oil cake the leading sheep came closer still, and Murdo saw the tips of its ears at the edge of the door. He shuffled his feet slightly, gripped the knife like a dagger, and launched himself round the corner.

Before the sheep could move he was upon it, the sudden fury of his attack bowling it to the ground. It bleated despairingly and rolled its eyes. Murdo knotted his fingers in the wool and flung himself astride the creature, feeling for its throat with the knife. But the fleece was thick, and the knife not very big. Time and again he thrust into the wool. The animal kicked wildly and he was nearly flung off. Then suddenly the knife slipped home and the hot blood gushed over his hands and arms, swamping the blood from his own burst palm, drenching the snow scarlet.

Still the animal kicked and he hung on tight, but slowly the struggling lessened and the kicking became spasmodic. In a while it no longer fought to raise its head. Finally the beast lay still, and the pumping blood subsided to a trickle. Murdo fell in the snow across its flank, exhausted and drained.

When he had recovered somewhat, he wiped the sweat from his face with a bloody hand and dragged the sheep through the entrance of the barn. Then he set to with the knife. In half an hour he had several juicy joints of mutton laid out on the hay. It was enough. Taking the partially dismembered sheep by the front legs, he started to drag it towards the river. The animal was heavy, and dragging it through the wet snow it became a dead weight. For thirty yards Murdo struggled, leaving a bloody trench across the pasture. But the effort was too great. He dropped it where it lay and walked back to the barn. An old twist of cord lay on one of the ledges. He tied up three of the joints and slung them over a rafter, to keep them fresh in the cool air and free from rats and insects. The fourth joint he had to cook. Taking it in his hand, still warm, he tied up the barn door and turned back into the house.

The sheep shifted nervously, looking from the carcase to the shredded armfuls of hay and oil cake, and at the door into which he had disappeared. At length one, bigger and bolder than the rest, walked forward cautiously and began to tug at the remains of the hay. The others moved closer.

There were still three matches left and it did not take Murdo long to get a good fire going. The wood he had broken in the house was finished, but there was no need for more destruction since he had discovered some ready sawn logs and the remains of a small peat stack in the barn. He brought a couple of armfuls indoors and piled them at the side of the hearth, then lay back on the sofa to wait until the fire had built up enough heat to grill the meat.

An hour later the peat and spitting logs had laid a foundation of ash, and the heart of the fire glowed white and crimson. Carefully Murdo adjusted the small logs and flaming cinders to expose the heat. He skewered a thick slice of mutton on a length of fence wire which he had twisted off to use as a poker, and gingerly laid it across the gap. Almost at once the smoke blackened it, but slow- ly the juices ran down and droplets of fat hissed and flared in the flames. The smell was good and his mouth watered so much that he had to keep swallowing. Time and again he turned the meat, doing his best to ensure that it was cooked right through.

At last it seemed to be ready. He laid the hot mutton in his lap on a corner of his shirt, then skewered another slice and set it on top of the fire. Ravenously he bit into the meat. The taste was smoky, but it was very good. The middle was still pink and largely uncooked, so he ate all the edges and threw the remainder into the back of the fire.

Twenty minutes later he started on the second slice, but after a few mouthfuls his appetite deserted him. He wanted no more. Never- theless, he knew that he needed the food and forced himself to take a few more bites. Mechanically he chewed on the roast mutton but it was tasteless, and he was hardly able to swallow it. He regarded the third slice, oozing its juices into the fire. It nauseated him, and pulling out the wire he dropped the meat into the flames along with the piece he had been eating. Slowly the red-brown slices curled up and fizzled among the burning logs.

For a while he thought he would be sick again, then the feeling passed and the strengthening warmth of the food began to radiate from his stomach. He set a good log on the fire and packed the edges with scraps of peat. Then he pulled off his boots, unfastened his jacket and stretched out on the sofa.

He did not sleep at once, and as he gazed at the ceiling he thought of nothing – just drifted in the still aftermath of the fever and slaughtering the sheep. Now and again he seemed to feel the animal buck beneath him and saw the rolling eyes and dead mouth. Then from the mist of a thousand dormant memories, prompted possibly by some pattern in the plaster, he remembered his old schoolroom, the carved brown desks and curling maps, the sharp smell of the chalk dust, the voice of the dominie as he rapped on the table and thrust the pointer like a billiard cue in his own direction. How familiar it all was, how comfortable and secure, yet how far away those days of childish jokes and irresponsibility. Wryly he half smiled, wondering what the dominie would have to say about his present predicament. His smile broadened as the thought expanded to include his Aunt Winifred. ‘I knew, Murdo; I knew where you would end up one of these days. Chased by Germans! The idea! Well, you’ve only got yourself to blame, you and that father of yours.’ He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the black and white knife. He had scrubbed the blood away in the snow. Holding it in his palm he wondered, as he had been wondering since he woke three hours earlier, what the Germans were doing. Were troops still gathering on the coasts of France and Belgium? Were the British forces still moving south? Had Operation Flood-Tide already begun? There was no way of knowing. And if it had not, what of Henry Smith and his men? He recalled the figures clustered at the bridge below Carn Mor; one of them, he was sure, had been the German leader, and another was Gunner. But he could have been wrong, the memory was vague.

And slowly all his memories became vague. His eyes closed, his breathing was deep and even. He fell asleep.

It was the coldness that woke him. A concave shell and a dust of grey ash were all that remained of the big log. The room was in shadow. Going to the window, Murdo saw that the sun had swung far round in the sky. He estimated that it was mid afternoon, probably about two-thirty. With distaste he surveyed the slabs of red meat, laid out in wet piles at one side of the window ledge. A pool of blood had dribbled over and made a dark patch on the floorboards. Though his stomach called out for food again, he thought he would postpone cooking more until later in the day.

The short sleep had done him good, and though he could expect to be weak for some time, he was sufficiently recovered to start taking an interest in the world around him. He felt filthy. Going outside he pulled up his sleeves, turned down his collar, and scrubbed his face and arms vigorously in the icy melt-water that trickled from the drain-pipe. It was crystal clear. When he had finished he cupped his hands and took a long drink. The water was achingly cold against his teeth and in his throat, and chill in his stomach, but it made him feel clean.

After that, being naturally of a tidy disposition even though he was living roughly, he straightened up the room which he was using. He hung up the curtains again, so far as he could, and made a neater patch over the smashed window; stood the meat on a sheet of paper and rubbed the ledge clean with a rag; got rid of the broken glass and dried-out corpse of the rook; tidied the hearth and stack of fuel, and pushed the few sticks of furniture straight.

It occurred to him that if the Germans should come looking up the glen – assuming that ‘Operation Flood-Tide’ had not already commenced – it would be to his advantage to let them know as little as possible about the house. So he drew the faded curtains across the window, and did the same in the other downstairs room. The glass in the front door and the little back kitchen was already covered with old net curtain to above head height, and when he put his eyes to it from outside, he could not see through.

Finally he had to get rid of the sheep’s carcass. Lacing his boots he crossed the pasture, sending the sheep scurrying from their sunlit wall. Briefly he regarded the butchered animal. He was sorry he had killed it, and for so little – but it was no good being sentimental. Bracing himself, he grasped one of the front legs and began hauling the carcass behind him towards the river. It had stiffened, and the second front leg and already eyeless head kept catching the back of his knee, so that once he fell. The haunches, where he had removed the joints of meat, were dark and bright red against the snow. Grey links of intestines trailed behind. He reached the brink of the river and rested for a moment. The torrent of water had risen above the banks of ice and largely washed them away. Peat-dark and brimming it swam through the sheep pas- tures. Half a dozen gulls and a few crows that had been hopping about the sheep’s carcass when he came out, circled and crossed back and forth overhead. Standing back, he heaved the sheep the last couple of feet and let it fall into the river. The wool filled with water, the swollen current sucked it away in a trice. Jostling and swooping for some morsel of flesh as it washed to the surface, the wheeling gulls followed its progress downstream. Their cries grew fainter.