Someone Special (21 page)

Nell opened her wind-torn eyelids and peered around her. If she got to the further side of the boulder, where it rested against the side of the rocky mountain, might she not be safe? Protected from the rage of the storm, she could lie quiet until it passed over. And storms always did pass over, she knew that much. She crawled painfully towards the rock-face, and found, to her infinite relief, that there was a small gap between the boulder and the side of the cliff against which it rested. If she could get down flat she could slither into the crack, curl up and be safe. She squeezed behind the boulder, and found that there was more room than she had imagined; the ground fell away so that she slid downwards into a small shallow cave. There was a sandy floor and the rocky roof, though too low to allow her to stand up, was high enough for her to sit rather than lie.

It was cooler in here too, and quiet. She could still hear the storm raging outside, but the peace seemed to envelop her, calming her fears, slowing her thudding heart. Even when she heard the loudest, most terrible crack of all, followed by a splintering roar, she was not really afraid. Another pine tree had been struck, she supposed drowsily, resting her head against the rocky wall. From her small refuge the storm was muted, tamed; she could not see the livid flashes of lightning and the noise of the thunder was no longer so terrifying. Besides, though dim
in the cave, it wasn’t totally dark by any means, even with the great boulder excluding most of the light, and with the coming of the storm an early dusk had fallen, so Nell did not worry when she realised that it seemed to be getting darker still.

She must have fallen asleep, for presently she woke with a start, feeling stiff and hungry. She rubbed her chilly arms, then rooted in the pocket of her old skirt and found the packet of sandwiches. The lemon barley water was long gone, a casualty of the storm, and she had dropped the basket and the berries some time earlier but now she unwrapped the greaseproof paper and bit into the first sandwich. It was delicious. She ate it very fast, looked longingly at the others but rewrapped them; she might need those later, if she was stuck here for long. Only then did Nell notice the silence which had fallen; she could not even hear the wind and the thunder had grumbled off into the distance some time ago. Pushing the packet of sandwiches back into her pocket she crawled to the entrance to have a closer look at the weather; by the sound of it the storm was over and she could go home safely.

She pushed her head out of the crack, then drew it back, puzzled. She couldn’t get out there, not even a rabbit could get through that narrow gap. There must be another entrance, she must have become confused by the darkness and tried the wrong one. She shuffled down and back until she reached the middle of the small cave, then peered around her. The only light came from the slit she had just proved was too small to let her through. That was her way out, it had to be.

Nell crawled back to the opening and took a careful look around, then she sat back on her heels and began to whimper. The crash she had heard must have been the boulder shifting; it had blocked her only exit. Unless someone came to her rescue, she would be stuck here all
night! She did not allow herself to think further than that as she stared dully at the crack. Then she told herself that sitting there wasn’t going to do her much good and went through her pockets again. There was the packet of squashed and sticky jam sandwiches, one crumpled piece of paper, one stub of pencil; she had been going to write to Dan. Now if she could catch a mouse or a rabbit and tie a note to its leg, telling of her predicament, perhaps the creature would bring help.

She toyed with the idea for a few minutes, then began to shout. Very soon she began to cry, letting the tears run down her filthy face and drip off the end of her chin. Later still she ate a couple of sandwiches. Then, worn out and unhappier than she had ever been in her life, she curled up on the sand and went sadly to sleep.

Hester was still asleep in the chair in the kitchen when the thunder began to roll. She woke slowly, stretched, yawned, then blinked around the room, looking for Nell. There was no sign of her, but Hester sat up, glanced at the clock and went over to the sink. If the cold supper was to be on the table in good time, she really should start on it now. She had made the junket before church but there was lettuce to clean, cucumber and tomatoes to slice, and the rest of the cold pork to carve. Mr Geraint liked the meat carved on Sunday evening so he could help himself, eat and go off. It wouldn’t do at all, Hester thought sarcastically now, tipping half a bucket of water over the lettuce lying in the old stone sink, if the boss had to hang about waiting to carve for someone else.

She was beginning to clean the lettuce, wrinkling her nose with disgust at the number of insects trapped – or lurking – in its multitudinous folds, when the thunder rumbled again and the yard broom, propped against the toolshed, fell over with a clatter. Hester sighed and peered out through the glass; it wasn’t raining, not yet, but the
wind had got up with a vengeance and was lashing the great beech tree which grew just outside the courtyard.

It was very hot, still. Hester went to the butler’s pantry and fetched a beautiful cut-glass bowl. She stood it on the draining board, then began to pile the cleaned lettuce in it. When it was full she got a bowl of tomatoes from the larder and a cucumber and began to slice them both over the lettuce. Willi had pulled her a bunch of spring onions, earthy still but smelling strongly enough to remind Hester of their presence. She was bending down and fishing out the spring onions from under the sink to clean them in the lettuce water when the thunder rolled again, much louder; the noise was cymbals and drums, the wind rose and the light began to fade as the great black and purple clouds raced across the sky. Hester leaned over the sink to look out again into the yard. Where was Nell? Her daughter wasn’t keen on storms, and this looked like being a storm and a half. If Nell was in the lane she could run in, but suppose she decided to shelter under a tree? A great white spear of lightning forked to earth, making Hester jump and blink. Gracious, it was downright dangerous to be out there in such a storm, she had better just check …

She ran into the yard and out of the small arch. The wind snatched her pinafore, then whipped her hair loose from its band and lashed it across her watering eyes. Hester retreated into the comparative shelter of the courtyard just as the thunder crashed and the lightning flashed right overhead. She should go into the lane and get Nell back … she had a vague recollection of the child saying she might do something else, but what it had been she could not recall. She set off across the yard once more and, with lowered head, was charging under the arch when someone caught her shoulders. She opened her eyes, hoping it was Nell, but it was Matthew, hurrying in from the fields. He held her back from him, his eyes on her face.

‘What are you doin’ out here, woman? There’s a tree been struck at the top of the hill, you want to keep indoors in weather like this.’

‘Yes, but Nell’s out. She went berrying in the lane, I know she’s sensible, but …’

Matthew pushed her before him into the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. Sweat was trickling down the sides of his face and his shirt was sticking to him.

‘Nell, out in this? She must’ve taken shelter. I came up the lane and I didn’t see hide nor hair of her.’

‘Well, she’s not in the house,’ Hester said. ‘Or if she is, she went in some other door.’

There was another enormous clap of thunder; the plates rattled on the sideboard and the lamp hanging from the ceiling swayed so violently that Hester ducked.

Matthew turned and made for the back door.

‘Something’s been struck,’ he observed. ‘Oh dear God!’

‘What? What is it?’ Hester cried, hurrying across the room. ‘Is it the castle? the lodge?’

‘It’s the tall tower at the end of the west wing,’ Matthew said. ‘Well, that’ll put an end to the old man’s ghost; he thought it would attract visitors so he was keen on finding out about it, but …’

Ghosts! Hadn’t Nell said something about ghosts? And if she had been berrying in the wild garden when the storm started but didn’t want to come back to the kitchen and be set to work, what better place for her to take shelter than the tower at the end of the west wing?

‘Matt, Nell could be there! She could, she said something about hunting for ghosts. I suggested she might pick the berries in the wild garden … oh Matt, I’m frightened!’

‘Our Nell, in there?’ Matthew leapt for the doorway. He was across the courtyard in a few long strides with Hester on his heels. They bypassed the main courtyard and ran through the garden, heedless of scratches, stings,
uneven ground. Even from here they could see the tower, leaning drunkenly and half the height it had been ten minutes earlier. It looked extremely dangerous, and even as they ran towards it there was another crash and a pile of masonry came tumbling into the wild garden.

A figure stood watching; Mr Geraint, in shirt-sleeves and corduroys, a pen still in his hand and his horn-rimmed glasses well down on his nose. He must have run out as soon as the first crash sounded and now he turned and gestured them back.

‘Keep away – it’s dangerous. Nothing we can do, anyway.’

‘I must …,’ Matt gasped, trying to push past his employer. ‘Nell’s in there.’

‘Matt, there’s nothing of any value, nothing worth risking your life …
what
did you say?’

‘Nell’s in there!’

Hester was past them, heading for the sideways tilting door at the foot of the tower. She was shrieking as she ran. ‘Nell, Nell my darling, come to me, come to me!’

Someone grabbed her from behind, pushing past so violently that she fell to the ground. Mr Geraint shouted, ‘I’ll go. Stay with her, Matt, don’t let her …’

He disappeared through the narrow doorway.

Matthew followed him and Hester trailed behind. She was very frightened. The tower’s tilt was against nature and the darkness within looked sinister, but still she followed. She saw Mr Geraint halfway up the stair which curved round the tower, climbing steadily. He saw her and called down to her. ‘Get out, it’s bloody dangerous, Hester! I’ll just check the top …’

Matthew was following him up the stair.

‘If you take the top, Mr Geraint, I’ll check the tower room,’ he shouted. His voice echoed hollowly around the edifice and Hester cringed, fearing that the sound would
bring the whole tottering building down around their ears. ‘Get out of it, Hes – now!’

She was doing no good where she was, so Hester left the building, suddenly sure that Nell wasn’t in there anyway. If she had been in the round room she would have come out and run down the stairs as soon as the lightning struck; if she had been on top of the tower her body would have been flung down with the masonry now smoking at Hester’s feet.

The lane? Not the lane. What else had she said? Something about hunting ghosts? No, that wasn’t it, she’d said right at the start that she wanted to go up into the hills and Hester had said it was silly on such a hot day and had suggested berrying in the lane. Yes, that was it, the little madam would have gone up into the hills. She would be a lot safer there than down here, with the bloody castle tumbling about their ears. Thank God, thank
God
, she should be perfectly all right up there. Hester stared at the hill directly above them and froze; the tallest pine, almost at the summit, had been struck and flamed still. Smoke, black as the clouds overhead, poured from its fallen trunk. As the men came out of the foot of the tower she began to run, pointing, yelling over her shoulder at them.

‘She’s gone up the mountain, where the biggest berries grow. Oh dear God, and the lightning … a tree’s been struck.’

Mr Geraint overtook her. He was running fast, with determination, his face set and grim. Behind her, she could hear Matthew’s laboured steps. It occurred to her to marvel that Mr Geraint, who was older and less used to violent physical activity, should be able to out-run Matthew, and on a hill at that, but then she began to draw ahead herself, youth and anxiety lending her wings. Elbow to elbow, she and Mr Geraint slogged up the increasingly steep slope. The thunder still rolled, the electric tingle in
the air made her gasp for breath – why didn’t it rain, for goodness’ sake? The summit was in sight now; they were on the verge of the trees. Ahead there were brambles, gorse, wild, wind-whipped grass, and above that, just the sheerness of the cliff and the great boulders which, long ago, must have tumbled down from the peak.

‘All right, Hester?’

That was Mr Geraint, only now she realised that it was also John, the man she loved rather than the man for whom she worked.

‘I’m all right,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Can you see … oh, John!’

She pointed ahead of them. There lay the basket, tipped on its side, its burden of berries all over the rocky scree. Relieved of the weight of the blackberries the basket was being blown around and was showing signs of strain, the stained wickerwork coming apart. The bottle which had contained lemon barley water was shattered, its fragments scattered across the scree.

‘Where the devil is she?’ John shouted above the noise of the wind and thunder, beginning to climb the steepest stretch. Hester found herself slipping behind until, with an impatient exclamation, he reached back a long arm, caught her by the hand, and pulled her up beside him. ‘There’s nowhere to hide a cat, let alone a healthy seven-year-old! She’s not here; should we go down? I’ll shout to Matthew …’

‘She’s here; she wouldn’t have dropped the basket and gone, she must be here!’ Hester said, her voice rising to conquer the howl of the wind. She continued to climb and saw without surprise that John was climbing steadily beside her. ‘It’s so noisy, but when the thunder eases off we’ll shout. She could be behind any one of these boulders.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Come on!’

He set a punishing pace, but Hester kept up with him.
Once she glanced back and saw Matthew, a hand to his side, hanging on to a tree at the edge of the wood, far below. Then she forgot him and concentrated on searching for Nell.