The Girl From Penny Lane (19 page)

Kitty sat back to think about this newest development. Winter was serious. Johnny said so, and he knew everything. They couldn’t sleep rough once winter came, he said. Well, not every night, anyroad. They would have to look for shelter when the weather was particularly bitter and farmers, mean as their meanest guard-dogs, would lock their barns and fire off their blunderbusses at anyone trying to steal a night’s shelter in wintertime, when they wanted every last wisp of hay, every stored turnip or mangold, for their own stock.

Yet, looking out on the white and gold, it was difficult to believe that this actually heralded winter. Or that, if it did, winter could be so unwelcome. No mozzies, Kitty thought gratefully, rubbing a faded mosquito bite on her arm. No milk turned sour in the heat, no pushing through breast-high bracken abuzz with bluebottles all attacking you as if they had a personal grudge against kids, no spending half a day soaking in a tepid river pool, trying to get rid of the fleas which had infested the last barn.

Beside her, Johnny stirred and woke. He put a hand out and touched her arm. Kitty turned and slid back into their nest. She put her face close to his, loving the feel of his breath on her cheek, the warmth of him so close.

‘There’s a frost; an’ the farm’ouse ain’t more’n thirty foot away,’ she hissed. ‘The dog’s awake, but no smoke from the chimbley yet.’

‘A frost! Well, we ain’t too far from ’ome, but we needn’t go back yet awhile. Pity we overslep’, but we was awful late gettin’ ’ere. Best burrow through.’

Kitty rolled onto her stomach and inched her way back to her spy-hole. There was still no sign of movement from the farm but in the red-gold light of the rising sun the windows stared blankly at her. She concluded that the farmer, as well as his wife and six children if he had them, could all be just the other side of those brilliantly reflective panes and she would never know. And Johnny wouldn’t take chances, or only calculated ones.

‘Aye. Someone’s bound to be about soon; I’ll go first.’

In the dusky dimness of the big stack she found her carrying bag and looped its rope round her ankle. Then she began to burrow, digging her way through the hard-packed hay like a little mole. It occurred to neither of them that they were also as destructive as moles – that farmers had a good reason for not wanting nests made in the middle of their haystacks, since animals like their hay handled as little as possible – and if it had, it wouldn’t have affected their actions. They had to sleep somewhere, after all, they had their own way to make just like the moles, the farmyard rats and the farmers themselves.

Light began to filter in as Kitty’s scrabbling hands neared the outside of the stack. Behind her, she knew, Johnny would be filling in. They might sleep here again in a night or two – nothing was likelier, in fact – so they wanted no gaping holes to announce their recent occupation.

She reached daylight and cautiously began to pull the final plugs of hay inwards. She was facing out onto gentler country now, the road and the soft meadows with their bleating occupants spread out below her. Lying here, she could see on the further side of the road a pond, willow trees, a great many hazels and alders and then the beginnings of moorland, with more sheep and a couple of ponies grazing on the thin grass amongst the gorse bushes.

‘All clear, Kit?’

That was Johnny, gently nudging up close behind her.

‘Aye, norra soul for miles. Out we go?’

‘Out we go!’

At this point, speed was essential. The last thing you wanted was to be caught half in and half out of a haystack. Kitty wound herself into a tight ball, pulled the last of the hay to one side and then launched herself. It was a fair drop but she landed easily, like a cat, and turned to see Johnny already out and repairing the stack behind him before dropping lightfooted down beside her. His face was still pink from the warmth of their nest and his hair tousled, but the sleep was beginning to clear from his eyes, leaving them bright and alert.

‘Lead on, chuck,’ Johnny said. ‘Them hazels will do.’

They made for the hazel clump; once in its shelter Johnny leaned against a young tree and grinned at her.

‘Well, what d’you say to some brekfuss?’

‘I’m ’ungry enough to eat an ’oss,’ Kitty agreed. ‘What’ve we got?’

Johnny shrugged dismissively. He must know as well as Kitty did that their carrying bags were more or less empty.

‘We’ll go to the farm. Clean me up!’

It wasn’t easy. They had both managed to pick up a good deal of their bedding, but Kitty worked away, clearing Johnny from head to toe of the evidence. Then he did the same for her, remarking as he tousled her hair until hay-dust and hayseed flew that she could ‘do with another ’aircut, an’ the sooner the better if ’e’d gorra get the ’ay out of it often!’

‘I’s no wuss’n you,’ Kitty protested. ‘Wash your face!’

They both washed, the water, cat-iced round the edges, making them catch their breaths with the coldness of it. Kitty was only glad that Johnny hadn’t decided they should bath – he was a demon for cleanliness and insisted that they wash as often as water came their way.

‘You right? C’mon, then.’

Back to the farmhouse now, along the driveway, innocence in their shining faces, their neat persons. Not a strand of hay, not a seed. Two children who could have spent the night respectably in a proper bed, asking to buy some milk – Kitty knew Johnny’s ways by now – and then finding they didn’t have enough money, but would work for it . . . they were on their way somewhere . . .

The dog barked at them and shot out, but it was chained. It was a typical Welsh sheepdog, black and white fur muddy, narrow head buzzing, Kitty thought resentfully, with an urgent wish to sink its white and pointed teeth into a kid’s leg. No matter if the kid was clean and fresh-faced, the dog knew where they’d spent the night. Thank God it can’t tell anyone, Kitty thought devoutly as the dog lunged at them. Thank God it’s tied up an’ all!

Johnny knocked confidently on the leaning wooden door. His knock echoed hollowly, as though the room beyond was empty. But it wasn’t, they could hear someone moving slowly across the room. Shuffle shuffle, pause, shuffle shuffle.

The door creaked a little ajar. Kitty could only see a large, open-pored nose and one deep-set, suspicious dark eye. The owner of the eye said something in Welsh; it sounded unfriendly.

‘Sorry, we don’t speak the lingo, but we’re ’aving a walkin’ ’oliday in Wales,’ Johnny said, with just the right mixture of friendliness and deference. ‘We was wonderin’ if you’d sell us some milk? We’re that dry, me an’ me sister.’

The door opened a bit further. The man who stood there was enormous, he couldn’t stand upright in the doorway but had to do a sort of semi-crouch. He looked slightly mad to Kitty, and she drew back a little, wondering how Johnny could stand there bold as brass and talk to the great, unkempt giant before them.

‘Or per’aps you could let us ’ave a drink o’ water, if you ain’t got milk,’ Johnny continued. For the first time in their acquaintance, Kitty heard uncertainty in Johnny’s dulcet tones. People usually answered him, if only to lunge forward, clack him round the lug, and slam the door in his face with a shout of ‘Git out, you nasty young beggar!’ But this man did nothing, he just continued to look at them. It occurred to Kitty that perhaps he spoke no English, in which case they really were stumped.

‘Water? A drink? Do you speak English?’

The same thought had obviously occurred to Johnny, for he spoke slowly and with great care.

The big man frowned, then nodded slowly.

‘I speak English,’ he said slowly. ‘Also Welsh. You want some milk?’

‘Yes, please. We’ve got . . .’ Johnny fumbled in his pocket, then turned to Kitty, his expression puzzled. ‘Kitty, did you take the purse when we left that cottage this morning?’

Kitty prepared to patter out her usual story of lost money but the man shook his head at them.

‘Not pay. You work? You would help Maldwyn?’

‘Oh, what a good idea,’ Johnny said, as though he’d not just been about to suggest it. ‘I’d never ha’ thought o’ that! Yes, Mr Maldwyn, we’ll work for our milk, my sister an’ me. What’s to be done?’

The huge man closed his eyes for a brief moment and a spasm of pain crossed the great, craggy face. Looking harder at him, Kitty saw that one of his huge feet was insecurely wrapped in rough bandages, and that he was not resting his weight on it. She had moved back when he and Johnny started talking but now she moved forward again. She pointed.

‘Wha’s the matter wi’ your foot?’

The giant Maldwyn glanced down.

‘Crushed. Caught in tractor . . . pain iss ferry bad.’

Kitty sucked in her breath but Johnny immediately ducked under the man’s arm and entered the kitchen.

‘Kit, get some water,’ he said. His eyes were bright. Kitty could see that he was pleased by a development which meant they could be useful. ‘Sit you down, Mr Maldwyn, whiles we see what we can do.’

‘Milk cowss,’ the man said in a faint voice. He sank heavily onto the chair which Johnny had pushed forward. It was an old basketwork one and slumped sideways under his weight, but you could tell by the legs, Kitty thought, that it had been slumping sideways, without breaking, for many a year. ‘Let Patch off ’er kennel; give ’er to drink.’

‘Right, Only we’ll do something about that foot first,’ Johnny said authoritatively. ‘You need a doctor, mister!’

The man took no notice. Kitty jerked Johnny’s arm. ‘Johnny, ’e’s passed out! What’ll us do?’

‘Get them bandages off,’ Johnny said. ‘Put the kettle . . . oh, no use, the fire’s out. Light the fire, Kit. There were chips by the barn door, I seed a big pile. Then ’eat some water.’

Long experience had shown Kitty that if you were given an order you obeyed it at once or took the consequences – which were generally unpleasant – so she rushed across the yard and got an armful of kindling from the barn, then laid it carefully on top of the still-warm ashes in the open stove. She found matches and lit the fire, then since Johnny was unwrapping the strips of torn up sheeting with almost womanish care and gentleness, she went to the back door and stared ruminatively at the dog.

Poor thing! It was growling and scowling, but its water-container was empty and it looked desperately wild. Kitty tried to pick up the empty tin to refill it, but the dog snarled warningly and made a pass at her hand, so she went across the yard to the well she had noticed and staggered back with the half-full bucket which had been standing waiting. She tipped water into the tin and the dog drank deeply, then stood back. Kitty inched forward. The dog was watching her keenly, its bright, light eyes fixed on her face. She went nearer still.

‘D’you wanna be unchained?’ she asked softly. ‘If so, you gorra let me get near!’

The dog moved its front paws in a little dance on the spot. Its long, filthy plume of a tail moved slowly from left to right. It cocked its head and gave a tiny whine.

Kitty knelt.

‘Come ’ere, Patch,’ she said. ‘Come to Kitty, there’s a good gal!’

The name was probably the password, she thought afterwards, but at the time she was just so relieved that the dog’s animosity seemed to be lessening that she didn’t stop to wonder why.

‘Patchie, Patchie, Patch,’ Kitty crooned in her softest tones. ‘Come to Kit, there’s a lovely gal then.’

And the dog came. On her belly, slowly, she slid forward until her trembling head was resting on Kitty’s bare knee. And Kitty unclipped the rusty chain and fondled the dog and then led it indoors.

‘Dog’s off the chain,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘Wonder what ’e gives it for its grub?’

Maldwyn was still out for the count, it appeared. Johnny looked up, shrugged, and returned to his work. He had got all the bandages off save for the last layer, which was black with blood and stuck into place.

‘Dunno. Find it something . . . that there’s got food in.’ He pointed to a cupboard, door ajar. ‘I’d best soak this off. Bring some water over.’

Kitty found an enamel bowl and half filled it with water. The fire was taking hold so she pulled the kettle over the flame. Behind her, Maldwyn gave a deep groan and Johnny gasped at the same moment. Quickly, Kitty returned to his side.

‘What is it? Are you . . . oh, Johnny!’

To say that the foot was crushed was no more than the truth. The poor, mangled thing lay there, the toes blue, the flesh torn so that she could see the white of bone and sinew.

‘How the blazes ’as ’e stuck it?’ Johnny whispered. ‘Kitty, I’ll stay ’ere, you’d best go to the next farm, fast, an’ tell ’em to send for a doctor.’

‘Which way’s the next farm?’ Kitty asked practically. ‘Can I take the dog? Then they’ll know it’s awright.’

‘Good idea. Look, give it a bit o’ bread an’ ’ave some yourself, to eat on the way,’ Johnny ordered. He was never at a loss, Kitty thought admiringly. ‘See if there’s cheese . . . only this weren’t done yesterday, ’e’s been badly for a coupla days, I reckon.’

Kitty, rooting, found a huge cheese and cut three bits off, one for each of them. Maldwyn, who had regained consciousness, was still not up to bread and cheese. He lay in the chair, sickly white, and now and again he sucked in his breath and let it out in a low moan. Even to Kitty’s inexperienced eyes he looked in great pain.

‘Got it? Then off wi’ you. No, ’ang on, let’s see what Maldwyn says.’

But Maldwyn wasn’t able to understand what they were asking. He would stare at them for a moment and then slowly close his eyes; never a word passed his lips whilst they made tea in his pot, fetched a stool for his foot and propped it up with a cushion which Kitty found in the front parlour.

‘Oh, well,’ Johnny said resignedly when they had asked Maldwyn in every way they knew whether Kitty should turn right or left outside the farm gate. ‘Best get on, Kit. Tell ’em ’e’s mortal bad an’ they’d best ’urry. I dussen’t do owt more’n we done awready.’