The Girl From Penny Lane (26 page)

‘Out I said and out I meant!’ he shouted. ‘Out of my house and off of my farm or I’ll have the police on you!’

Patch was whimpering. Kitty looked and saw that the dog was holding up a crushed paw; blood dripped slowly from it. Kitty looked round for a weapon and found the big iron frying pan. She pounced on it and backed towards the door, swinging the pan in front of her. Johnny, half-fainting, lay slumped against the sink. Patch, whimpering still, limped painfully over to her on three legs, showing her teeth at Elwyn as she passed him. He must have stamped on the dog’s paw, Kitty thought, wincingly. But there wasn’t much one girl could do against two determined men and a woman who was prepared to allow them to behave the way they had. She could only do her best to get them all out of here without further injury.

‘Get back!’ she hissed at the two men, swinging the pan. ‘I’ll send the pair of yez to kingdom come if you try one more dirty trick! We’re goin’ for now, but we’ll be back . . . because this is
our
place, not yours, willed to us all legal. And we won’t forget what you done tonight!’

She backed up to the door, opened it, felt the cool night air surge into the room. She dropped the pan, took Johnny’s weight on her shoulder, felt Patch pressing close to her legs . . . and they were in the yard, the door of the farm slammed behind them, alone in the dark with a drizzling rain falling and puddles at their feet.

She thought of the haystack at once, of course, and the byre, the apple loft. But she was afraid. If she lay down, if she let Johnny and Patch lie down, God knew what the Thomases might do. Fire the barn or the stack? It seemed highly probable in view of what Elwyn had already done. She could hear from Johnny’s sobbing breath that he was scarcely conscious of what was happening. His pain had taken over; all he could think of were the deep burns on his right arm.

‘Johnny, love, you’ve got to reach the stable,’ Kitty said urgently in his ear. ‘Come with me . . . one foot at a time.’

It took ages, hours it seemed, but she got him to Tilly’s stable and slumped him across the pony’s back. She could do nothing about Patch’s paw right now, but the dog would follow. If they could just get as far as the Jones’s farm . . .

It was two miles. Two long miles. Johnny moaned all the way, she spoke to him but he could not answer, he was in some world where pain and darkness held sway. Patch whimpered and fell back, Kitty and Tilly waited, and the dog caught up.

But they made it. They reached the farm. Kitty knocked and the dogs all barked but no one came to the door. It was probably well past midnight, Kitty supposed, so you could scarcely blame them. And anyway, all they wanted was to be kept safe from the Ap Thomases for the time being. A stable would do. A pigsty even.

Kitty got Tilly into a stable and slid Johnny off into the hay. Then she lay down beside him. He was shivering uncontrollably and still moaning, choking on sobs. She put her arms round him and Patch, still whimpering, curled up close. It must have been an hour before Kitty slept, and her sleep was shallow and deeply troubled. And she, who had been so brave and resourceful awake, wept in her dreams.

Morning brought Eifion, the son of the house. He came into the barn, whistling, and stopped short.

‘Duw, what the ’ell . . . ?’

‘If your Da heard you, you’d cop it,’ Kitty said, struggling into wakefulness. ‘Eifion, bach, we’re in trouble. Patch ’as got a crushed paw and Johnny’s burned real bad. Tek a look.’

He looked, shuddered.

‘How did ’e do that?’ he whispered. ‘Burnt near to the bone ’e is. Why aren’t you at the farm? Was it robbers?’

Kitty told him. She told him everything. About the will which Elwyn had burned, about the lawyer lying to them, about Elwyn trying to push Johnny deeper into the fire, and deliberately crushing Patch’s paw with his heavy shoes.

‘Here, better see Mam,’ Eifion said, white-faced. ‘What wickedness indeed . . . I know nothing about the farm, but what wickedness to burn a will and try to burn your Johnny.’

‘Could you fetch somethin’ to carry Johnny on?’ Kitty said. ‘He’s awful badly, I doubt ’e could walk.’

But before Eifion could do anything Johnny woke, groaned, pulled a face and got to his knees, then lurched to his feet.

‘Gi’s an ’and, there’s a good feller,’ he panted. ‘Gawd, me arm’s fair killin’ me; what ’appened? What did them people want?’

‘Never mind that,’ Kitty said, shaking her head at Eifion, who had opened his mouth to remind Johnny of the previous night. ‘Can you get to the kitchen? Eifion’s mam will see to you.’

They got Johnny indoors. Mrs Jones was horrified over his arm, ran for a soothing lotion, for bandages to keep the air off. But Kitty, mindful of Maldwyn’s home-remedy, said that she rather thought Johnny would be better to keep his arm as cold as possible because that was what Mal had advised for burns.

‘Oh? Yes, I remember Maldwyn saying . . . and deep though they are, they’ve not yet blistered,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘Run water, Eifion!’

Eifion ran water and Johnny immersed his arm in it. He sighed with relief. ‘It feels easier,’ he declared. ‘What’s Patch done to ’er foot?’

Mrs Jones looked at the dog’s paw, then settled Johnny in a comfortable chair with the basin of water on a table beside him and knelt to Patch.

‘Nasty, but it’ll mend,’ she said at last. ‘Fetch me some disinfectant, Eifion, and then fetch your da; milking he is, but he’ll come when you tell him there’s trouble.’

When the story had been told in gory detail to Mr Jones he looked worried and upset.

‘That such wickedness can happen – such evil,’ he said. ‘It sickens me to my stomach. But what to do? The will’s gone, you say? Quite burned up?’

‘I tried to get it out,’ Johnny said defensively. His face went sickly greenish at the memory of that dreadful moment. ‘But the fire was blazin’ in the range, I didn’t ’ave a chanst.’

‘And who else knows about this will?’

‘Mr Hywel Hughes, of Charles Street, Wrexham,’ Johnny said promptly. ‘He drew it up.’

The Joneses looked at one another. Mrs Jones was the first to speak.

‘Dewi, was that the Hywel Hughes . . .’

‘Aye, that’ll be the one. I don’t think you should be too hopeful of help from that quarter, little ones. Who witnessed the will? Did Maldwyn not show it to anyone else?’

‘Two men witnessed it. A soldier and a farmer’s lad. The lad’s name was Jones, though I can’t recall his first name, but I remember the soldier’s name because he was a scouser, like us. John James O’Hare, that was ’is name.’

‘Grand. Address?’

‘’E never give it,’ Johnny said. ‘You don’t, not on a will. So far as ’e was concerned, ’e was jest a bloke in the street earnin’ hisself a bob. Mr ’Ughes gave ’im a bob to be a witness,’ he added.

‘Please, why can’t we go to Mr Hughes?’ Kitty said, whilst the Joneses wrestled with the problem of tracing a boy named Jones and a man from Liverpool. ‘Mr ’Ughes was ever so nice to us, weren’t ’e, Johnny?’

‘Aye; but he was old, wasn’t he? Older than Mal?’

‘Yes, he was a bit older. Two classes ’igher in the school, Mal told us. But why . . . ?’

‘His obituary was in the paper, see?’ Mr Jones said heavily. ‘Well known in these parts was Hywel Hughes and well-liked, too. Not like that Travers fellow.’

‘His obi . . . ’is what?’

‘The feller’s died, our Kitty,’ Johnny said, his voice flat. ‘Ain’t there a law against burnin’ a will though, Mr Jones? Kitty an’ me ’ud swear to it, wouldn’t we, Kit?’

‘Ye-es, but they could say, with a certain amount of truth, that since you were beneficiaries, or claiming to be under the will which was burnt, then your testimony was scarcely without prejudice,’ Mr Jones said, sounding like a lawyer himself. ‘Got to find them witnesses you have, or you’re going to have a job to prove your claim.’

‘Didn’t you ever see the will, Dewi?’ Mrs Jones said suddenly. ‘Maldwyn was a good friend – did he never show you the will?’

Mr Jones shook his head.

‘No, and perjure myself I cannot, nor would Maldwyn expect me to do so,’ he said. ‘He was straight, Maldwyn, straight as a die.’

‘And you didn’t see hide nor hair of it?’ his wife said persuasively. ‘You never heard it mentioned?’

‘Oh aye, it was mentioned, several times. Maldwyn told me he intended to leave the farm to the boy . . . and to Kitty, of course . . . and I applauded the idea since the young people had worked hard for him. But not a line in writing did I see.’

‘Oh well; perhaps you will find the witnesses,’ Mrs Jones said, looking hard at the two of them. ‘The law’s a strange thing – that a lawyer can perjure himself without a second thought but a farmer cannot . . . and if that Elwyn Ap Thomas comes here to live, he’ll regret it if it’s the last thing I do.’

‘He’ll sell,’ Johnny said sombrely. ‘That was what Maldwyn allus said – that ’is nephew cared for nowt but money.’

‘It’ll take a while to prove, wi’ no will to back him up,’ Mrs Jones said thoughtfully. ‘There’s a cousin in Australia and another nephew in Canada – swear to it I will. That’ll give you time to find those witnesses, the pair of you.’

‘And in the meantime, you’ve a home here,’ Mr Jones said decisively. ‘That arm must mend, Johnny bach, before you go searching for anyone. And when you do go, we’ll keep Patch safe against your return. They won’t want her but she’s a grand worker with the flock, grand. Now let’s have some breakfast, Bronwen my dear, and later I’ll drive into Corwen, have a word with a legal friend or two, see how you stand.’

‘We’ll never forget what you done for us,’ Kitty said, her eyes bright, suddenly, with the tears which she had never shed when she was struggling to bring them through safe. ‘Even if we ne’er ’ave the farm, we won’t forget, will we, Johnny?’

And Johnny, leaning back in his chair, his eyes dark-rimmed with pain and fatigue, agreed they never would.

Johnny and Kitty stayed with the Jones family for a week. At the end of that time Johnny took Kitty aside to the barn for a serious talk.

‘We can’t stay, Kit, no marrer ’ow nice they is to us,’ he said bluntly, as soon as he had made certain they were alone. ‘We’re wastin’ time, chuck. We gorra find them witnesses.’

‘Yes, I suppose . . . only isn’t Mr Jones’s friend doin’ ’is best for us? Mr Jones said ’is friend would go to Wrexham, try to see if ’e could tek a look at that Mr ’Ughes’s papers an’ that, see if there were a record, like. Shouldn’t we wait for ’im to say what ’appened?’

But Johnny was of the opinion that time spent waiting was time lost.

‘The sooner we git after them fellers the likelier we are to find ’em,’ he urged. ‘Let’s start to tramp tomorrer.’

Kitty felt they were being too hasty, but on the other hand, she felt guilty at eating the Jones’s food and sleeping in their truckle beds, especially if they were never going to gain their inheritance and so would be unable to pay the family back for all their kindness.

And Mrs Jones agreed with them that they should be doing something.

‘I remember reading somewhere that possession was nine-tenths of the law, and them Thomases will be snugging down an’ taking over more with every day that passes,’ she said worriedly. ‘What’s more, if they sells it whilst you’re doing your finding out, it ’ud be rare difficult to get the farm back I shouldn’t wonder. As for Patch, you may leave her here and she’ll be well looked after, I’ll treat her like my own. Then you must come back, see, to pick up the dog and decide what to do next.’

This made sense to Johnny, and even Kitty could see the logic of it. What worried her, though, was that she could see Johnny was anxious to be off, not necessarily because of the farm, but because he didn’t really think they would ever get their inheritance, and wanted to return to the tramping life while his arm mended at least.

‘We will try though, won’t we, Johnny?’ she asked anxiously as the two of them left the Jones’s on a crisp, bright morning, with blackberries all over the hedges and button mushrooms spangling the pastures. ‘We won’t just give up an’ let them ’ave it all?’

‘Course we’s goin’ to try. Only first we gorra pick up our gelt,’ Johnny reminded her. ‘I took the money Mrs Jones lent ’cos I don’t want
no-one
to know we’re not penniless, see? If them Thomases ever found out . . .’

‘Do you know, I’d forgot the wages?’ Kitty said, considerably heartened at the recollection of Johnny’s secret hoard. ‘That’ll keep us in grub for a week or three, eh, Johnny?’

‘Oh aye, that’ll see us awright. So we’ll ’ide up in the old shepherd’s ’ut till dusk, then go down and get our gelt, then be on our way.’

‘Where’ll we go first?’ Kitty enquired.

‘We’re goin’ straight to Wrexham to see if we can find that lad, though I admit without ’is name it’s a faint ’ope,’ Johnny told her. ‘And after that it’s back ’ome, queen, because wi’ a name like John James O’Hare that sailor should be easier to find. My, but ain’t it good to ’ave a purpose again?’

And Kitty, striding out step for step with him through the bright, cold morning, with a thick coat on her back and food in a bag slung over her shoulder, had to admit that it was better to be trying to claim their rights than just sitting at the Jones’s farm, feeling thoroughly miserable.

The day spent in the shepherd’s hut proved rather more interesting than they might have wished, and that was because, not an hour after they had settled in, they heard someone approaching up the hillside, pushing stealthily through the thickness of dead bracken, making for the hut.

‘Git under the ’ay,’ Johnny hissed at once. ‘It can’t be them Thomases, but jest for sure . . .’

They hid under the hay, scarcely daring to breathe. As they lay there, they heard soft little movements outside and then someone – or something – pressed a nose to the crack of the door and inhaled deeply. Then, even as Kitty began to scramble out of concealment, there was a short, sharp bark. A let-me-in bark.