The Grasshopper's Child (14 page)

‘You believe in them?'

‘I think there's something in it. My mum's told me you can't see other people's. If you see a real ghost you're scared to hell because it's yours and nobody else's.'

‘She's got schizophrenia, you said. Does she hear the voices?'

‘Sometimes. She gets therapy for that. She can handle them.'

‘Does she have hallucinations?'

‘
No
.'

The rain came down in silver rods, a few inches from her eyes. Heidi stared into it, and couldn't say another word. Clancy's cold wet hand found hers and she returned his grip, gratefully. Clancy was okay. He was more than okay. He understood the worst, the very worst thing: even worse than knowing that her dad had casually sold her into slavery.

And he understood not to say it.

My Enchanted Mother

Nimue in the rock, has lost her power to shock

Her magic has turned against her,

and wrapped her in barbed wire.

She cannot stretch a claw so she relaxes,

She relaxes.

Mothers and small children, walk by her on the grass.

If she could, she would draw in her shadow,

So it would not touch them as they pass.

Veg-sorting was held on a Saturday afternoon, the traditional time, same as at home. Brook's mum didn't risking coming into the house again. She texted Heidi from the track outside the back yard, and Heidi went out to join her in the veg.van.

‘Sorry,' said Mrs Healey. ‘I'm on my boring own. Brook's already at Knowells.'

‘That's okay Mrs Healey.'

‘
Please
call me Rose. We were up at the crack of dawn, collecting the cottage garden element, I thought you'd be busy, so we delivered our van-load to Knowells, and Chall was already there so Brook stayed, but I do
hope
you can all be
friends,
supporting each other, it's so important. Tim and I would love to see you at Heaven, by the way, if I didn't say so. Don't wait for an invitation, just pop along on your bike, you know where we are, don't you?'

‘I think so.'

‘We're about a mile outside the village, towards Maymere Haven along the Sea Lane, you can't miss us. It's just a smallholding. We called it
Heaven
, we planned to have a petting zoo, and Organic tea rooms. It was our dream, getting out of the Rat Race, but the Crisis put paid to all that. We work for the government now, or actually the Carron-Knowells; it amounts to the same thing. I breed native hedgehogs for re-introduction, and Tim, my husband, he's a scientist, you know, he also runs the local paper, is doing research into, well, I won't spoil it for you, rather disgusting but fascinating research—'

‘I'd love to come, if I ever have time.'

Mrs Healey talked non-stop, but Heidi didn't mind: it was an improvement on having her welling up and begging forgiveness every other second. The little electric van whirred and clunked down the bumpy track. At Sea Lane they turned left; same direction as Heidi on the day she found the door in the wall. Straight through the silent village, over the Learning Centre crossroads, heading for the Carron-Knowells estate: and Heidi felt a stupid tingling of excitement. As if she cared, but she couldn't stop herself thinking about Gorgeous George.

‘All the woods behind that fence on your left are part of the estate,' said Mrs Healey. ‘No trespassing, that's very strict. Never go exploring in there, will you Heidi?'

I'm not
eight
, thought Heidi. And I'm a full time slave.

‘I hadn't thought of it.'

‘Well, I'm sure you won't.'

Imposing electric gates loomed up, and opened as they approached. Heidi glimpsed a man in uniform in an armoured booth, and then the van was crunching up a gravel drive through acres of smooth pasture; dotted with a few tasteful sheep and trees.

‘Here we are, Knowells Old Farm. Rather fine, isn't it? The house has been in Portia's family for donkey's years, you could say
she's
our lady of the manor. As you can see, the park is all in Food Production, improved pasture land—'

Yeah,
food production
, right: thought Heidi, disgusted. I bet every one of those sheep has a personal beautician. Rich hippies get away with murder in the country.

‘George Carron is the incomer, so to speak, but they're such a nice couple, so down to earth, always ready to help—'

The ‘old farm' looked more like a swanky celebrity mansion that had
eaten
an old farmhouse. Mrs Healey took a turn off the main drive, round the side of the building. Presumably, like Heidi at the Garden House, she wasn't allowed to use the front door.

‘And beautifully,
sensitively
restored inside. I hope you'll get a chance to see it. Portia and George are so, well, I don't know how we'd get by without them. And still a highly efficient working farm too, as you see.'

Heidi had wondered about the lack of Food Production tunnels around the village: now she saw the answer. They were here.
Masses
of them. Maybe she'd misjudged Lord and Lady Muck. She thought of the Garden House's barely average veg box, and wondered what had gone wrong.

‘All fully intensive, conservation standard,
hyper
-productive—'

The van scrunched through an archway and pulled up. Mrs Healey stopped babbling and smiled nervously. ‘Here we are. You go ahead Heidi, everyone will be in the Old Corn Barn. I have more fetching and carrying to do, but I have helpers. Portia's so keen to meet you.'

‘Weird woman,' muttered Heidi, standing in the huge, glorified, squeaky-clean farmyard; feeling deserted. The Corn Barn must be the big place in front of her. She pushed on one of the immense wooden doors: wondering if this was the moment when the yokels jumped on her, knocked her out, and she woke up naked, tied down on the altar beside that bonfire on the cliffs. About to be sacrificed by grey-eyed George the golden boy.

The barn smelled of earth and water and crushed herbs. Wreaths of dried flowers and wheat stalks hung on the towering whitewashed walls. Heaps of produce filled rows of trestle tables. People, mostly strangers to Heidi, bustled around: carrying boxes, consulting lists. She was surprised at the crowd. There must be more to Mehilhoc than she'd seen, but of course she hadn't seen much. A smaller, solid table stood by the entrance, with a tea urn, a rabble of mugs, and a fine display of homemade cakes. A thickset woman in a navy Guernsey jumper stood behind it, studying Heidi with narrowed eyes. She looked familiar.

‘You're Heidi Ryan, aren't you,' she said. ‘I've heard about you from our Jo.'

‘I'm Heidi. Er, I'm here to help?'

The woman stuck out a hand. ‘Merril Florence. From the pub, the Blue Anchor?'

‘Yeah, I know it.'

‘Not the inside you don't. Not for a few years yet. You're a
poet
, is it?'

‘Going to be.'

‘Right. Very interesting, good on yer. Okay, now. Potatoes, onions, celeriac, parsnips, cabbages, carrots, spinach, all under control. I can't put you on the “delicates”, that's skilled. What about filling winter salad bags? You don't mind washing off a few little slugs?'

‘Okay, er, fine.'

Jo's mum grinned broadly. ‘Just kidding. You do plenty, already. I hate “winter salad” meself. Beet leaves. I bet even the Russians don't eat their beet leaves.'

‘Not until they've finished off the dog and the baby first,' said Heidi.

‘No subversive talk! I'll put you with the other kids. Brook and Chall and the Deaf lad are tying herbs. If that's too fiddly, move on to grading beets. Want a cake and a cuppa first?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Then you can get stuck in.'

It was just like at home, really. Except the Corn Barn was a fancier venue than the function room at The Albert, and there was no music. Challon and Brook made room for her on the bench by the herbs, and showed her what to do. Cyril Staunton and Sorrel sat opposite. Cyril was sorting beetroots; Sorrel was nursing a fat baby. Next to Cyril sat a tiny old lady, with no teeth and practically no hair: following his every move with eyes of worship and a blissful smile. Next to Heidi, also on herb bunches, was John Fowler, the Deaf boy who'd only turned up once since Heidi joined the Exempt Teens sessions. He was about thirteen, and like Heidi he was not a local.

‘Hi, John,' she said, making sure he could see her lips. He had a little hearing in his right ear, but she was on the wrong side. ‘How's things?''

‘Okay. How's the slave job shaping up?'

‘Not too bad when you get used to it. Look, I was meaning to ask you. I was doing BSL before I got indentured. I'm really interested in the language, I'd like to keep it up. You don't use Sign, but maybe you know it, and you could help me out sometime—?'

The Deaf boy laughed, silently. ‘As long as you never let on to my mum that I talk like one of you lot, when I'm out of her reach. Mum hates me doing that. Dad's okay.'

‘Your dad's managing the conversion of the Cement Works, isn't he?'

‘Yeah. I could have gone to Ag. Camp. Mum wouldn't let me, so I'm here. You're not picking sprigs of
even lengths
, Heidi. Look at the chart.'

Why does it matter? thought Heidi, starting again. I'd love to get any size of herbs. But there'd never been a bountiful herb posy, or a bunch of pungent fresh basil, in the Garden House box. She supposed that was okay. It must be a special extra.

Brook wore a rainbow striped knitted cap today, with braided tassels; and Sorrel, Heidi suddenly realised, was
breast-feeding
the infant on her lap. You wouldn't do that for your little brother. Sorrel saw her looking, and a furious scarlet blush flooded the tattoos.

‘Hi, Sorrel,' said Heidi, embarrassed. She smiled at the baby. ‘Is he yours?'

‘Take a wild guess, smartarse.'

‘Sorry, I was just surprised.'

The baby burst out wailing. Sorrel stuffed her breast back into her bra, pulled down her jumper and stormed off with him, shouting
‘Mum! Mum!'

Nobody spoke. So
that's
why you're not at Ag. Camp, thought Heidi. So much for your dad ‘fixing it'. She couldn't see Clancy. No sign of George either, but she kept looking out for him. She was attracted, there was no use denying it. And Golden Boy was flirty: looking at her in the sessions; saying cheeky things to get her attention. She knew the type. She wasn't going to fall for it. Sorrel had charged up to a tall woman in long tapestry skirts, with a hippie-ish mane of grey-streaked golden hair down her back. That must be the lady of the manor: George's mother. Her face was weathered, strong and beautiful, but
hard
, Heidi thought. A touch of the Virtual Verruca's there—

Sorrel returned and sat down with a thump, the blush lingering like a bruise. ‘I know what you're all thinking, but I'm not a bad person. Okay, I'm
sorry
, Heidi. Just so's you know,
I
didn't want it
. I wanted a termination, I'm too young. My mum made me have it, so now Ag Camp won't take me. I'm stuck here, and
everything absolutely stinks
. Chall, Mum says you're to stay after this, have something to eat with us, in the kitchen, and then go straight along. You don't need to go home. Your mum's sending your costumes and stuff.'

Challon nodded, without looking up from the posy she was tying. ‘Fine,' she muttered. There wasn't a
thread
of black, Heidi noticed, at the roots of her silky red-gold hair.

‘She's doing a private show for my parents and their mates tonight,' Sorrel informed the table. ‘She often does that, Heidi. It's good practice for her. But this is special, and I'll tell you because she won't: Chall's in the final, for People's Young Artist of the Year.'

‘
Wow!
' shouted John. ‘Coming soon to a Top Stories Board near you!
Incredible
, Chall!'

‘That's
very
good news,' said Cyril sedately. ‘I feel personally proud.'

Where Heidi came from, everyone she knew thought
People's Young Artist
was a disgrace. Nothing to do with real music. Just rubbish and corrupt, like those tv contests had always been; only now you got the Chinese version. But she liked Challon, and she understood that country people felt differently.

‘Congratulations,' she said. ‘That's a big deal.'

‘Not really,' said Chall. ‘I'm only at
virtual
Brit you know. They have to have a few also-rans, to make the contest look good. It's experience, but I'll be nowhere in the voting.'

‘That is the
wrong attitude
.' Cyril shook his head, like a puppet, left, right: and set another beetroot carefully in order. ‘Compete against your own personal best, and you will succeed.'

‘You don't know anything Cyril: Chall's right,' said Sorrel angrily, ‘Her mum was a popstar, Missy Anak: nobody's heard of her now, because she had no backers. Chall knows the business, she knows she'd be nowhere without my dad.'