The Runaway (15 page)

But since the kitchen was empty and her mother was not yet up, Arthur was scarcely likely to be about; she would be pretty safe to push the green door wider yet and enter his territory. She did so, casting a guilty glance around her, and then headed straight for the fruit cage in one corner. She was not here for the fruit, but perhaps she would just take one or two … she reached the cage and saw fat, scarlet strawberries glowing amidst their dark green foliage. A blackbird, squeezed against the wire netting with his beak buried deep in a berry, gave a startled squawk and made off at the sight of her. Dana laughed, inserted her fingers through the wire, picked the damaged fruit and tossed it gently along the gravelled path, then watched the blackbird come cautiously down,
seize the berry and make off, no doubt to feed his fledglings. Only then did she pluck a fruit for herself and pop it into her mouth. Delicious! But they would have strawberries for tea today so it would not be fair to take more than a couple. She did wonder whether to pick some for Con but decided against it. He was quite capable of stealing his own fruit, she thought with a grin, though Johnny Devlin, Con’s father, was a far stricter parent than her own daddy. But perhaps that was because her parents owned Castletara and Johnny Devlin, though Don McBride’s partner in the horse breeding business, also acted as his head groom and had the flat above the stables as a part of his wages.

Now that she was in the garden and could see for herself that no one lurked in the raspberry canes or behind the gooseberry bushes, Dana returned to close the green door as softly as she had opened it. Then she headed for the salad bed. Old Arthur was meticulous; worth his weight in gold, her daddy said. The salad bed fairly bristled with different types of lettuce, a cucumber frame, great swags of tomatoes, their colour ranging from palest green to a deep, dramatic scarlet, a whole row of spring onions and, oh bliss, another one of radishes. Dana bent down and began to pull until she held a sizeable bunch. She was wearing her oldest riding breeches and a shirt which had once belonged to her daddy, and found when she tried to cram the radishes into the breeches’ pocket that she had picked too many. She top and tailed a couple, rubbed them on the seat of her pants and crammed them into her mouth. Then she twisted the leaves off the rest of the bunch and was looking around for somewhere to hide the evidence when the door in
the high brick wall began to open and a voice spoke behind her. Quickly, she threw the radish leaves into the box hedge which surrounded the salad patch and turned as though she were about to leave, whistling a tune beneath her breath. It was not Arthur who entered, however, but Con, and as soon as he saw her he grinned, his dark eyes knowing.

‘You rotten thief. I’ll tell Arthur who’s been after his …’ his calculating gaze swept over her, ‘strawberries. Not the poor blackbirds, which get the blame when someone – no names, no pack drill – manages to get inside the fruit cage, but the young divil herself.’

‘Well, you’re wrong, Mr Know-all. Mammy’s having a strawberry tea for the Ladies’ Sewing Circle this afternoon, and I wouldn’t risk spoiling that,’ Dana said righteously.

‘You’re a little goody-goody,’ Con said automatically. He came over and flicked a hand at her dirt-smeared breeches. ‘If not strawberries … could it be peas?’ His grin became wider. ‘I’m partial to a few pods meself; what say we go shares?’

‘If I’d been stealing stuff I dare say I’d go shares, but I haven’t so much as touched the peas …’ Dana was beginning, when Con gave a crow of triumph, bent down and fished the loose leaves from the box hedge.

‘Radishes!’ he shouted. ‘Oh, you dirty little beggar, you’ve been eating ’em with all the muck on ’em! What would Mammy say if she knew her ‘ickle precious had been eating earth?’

Dana giggled; she couldn’t help it. Trust Con to find her out! Not that he’d dream of telling, she knew that. They were best friends, true pals. Con was older than
her by a whole year, but he never used his seniority to boss her about, and when they fought, which even the best of friends do from time to time, she knew he never employed his full strength. But now he was dangling the bunch of leaves tauntingly in front of her nose, not laughing aloud though she knew he was doing so inside. ‘Well, tiddler? Are you going to deny it?’

‘Oh, ha ha! With you finding the evidence before my very eyes? But radishes … well, it’s not like stealing fruit, or even peas. Why, we sowed the seed of these radishes six weeks or so back, when Arthur grumbled that we might make ourselves useful for once, and we sowed the lettuce and the spring onion seed too. So I reckon I’m entitled.’ She plunged a hand into her pocket and produced the remaining radishes.

‘
We
sowed the seed,’ Con reminded her at once. ‘And
we
can reap the benefit, now they’re are full grown.’ He took the bunch, divided it into two, then rubbed his own share on his ragged trousers and shoved one into his mouth, speaking thickly through it. ‘Fancy a lettuce? Or a nice spring onion?’

‘No thanks,’ Dana said at once. ‘What time is it?’

Con looked surprised, as well he might since neither of them owned a watch and in any case time was only important on weekdays – they both went to the village school – and today was Saturday. ‘Dunno. Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,’ Dana said automatically. ‘Because you said we might fish Lord Prothero’s trout stream if he was giving a shooting party to get rid of some of the rabbits. Horrible old man,’ she added, without much rancour. ‘Why can’t he be content with the birds he rears specially to shoot?’

‘He says a rabbit shoot keeps the guns up to the mark, otherwise when autumn comes the shot goes pretty wild,’ Con said. ‘And you must agree rabbits can be a pest when there’s so many of ’em.’

Dana shrugged. She did not mean to admit how much she hated the thought of the rabbits being slain because she knew this would only prove to Con that girls were soft. But she often woke at dawn to see, in the pale grey light, twenty or thirty rabbits and their young, nibbling the sweet grass of the great lawn. How dreadful if his lordship’s shoot were successful and there were no more rabbits to prick up their ears and thump the danger signal when they saw her watching them at her open window.

But Con was looking up at the sky, no doubt judging the height of the sun, deciding more or less what time it was. ‘It was seven o’clock when Dad and I had tea and toast for our brekker,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I came out quite soon after that; say seven thirty. It’s probably around eight or nine o’clock and the guns won’t be out before ten. Now look, I’ve been thinking. If we catch any trout it’s no use pretending we got ’em from the lake, because I don’t believe I’ve ever seen trout there. They’re in the stream because old Prothero stocks it. So the minute your people – or my father – see us with them they’ll know we’ve been poaching. But if we get a heap of dry wood and some matches – oh, and a fry-pan I suppose – we can eat anything we catch for our dinners and no one the wiser.’

Dana beamed. A picnic! No, more than that: a feast of forbidden fish, and a fire in the woods, which was also forbidden, and Con’s company, which was more precious to her than all the rest. ‘I’ll bring the fry-pan
and the matches,’ she said at once. ‘Oh, Con, won’t it be grand!’

‘Aye – if no one catches us,’ Con said, grinning. ‘There’s a pile of kindling at the back of the stables for when the weather gets colder and we need a fire, but that’s a long way off. Dad won’t notice if a bundle of sticks goes missing. But best go and persuade your mam to hand over some bread and cheese and a few pickled onions, just in case the trout won’t oblige.’

Dana pouted. ‘If I provide the grub and the pan and that, what’ll you bring – apart from the kindling, I mean?’ she asked aggrievedly. ‘It’s not fair, Con Devlin.’

‘I shall provide me expertise as well as a fishing rod,’ Con said at once. ‘And remember, if we’re caught it’s me that’ll get a skelping and not yourself. Are you on?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Dana said with pretended reluctance. ‘But you might rob a few fruit from the apple loft, just in case we’re specially hungry.’

Con agreed to do so as they sauntered towards the door in the wall which led out of the garden. Sometimes, when her father was boasting about the money he had got from an English milord for ‘a sweet little mare wit’ a mouth like silk’, Dana wondered aloud why some of his money was not spent on Castletara, either on the house itself or on its grounds, but her father would only pinch her chin and give her the same reply. ‘’Tis the land and the beasts which make the money for us and they care nowt for rose gardens or a few missing slates,’ he always assured her. ‘I buy the best possible animals, feed and train them and get a rich reward when they enter the sale ring. One day, when you’re a woman and not a fractious little girl, Prince Charming will come along and
we’ll have the castle done up for your wedding, rose garden, banqueting hall and all. I’m saving up, you see, for that great day when I get you off my hands.’ And he would laugh uproariously and give her a hug whilst Mammy stood back and smiled and told her not to heed her daddy now, for on the day she wed he’d be weeping like a fountain and thinking up excuses to keep his girl where she belonged, even if it meant having to house Prince Charming at Castletara as well as his only daughter.

‘Did you notice how quietly the door opens since we used bicycle oil on it yesterday?’ Con said now, bringing her back to earth as he stretched out a hand to lift the latch. ‘I bet old Arthur would say ’twas the work of the little people.’ He grinned down at her, his dark eyes alight with mischief, a lock of his night-black hair falling across his tanned brow. ‘And since it was yourself who applied the oil, tiddler, you could say he was right and it was one of the fairy folk.’

He began to pull the door towards them, gesturing her to go through ahead of him. She did so, telling him that though she might be smaller than he, she could scarcely qualify as one of the little people. But as she stepped through the doorway mist rolled towards her, enveloping the wilderness, the kitchen garden and Castletara, and Con’s voice, repeating ‘one door opens, opens … opens …’ was the only sound she could hear. Then the whole scene was replaced by the familiar surroundings of Temperance Court, with the grey light of a Liverpool morning sidling in round the edges of Dana’s homemade curtains.

For a long moment Dana simply lay in her bed, aware
of Polly still slumbering, aware that she was in her own room, that the dream had been just a dream. She reminded herself that she had slammed the door on her past, but it was impossible to prevent oneself from dreaming. She remembered Polly’s last remark before they had settled down for the night, and was sure that this had triggered her own recollection, a memory so clear that she had difficulty in convincing herself that it really was a dream, and that now she must forget all about it and continue with her Liverpool life.

She turned over and peered at the clock. Good heavens, it was near on nine. She would be late, and she could not afford to lose her job with work so hard to find. She was halfway out of the covers when she remembered that today was Sunday, and she and Polly – her new flatmate – had decided to treat themselves to a lie-in. Smiling, she wriggled under the blankets again, reminding herself that a dream meant nothing, was as fictional as a book or a cinema show, and would soon fade. The fact that this one particular dream had seemed so real, had been more like a recollection of something which had really happened, was strange, but nothing to worry about. She had closed the door on her past – no, slammed it – and though she could not prevent herself from dreaming, she could forget such dreams as soon as she woke. Yet she lay in the semi-darkness for another ten minutes, frowning with concentration, trying to work out just why, after almost two years of never letting herself remember Castletara or her life there, the past had decided to force its way into her dreams.

Finally, she shrugged and turned her pillow so that
the cool side lay against her cheek. And, presently, fell deeply asleep.

She did not dream.

Polly, waking as the light strengthened, could not at first remember where on earth she was. She did realise, however, that she was sharing a bed and heaved herself carefully up on one elbow to have a look around. She remembered vaguely that she had left her miserable lodgings, which had been all she could afford, and wondered for a split second if she had been given a room at the YWCA, for as soon as she remembered leaving her lodgings she remembered losing her job and a stab of fear went through her.

But then she saw Dana’s flushed face cuddled into her pillow and all her worries fled. She remembered every detail of her good fortune, for now she and Dana were to share these lovely rooms and Dana was going to help her to find a job as soon as the shops and markets opened for business on Monday morning. Polly wriggled cautiously out of bed, checked that Dana still slumbered and padded softly into the other room, and across to the paraffin stove upon which the kettle was balanced. She knew it was full of water – Dana had explained that she always left it full overnight so that she might make herself a cup of tea before setting off for work. Today being Sunday, however, Dana had not set the alarm, so if Polly got going at once she could present her friend and benefactor with a hot cup of tea before the other girl had left her bed.

Hugging herself with delighted anticipation of the treat she had planned, Polly found matches and lit the Primus. As soon as the kettle boiled she made a brew of strong
tea, fetched milk from the pantry and poured it into blue Bakelite mugs. She re-entered the bedroom, tiptoed across to where Dana lay, still dead to the world, put both cups on the small table by the head of the bed, and plonked herself down on the covers. ‘Wakey, wakey! I’ve brung you a cup of tea ’cos I’ve gorra go out. But there’s no need for you to come wi’ me. I reckon I’ll be back by noon, so if you want to stay in bed till then I’ll make you some snap when I comes back.’

She stared at Dana’s sleeping face and saw her lids flicker up and a frown crease her brow; clearly she was having difficulty in remembering how Polly came to be sitting on the bed in her nightie and offering her hostess a cup of tea. The puzzlement, however, did not last long. A slow smile spread across Dana’s face and she sat up and picked up one of the mugs. ‘I say, Poll, you’re spoiling me,’ she said, raising the mug to her lips. She took a hefty swallow then stood the mug down again. ‘One and a half sugars, just the way I like it. But why are you up already? I thought we agreed to lie in, since it’s Sunday.’