The Runaways (2 page)

The Thunderbolt too had a bark worse than her bite and was only engaged just now in trying to get the children sufficiently under control for it to be possible to live with them. But it takes a long time to learn to appreciate the excellent motives of those who are trying to control you, and patient waiting was not the strong point of the Linnet children. They had the charming surname of Linnet, and it was a pity it did not suit them.

The rubbish heap was at the bottom of the kitchen garden hidden from the world by a tall yew hedge that bordered the garden upon the west. It was private, and a good place for counsels of war. Usually they sat cross-legged on the rough grass for the discussion of their affairs, but today Robert did not stop to sit down before announcing, ‘We’re escaping. We will walk to the mountains and earn our living there.’

‘Are there mountains?’ asked Nan cautiously. Robert had such a fine imagination that it was necessary to
distinguish
between what was there and what he thought was there. They were sometimes the same, but not always.

‘I’ve seen them,’ said Robert. ‘Westwards where the sun sets.’ And he swung round dramatically with one arm outflung toward the yew hedge. Should he be the greatest actor of the age? he suddenly wondered. Would there be more money in being a great actor than in
burglary or acrobatics? He was so busy wondering that he did not actually look at the yew hedge and it was Timothy who yelled, ‘Look!’

Behind the hedge the sky was a bright blue. It dazzled the eyes and got inside the head and exploded there as a wild desire for wings, so that one could take off and soar up into it. There was a bird up there who had done just that, and his song came down to the earth he had left in a clear fall of music that was lovelier than anything the children had ever heard, and leaning against the yew hedge was a ladder that the gardener had forgotten to take away. Timothy was up it in a flash. His smooth fair head showed for a moment gold against the blue of the sky and then he was gone. Robert gave a gasp of astonishment and then he leapt after Timothy, Absolom still under his arm. Betsy scrambled after him clutching at Absolom’s plume of a tail to help herself up, and Nan came last rather more soberly. She was not expecting to take off into the sky as the lark had done, and it did just cross her mind that it might not be as easy on the other side of the hedge as Robert seemed to think. But she climbed steadily to the top of the hedge, for Father had told her to look after the others, and resignedly fell off it on to the struggling mass of the other four down below.

At first there was a good deal of noise, for though they had fallen on to the grass verge of a narrow lane it had been a considerable fall. Betsy was roaring because she had bumped herself, Absolom was yelping because she still had hold of his tail and the boys were shouting at them both to stow their din.

‘Do you want to bring the Thunderbolt out on us?’ asked Nan as soon as she could make herself heard. ‘Because if you don’t, keep quiet.’

They disentangled themselves in a sudden silence, got up and looked about them. The lane ran between gardens and backs of houses and only a short distance to their right turned left towards the sunset: ‘That’s the way,’ said Robert, and ran down it, the others after him, Absolom bringing up the rear with his tongue out and his ears flopping. He was a medium-sized mongrel, dirty white in colour, very hairy, and apt to get caught in bushes because he was so hairy. His great dark eyes were his only beauty, but it was difficult to see them through the thicket of hair that fell over them. But he could run fast. He had to.

The lane brought them to the back streets of the little town and they followed these towards the sunset. Beyond the town the road began to climb steeply between woods and fields. Streams ran through the fields, quick-running streams that had come down from the hills, and kingcups lay in pools of gold beside them. Birds were singing everywhere, in the woods and beside the streams. The air, coming down from the hills as the streams had done, was cool and yet the golden sun gave a warm edge to it. It made them want to sing and so they sang, not with any particular words, but humming and whistling, laughing and calling out to each other as the birds were doing. They felt happy and it was a long time since they had done that. It was wonderful to be happy again.

And then gradually one by one they began to leave the
birds to sing alone. Betsy stopped first and complained that her legs were aching and Nan said, ‘You’d better carry her, Robert.’ He took her on his back with a good grace, being fond of her, but that silenced him too, for she was heavy. Then Timothy stopped whistling because actually Father had been quite correct in considering him not to be as strong as the others. Then Nan stopped singing because she was beginning to feel worried. It was getting dusky under the trees, and when she looked up at the bits of sky that showed through the pattern of their branches, they were no longer gold but
rose-coloured
. The cool air no longer had an edge of warmth but was downright chilly, and they had not brought their coats with them. She and Betsy were only wearing their linen smocks, Betsy’s green to match her wicked eyes and hers blue to tone with hers that were
grey-blue
, quiet and gentle. The boys wore linen sailor suits, which were the fashion for the male young in those days, very after the hen-house fight, but there’s no warmth in dirt. And still they were not up in Robert’s mountains but only climbing their lower slopes, and the slopes of mountains can last a long time, Nan knew. It would be dark when they got there, and how did they know if they would find anywhere to sleep or anything to eat when they arrived? She began to think that Robert’s latest idea had not been one of his best, but she did not say so because when an idea has
hardened
into consequences it is too late to change it for another. That is why ideas should never be put into practice the moment you have them. They should be chewed like cud for twenty-four hours.

But the children tonight were to have a luck greater than they deserved, for rounding a corner they saw a thatched inn beside the road, with light shining from a curtained window. They knew it was an inn because the painted sign of a wheatsheaf hung over the door. A pony and trap stood outside. The trap was the type known in those days as a governess-cart and there was plenty of room in it for four children and a dog. The pony was looking at them over his shoulder and he seemed to like them, for he whinnied softly. He was piebald, chestnut and white, fat but not too fat. There was no one with him and the reins were loosely knotted round an old thorn tree. He was the pony of Robert’s dreams, and before he knew what he was doing he had spilled Betsy off his back on to the seat of the trap and untied the reins from the tree. Then he picked up Absolom and dropped him on top of Betsy. ‘Get in,’ he said to the other two. Timothy scrambled in at once, but Nan hesitated. ‘It’s stealing,’ she said.

‘Borrowing,’ said Robert. ‘There is a difference.’

Nan thought to herself that it’s hard to tell the
difference
sometimes, but she got in because just at that moment her loving anxiety to get Timothy and Betsy and Absolom to wherever it was they were going rather got the better of her honesty.

They drove off at a good pace, Robert holding the reins. There was no whip, but they did not need it, so eager was the strong brisk little pony to take them to wherever it was they were going. He seemed to know exactly where that was, for whenever they came to a turn in the road he did not hesitate. Robert was in an ecstasy. His red hair lifted on his head with the wind of their going and his green eyes shone like lamps. He had never driven a pony and trap before, but he did it as though to the manner born. He felt as though he and the pony were one person. ‘He’s called Roy,’ he shouted to the others. ‘Rob-Roy. Rob’s Roy. I’m Rob and he’s Roy.’ And throwing back his head he began to sing again. Over their heads the sky was a mysterious green and a few stars were showing.

The others were glad to be off their feet but less ecstatic because they were cold and hungry. However, Timothy, flung off the seat to the floor as Rob-Roy whirled them round a corner, made in his prostrate position a most timely discovery. Under one seat was an old rug full of holes and a bag of apples and under the other a basket of groceries; biscuits and cheese, slices of cold ham, a jar of pickles, lump sugar, a pot of
marmalade
, eight tins of sardines and a bar of Sunlight soap. ‘Stop!’ yelled Timothy and they stopped by a gorse bush and had a gorgeous meal. They did not forget the pony
and Absolom. Rob-Roy crunched up four apples and a quarter of a pound of lump sugar in his strong white teeth, and Absolom had eight biscuits and a quarter of a pound of cheese. When they had finished eating there was nothing left except half a pot of marmalade, the soap and sardines, and they all felt completely different.

From then on it was a wonderful drive, and when the road was so steep that Rob-Roy could only go at a walking pace they looked about them in wonder, for they seemed to be climbing to the top of the world. Great hills shouldered up into that strange green sky, and below they fell steeply away into deep valleys filled with mist. The shadows on the hills were the colour of grapes. Then gradually the colour drained away. The sky changed from green to deep blue, the stars grew brighter, and a hidden moon shone behind a hill that had an outcrop of rock like a castle or a city on its crest, and another rock like a lion’s head beneath it. It grew steadily colder, even with the rug, and they began to shiver. They were a bit scared too, for it was strange and lonely, and they didn’t seem to be coming to wherever it was they were going. But no one cried or complained, for though insubordinate they were
courageous
. Nan did say just once, ‘Robert, are you quite sure Rob-Roy knows where we’re going?’ but after Robert had answered very snappily, ‘Can’t you see he knows?’ she did not say anything more. But she could tell by his snappishness that Robert was a bit worried too.

And then the moon sailed up from behind the hill and the whole world was washed in silver. They could see more now; low stone walls, clumps of thin trees
blown all one way by the prevailing wind, and ahead of them a cluster of cottages on a small hill with lights showing in their windows and a tall church tower rising behind them. Rob-Roy quickened his pace. He rattled them down a slope and over an old stone bridge that crossed a little river, and then uphill again towards the village. Just at the foot of the village street he turned left through an open gate in a stone wall, jolted them over the cobbles of a yard and stopped dead in front of a stable door. They had arrived.

chapter two

where they went

They jumped eagerly out of the trap and looked about them. The yard was enclosed by the stable and three high stone walls and had a pump in the middle of it. One wall was built against the hillside and a flight of stone steps led up beside it to a door at the top. Beyond the door there seemed to be a garden on the slope of the hill and above it a house. They could not see any lighted windows, but there was a glimmer through the trees that made them think there must be a light in one of the downstairs rooms.

‘But we must stable Rob-Roy first,’ said Robert. None of them had unharnessed a pony before, but by dint of unfastening every buckle they could find they got Rob-Roy free and led him into the stable. In the moonlight flooding through the open door they could see a rough towel hanging from a nail on the wall and with this Robert rubbed him down and they put the rug from the trap over him. There was hay in the manger and water in the bucket and he immediately made himself at home. They kissed him and patted him and said, ‘Good night, Rob-Roy,’ and they felt he liked them.

They came out and shut the stable door and climbed up the stone steps against the wall. It seemed to be an
old wall, built of rough grey stone, with small ferns and plants growing in the crannies. The door at the top of the steps had a stone arch over it, and seemed old too, but the latch lifted easily and they went through into the garden. It was queer and creepy in the garden because there were so many tall bushes and odd steps here and there. Then the bushes vanished and they came out on a sloping lawn and there was the house up above them, its granite walls covered with creepers and a terrace running along in front of the french windows of the ground floor.

It was the centre one that was lighted up, and framed in the shadows of the creepers it was like a picture hung on a dark wall. There was a table in the window and in front of it an elderly gentleman dressed in black sat writing with a large quill pen, an oil lamp beside him on the table and piles of books all round him on the floor. He had a big domed forehead, with white hair sprouting up on either side of it, and white whiskers, but the rest of his face was clean-shaven. His eyes beneath bushy white eyebrows were looking down at the paper, but Nan was quite sure they were bright and fierce. He was writing with great concentration, his pen spluttering and his grim mouth working. He was a most alarming figure altogether, for his broad strong shoulders suggested he would be at least six feet tall when he stood up. The children and Absolom drew nearer, both terrified and attracted, for behind him they could see in the glimmer of firelight a great globe of the world shining like a second moon, and perched on the high carved back of the chair was a little owl.
As the children watched it spread its wings and flapped them twice and hooted. They had now come so close that they were standing at the bottom of a flight of four narrow steps that led up from the lawn to the terrace exactly in front of the window. The owl hooted again in warning and the elderly gentleman looked up.

It was no good running away, for caught in the beam of the lamplight he could see them as clearly as though it were broad daylight. Nor could they have run if they had tried for his terrible gaze transfixed them. At first he was as still as they were, his face a mask of
incredulous
anger, and then he slowly rose to his feet, so slowly that it seemed his great height would never cease rising towards the ceiling. His big strong chin was propped up on a folded white stock that seemed to make him stiffer and taller than ever. He unfastened the French window, flung it wide and came out on to the terrace.

‘What on earth?’ he enquired in a terrible deep voice, gazing down at them huddled together at the foot of the steps.

Robert was usually the family spokesman, but his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth and it was Nan who replied, ‘Please, sir, four children and a dog.’

‘I have my eyesight,’ said the elderly gentleman, ‘and have already observed that there are four children and a dog, but may I be permitted to enquire what four children and a dog are doing on my lawn at this time of night?’

‘It’s where we’ve come to,’ said Nan.

‘That also I observe. But how did you come?’

Robert’s tongue came unstuck and he said, ‘Rob-Roy
brought us, sir. Rob-Roy, my pony. He brought us in the trap.’

‘And where have you left this pony and trap?’

‘Rob-Roy is in the stable,’ said Robert, ‘and the trap in the yard.’

‘I also possess a pony and trap,’ said the elderly gentleman. ‘My gardener drove to the town this
afternoon
to fetch my groceries and I am momentarily expecting his return. What do you suppose my own pony, Jason by name, will make of an intruder in his stable?’

Nan suddenly went very white and then all by herself she mounted the steps and came to the elderly gentleman. They were all brave children, but she was the bravest. She looked up at him where he stood, with his hands behind his back and legs wide apart, glaring down at her, and she said, ‘Rob-Roy isn’t really Robert’s pony. He only calls him that because he loves him so. Rob’s Roy. We’d walked a long way uphill and we were
dreadfully
tired, especially Betsy because she’s only six, and we saw the pony and trap outside an inn with a
wheatsheaf
painted on the board, and we got in and Rob-Roy, I mean Jason, brought us here.’ Then she went as red as she had been white, swallowed hard and whispered, ‘I’m afraid we’ve eaten all the groceries except half a pot of marmalade, the soap and eight tins of sardines.’

Her voice died away and she began to tremble, and to her horror she could feel a few hot tears trickling over her cheekbones and down in front of her ears, but she did not take her eyes from the elderly gentleman’s face or flinch when he shot out a large brown wrinkled hand, gripped her shoulder and swung her round so
that the lamplight fell on her face. It fell on his face too and she ceased to be afraid. He was not exactly smiling, but there was a slight twitching at the corners of his grim mouth and the grip on her shoulder, though it hurt her, was reassuring. And then a very odd thing happened to her. From one moment to another she loved him.

‘Stealing eh?’ he said. ‘Were you running away, by any chance?’

Nan nodded.

‘From whom?’

‘Grandmama and Miss Bolt.’

‘Merciful heavens!’ he ejaculated. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Anna Linnet,’ said Nan.

The elderly gentleman gave a deep groan and looked down at the others. ‘You three down there. Come up. Come in. Bring the dog. In for a penny, in for a pound. If there is anything I dislike more than a child it’s a dog. Merciful heavens! And I trusted never to set eyes on a child again.’

He made a despairing gesture and led the way into his library. The children followed in single file, Absolom bringing up the rear with his tail between his legs. Then he caught sight of the owl, barked joyously and leapt up into the elderly gentleman’s chair. The owl took off and floated to the top of a large oil painting of some ruins and a thunderstorm that hung over the fireplace. Then he opened his beak, said, ‘Hick’, and a pellet shaped like a plum-stone shot out of it and hit Absolom on the nose. Glancing off on to the carpet, the pellet broke open and disintegrated into a collection of small beaks and claws and a threepenny bit. ‘Do not do that again,’ said the elderly gentleman to Absolom. ‘If Hector is annoyed he shoots out undigested matter in this unpleasant fashion. You, boy, what’s your name? Speak up. What? Timothy? Shovel up the beaks and claws and put them in the fire. You may keep the threepenny bit. Sit down. Do not touch my books or my papers. In twenty minutes I shall for my sins be with you again. Merciful heavens, here’s a kettle of fish!’

He left the room, banging the door behind him. They heard his footsteps in the hall and another door banged.

‘Is he quite right inside his head?’ asked Robert hoarsely.

‘Quite right,’ said Nan. ‘Let’s sit down, like he told us, and get warm.’

They sat in front of the fire and looked about them. It was a big room, but the bookcases that lined the walls could not hold the number of books the elderly gentleman possessed and they had overflowed on to the chairs and the floor. Where the carpet could be seen it
was deep crimson, and so were the velvet curtains at the three long windows, but they were faded and torn and the deep leather armchairs had the stuffing bursting out of them. The mantelpiece was comfortably littered with pipes and tobacco jars, and the grandfather clock and the wonderful globe of the world were as kindly presences in the room as the glowing fire. Suddenly they felt befriended, in spite of Hector’s outraged gaze. It was a friendly room, smelling of leather and tobacco and burning logs and home. Absolom expressed the feelings of them all when he flopped down on the woolly hearthrug in front of the fire, laid his chin on his extended paws, sighed twice and fell asleep. Betsy fell asleep too, in Nan’s arms in the deepest armchair, and the boys sat on the rug by Absolom and fed the fire with fircones from a basket that stood on the hearth. The grandfather clock ticked gently and Hector’s
expression
slowly changed from outrage to resignation.

And then suddenly their drowsy peace was shattered by the sound of a quickly trotting horse coming from the direction of the village. The rider came past the house, slowing down where the hill was steep, crossed the bridge at the bottom and then urged his horse to a canter up the long slope beyond. The sound of the hooves died away in the distance and the children looked at each other in dismay. There were no
telephones
in those days, and only rich people had cars, so urgent messages were often carried on horseback.

‘Has he sent a message to Grandmama?’ gasped Timothy.

‘How could he?’ asked Nan. ‘He doesn’t know where she lives.’

‘Don’t be such a fool, Tim,’ said Robert.

Yet in spite of the impossibility of a message being sent to Grandmama, they all felt a little uneasy, and still more so when the elderly gentleman returned looking grimmer than ever and capable of anything. ‘I see nothing for it but for you to stay the night,’ he growled. ‘Dog and all. Merciful heavens, what an infliction! Since nothing is left of my groceries except marmalade and soap and Hector’s sardines, I presume you are not hungry. You are, however, extremely dirty and one of you is smelling abominably of violet scent. I dislike scent. That is why I am a bachelor. You must wash and get to bed. I know nothing of the routine of getting children to bed, but you, I presume,’ and he pointed a long forefinger at Nan, ‘can superintend the horrid business. I’ll show you where the bed is and provide you with hot water, and then I do not wish to hear a chirp out of any of you until the morning.’

He led the way out of the room and they followed him exactly as the children had followed the Pied Piper. He was more severe with them even than Grandmama and the Thunderbolt, yet they would have done anything he told them and followed him anywhere. And so would Absolom, who flopped along keeping as near him as he possibly could. Out in the hall the elderly gentleman lit the two candles that were on the table, took one himself and gave the other to the children. ‘That’s Ezra Oake’s candle,’ he said. ‘He is my gardener and general factotum and sleeps in the house. When you
appropriated
Jason and the trap he was in the Wheatsheaf, and I must warn you that when he returns, having no doubt
strengthened himself with strong drink for the walk home, it is possible that he may create a considerable disturbance. If so do not be alarmed.’