No Way Of Telling (9 page)

“They’ve gone.”

Mrs Bowen poked the fire.

“They were the police, Granny.”

Mrs Bowen straightened up indignantly.

“I knew that. You don’t think I’d have let you go off with just anyone, not knowing who? I wasn’t afraid they’d do you any harm.”

“You didn’t want me to go, though.”

“You went just the same.”

“I’m sorry, Granny,” said Amy, deeply contrite. “I don’t know what it was came over me.”

“Oh, well—I daresay you were right. Never mind about it now—come by the fire, Amy, you must be just about starved. What did they say, then?”

“They asked me had I seen anyone?”

“I knew they were bound to. Oh, well—it’s all for the best, I daresay. Drink up that tea now—it’ll warm you—and I’ll put a piece of bacon to fry in just a minute.”

“I said I hadn’t.”

“You said you hadn’t what?”

“I said I hadn’t seen anyone. It was a lie, Granny. I told him a lie.”

Mrs Bowen had picked up the kettle. She set it slowly back on the stove and stared at Amy in amazement.

“Whatever made you say that?”

“You didn’t tell them either. Why didn’t you?”

“You mean they’ve gone off and still not knowing anything about that man? I made sure you’d tell them.” Mrs Bowen sat down suddenly. “Oh, Amy—I only hope we’ve done right.”

“I know where he is, too. I saw a light. He’s down at Tyler’s Place.”

“Never!”

“He is. There was a light—I saw it. They didn’t see it.”

In the long silence that followed they could hear the fluttering of the fire and Mick on the hearthrug sighing in his sleep as he settled himself more comfortably, and outside in the darkness the loud commotion of the wind.

“Why didn’t you tell them, Granny?” said Amy at last, again.

“Indeed, Amy, you may well ask, and it’s hard to say now, exactly,” replied Mrs Bowen. “Two things I suppose it was that must have made my mind up for me. First, there was Mick. He was in such a fret—backwards and forwards—and I naturally took it to be you he was wanting to go after. So I let him out by the front, thinking he’d make less disturbance for the sheep that way, but then when I looked out of the window I saw he was running straight on down the hill. Then he stopped, and there were these two men coming. Up jumps Mick and on he goes again to meet them—barking, of course—”

“I heard him,” said Amy.

“But he wasn’t interfering with them, just bringing them in, like any good dog ought to do.”

Mick, hearing his name, had woken up.

“And then,” said Mrs Bowen, “I saw that one in front, the tall one, put out his boot and give old Mick such a kick as lifted him right clean off the ground—he came running back to me. I 
thought at first he must have had some ribs broken, he was whining so pitifully, but it was fright as much as pain—he’s never had such a kick as that in his life before, poor old fellow, and no reason at all for giving it. He wasn’t acting nasty or going to bite—nothing! It was no way to treat a dog and I took against that man when I saw it—he didn’t know I’d seen, mind. And there was more to it than just a kick—it was his manner of doing it—so cool!—he could have been kicking a tin can out of his way, same as boys do, for the fun of it. Well, after that I wasn’t going to help him to find anyone—not anyone!—that’s how I felt.”

Amy was down on her knees, her arms round Mick hugging him gently for fear of bruises.

“Oh, poor Mick! But he couldn’t have done it on purpose, Granny. Maybe he was meaning to kick up a bit of snow at Mick to stop him coming on, and his foot slipped—it could have done.”

Mrs Bowen pursed her lips and shook her head disbelievingly. Amy said, laying her face down on Mick’s rough fur:

“What was the other reason then?—two reasons you said you didn’t tell them for.”

“It wasn’t a
reason,
the other—there’s not enough sense in it for that. I can’t pretend it was more than just a feeling I had. Do you remember last night when that man was at the door—there—how he turned around before he went and looked at us?”

Amy nodded. She remembered.

“Well, it was that look of his. There was something about the way he looked at us then—something it’s hard to find words for—that kept coming back at me. Wild was what you called him, and so he was wild, like an animal. But you know how it is, Amy, with animals—wild ones especially—if they’re in some kind of trouble and you happen to come by, you can tell the way they look at you they’re wondering can they trust you this once? They doubt they can—it goes against their natural instinct. And yet they’re bound to hope there’s maybe a chance you’ll help them—you can read it in their eyes. And I read it in his—or I thought I did. And then these men today, they seemed to me to be like hunters. There!—I can’t explain it any more than that and I know it sounds like a pack of nonsense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Amy. “I felt the same.”

“You did?”

“I felt sorry for him—all of a sudden, when I saw that light of his down there.”

“Well, indeed! And me thinking you were so gone on those two at the door.”

“So I was,” said Amy, nodding her head while she stroked Mick very gently. “So I should be again, I suppose. The tall one—he was lovely, I thought. I never saw anyone like him before,” she said, rather sorrowfully, thinking of him already as something beautiful just missed out of her life, glimpsed and gone for ever.

“Lovely!—he wasn’t my idea of lovely,” said Mrs Bowen.

“Oh, Granny, he was!—he had that way of talking. And his clothes—you could tell they must have cost a lot of money, they were so soft. His jersey was all fluffy—didn’t you notice? He reminded me of cream-toffee,” said Amy, dreamily. “That was exactly the colour of him, his clothes, and his face, and even his hair when he got his cap off—cream-toffee!”

“Get along with you, Amy! I thought I was bad enough with my fancies, but I declare you’re worse. Toffee indeed! How could you possibly see? It was all but dark out there.”

“No, it wasn’t, not so dark as that,” said Amy, determined to keep hold at least of that first vision. “But Granny, what sort of policemen were they, do you think? Why didn’t they have uniform on? Were they English?”

“They were English all right by their voices. They didn’t come from round here, that’s certain. London, they may have come from. As for the uniform, police don’t always wear uniform, specially when they’re out to catch someone. It shows up who they are too much.”

“London!” said Amy, awed. “He must have done something downright bad if they’ve had to come all the way from London to fetch him.”

“Oh, Amy, how can we tell what he did—or why he did it? We don’t know anything about him.”

“Yes, we do—we know where he is. We know he’s down at Tyler’s Place.”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs Bowen. “It seems as though we do know that.”

They ate their tea in almost total silence. After tea they got out the patchwork quilt and snipped and sewed, and still there was very little said. They listened to the news and the weather forecast on the radio: snow was sweeping the country and more expected. Mrs Bowen switched the radio off without a word and they went on sewing.

“Granny,” said Amy presently, “I was thinking of something.”

“We’re both thinking of something, I daresay,” answered Mrs Bowen, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t turn out to be the same thing.”

“I was thinking about last night when we went out with Mick—you said if we didn’t go we’d never be able to sleep for fear of what there might be outside.”

“So I did. Well, and what of it?”

“We went, didn’t we? And then we came back in, only we’d left Mick out—remember?—by mistake. And so then we opened the door again—and we called—and he came—”

Mrs Bowen put down her sewing and looked at Amy and waited.

“Well?” she said again, to help her on.

“I was thinking,” said Amy. “He didn’t bark then, did he? What I mean is, we didn’t know it but that man must have been there in our shed,
then.
And Mick must have found him—he went off round the side, didn’t he?—that’s why we came back in without him. So I can’t help wondering—it was funny for Mick not to bark. Do you think that means he liked him?”

“You’d better ask Mick,” said Mrs Bowen.

“The only person he never barks for generally is Mr Protheroe,” said Amy.

Mrs Bowen continued to sit with her sewing left forgotten in her lap. After a while she sighed.

“I’m very much afraid we’ve acted foolishly, Amy, and worse than that—done wrong, maybe. It was my fault I know, and I blame myself entirely. But if only I’d spoken out that man would be in handcuffs by now, and he must deserve it or they wouldn’t be after him. Though mind you, when I kept my mouth shut I’d no idea he was still so close—I thought he’d be miles from here.”

“Why didn’t you tell about Tyler’s Place then, when that tall one asked were there any other buildings and that round here? You must have thought he might have been down there or you’d have said.”

Mrs Bowen pondered this with a look of surprise on her face.

“You’re right, Amy—I must have had it at the back of my mind. And yet—would you believe it?—I never knew there was such an idea in my head, not till you mention it now. There!—that just shows how sneaky your own mind can be.”

Amy glanced over her shoulder at the door. The bolts were firmly across, top and bottom. She knew the side-kitchen door was barred in the same way.

“He won’t come back tonight, will he?”

“No—I don’t think he will. He took all he wanted then. I’d say he was meaning to get on to Melin-y-Groes and missed to find his way—he must have come round in a circle and fetched up at Tyler’s Place. Supposing it is him that’s there,” she added as an afterthought.

“It must be him. I saw that light—I told you,” said Amy.

“A light’s no proof it’s him. There could be others out on the hills. It could be Tom Protheroe even, going after his ewes.”

“You know it wasn’t Mr Protheroe, Granny—he wouldn’t even
try
to come over the top, this weather. He’d come round by the road, if he came at all—you know he would—and up the valley and up by our place, and call in. It wasn’t Mr Protheroe.”

“Well, no—I daresay it wasn’t,” said Mrs Bowen.

They tidied their sewing away earlier than usual that evening and dealt out the cards for Two-handed Whist, but then-attention was not on the game. When Mrs Bowen wasted a King as though it were a card of no consequence Amy said nothing, not having noticed. And when Amy after trumping her grandmother’s Queen of Diamonds immediately led the ten of that suit, Mrs Bowen remained silent for the same reason. Neither remembered to count their tricks. Amy shuffled the cards together and dealt again.

“Suppose they do come back tomorrow, those policemen—shall you tell them then?”

“Suppose!—suppose! Oh, Amy—I don’t want to bring harm to anyone—not to anyone at all. But how can a person be sure of what’s for the best? I wish I knew,” said Mrs Bowen, brushing the cards away from her with a gesture of despair.

That night Amy slept in her own bed underneath an odd assortment of coverings: the old ironing blanket, various coats and shawls, and on top of everything else the partly-finished patchwork quilt. She had fallen asleep at once, too exhausted to stay awake listening for strange noises; too exhausted, she almost believed, to care if there had been any.

She awoke early and lay on her back, her mind calm and clear, contemplating her resolution as she might have tried a knot to see if it held. It felt quite firm. Two or three times before in her life she had awoken with the sensation of sleep having settled some course of action for her, banishing fear. There had been the morning she had known as soon as she opened her eyes that this was the day she would climb to the top of the great oak at Dintirion—a dare of Ivor’s that had burdened her for weeks; and again there was the morning when she knew at once she was going to cross Mr Pratt’s field with the bull in it that very afternoon, walking, not running, from corner to corner: a dreadful dare invented by herself. And in each case she had done what she knew on awakening she would do.

Amy slid her feet out of bed and groped for the chair where she hung her clothes at night. It was still too dark to see properly. With the clothes clutched in a bundle against her chest she crept through her grandmother’s room.

“Amy?”

“It’s all right, Granny—it’s only me.”

“Whatever are you doing, child?”

“I felt a bit hungry—I thought I’d get something to eat.” This, she realised immediately, was not going to provide her with enough excuse. “I can’t sleep, Granny, so I might as well dress myself. I can get a few things done early, before breakfast. I was thinking I might—might do a bit of work on my toboggan,” she added ambiguously.

“But it’s not half past six yet.”

“I know.”

She waited, fearful of being forbidden, peering through the faint greyish obscurity towards the bed and the shape that was her grandmother.

“I’ll get you a cup of tea, later,” she offered quickly.

“Never you mind about that,” said Mrs Bowen, but sounding reassured. “I’ll be down myself before too long. If you do go out to the shed, Amy, you mind and see you wrap up well,” she called after her.

Mick emerged, yawning and stretching, from underneath the front-kitchen table where he slept at night in an orange-box padded with an old coat, and wagged his tail sleepily.

“We’re going out, Mick,” Amy told him. “You’ll wake up soon enough then.”

There was no comforting fire to dress in front of, only ashes. Amy scrambled into her clothes as quickly as she could. Then she went into the side-kitchen and drew back the bolts and opened the door. It was not snowing. The pale morning light was thick and still, like cold grey soup. Amy shut the door, frowning. She put on her coat and leggings and her Wellington boots and tied her scarf tightly over her head and under her chin. She had one glove already on when she recollected telling her grandmother that she was going downstairs to get something to eat. Partly so as to make this true, and partly because she had learnt that it was as well when setting out on any expedition to take food, Amy ran back and helped herself hastily to four mince-pies from a tin in the store-cupboard. One she crammed into her mouth and the rest in a pocket.