The Hollow Land (3 page)

“They're all at the sea,” said a voice from a dark place. Harry's mother turned to see
 
Flora's master, Jimmie Metcalf (called Meccer), shadowy in the back of his tottery dark shed by the roadside. He had been lamed in the quarry long since and could work no more, but he kept in touch by sitting in the shed and watching the limestone go by in great white lumps on the lorries, and on Sundays watching his dog sleep in the limestone lane. He was a huge fat pale man with a large flat face and straight-ahead eyes. He knew every mortal thing you did, Mrs. Teesdale said, even before you had done it. Now he said to Harry's mother, “Your eggs will be round the dairy at the back. It'll not be locked.”

“Oh that I
couldn't
do,” said Mrs. Bateman, “not without asking.”

“No shops open,” said the voice from the dark of the shed.

“We have some tins,” said Mrs. Bateman, not very proudly.

“There'll be eggs further along,” said Flora's master. “They sells eggs along at Blue Barns. It's straight down the lanes. It's barely a step.”

So Harry's mother called to where Harry was lying in the middle of the road stroking Flora, whose eyes were tight shut as usual, and they went on down the village and into Jingling Lane, then up and round a cluster of farms and a pub and on to Gypsies' Hill.

Gypsies' Hill was interesting because it had a big post on it with a notice saying GYPSIES PROHIBITED. The council repainted it every year or two. Yet every year the gypsies came and settled in round the post and hung a line of washing from it. Maybe six or seven times a year they would suddenly be there with their huge caravans you'd never think could get down the lane and their filthy tin cans and children and heaps of rubbish and a pony or two tied up and a fire going. Then just as suddenly they'd be gone.

Today they were here. In force. Very comfortable. The fire burned bright, making the hot day shimmer. The washing was hanging on the line and they were all sitting about doing nothing at all like Jimmie Meccer. But they were more separate. Harry's mother felt uneasy with gypsies and her heart beat faster as she went by the hot, still place.

But a man smiled at her and she said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good day my lovely,” said a dark young woman to Harry and Harry said hello and waved.

On they went down a lane so narrow that the bushes tangled their fingers together overhead. The ruts under their feet were sharp and crumbly and stars of flowers shone in the high banks—campion and speedwell and yellow and purple vetches and plumy grasses and little brown-pink orchidy things and long arches of flimsy wild roses.

They came out of this lane to a place where three lanes meet and took the one signposted to Blue Barns.

“Blue Barns is a pretty name,” said Harry's mother, still dazzled by the flowers she had picked and the sudden sunlight as they came out into the open. Harry lifted his arms and began to drone and be an aeroplane.

“Oh stop that silly singing,” said his mother. “Can't you
talk
to me?” Harry stopped singing—he was always good—and came back and took his mother's hand, though he didn't talk to her.

So they came to Blue Barns which was painted black.

Every bit of it that could be painted was painted black—black barns, black byres, black window frames, hulls, chicken houses, sheds, front gate, back gate, dog kennel and even the front door. Black is a bad colour against Cumbrian stone and scarcely ever seen. On the front gate was painted in white BLUE BARNS.

Every window and door was tight shut. The yard looked scrubbed, without a wisp of straw on it. If there were any chickens you felt they'd be made to tiptoe round the edges. Every window gleamed and shone and the curtains hung down inside stiff as paper. Paper flowers in brass pots stood on the sills. The square flagstones up to the shiny, beetly, black front door looked as if they'd been scaled with hard wire wool.

Harry hung back from this house but his mother walked very carefully up these bleached stones. She knocked very quietly. After a minute she said, “I expect everyone has gone to the sea here too,” and knocked rather loud, and at the very same second out of the kennel by the garden gate sprang a great black dog with yellow eyes and teeth and a long clanking chain. He pounced on Harry, and the great black door swung back in one sweep and out came a big square woman in a sombre dress. She had steely hair and eyes and mouth, and wiry whiskers.

Harry's mother flew to Harry and the dog pounced towards both of them, straining the chain, prancing on mad feet and yelping with a mad mouth. The woman—after a time—told it to give over. She did not move her gaze from Harry and his mother for a moment and she did not move.

“Oh I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry. Were you—resting?”

“I was reading,” said the woman.

“Oh—I'm sorry to disturb—”

“Reading my Bible.”

“Oh dear. Oh—it was—well, it was eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“I was told. Back in the village. You sell eggs.”

“I do.”

“And I've run out of eggs. And it's always scrambled eggs for supper on Sunday. Or tins. We're—on holiday.”

“Where from?” said the steel woman. In time. She arranged her hands criss-cross over her stomach.

“From London.”

“I shouldn't care to live in London. Where are you stopping?”

“We're above the quarry. At old Mr. Hewitson's farm, Light Trees. We lease it. They're all away today at the sea.”

This seemed to make the woman very disgruntled. She turned away from them and said, breathing deeply, “How many eggs?”

“Oh—three dozen.”

“Three dozen!”

“Yes. Well. There's a lot of us. We have a lot of friends coming and going.”

“Have you a basket?”

Harry's mother had forgotten all about a basket. Mrs. Teesdale always gave her egg-boxes.

“I will
lend
you a basket,” said the stern, broad woman. She turned her eyes on the dog, which at last stopped sobbing and yelping and slunk back into its kennel. Then she removed her crossed hands from her stomach, clenched her fists, turned her back on them and walked away.

“Why is it Blue Barns when all's black?” asked Harry.

“Hush.”

“And why's she got metal whiskers?”

“Hush.”

“I'm thirsty.”

“Hush.”

The woman came back with a big shallow plaited basket more like a tray with thirty-six eggs laid out over it, which were going to have a seasick time up Quarry Hill.

“Can I have a drink of water?” asked Harry—who was always good—in a bossy voice.

“Hush,” said his mother again, “we'll go home for tea. Or—” she said, more daring since they were almost escaped now, “or could you tell us? Is there somewhere round about where we could get some tea?”

“
Get
some tea?”

“Well, where they serve teas.
Teas
. In the south you can see it advertised. TEAS.”

The woman stood quite still.

“On notices,” said Harry's mother getting feebler. “By roadsides. TEAS. With cakes and things . . . ” and her voice trailed away.

“
I
can give you some tea,” said the woman. “Step this way.”

 

Harry—who was always good—retreated very fast down the path and hid behind the garden gate. His mother had to run and grab him.

“Step this way,” said the woman again and dismally they had to follow through the black door into the very clean house to the very clean parlour and sit at a very polishy table among the brass pots and vases and everlasting flowers, upright chairs and any number of photographs of people in wedding dresses and all with the bristle-woman's jaw. A clock ticked like tin cans and hanging above it was a great piece of writing made of woollen stitches and decorated all round with dark brown woollen flowers. The writing said
Ye Know Not The Hour
.

In the silence that fell in the boiling airless room you could hear bread being cut far off in the kitchen and the slow clatter of a kettle. Harry put his head on the table and fell asleep.

 

The tea when it came was very ample.

But rather dry.

Plate after plate the steely woman brought—once or twice she brought three plates at once, one on top of the other joined together with wires. Different kinds of pale heavy cake lay on these. All the things looked rather old, though they were definitely home-made. They had been built, like the bristle-woman herself, to last.

The butter was marg.

A giant pot of tea arrived.

Harry asked again for a glass of water. Or orange.

“Milk,” said the bristle-woman, and brought milk and went away again.

Harry—who was always good—said in a minute, “I can't drink it.”

“Oh Harry!”

“It tastes of meat.”

“Don't be silly. Let me try.”

It tasted of meat.

“She's had it in a fridge near meat. Crowding it up. She's mean. I want water. And it's horrible marg on the bread.”

“Oh Harry.”

“I can't eat the bread. The marg tastes of meat, too.”

“Shall I ask for some jam?”

Harry's mother went to the door and coughed. Immediately in the opposite door across the passage stood the woman.

“Oh—do you think we might have a little—jam?”

“
Jam
?”
 
said the woman. “Well—jam. I'll have to go to my store cupboard.”

“Oh please—” But too late.

In time she arrived with delicious home-made blackcurrant. “
That's
better,” said appalling Harry—who was always good—and dug deep down in it and got a fair dollop on the tablecloth and several smears about the hair and mouth. He met the bristle-lady's glare with his clear eyes. In time once more, she went away.

“We'd better go,” said Mrs. Bateman looking through the tight shut window at the standstill day. “Long walk home. And with eggs it will be slow.”

The woman appeared with the tray of eggs and handed it to Harry. “Oh thank you so very much and the jam was
lovely
,” said his mother very courteously. “How much do we owe you?”

“I can't take pay on a Sunday,” said the woman. “You must come and bring the money tomorrow. We're Chapel people here. I can only
give
you the eggs today. You must pay tomorrow.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I didn't understand. Of course we'll pay tomorrow when we return the tray. I'll send some of the big boys on their bikes. You should—”

“It is a sin to buy and sell on a Sunday.”

“Yes. I see. Of course. And do tell me how much we should bring. And how much we owe you for the tea.”

“For the
tea
?” The woman's eyes pierced into Harry's mother's muddly kind face. “For the
tea
? I don't take any money for teas. I'm a long way from needing to serve
teas
. The tea was a kindness.”

Harry's mother's mouth fell open in shame (Oh the jam! She had
asked
for the jam. And it had been an
invited
tea!).

Harry stretched up a hand to hold hers as they stood once more outside the front door.

“By the by,” said the woman, “didn't I
see
the lad had left his milk? Would you not like him to come back and finish the milk? Waste is a sin.”

So Harry—who was always good—let go of his mother's hand and put his own on the tray of eggs. Then he took his other hand off the handle of the tray of eggs. Then he turned the tray of eggs over and watched them drop to the ground. Thirty-six big fresh farm eggs. They splatted with thirty-six splats onto the white scrubbed stones. Every one of them broke and ran except for perhaps three or four and these Harry chased as they rolled and he jumped on them.

Then he jumped and he stamped with his feet on all the eggs until his sandals were slidy and slimy and juicy yellow and left great sticky messes down the path.

Far and away he ran, down the path, past the dog, out of the gate, down the lane. Down the lane to the three lane ends and his mother after him. “Harry!” she cried down the dark narrow flowery lane. No sign of him.

Faster and faster she ran crying “Harry” at every bend; but every bend showed only the white ruts and the clutched fingers of the rose branches overhead and the red spikes of the nightshade laughing at her from the deep grass banks. She shot out of the lane onto Gypsies' Hill. But the gypsies were gone.

Their fire smoked white ash. There was a good deal of rubbish left. But the vans and cans and the pony and the line of washing might never have been. GYPSIES PROHIBITED spoke out from the post, and the gypsies were gone.

And so was Harry.

“Harry! Harry!” his mother shouted. He couldn't have got this far so fast. She ran and ran—still no Harry. Past the pub and the cluster of houses and into Jingling Lane and still no Harry. Oh, she thought, Harry gagged and bound. Away with the gypsies. He loves gypsies. “Good day my lovely,” they'd said, and he'd waved and said hello.

“HARRY,” she shrieked and ran down Jingling Lane and into the village lane and into the village, sure now that Harry's short legs could not have got this far alone. “KIDNAPPED,” she shrieked at Jimmie Meccer, who blinked and pointed.

For there he was—and so were the Teesdales and old Grandad Hewitson laughing, and Jimmie Meccer laughing, tottering and peeping from his shed, and the four proud upset hens putting their necks out of the hedge again and village people waking up as it grew cooler and looking out round curtains to
see
what the noise was about, and the blood-red lupins standing watching and Mrs. Teesdale in her sugar-pink holiday hat.

As Mrs. Bateman puffed up, the car with the rest of the Batemans came over the bridge too and Harry rather tended to wander out of sight again when he saw his father coming.