The Various (24 page)

‘Hallo, you darling!’ she said. ‘You are soooo cute! Did you know that?’

The kitten gave a tiny
meep
and came a little closer, allowing itself to be picked up and cuddled for a few moments, before wriggling free again. It gave another
meep
and
wandered into the open-sided barn, sniffing at the dusty earth floor beneath the disused machinery, its tail upright and twitching.

Uncle Brian’s battered estate car was parked in the cobbled yard. The tailgate had been left open and an interior light was on. The three red hens – her Deputation from Rhode Island – scratched fussily around the front door, and the Wellington boot still lay on the flagstone path, as it had done all week. These things were a comfort. Midge felt as though she had returned from a long journey. Now she was very tired, she realized, very hungry, and
very
glad to be back. She would have something to eat – perhaps Uncle Brian would have cooked something, or bought something nice – then she would have a long luxurious shower, watch a bit of telly if she could stay awake, and go to bed. She would worry no more. Eat, shower, bed – that’s all she would think about. Nothing else.

Walking up the front path, she was suddenly tempted to kick the rubber boot, just to see if it
would
move, but stepped over it instead, because it seemed like bad luck somehow. She stopped to wipe her feet on the tatty doormat – force of habit really, you could probably bring more dust
out
of the house than you could take in – and paused as she heard voices from the kitchen. Well, she could hear Uncle Brian’s voice anyway. He was laughing. There was a murmur, and then she heard him say, ‘Well yes – but darling, you have to admit that I’m a whizz with the mixing bowl. My rock cakes are a triumph, you know. Somebody once said that to me. No, it’s true, they did. A triumph!’

Did he have a woman in there with him? Midge’s heart sank. Was she now to be introduced to some old broad who was mad for Uncle Brian’s baking? (It wasn’t
that
good. She’d had some.) She sighed, combed her fingers quickly through her hair, and crossed the threshold. Well, with any luck she could be out of there and into the shower in five minutes, ten at the most. She mustered up the best smile that she could, and put her head cautiously around the kitchen door.

‘Aha!’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Here she is! Just in time, sweetheart – tea’s all ready! We’ve already started. Midge, come and say hello to George and Katie!’

Chapter Thirteen

MIDGE FELT HER
carefully prepared smile crumpling, her mouth falling open in shock. She hadn’t expected this. She stepped hesitantly around the door and her expression of horrified surprise was reflected back at her, mirrored in the faces of Uncle Brian and her newly arrived cousins as they saw her in full view.

The girl, Katie, fresh and summery in a pink top and cream trousers, her wavy golden hair neatly clipped back, sat staring at her with wide blue eyes – a piece of half chewed rock cake visible in her open mouth. George, who had swept back his long blond fringe with a practised flick as Midge had entered, paused with one hand hovering over a plate of sandwiches, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Crikey.’

Uncle Brian had been leaning casually against the towel rail on the Rayburn, but at the sight of Midge he jerked upright and slopped tea onto his brown shoes. The little splatter was audible in the suddenly quiet kitchen.

‘Good God, Midge!’ he said. ‘What on earth’s
happened
to you? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!’

For once, the observation was accurate. In her flight from the forest, Midge had become covered in scratches and cuts, her arms and face were streaked with blood and dirt, her clothes were torn and stained – and, yes, she had indeed dragged herself through a hedge backwards. She looked ruefully at her sore hands, put them in her pockets – realized that it was futile to attempt to cover them up, and took them out again. She stood awkwardly by the door and could find nothing to say. George allowed his outstretched fingers to pick up the sandwich he had been reaching for. He bit into it mechanically, and continued to regard his cousin with astonishment – impressed, apparently, to see what an interesting person she had become in the years since he had last seen her. Katie closed her mouth and swallowed her piece of cake, her expression now cool and slightly disdainful. She glanced at Uncle Brian.

Midge was still speechless and Uncle Brian said, ‘Dear oh dear oh
dear
. What
have
you been up to now? Come here – let’s have a look at you.’ But his voice was kind and full of concern, not anger. He had a little blob of cream on his chin. Midge suddenly wanted to cry again. This was all too much. On top of everything else, this was all just too much.

‘I . . . I . . .’ she began, wanting to blurt out the whole story, to tell everything, to be free of the burden she felt she was carrying. But she couldn’t do it. It was impossible. There seemed to be no place to begin. She
sought
frantically for some reasonable explanation for the state she was in – and somehow the words began to spill out, words which were as close to the truth as she dared tell.

‘I tried to get into the Roy . . . the wood,’ she said. ‘The old wood. I wanted to see . . . like you did, Uncle Brian, with Mum, when you were . . . I just wanted to see, that’s all. I got stuck. In the brambles. It was horrible. I got stuck, and I couldn’t get out . . . I . . . it was horrible.’ She could allow the tears to fall, she realized. It was all right to cry. Even in her misery she dimly realized that the words sounded true –
were
true – and that it was all right to be upset. ‘I got all scratched trying to get out again . . .’ Her nose had started to run, and she could feel the tears, hot, on her cheeks. Uncle Brian moved towards her, uncertain as to what he should do – and found a practical solution in grabbing the roll of paper towel that stood near the sink. He tore off a great hank of the stuff and Midge took it gratefully, burying her streaming wet face in the clean soft texture, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

‘It’s OK,’ said Uncle Brian, putting his arm around her sore shoulders and leading her to the big old carver chair that stood at the head of the table. ‘Sweetheart, it’s OK. Come and sit down. This isn’t your fault – it’s mine. I should have been here, and then perhaps this wouldn’t have happened – whatever
has
happened. Anyway, you’re safe, and that’s the main thing. Are you sure it’s nothing serious? No broken bones or anything? George, be a good chap
and
find me a damp flannel or something will you? Let’s get this adventurer cleaned up a bit. All explanations can wait.’ He took the balled-up handful of paper towel from Midge and pulled some more from the roll, as George ran upstairs to get a flannel.

Midge sniffed and said, ‘I’m starving – could I have a sandwich?’ Uncle Brian looked at Katie, who, without getting up, pushed the plate of sandwiches down the table. Uncle Brian stretched forward and brought the plate towards Midge.

‘You tuck in, old thing,’ he said. ‘Eat something first, and get cleaned up later.’ He winced as he saw the torn material on the back of the child’s shoulders – the cuts and grazes around her neck – and was reminded of that other time, so many years ago, when he had arrived home with Midge’s mother in more or less the same state. And had been whacked for it.

Midge, truly hungry, grabbed the biggest sandwich she could see and took the biggest bite she could manage. She didn’t know what was in the sandwich, and she didn’t care. It was half gone before the content had even registered. Ham and pickle. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

‘That’s right,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘We’ll soon have you back on your feet.’ Katie remained silent.

George came back with a cool damp flannel, and Midge wiped her grubby hands and face with it. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, her mouth full of food, ‘I’m such a mess.’ She wiped the flannel around the back of her neck, and held it there for a few seconds. It felt so good.

George pulled a chair up to the corner of the table and sat looking at her, taking the flannel back from her when she had finished with it and absently folding it into a neat square. He flicked his hair back again. I bet he does that a hundred times a day, thought Midge, biting into another sandwich. He had a nice face, though, open and curious – old-fashioned somehow, with his floppy haircut and plain grey open-necked shirt. There was a small white scar on the bridge of his nose. Katie sat further down the table, detached, crumbling her unfinished rock cake and rolling a sultana between her fingers, squeezing it, looking at the sultana, not at her.

‘Did you actually get
in
there?’ said George, now that the crisis seemed to have passed and a decent interval had been observed. Katie stopped playing with the sultana, but continued to look at it, waiting.

‘I . . . don’t really feel like talking about it right now,’ said Midge, her voice sounding oddly prim. ‘Sorry – I’m just so . . . Uncle Brian, is there any tea?’ Funny. She never used to drink tea. She’d grown to like it.

‘I’ll make a fresh pot,’ said Uncle Brian, glad, again, to be dealing in practicalities. Tea he was good at. Cleaning up wounds he was good at. Coping with emotional crises he was . . . less good at. ‘And after that you must have a shower and get into some clean clothes. Your mother will have a fit when she sees what’s happened to the stuff you’ve got on. Was it new?’

‘Cost enough,’ muttered Katie, speaking for the
first
time since Midge had arrived. ‘I think if
I
had a pair of Ozarks,’ she said, referring to Midge’s green dungarees, ‘then I’d stay well clear of brambles in them.’

Hullo, thought Midge – what’s
your
problem? But she said, ‘I know. It was stupid.’ She glanced at George who rolled his eyes slightly and pulled down the corners of his mouth.

Later, when she had showered and changed – and rubbed Germolene into as many of her scratches as she could reach – Midge sat on the corner of her bed and wondered what to do next. She didn’t feel much like going back downstairs again, but supposed that she ought to. It was too early to sleep, and she could hardly just sit here until it was dark. She felt cross that Katie and George had been sprung upon her so suddenly. They were a week early. Why hadn’t Uncle Brian told her that they were coming today? Wanted it to be a surprise, probably. Well, she could have done without it – Katie especially. What was the matter with
her
? At least George had been a bit friendly. And helpful.

She looked out of her window and saw the fields, still warm and golden in the early evening sunshine – but tried to avoid looking towards the long dark shadow of the Royal Forest perched on top of the hill over to the left. She would think no more about that today – she had promised herself not to. It was all a dream, just a dream. Better, then, to find some other distraction. She turned her attention to her dirty
clothes
, which lay in a heap on the floor. They were a reminder in themselves, however, of what she had been through, and the act of picking them up inevitably made her think back to the events that had led to their ruin. All a dream, all a dream. She could wash them, at any rate, and maybe they wouldn’t look so bad then.

Then she remembered something else. She searched through her dungarees and drew out the little metal bowl – Henty’s gift – from a side pocket, carrying the object over to the window where the light was better. It was delicately made, finely turned, and the weight of it surprised her. Once again she studied the tiny engravings, the small figures that surrounded the outer rim, trying to make out what they represented, but it was unclear – the surface of the metal was so blackened and tarnished. She would have to polish it up. And that would have to wait – besides, she didn’t want to think any more about the forest. Not today. She put the little bowl on her window-sill, determined to concentrate on normal things, like washing.

Gathering up her battered little bundle of clothes once more, she went downstairs, quietly entering the kitchen to find that Uncle Brian was sitting there alone, reading a magazine. He put it down rather hastily as she entered and she realized that it was a girl’s magazine – Katie’s presumably – with pictures of popstars and makeover tips plastered all over it. She giggled. ‘Uncle
Brian
! You’re such a fashion victim!’

‘Oh dear,’ he laughed, blushing slightly, ‘caught
red-handed
. I’ll never live it down with the darts team. How’re you feeling, old thing? Any better?’

‘Much. I’m just going to put these things in the washing machine. My trainers had better go in as well. Where’s George,’ she said, looking around, ‘and Katie?’

‘Oh, just having a wander round I think. Um, Midge, are you sure you’re OK? You’re looking rather pale, you know. I’m a bit worried about you, to tell you the truth. You’ve been really shaken up. Should we get someone to have a look at those scratches, and maybe give you a bit of a check up . . .wouldn’t do any harm, I mean . . .’