Celandine (38 page)

The grass was wet with night-dew and her stockinged feet were instantly soaked. No matter. She had suffered worse. A few more moments to gather her courage, then she leaned against the cool metal of the gate and half-whistled, very softly.

‘
Whit-whit-whit
. Cribb! Come, boy. Jude! Come, boy.
Whit-whit
.’ Her voice was barely a whisper in the still night air, but immediately she heard the scrabble of claws on cobbled stone, and the two great lurchers appeared beside the corner of the open barn to her left – first Cribb, then Jude. They stood close together, heads low, searching the shadows for the direction of the sound. Then they spotted her, and seemed to grow larger in response to the unknown threat. Huge they were, as big as wolves and easily as powerful, hackles raised, ready to defend their own against all comers. The air crackled with Cribb’s deep growl.

‘Good lad.
Goood
lad.’ Celandine could feel her nerve going. Don’t bark.
Please
don’t bark.

Cribb lifted his head at her voice, seemed to recognize her. She saw his tail move briefly, just a quick swish back and forth. Jude still crouched low, teeth bared, unconvinced. Twin moons reflected in his eyes – pale yellow discs, blank and sinister.

‘Good boys. Yes. Yes.’ Celandine awkwardly thrust one of the rabbits through the bars of the gate, and both dogs stiffened at the sudden movement. Cribb took a step backwards, unsure, before stretching his
head
forward and sniffing curiously. Jude never flinched, never blinked. His muzzle remained fixed in a silent snarl.

Celandine swung the rabbit towards the dogs and let go. The limp carcass landed with a soft thump on the cobbles. Again Cribb stepped backwards – then another brief wag of the tail, and he approached the rabbit, sniffing at it, turning it over with his nose.

Still no reaction from Jude.

‘There’s a good boy. Good Jude. Good Jude.’ Celandine threw the second rabbit. Jude didn’t even glance at it. He was waiting for her, she felt, daring her to actually enter his territory.

So be it then. She hesitantly stood on the first bar of the gate, clutching her empty bag, never taking her eyes off Jude. Another step up, a huge effort of nerve, and she was able to get a leg over the top bar. This would be the moment, if it was going to happen. Celandine imagined the great beast launching himself at her throat, and the terror of it made her swallow. What was she
doing
? There was a horrible crunch of powerful teeth on bone. Cribb was gnawing at the rabbit. Jude turned his head momentarily to look at his brother. When he faced her once more, the moon had gone out of his eyes, and his fangs were no longer bared. The spell was broken. Now his gaze was simply cold. A grudging permission seemed to have been granted.

She climbed cautiously down from the gate. Again the muzzle of Jude wrinkled into a brief half-snarl, a warning that she had better keep well clear of him if
she
knew what was good for her. Celandine sidled past the two dogs and tiptoed across the yard. She glanced over her shoulder as she climbed the two steps that led up to the front path of the farmhouse. Cribb was lying down now, tackling his unexpected meal in grisly earnest. Jude was still looking at her, a motionless shadow in the pale night, his own rabbit lying untouched upon the cold cobbles.

The scullery door was unlocked, as she had guessed it would be. How strange it was to breathe once again that familiar atmosphere – of woodash, and washing soda, and piles of wet linen. It must be Monday, then, she supposed.

A little light filtered in through the unshuttered windows, but she could have found her way through the house blindfold. Everything would be as it had always been. She knew which door would squeak, which stair would creak, and where each member of the household would be at this hour. Celandine cautiously opened the door to the kitchen, feeling the immediate warmth of the big iron cooking range, banked up for the night. All quiet. Good. Before passing through the shadowy kitchen, she took a paring knife from the cutlery drawer, a half-used bar of carbolic soap from the draining board and a gardening trowel that had unaccountably been left on the window sill. Useful things. Celandine put them into her canvas bag.

In the hallway beyond she stopped for a few moments and listened. The dark staircase rose up steeply in front of her – a threatening obstacle, full of
hidden
creaks and groans, ready to give her away if she should put a foot wrong. There was a smell of oilskins and muddy boots. Celandine took a hairbrush from the hall dresser, put it in her bag, and gingerly began to climb. One step at a time. Gently . . . gently . . .

At the top of the stairs she let out her breath and listened once again. Thos’s snoring was like the scrape of a barn door being pulled to and fro, rattling through the whole of the upper floor. So loud! Celandine blessed him for it, and crept along the corridor – keeping close to the wall, where the floorboards were less likely to creak.

Freddie’s room. This would be the test, and she had tried to prepare herself for it. Here she had imagined that she might collapse in hopeless sobs, unable to bear the thought that Freddie would never open this door again. The books and the fishing tackle, the birds’ eggs and the butterflies, the scuffed cricket ball – all his treasures – all would remain in here for evermore, unloved and untouched.

There turned out to be little time to dwell on such things. Standing in the open doorway and gazing into the moonlit room, Celandine became aware that the house was suddenly very quiet. Thos’s snoring had ceased.

Had he woken up? Might he now be lighting his candle and pulling on his boots, some instinct telling him that there was an intruder present?

Hurry, then. She stepped into Freddie’s room and quietly removed several of the books from the shelf. Put them in the bag. Hurry. Hurry. What else? A few
items
of fishing tackle. Don’t stop to choose. Just put them in the bag. The cricket ball? No. Penknife? Yes. Put it in the bag.

Outside on the landing all was still quiet. There was a clothes chest next to Freddie’s door, and from here she had intended to take a few articles. But what if Thos suddenly appeared? Or her father? Ignore the thought. She hadn’t braved this journey to simply turn around and run straight back again.

The lid of the clothes chest was heavy, but it was soundless on its hinges. Difficult to see exactly what was in there. Freddie’s old canvas fishing boots she found easily enough, and after that she just grabbed at whatever items of clothing came to hand. Her bag was filling up.

Celandine quickly lowered the lid, and then regretted her haste. The thing slipped from her nervous fingers at the last second, and banged shut with a noise like a cannon-shot. No! She hoisted her bag and hurried to the top of the stairs. The whole household must have heard it – they
must
have done.

Her hand was slippery with perspiration as she gripped the banister. Wait. Just
wait
for a second. She listened for the inevitable heavy footsteps, the opening of bedroom doors . . . There! What was that? A low grumble of sound from the end room . . .

It was only Thos, snoring again.

Celandine crept down the stairs, shaking with relief.

From the parlour she took a pair of nutcrackers – still lying on a bed of empty shells, in a bowl that might have been there since Christmas – and from the sitting
room
a big ball of wool and two knitting needles. What else? The schoolroom.

She found an unopened box of chalks, some pencils, and a couple of exercise books. There was very little space left in the bag now, but she hadn’t quite finished yet. She opened the big cupboard in the corner of the schoolroom, and took out her old workbasket. The hated sampler that she had laboured over for so long was neatly folded on top, some of the spidery lettering just readable in the blue-grey light;
I Shall Not Want
. Celandine tossed the thing aside and delved further into the basket, drawing out the heavy dressmaking scissors that had played such a large part in all her troubles. She had another use for them now.

A packet of needles, a few skeins of thread, and her task was complete. There was nothing else she could think of that was both useful and easily portable.

Back through the ground floor of the house she tiptoed, lingering a little when she came once again to the sitting room – grateful for the warmth of the rug on the soles of her damp feet.

Before leaving the kitchen and making for the scullery, she decided to press her luck just a little further. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for – a piece of Cook’s lardy-cake, sitting on a plate in the pantry. Enough to fill the last corner of her bag. Good.

Once she had silently closed the outer door of the scullery, she felt her shoulders sag with relief. The night air calmed her, and she took a deep breath. She had succeeded. All she had to do now was cross the
yard,
clamber over the gate into the paddock, and she would be safe.

At the top of the steps by the balustrade wall, she took a quick look up and down the yard – and her heart gave such a jump that she almost choked. A tiny figure was wandering across the cobbles, clearly visible in the moonlight, wringing his hands as he looked uncertainly around him.
Fin?
No! This
couldn’t
be. Her elbow bumped against one of the wall pillars as she momentarily lost her balance. What on earth was he doing here? He must have followed her after all – or somehow found his way. And now he was fooling about in the stable-yard, threatening to ruin everything, totally exposed to every danger . . .

The dogs! Where were the dogs? Celandine opened her mouth to hiss out a warning, but could make no sound – because now it was too late. She had spotted them. From the darkness of the open-sided barn they came, creeping low among the shadows, silently inching forward as Fin drew level with them. He was whispering to himself, completely oblivious to the peril he was in.

The twin lurchers crouched shoulder to bristling shoulder, teeth bared, quivering in the anticipation of their moment.

Celandine was unable to move, rigid with anguish. A terrible vision exploded in her head – of the foxhound slaughtered by Jude. The horror of it knotted up her tongue and her throat, and every bit of her. She could only stand and gape, helpless to prevent what would happen.

A great rumbling growl from Cribb, and Fin turned his head – saw them at last – such monsters as he could never have imagined. His pitiful little frame was dwarfed in their combined shadow. Cribb’s final shattering snarl echoed around the cobblestoned yard as the two dogs stepped straight in for the kill, ferocious, unstoppable . . .

‘
Hschhhhhhhhhhhh!!
’

Fin put his finger to his lips and thrust his head towards the gaping jaws that were about to tear him apart. He hissed like an angry swan into the very faces of his attackers, sweeping his raised forefinger from one to the other. The noise was so piercing and unexpected that both dogs sprang backwards in alarm. They staggered clumsily against one another, a tangle of astonishment, unable to retreat quickly enough. Jude gave a loud yelp – a thing that he had never done in his life – and the shock of it dragged Celandine back to her senses.

She lugged her heavy bag down the steps, stumbled across the cobbles, and prayed that Fin’s amazing reaction would hold the lurchers at bay a little longer. She made straight for the big gate, heaved her bag up as high as she could and somehow shoved it over the top. Then she ran back to grab Fin. The dogs had recovered a little, and now Cribb had begun to bark in earnest. But still the pair of them clung hesitantly together, skittering this way and that – and every time they came too close, Fin sent them into a whining retreat with his miraculous hissing finger trick.

A light flickered in an upstairs window of the
farmhouse
and there was the rattle and curse of someone struggling with the sash. Thos? The dogs looked up hopefully, distracted for a second, and Celandine grasped Fin by the collar. She yanked him over to the gate, and tumbled him through one of the lower bars. Then she squeezed between the narrow gap – it was quicker than climbing over – and picked up her bag.

‘
I
all right!
I
all right! Ah-ah-ah . . .’ Fin was jabbering away, but Celandine had no time for his nonsense. With one hand on his collar and the other gripping the handles of her bag, she hurried him as fast as she could into the safety of the beckoning shadows.

A loud voice shouted, ‘Cribb! Come by! Jude! Come by!’ Thos had apparently managed to get the window open, and was bringing the dogs to where he could see them. That probably meant that he had a gun. ‘Cribb! Jude!’ The barking ceased. Celandine struggled on through the darkness, panting with fear, desperately hoping that she could not be seen.

Ba-dooom!
The shotgun blasted out, and even as she instinctively ducked, Celandine recognized the sound. It was the four-ten, not the twelve-bore. Good. She was already out of range.

‘You keep out o’ my yard – you hear me? Ruddy gyppos.’ Thos’s angry voice, fading into the distance.

Celandine kept going, furiously dragging Fin along by the greasy scruff of his jerkin until they reached the sheep-gate at the foot of Howard’s Hill. Her feet were scratched and sore from trampling through the thistles, and it was only at this point that
she
realized that she had left her shoes behind. They were still beside the gatepost where she had taken them off. Well, she didn’t really need them any more, and she was certainly not going to go back for them now. Would she ever go back again, she wondered?

Fin clambered up onto the stone wall beside the sheep-gate. He seemed happy enough, and already had either forgiven or forgotten her rough treatment of him. Together they looked back towards the distant huddle of farm buildings, silent now, and dark once more.

Celandine shivered, and was suddenly grateful that Fin was there. For all that he had caused her nothing but trouble, this would be a lonely moment without him.