The Piper (11 page)

‘Who were those children?’ asked Daisy at last.

‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. He kept thinking about the dream, that hideous white face bobbing up out of the water. And he had a horrible feeling that the two things were connected in some way that he couldn’t yet see.

‘I don’t like it here,’ said Daisy. ‘I want to go home.’

‘We can’t,’ Peter told her. ‘I know it’s hard, but we have to try and make the best of it. A new place always seems strange, but …’

‘But it’s not new any more,’ said Daisy. ‘We’ve been here for ages. And we still haven’t sent that postcard home. Mummy will be worried.’

‘I know. I keep asking about it. Mrs B says we’ll be going to Hythe soon and I can post it then. But she’s always putting it off.’

‘I wish we could just post ourselves,’ said Daisy.

Peter smiled. ‘Wouldn’t that be a whiz?’ he said. ‘But it’ll be all right. You’ll soon—’ He broke off. He’d been about to tell her that they’d soon get used to the Grange, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say such a thing about this odd house. There were secrets here, he thought, secrets that might be better left as secrets. But at the same time, he knew he’d do everything he could to find them out.

‘Peter?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think that Mummy and Daddy are all right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course they are.’

‘And do you think we’ll ever see them again?’

‘Of course we will. It won’t be long, you’ll see.’

‘And Peter, do you think …?’ Her voice trailed away and her breathing settled into a slow, regular rhythm. But even so, he stayed where he was for a good half hour, wanting to be sure she wouldn’t wake again, before he finally got out of bed and gathered up his candle.

He took a last look at Daisy. She was sleeping with Tillie clutched tight to her chest. The doll’s face smiled out at Peter and he couldn’t help but feel there was a triumphant expression in those green eyes. He told himself not to be silly. It was just a doll. He turned away, went to the door and made his way back up the stairs to his own room.

When they went down to breakfast the following morning, Mrs Beesley was in her usual place at the cooking range, but this morning she was stirring a big pan of lumpy grey porridge. Peter and Daisy took their places at the table and Peter studied the woman’s back as she worked. He was determined to talk to her about what was going on here, but he waited until she came over to the table and set two large bowls down in front of them.

Daisy gazed down into her bowl without enthusiasm. She looked ill this morning, Peter thought, pale and drawn, her eyes ringed with grey. ‘What’s this?’ she muttered.

‘It’s porridge!’ exclaimed Mrs Beesley, exasperated. ‘You must ’ave had porridge before, surely?’

‘Not this colour,’ said Daisy glumly. ‘Mummy makes our porridge with evaporated milk.’

‘Does she now?’ Mrs Beesley slid a large pot of fruit jam across the table. ‘Shove a blob of that in it,’ she suggested. ‘It’ll set you up a treat. You look like you could do with a good feed. Too finicky by half, you are.’ She looked at Peter accusingly, as though daring him to complain, so he spooned a large helping of grey mush into his mouth and gulped it down. It tasted every bit as unappetising as it looked.

‘You’ll be wanting tea, I expect,’ said Mrs Beesley and she started back towards the range.

‘Who are the girls?’ asked Peter, and she stopped in her tracks, but she didn’t turn her head to look at him when she replied.

‘What girls?’ she asked, and she continued on her way to the range.

‘The ones who were in the garden last night,’ he said, and took another spoonful of porridge.

‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,’ she told him as she busied herself with the teapot.

Peter wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Daisy told you about them days ago,’ he said. ‘She saw them the first night we stayed here. Don’t you remember?’

Mrs Beesley’s large shoulders shrugged. ‘I remember she said somethin’ daft but I don’t exactly recall what it was.’

‘She told you she’d seen girls dancing in the garden. I didn’t believe her then, but last night I saw them too. They were out on the lawn. It must have been gone midnight.’

‘I think somebody’s been ’aving a dream,’ said Mrs Beesley.

‘We weren’t dreaming,’ said Daisy. ‘The music woke me up, so I got out of bed to look. And then Peter came down and he saw them too. There were three of them.’

Now Mrs Beesley came back to the table, carrying the teapot.

‘Children from Hythe, I expect. Larking about. You know what youngsters are like these days. No respect for nothin’. A good hidin’ is what they need.’

Peter shook his head. ‘They weren’t larking about,’ he insisted. ‘They were
dancing
. A man with a flute was playing music for them, the same music I’ve heard every night since I’ve been here.’

‘Music? Oh, that’ll be the band in the village,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘They often rehearse late into the night …’

Peter shook his head. ‘I know that’s what you tell Sally, but I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Where is this village, anyway? I thought there was nothing for miles.’

Now Mrs Beesley looked cross. ‘How dare you question me?’ she said. ‘I won’t be challenged in my own house.’

‘But the—’

‘Enough, I say!’ She slammed her hand down on the table top, hard enough to make Daisy drop her spoon. ‘You two want to be grateful that Mr Sheldon has taken you in and he’s feeding you and giving you a place to stay. And is this how you repay him? Coming up with these fanciful notions the whole time? Complaining about the food and making up daft stories … Well, I won’t stand for it, do you hear? In my day, children were seen and not heard. Now be quiet and eat your breakfast.’

Peter continued to spoon porridge into his mouth, but Daisy’s eyes filled with tears and her shoulders began to shake.

‘Oh, now come along, there’s no need for that,’ said Mrs Beesley, suddenly all contrite. ‘No need at all. I … I didn’t mean to shout, honest I didn’t.’ She forced an unconvincing smile. ‘Peter, you’ve got that postcard all ready for your mother, haven’t you?’

He nodded suspiciously.

‘Good. Because you and Adam are going out on the Marsh today, and after you’ve seen to the sheep and all that, he’ll take you into Hythe, to the post office there and you’ll be able to send it off to her. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

Peter nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Well, that’s all settled then. I’ll make up some bait for the two of you and you can make a day of it. And Daisy and Miss Sally can have a lovely day all to themselves talkin’ about whatever takes their fancy.’ She went round to Daisy and used her pinafore to wipe the girl’s tears away. ‘Such a fuss over nothing,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to shout, honest I didn’t. I tell you what, Daisy, would you like something else instead of the porridge? Hmm? How about a nice slice of buttered bread? Would you like that?’

Daisy nodded and Mrs Beesley looked at Peter. ‘You too, Peter. Bread?’

‘All right,’ he said. He couldn’t help but feel suspicious, it wasn’t like her to be so accommodating. He watched as she scurried back to the range to prepare the food, but he wasn’t fooled by her good humour, not for one moment. She knew more than she was letting on and all this bluster was just her attempt to sweep things under the carpet. But, he told himself, Adam knew something too, and if the two of them were going to spend the day together, without the threat of Mrs Beesley turning up at any moment, then maybe he might find some answers to his questions.

Half an hour later, Peter and Adam set off across the Marsh, each of them carrying a knapsack across their shoulder with their ‘bait’ inside. They walked down the drive and out through the stone gateposts. Peter glanced back, hoping that Daisy would be all right. He couldn’t help feeling that spending so much time with Sally was having an effect on Daisy, making her moody, quite unlike her usual self. But, he told himself, nothing bad was going to happen in the daylight.

Adam ignored the road, which stretched directly ahead of them, and instead angled right, where a dirt track led away across the land, unreeling like a length of brown ribbon for as far as the eye could see. The weather was pleasant enough, some hazy sunshine peeping through occasional clouds. There was no other sign of life around here. Peter could only assume that the sheep he’d heard so much about were a long way off, but he was glad to be getting away from the dark, shadowy confines of the Grange.

After walking for fifteen minutes or so, Peter became aware of something off to his left – a long line of trees and bushes running in a straight line across the land, more or less parallel to the track he was walking on. It was so unusual to see trees here, he couldn’t help remarking on it. He also thought he noticed the shimmer of water, reflecting in the sunlight and he was reminded again of the nightmare he’d been having since he arrived here. ‘What’s over there?’ he asked. ‘A river?’

Adam barely looked up from the way ahead. He seemed preoccupied today, lost in his own thoughts. He grunted. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘It’s just Lord Pitt’s Ditch.’ He paused, then shook his head. ‘That’s what folks call it in these parts, but it’s properly called the Royal Military Canal. Sounds grand, dunnit? But a right useless thing it is. T’was dug hundreds of years ago and cost thousands and thousands of pounds, but it’s never been no use to man nor beast.’

‘There’s somebody over there,’ said Peter, pointing. ‘Look.’

A man was standing near the edge of the water. He seemed to be studying it through a pair of binoculars. Then he glanced up, noticed Peter and Adam and waved a hand at them.

‘Oh Lord ’elp us,’ muttered Adam. ‘It’s Professor Know-All!’

The man was approaching them now, walking briskly. As he moved closer, Peter saw that he was an elderly fellow, dressed in a tweed jacket and plus-fours, with long plaid socks sticking up from heavy walking boots. He had a shapeless tweed hat crammed down onto his head and the few wisps of hair that stuck out from it were silvery-grey.

‘That can’t be his name,’ reasoned Peter, under his breath.

‘May as well be,’ muttered Adam. ‘Professor Lowell is his real name. Local historian. Thinks he knows more about this place than those of us who’ve lived here all our blessed lives.’ There was bitter resentment in his voice. ‘A right busybody, he is. Don’t let him get you talking, we’ll be ’ere all day.’

‘Hello there, Adam,’ called the professor, as he came up to them. ‘Lovely day for it, what? Going out to tend your flock, I suppose?’

Adam nodded sullenly, but didn’t reply.

‘And who have we here? Bit of a new face, I think.’ The professor had a hearty, cultured voice, which Peter recognised instantly. He’d heard it a week ago, when he’d been hiding under a blanket with Daisy in the back of Adam’s cart. This was the man whom Mrs Beesley had lied to, when she claimed not to have seen any evacuees.

‘This ’ere is Peter,’ grunted Adam, with evident reluctance to speak. ‘He’s staying with us at the Grange for a bit.’

‘Is that so?’ The professor reached out and shook Peter’s hand vigorously. Up close, he looked a hundred years old, his face lined and weather-beaten from exposure to the elements. ‘You’re a relative of the family, are you?’

‘No, sir,’ said Peter. ‘I’m an evacuee,’ he added, and was aware of Adam letting out a frustrated sigh beside him.

‘Is that right?’ The professor shot an accusing look at Adam, but didn’t pursue the matter any further. ‘So, you’re from the Big Smoke, no doubt?’

‘The … Big Smoke, sir?’

‘London, of course! I’m from that part of the world myself. Taught history at King’s College back in the day. Came out here on holiday thirty years ago and fell in love with the place. Never went back! Which particular bit of London do you hail from?’

‘Dagenham, sir.’

‘Ah, splendid, absolutely splendid! The beating heart of industry, eh? Where would our war effort be without Ford Motors? That’s what I’d like to know! So, you’re going to be working with Adam, I suppose. A trainee Looker. Make sure he doesn’t work you too hard. Here.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, which he then pressed into Peter’s hand. ‘There’s a tanner for you, young feller. Make sure you don’t spend it all at once!’

‘Thank you, sir!’ Peter was delighted. A sixpence was big money where he came from. Now the professor turned his attention to Adam. ‘Heard the latest about the canal?’ he asked.

Adam shook his head. ‘I ain’t ’eard nothin’,’ he said flatly.

‘Seems the Army have their eye on it. Had a team of engineers down here only yesterday, carrying out a survey. Turns out they’re planning to put concrete pillboxes all the way along it. Machine gun emplacements, I shouldn’t wonder! They must have decided that what was built to keep out one dictator could work just as effectively with our Mr Hitler.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mind you, that’s all hush-hush. Mum’s the word, old boy!’ He returned his attention to Peter. ‘So, lad, how are you finding things at the Grange?’

‘Umm … well …’

‘I expect you’ve met Miss Sally. A proper little bookworm, I seem to remember. Mind you, I haven’t seen her in a very long time.’

‘Well, that would be because she’s ill,’ said Peter.

‘Ill?’ The professor looked puzzled.

‘Yes, sir. Well, she can’t get out of bed. She reads even more, these days – her room is full of books.’

The professor looked quizzically at Adam. ‘Since when has she been bedridden?’ he asked. ‘She certainly seemed fine when I saw her at the spring fair in April. She was running around, chasing the other—’

‘We really should be goin’,’ interrupted Adam, grabbing Peter’s arm and pulling him on along the track. ‘Them sheep won’t look after ’emselves.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, I’ll walk along with you,’ suggested the professor, failing to take the hint. ‘Give me a chance to stretch the old pins, what?’ He fell into step with them and they walked for a while in silence. The professor seemed to be thinking about something. ‘So, what exactly is wrong with Miss Sally?’ he asked.

‘Nobody really knows,’ Peter told him. ‘She has hallucinations. She … sees things … and hears things.’