The Piper (5 page)

‘Oh, that … that’s just the wind stirrin’ the branches of the trees.’

Peter gazed around at the barren mist-covered wilderness all around him. ‘But there aren’t any trees,’ he said.

Adam didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted the whip and cracked it over Bessie’s head a second time, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. Then Mrs Beesley said something under her breath. She snatched the whip from his hand and brought it down lower so the leather flail snapped against Bessie’s back, causing her to lunge forward with renewed speed.

‘Don’t,’ cried Daisy. ‘You said you wouldn’t hurt her!’

But Mrs Beesley ignored her. She raised the whip again and brought it down with a crack like a rifle shot and now Bessie was almost galloping, the shuddering cart threatening to break itself to pieces on the uneven road. The darkness deepened. The music seemed to grow louder still, as though the two things were somehow linked, the lilting refrain repeating itself over and over, rising above the clattering of the wheels and the pounding of Bessie’s hooves.

‘What
is
that?’ cried Peter; but the two adults were hunched forward in their seats, their gazes intent on the way ahead.

‘There!’ cried Adam, pointing. Rising up from the misty stretch ahead of them was a dark shape. At first it was indistinct, but as they raced nearer, Peter could see that it was the front of a two-storey house with what looked like a thatched roof. Closer still and Peter could discern a dull light in a couple of the ground-floor windows and a slow plume of grey smoke spilling from one of the chimneys. Finally, he was able to pick out the shape of a pair of stone gateposts, some distance in front of the house, at the top of a long drive. The cart rattled through the entrance and went along the drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. They passed through beautifully tended lawns and entered a flagged courtyard. Adam pulled back on the reins, telling Bessie to stop, which she did with evident relief. Her flanks were shiny with sweat and Peter noticed with a hint of disgust that a couple of spots were streaked with red where the whip had caught her.

‘You hurt her!’ cried Daisy again. ‘You said you wouldn’t.’

Adam turned to look at her, his face expressionless, as though he was in some kind of trance. Peter saw that despite the chill of the evening, the man’s ruddy face was shiny with sweat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘We … we couldn’t risk being stuck out there.’

Mrs Beesley gave a dismissive snort and pushed the whip back into Adam’s hands. Then she swung her heavy frame down from the seat. ‘See to the pony,’ she said. ‘And get a grip on yourself.’ She turned back to look at the passengers, that fake smile on her face again. ‘Now, come along, children, let’s get you inside where it’s nice and warm.’

Peter and Daisy clambered down, but as he did so, Peter became aware of the music again, rising and falling from somewhere out on the Marsh. The shrill tones almost seemed to echo. He turned to look back that way, but the mist was so thick now, he couldn’t see more than twenty yards in front of him.

‘What a weird tune,’ he muttered.

‘I like it,’ said Daisy dreamily.

But then Mrs Beesley took each of their arms and pulled them towards the front door of the house. Pushing it open, she led them inside.

The children found themselves in a narrow hallway. On one wall, a large clock was ticking loudly. Through a half-open doorway to their right, Peter could see a large living room, with an inviting coal fire blazing in a cast-iron hearth; and slumped in a chair by the fire sat a grey-haired man, who seemed to be deep in thought as he stared into the dancing flames. A wireless was playing in there, some kind of syrupy dance music, but the man didn’t really seem to be listening to it. Peter half expected to be ushered into the room and introduced to the man, but instead Mrs Beesley beckoned them onwards, along the hall to a tiled kitchen at the back of the house. A black cooking range filled the place with a muggy heat. She indicated a large pine table around which were placed six wooden chairs.

‘Now, you two take your coats off and sit yourselves down,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll find you summat to eat. And you’d like a cup of hot tea, I expect.’ She walked over to a brown Philco battery-powered wireless standing on a small table and switched it on. After a few moments, the sounds of music filled the kitchen, the same programme that had been playing in the other room, Peter decided. ‘I likes a bit of music, don’t you?’ said Mrs Beesley, with that forced jollity in her voice, but she didn’t wait to hear a reply. She hung her coat on a peg on the back of the door and tied a white apron round her stout waist. Then she placed a big, black kettle onto the hotplate of the stove and strode over to a spacious pantry. She went inside and her disembodied voice floated out to them. ‘It’ll only be cold meat and bread, I’m afraid. It’s a little late to start cookin’.’

Peter and Daisy settled themselves at the table. Daisy looked exhausted, Peter thought, and he didn’t feel much better. He watched as Mrs Beesley emerged, carrying a couple of covered plates. She set them down on a worktop, took a sharp knife from a drawer and set to work, slicing thick pieces of ham from a large joint.

‘Who was that man?’ asked Peter.

Mrs Beesley didn’t look up from her work. ‘What man?’ she asked.

‘Sitting in the other room when we came in.’

‘Oh, that’s Mr Sheldon. We shan’t bother him tonight, he’s a little … preoccupied.’

‘What’s “proccypied”?’ whispered Daisy, and Peter could only shrug his shoulders.

‘I’ll introduce you to him tomorrow mornin’,’ continued Mrs Beesley. ‘At breakfast. He’ll want to have a quick word with you, I expect. And you’ll be introduced to Sally, of course.’

‘Sally?’ Peter looked at her blankly.

‘Mr Sheldon’s daughter. She’ll be asleep now. She’s not well, poor thing. She’s better in the daytime.’ She moved over to a large bread bin and took out a crusty loaf. She cut two thick slices and spread them liberally with bright yellow butter. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘That should keep the wolf from the door.’

Daisy looked at Peter, alarmed. ‘There are
wolves
?’ she gasped.

Peter smiled, shook his head. ‘She just means it’ll fill us up,’ he explained. ‘There
are
no wolves in England. Not any more.’

‘Did there used to be?’

‘Oh yes, in the olden times.’

‘Like Red Riding Hood?’

‘Umm … sort of.’

‘And did they eat grandmothers?’

‘No, that’s just a story.’

Mrs Beesley brought over a couple of plates and set them down on the table. ‘Eat hearty,’ she suggested.

They needed no second bidding. They were ravenous. Peter slapped a large slice of ham onto the bread, folded it over and took a huge bite. Daisy followed suit, but ate in her own way, tearing small pieces and popping them daintily into her mouth. As he chewed, Peter gazed around the room, noticing that the only light in here came from a couple of paraffin lamps standing at each end of the room. They gave a dull, yellow glow, quite unlike the electric bulbs they used at home. Through a small, leaded window, he could just make out the pale branches of a tree stirring in the wind. It occurred to him that it was the first real tree he’d seen since they’d got off the train.

Steam began to spill from the kettle and Mrs Beesley filled a teapot. She brought it to the table on a tray with three cups, a large jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. She took one of the empty seats. ‘We’ll just let that steep for a bit,’ she announced. ‘I likes my tea strong. How about you two?’

‘Daisy doesn’t drink tea,’ said Peter, talking with a mouth full of bread and meat. ‘She prefers milk. I like my tea strong with milk and two sugars, please.’

‘Aren’t you nice and polite?’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘It’s a pleasure to hear somebody with proper manners.’ She filled one of the mugs with milk and slid it across the table to Daisy. ‘There you are, my dear. And me and Peter will wait a little bit for ours.’ She studied Peter thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Now, before we go much further, we should talk about the rules of the ’ouse.’

‘Rules?’ said Peter. He took another bite of his bread.

‘Oh, don’t worry, there aren’t many of ’em,’ Mrs Beesley assured him. ‘The main thing is this. Out there …’ She pointed to the window and the swaying branches of the tree. ‘Out there is one of the biggest marshes on God’s earth. I suppose you know what a marsh is?’

Daisy shook her head. ‘Is it a kind of animal?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s not,’ Peter corrected her. ‘A marsh is an area of boggy ground. I read that in the children’s encyclopaedia. Dagenham used to be a marsh, in the olden days. Mr Griffiths told me that. The Thames used to flood from time to time.’

‘Is that right?’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘Well then, Peter, you’ll know that marshes can be treacherous. Out there, there’s all kinds of things … lakes, canals, ponds … even quicksand.’

‘Quicksand?’ Daisy’s eyes got big and round. ‘We saw that in a film once, didn’t we, Peter? A cowboy film. Are there cowboys here?’

Mrs Beesley laughed, shook her head. ‘Bless you, my dear, that’s one thing that’s in very short supply. There’s only shepherds in these parts and even they’re gettin’ pretty thin on the ground. But you mind my words now, a marsh can be a right dangerous place. You might think you can see where water is, but sometimes you can’t. You have to stick to the paths, and if you don’t know where those paths are, well … you could easily come a cropper.’

Peter frowned. ‘Does that mean we can never go out?’

‘I’m not sayin’ that. Adam knows the paths better’n anyone and he’ll most likely take you out in the daytime and show you the safe tracks.’

Peter pushed his empty plate aside. ‘Is that why you were so frightened before? In case the cart ended up in quicksand?’

‘Bless you, child, I wasn’t
frightened
,’ said Mrs Beesley, with an unconvincing laugh. ‘But … yes, that’s what I was worried about. There’s more’n a few carts come to grief over the years. Terrible accidents.’ She eyed the teapot. ‘That tea should be about ready now,’ she said. She lifted the teapot and filled the other two cups, then added a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar to Peter’s. She slid it across the table and he raised it to his lips and sipped at it thankfully.

He remembered something that had temporarily slipped his mind and he pulled the postcard from the coat that was draped over the back of his chair. ‘I need the address,’ he said. ‘So I can tell Mum where we are.’

‘You just hold your ’orses,’ said Mrs Beesley. She reached out and took the card from him. ‘I’ll fill in the address for you when I’ve a spare moment. And you can write a little message tellin’ your mother ’ow you’re gettin’ on. But we won’t be able to post it for a few days, not until we go into the market at Hythe.’ She noticed Peter’s outraged expression. ‘You’re not in Lunnen now,’ she told him. ‘Hythe is a town, it’s where the nearest post office is.’

Peter wasn’t happy at this news. ‘Mum will be worried,’ he said.

‘Not at all. Great big boy like you! I should think your mother has enough to worry about, what with the war comin’ and everything.’ She sighed. ‘It beats me why people can’t just … get along,’ she said. ‘That Mr Hitler, what does he think he’s playin’ at?’

The question hung for a moment but Peter didn’t think he had much of an answer for it. ‘My dad was called up,’ he said at last. ‘He’s gone off to learn to be a soldier.’ An image flashed into his mind: his father’s face when they’d seen him off at the station, pale and drawn, but trying to pretend that everything was fine. He’d smiled at Daisy, a most unconvincing smile, and Peter could tell that he was filled with dread inside. It was very much like the cheerful bluster that Mrs Beesley had attempted when she claimed she hadn’t been frightened out on the Marsh.

Mrs Beesley shook her head. ‘You’d have thought the last one would have put ’em off such notions,’ she said. ‘“The War To End All Wars”, they called it. Didn’t work though, did it? Of course, I was just a young thing when all that started. My father and my brothers all marched off to fight the Hun. Not a single one of ’em come back.’ She realised what she was saying and hastily added, ‘Not that such a thing will happen to your father! They say it’ll all be different this time. No mud, no trenches … a gentlemen’s war, that’s what they say t’will be.’ She noticed that Daisy’s eyelids were drooping. ‘Here, listen to me going on and that little girl is nearly fallin’ asleep where she sits! Finish up that tea, Peter, and the two of you gather your things. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleepin’.

Peter and Daisy followed Mrs Beesley up the creaking wooden staircase. She was carrying an oil lamp, the only source of light. Burdened with their cases and gas masks, it was hard for the children to see where they were going. When they had reached the first floor, Mrs Beesley indicated a closed door near the top of the stairs and lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘That’s Miss Sally’s room,’ she hissed. ‘You’re not to go disturbing her unless you check it’s all right with me first.’ She pointed along the landing to another door. ‘That there’s the throne room,’ she said.

Daisy looked up at her, nonplussed. ‘The what?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know. The … little room, the smallest room in the house …’

‘I think she means the lavatory,’ said Peter.

‘Yes, thank you, Peter.’ Mrs Beesley looked disapproving, as though the very mention of such a word was too much for her. ‘If you have to pay a visit during the night, be as quiet as you can. These old floorboards creak somethin’ terrible.’ She led them onwards. ‘Daisy, you’ll be in this room, right next door to Sally. Hold on a moment while I go in and light the other lamp.’

‘Don’t you have ’lectric here?’ asked Daisy.

‘No, my dear, not yet. It’d cost the electric company far too much to bring it way out here. But Mr Sheldon ’as said, just as soon as it becomes available, we’ll have it installed.’

She went into the room, taking the only source of light with her and the two children had no option but to wait in almost total darkness. Daisy pressed a little closer to her brother. ‘I don’t like this,’ she whispered.