A Sixpenny Christmas (19 page)

‘Chris, I’m – I’m not used to animals, you know. It’s true there are horses in Liverpool but apart from the one that pulls the milk cart they don’t come into our street much. The milkman’s horse is called Hepzibah and she’s very old. Her teeth are yellow and quite a lot have fallen out, but Mum lets me give her a pat whilst she feeds her sugar or an apple. Mum isn’t afraid; she doesn’t even mind the green dribbly stuff that runs out of the corners of Hep’s mouth when she chews somethin’ good. Could you teach me not to be afraid, Chris? I’d try real hard, honest to God I would. I know you think I’m a coward because when I tried to feed the chickens and they flew at me I dropped the perishin’ bucket and ran indoors. But, you see, the hens we keep in Liverpool can’t fly and they’re in a little wire cage anyhow, so – so I weren’t expectin’ it, that’s all.’ She looked appealingly at Chris, who was continuing with the work of harnessing the pony without appearing to listen to her.

‘Chris?’ Lana could hear the slight tremble in her voice and suddenly a tiny spurt of anger gave her courage. Chris was being horrid, she considered. Her old pal Phil would not have dreamed of snubbing her by simply not replying, so why should Chris be so beastly? But Chris had shoved a hand into his pocket and produced a small red apple which he was holding out towards the pony, and only when Cherry had taken it deftly from his palm did he look round at his companion.

‘Well, if you’ll do exactly as I tell you and try really hard I dare say you might begin to like the animals instead of being afraid of them,’ he said. ‘Nonny’s been trying to help you – she’s a good girl is my little sister – but I’m perfectly willing to give you a few lessons if only you won’t start squeaking and snatching your hand back, which frankly, Lana, is a enough to get you bitten by the most mild-mannered animal. Can’t you understand that? I’ve seen you offer a sugar lump to Guinness, who is the gentlest creature for all his size, and just as his muzzle gets near your hand and he snuffles to smell what you’re offering you go and snatch it back. How would you like it if your mum made you a lovely breakfast and then, when you sat down to start eating, snatched it away?’

Lana giggled. ‘I wouldn’t like it at all,’ she admitted frankly. For the first time, she gave Chris a broad smile. ‘I might even bite me mum’s fingers, even if I didn’t mistake them for carrots!’

Chris laughed. ‘You’re not a bad kid, and I dare say if our roles were reversed and I was staying in your house in the city I’d be scared of all sorts: traffic, trams, crowds of people, that sort of thing. So Nonny and myself will take you in hand, only
do
try not to show you’re afraid. I don’t have a lot of patience, to tell you the truth, and when you flinch if a sheep so much as looks at you . . . well, never mind. We’ll do our best to sort you out. And now go and find out why Nonny’s taking such ages to get the list from Auntie Ellen.’

Chris had no sooner spoken, however, than Nonny came dancing out of the farm kitchen, carrying several empty wicker baskets and the housekeeping purse.
‘Auntie Ellen says since we’re taking the pony and cart we can bring back our pals so’s they can get to know Lana,’ she said happily. ‘She says we can bring two girls and three boys so that it’s even numbers and whilst we’re gone she’ll prepare a picnic lunch.’ By this time Lana and Chris were already in the pony cart, and now Nonny joined them. She turned to Lana. ‘You’ll like our pals, honest to God you will. Last time they came over we dammed the stream; it was grand work for a hot day and Mum and Dad were really pleased with us. You’ve never been on the farm for the gathering or the sheep-washing but Dad’s talked over and over about improving the pool, and another day’s work will make the dam perfect.’ Lana muttered something and Chris turned and gave his sister a reproving glance.

‘You’re an idiot, Nonny; Lana doesn’t know what you’re talking about,’ he pointed out. He turned back to Lana as he guided the pony out of the farmyard and down the driveway towards the lane. ‘There are two or three gatherings every year, when the hill farmers get their sheep into the pens. One is at lambing, another for shearing, and before that the sheep are washed to get rid of maggots and other pests. Some farms have a special dipping bath – we’ve got one ourselves – but it’s nowhere near as good as a proper pool and of course we can wash a fair number of sheep in the river at once, whilst the dipping bath will only hold one at a time.’

‘I see,’ Lana said slowly. ‘But will the sheep come down to the river whilst we’re damming it; and what does damming mean, anyway?’

Chris sighed; it was clear that though he had promised
to help he found her ignorance truly trying. Nonny on the other hand did not seem to mind how often she repeated something, and now settled down to explain to Lana in carefully chosen words.

‘We already have a good pool in the river but it could do with being a bit deeper and a fair bit larger,’ she explained. ‘The whole business of washing the sheep is quite tricky, you see. You push them in at one side of the pool so that they have to splash across to the other, and when the river’s in spate – that means when it’s very very full of water – you could lose some of the weaker ones because they would drown before they reached the further bank. So you see it’s quite a tricky business choosing the right moment. Once we’ve built up the wall of the dam, however – you’ll see what a dam is when we reach the river – Dad will be able to control the flow of the water, then we can limit the depth of the pool and won’t need to lose any sheep.’

Chris grinned triumphantly. ‘There you are, a lesson in hill farming and sheep husbandry rolled into one. Isn’t Nonny clever?’

‘Yes, I gerrit. But what you’re offerin’ your pals is hard work, norra game at all,’ Lana pointed out. ‘Will they come if they know you mean ’em to work?’

This time Nonny answered with a snort. ‘Huh! Playing around with clay, rocks and water isn’t work, it’s one of the grandest games in the world,’ she said. ‘Everyone wears their oldest clothes – the lads will strip down to their underwear, I expect – and when we get back to Cefn Farm your mum will have made a super tea. That’s why we’re getting the messages early. And I’ll guarantee you’ll really enjoy it, because everyone does, especially
on such a hot day. It’s grand to be playing with water and mud when it’s so hot, and as soon as the dam is complete and the pool is deep enough everyone will plunge in and slosh around . . .’

‘Won’t the sheep mind? I shouldn’t think they’ll want us in their nice bathing pool,’ Lana said doubtfully, and tried not to be offended when both Chris and Nonny burst out laughing. ‘You daft girl; the sheep hate being washed and have to be driven down to the river by us and all the dogs, as well as half the neighbourhood,’ Chris said derisively. ‘Oh, Lana O’Mara, you’ve got a lot to learn!’

Chapter Eight

SAM HAD TRULY
intended to make his strike as soon as it grew dusk on the very day he arrived at Cefn Farm, but it had been the first chance he had had to rest and relax since he had started on his search. He had made himself a cosy bed in the dry bracken which half filled the roofed-in part of the ancient cottage, and to his own real surprise he found that he was by no means eager to leave the quiet spot in which he had hidden himself away. He had never been a country boy and had spent his whole working life either at sea or on the docks of Liverpool or other ports around the world. He realised now that he had never known the total peace and quiet which he had just discovered. If he had thought about it he would never have expected to like it, yet he did. He even resented the sounds which occasionally floated up to him as folk called to one another across the farmyard, or started up the engine of the little car, or the very much larger tractor. He began to envy Ellen in a way he had never thought possible. She, he assumed, was being paid to live in what he now considered to be an idyllic spot. When, his revenge complete, he returned to civilisation, he would have to face once more the noise and bustle of the quayside, the cramped and stuffy space in which he hung his hammock and the constant presence of other men; dirty, oily, aggressive men, whose mere presence
after the stillness of the mountains would be repugnant to him.

When he woke on the second day, his belly was rumbling and empty and he knew that, if he was going to continue with his kidnapping plan, he would simply have to have food and something to drink. He had woken as the first faint light of dawn greyed the sky, and now he sat up, scratching thoughtfully – for he had not been the only occupant of his bracken bed – and considered what best to do. His observation of Cefn Farm had led him to believe that out here in the sticks folk rarely shut their doors, let alone locked them. And on the previous day he had seen a number of children carrying, into what he now assumed must be some sort of storeroom, a quantity of what looked very like food. There was a window, half open, through which he would be able to see just what the room contained when he got close enough. Sam knew very little about the country but from various things he had heard he imagined that the long low room might be a dairy. Certainly he had seen buckets of milk carried in there the previous day, and so far as he could make out only some of it had come out again to be poured into the large metal churns which stood on the wooden trestle by the farm gate. That would seem to indicate that he was right and the room really was a dairy, so might well be worth a visit.

Sam stood up and brushed dried bracken out of his clothes. He had shed his duffel coat the night before and decided to leave it where it lay. His trousers had deep pockets and he didn’t mean to steal so much that Ellen and her fancy man might realise they had been robbed. He just wanted enough grub to last him through the day
and possibly enough for him and his victim that night. Having made up his mind, he set off down the hill towards the farmhouse.

A remarkably short time later he was once more ensconced in the ruined cottage, his pockets satisfactorily bulging. He had not needed to force his way in through the window since the dairy also boasted an unlocked door through which he had entered, first removing his boots, knotting their laces and hanging them round his neck. Sneaking in on tiptoe, he had found a long, whitewashed room containing a cold slab upon which were several large pats of butter, a big blue and white striped jug of milk and a bowl so full of eggs that he had no compunction in abstracting half a dozen, since he was sure they would not be missed. There was another door in the dairy which he thought might lead into the house, so he tried it with great caution and was delighted to discover that it was a cupboard containing bottled fruit, jars of jam and three long loaves of home-made bread. The bread was tempting; his mouth watered at the thought of a thick slice of it spread with this wonderful home-made butter and topped off with some of the strawberry jam he saw in a labelled pot. He knew better than to take a cut from the loaf – that really would be noticed – but if he took the whole thing might not Ellen conclude that she had baked one loaf short the previous day? He decided that it was worth giving it a go, and also took a tiny jar of jam, which he supposed must be a make-weight, shuffling the other jars along so that no gap would be apparent. He slipped the loaf into the front of his shirt and pushed the jam into his pocket, using the other pocket for the eggs and the butter. Thus armed
with the makings of a very satisfying breakfast he took one last look around him. He knew eggs could be eaten raw though he did not much fancy the idea, but there were pans hanging on the wall; if he took one of them and cracked the eggs into it, or even put them in still wearing their shells, he could make himself a first rate breakfast and there would be enough left over for dinner and tea as well.

Sam chuckled silently to himself as he slid out through the dairy door. He contemplated leaving it a little ajar, so that they might think a passing tramp had helped himself, then changed his mind. What did it matter, after all? Once he’d snatched the kid, Ellen, at any rate, would guess where the food had gone, might even be grateful that he was feeding that spoilt little madam who was her daughter. Sam padded across the farmyard, keeping close to the buildings. He swore beneath his breath when he stood in a cow pat, but nevertheless he did not replace his boots until he was mounting the hill towards the ruined cottage. It was still extremely early. The sun was not even thinking about rising, so he collected a pile of dry bracken and twigs and started a small fire, relieved to see that there was almost no smoke visible. Then he cracked his eggs into the pan and cooked them over the flame, thankful, not for the first time, that he always carried matches. He rolled his own cigarettes but was husbanding his resources, so though he fingered his tobacco pouch wistfully he made no effort to extract it from his pocket. He would have a cigarette when the child was trussed up somewhere and he was waiting for Ellen to cave in and promise she would get the authorities off his back.

He jiggled the pan and watched the albumen gradually grow cloudy and then white as it met the hot butter. Mouth watering, he produced a clasp knife and the loaf and very soon he was devouring his first food of the day: an enormous fried egg sandwich.

As the sun crept up to shine through a narrow gap in the mountains, Sam, peering carefully from his hide-out, saw that down in the farmyard below the day was beginning. Although it was early it was already very warm and Sam watched as the tall fellow with black curly hair, whom he thought of as Ellen’s fancy man, came out of the farmhouse and headed for the outbuildings.

Sam had watched with considerable interest the sudden influx of children the previous day and their work on the river, and work it certainly was; hard work, too. They had shifted quite big rocks and dug up quantities of clay with which to fix the rocks in place, all of this with much shouting and laughter. The boys had stripped to their underpants and the girls had tucked their skirts into their knickers and all worked with a will. It had made Sam quite tired to see them using so much energy, and as evening came, and then dusk, he had made his way with the utmost caution down to the river hoping to be able to see at close quarters just exactly what those kids had been doing.