Hills End Page 14

  A faint touch of colour was coming back to Butch’s cheeks and his flesh was less clammy. Paul realized that if Butch had developed any infection in his lungs probably the first symptom would be heavy or harsh breathing. That even happened with an ordinary cold, so he pressed an ear to Butch’s chest and listened hard. There seemed to be no rattles or gurgling or wheezing. In fact, Butch seemed to be breathing easily and his heart was pumping firmly like a good diesel engine.

  Paul looked up and the others were there.

  ‘Well?’ said Adrian.

  ‘I reckon he’s all right,’ said Paul. ‘He might have been unconscious when we dragged him here, but do you know what? I’d say he was asleep now, nothing worse than that.’

  ‘We’d better wake him up,’ said Frances. ‘He might be able to tell us about Miss Godwin.’

  For some reason or other that made Paul a little frightened. ‘I don’t know about waking him up,’ he said. ‘I think we ought to wait until he wakes up himself.’

  ‘Good oh,’ said Harvey. ‘Let’s have some stew, eh?’

  Paul said, ‘How did the wash go?’

  ‘It was wet,’ said Adrian, ‘if that’s what you mean, but we got the honey off, even if most of it is on the towels. The lemonade turned a horrible colour. A real, dirty grey. Even Harvey wouldn’t drink it.’

  ‘Better have your stew,’ said Paul, ‘while I open a few tins of fruit. You’d better be book-keeper, Maisie. Keep a check on everything we take.’

  They turned the lights low at nine fifteen and outside water was still spilling from the spoutings. They couldn’t hear the rain, so probably it was a steady drizzle but not heavy enough to be audible on the roof. All snuggled into their blankets except Adrian. He sat in a chair, wrapped in his blanket, on watch.

  The air had turned very cold, and there was no form of heating in the shop—no fireplace, no stove—nothing except a brand-new kerosene radiator on one of the shelves. None of them had used one before and Frances had refused to permit anyone to light it. She said they would have to practise on it first out in the open air, where there was no danger of fire.

  Adrian sat in his chair, conscious of the deepening silence now that the last voice was stilled, aware of the strange shadows and the pale glimmer from the lamps, slowly realizing that all had drifted into sleep except himself.

  He was very, very tired, and had to fight against himself to keep his eyes open, but as it became harder to remain awake his hearing became more and more sensitive. He could hear an owl, mournfully hooting, and somewhere a dog would howl for a minute or two and then lapse again into silence. Every now and again there was another sound, a scratching sound, and he started thinking of rats.

  That startled him back to consciousness, to a giddiness and a sense of sickness, and he peered nervously at his watch. Its dim face told him that it was twenty minutes to ten. He still had two hours and thirty-five minutes to go before he could rouse Paul. That period seemed to stretch ahead of him towards eternity.

  He wondered then whose dog it was that he could hear, but it was a long way off, near Rickard’s place by the sound of it. That sent his thoughts out beyond the limits of this cold, dark room, out over the hillside and down to the river, out over all that destruction lying swamped beneath this blanket of night. Perhaps they would walk out in the morning and find everything as it used to be—the smoke from the kitchen fires, the engine beating at the mill, voices eddying on the air, cockerels crowing, and Rickard’s horse clip-clopping home after the milk round. Perhaps that peaceful picture was not the dream; perhaps the terror so recently behind them was only a nightmare. But no, that wash he had taken in lemonade had been real enough, because he could feel his skin tightening as though it were shrinking. He had exchanged one stickiness—that of honey for another. The beastly lemonade was drying out like glue.

  Then something drew his eyes. His heart leapt because the movement frightened him. It was hard to see anything distinctly in this gloom and his peace of mind was unsettled by his fear of rats. The movement had been amongst the sleeping bodies and he realized he didn’t have a weapon, not even a broomstick or an axe-handle, and certainly not the rifle. That was odd. He couldn’t remember seeing the rifle again, not since Paul’s return with Harvey.

  Crumbs! Where had Paul put the rifle?

  How silly could you get? The first thought had been better—a broomstick or an axe-handle. He couldn’t use a rifle in here. He’d kill someone.

  Adrian was wide awake now, cold, and so alert that he trembled. Slowly he peeled his blanket off and eased himself out of the chair to his feet, trying to place the position of the axe-handles in his mind, but afraid to take his eyes away from the spot where the movement had been. He knew his gaze had not wavered an inch one way or the other and suddenly he saw the movement again. In the gloom it was like the throat of a swan. It was a hand, a raised arm.

  Adrian grunted with relief and lowered himself back into his chair, with his nerves so jumpy that he started panting. He pulled the blanket round his shoulders again, and again suddenly, again sharply, the hand moved and someone groaned.

  Adrian sat up rigidly, knowing that nothing could hurt him, but disturbed as he so often was by the powers of his imagination. It was just that he was the oldest person here. At thirteen years and ten months he was older than any person alive in Hills End, as far as they knew, and so he was supposed to be the bravest. That somewhere or other there might have been a dead person only made it worse. That there wasn’t a single grown-up to lean on wasn’t half the fun that he once thought it might be. Not now. Not in the middle of the night. Not with these vast mountains outside rolling farther and farther into the blackness, for scores and scores of miles, without a township or a house or a hut or a single living man. There was nothing out there except a dog howling, an owl hooting, and dense forest devastated by a cyclone. But perhaps his father was coming. Perhaps all the men were coming, fighting through the bush towards this group of frightened children, perhaps struggling along the road, or even preparing to drop by parachute from an aeroplane in the morning. Surely nothing could be serious enough to stop the men from coming?

  Somehow Adrian wasn’t sure. Somehow, a powerful doubt had injected into him a sense of gloom and isolation that hourly had grown stronger, despite the arguments that they had thought up to dismiss those fears. This misery of his was too deep-seated to be beaten by a few brave words of cheer.

  He jolted again from his thoughts to an acute awareness of his surroundings. The moving arm had become the head and shoulders of a person sitting up. It was Butch.

  Adrian lurched from his chair, stumbled from his blanket, and hurried to the fat boy, taking the dim lamp with him. This was why he had had to sit on watch. It was for Butch that they had decided that one person must always be awake.

  Butch’s eyes were open and he was breathing heavily. His expression was not vacant or afraid, but puzzled. He was peering into the gloom, at the sleeping figures around him, and then at Adrian.

  ‘Hi,’ he said thickly. ‘How’d I get here?’

  Adrian dropped beside him. ‘We brought you, Butch. Are you all right?’

  ‘Me feet are awful sore.’

  ‘But you are all right?’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  Adrian grinned in relief. ‘They always say there’s not too much wrong with a person if he’s hungry.’

  Butch was almost still except for a slow swaying of his shoulders. Adrian could see that the boy was trying to think. His brow was puckering and his mouth was twisting to one side.

  ‘What’s wrong, Butch?’

  Butch bit his fingers. ‘Adrian,’ he mumbled, ‘didn’t…wasn’t…Miss Godwin was with me, wasn’t she?’

  ‘No.’

  Two big tears squeezed from Butch’s eyes. ‘Oh crikey, Adrian!’

  ‘Where did you leave her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think. I thought we was together…’

  ‘Was she hurt?’ />
  Butch shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But why wasn’t she with me? Where did she go?’

  ‘Which way did you come?’

  Butch bit his fingers again and ran his nails across his lips. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘In Matheson’s shop.’

  He suddenly burst out, ‘Where’s me mum and dad?’

  Harvey stirred and Adrian put his fingers to his lips. ‘Sh! Don’t let’s wake the others. Let’s sort this out together.’

  As soon as he had said it Adrian wondered why he wanted to sort it out without the help of the others. Perhaps it was because Paul had saved Harvey from the bull, when Adrian still knew that he should have done it himself.

  ‘Where’s everybody?’ stammered Butch. ‘You’ve got to tell me.’

  ‘They’re not home yet.’

  ‘But—what day is it?’

  ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock, Sunday night. The road’s gone, Butch. The bridge is probably down. They haven’t been able to get through. They’ll all be here in the morning; don’t you worry…Try to remember how you got here. We found you in the main street just below my place.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Tobias?’

  Adrian didn’t know what to say. He was even beginning to get a little desperate himself.

  ‘We don’t know much yet, Butch,’ he said. ‘We didn’t get back ourselves until nearly dark. Mr Tobias might even be out looking for us…Remember, Butch. Think back. Which way did you come?’

  ‘We tried to come a dozen ways.’ It was obvious that Butch wasn’t too sure of anything. ‘We might have made it once or twice over tough spots, but Miss Godwin was too tired. We had to keep lookin’ for an easy way. Somehow, somehow I think we must’ve come over the top and down the old log trail, ’cos we could see the town. Often we could see the town, all broken, all bleedin’ and broken. I know we was together, ’cos I had a good howl and Miss Godwin put her arm round me. We could see her house, too, with the roof all busted and the walls down. We must’ve come down the old log trail.’

  ‘But you don’t know where you lost her?’

  Butch sobbed a little. ‘I didn’t know I’d lost her. I thought we were together all the way.’

  ‘You hungry still?’

  Butch nodded and Adrian went to the confectionery shelf and took two blocks of chocolate.

  ‘Wrap yourself round these, Butch,’ he said, ‘and then go back to sleep. Everything’s all right.’

  ‘Can I have both blocks? Two whole blocks of chocolate for me?’

  Adrian smiled and felt very generous and kindly and noble. ‘Both for you, and in the morning you can have anything you like to eat…Good night, Butch.’

  The fat boy squinted at Adrian. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Well, what are you puttin’ the coat on for? What are you doin’ with the lamp?’

  ‘I forgot to leave the billy out for the milk.’

  ‘Oh.’ Butch nodded slowly, and unwrapped his chocolate and for the moment was content.

  He slowly ate his way through his two blocks, savouring the smoothness to the last swallow. The flavour didn’t mean much to Butch because his sense of taste responded only to extremes, but there was something about chocolate that was very, very nice. It seemed to warm him right out to the tips of his poor, stinging toes. It did occur to him that Adrian had been gone a long time, but Butch was too worn out, too weary, too sad, to do anything much except drift back into sleep.

  Adrian didn’t feel brave, but he wasn’t old enough to understand that a person did not have to be without fear to be brave. He thought brave men weren’t afraid of anything, and that they were heroes because nothing frightened them. He didn’t understand that men became heroes because they fought against their fears and managed to do things that they had thought they couldn’t do.

  Adrian searched for the rifle and was heavy at heart when he realized it was not to be found. He could have wakened Paul, but that would have given everything away. He wanted to get out into the dark, onto the old log trail, and find Miss Godwin while the others slept. Adrian’s conscience was troubling him. This would not have happened to Miss Godwin if he hadn’t lied about the caves. Perhaps the lie had led them all to an exciting discovery, but nothing could alter the fact that Adrian’s lie was responsible for everything that had happened to them. But for that lie all would have been far away with their parents and families. What Miss Godwin’s plight might have been in those different circumstances Adrian didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. She might have been worse off; she might have been killed by the tree that crashed across her house; she might have gone the same unknown way as poor Mr Tobias; but events had taken this particular course because Adrian had lied.

  Adrian was subject to greater extremes of emotion than the rest of his friends. His moments of elation were wilder, his moments of happiness were more delirious, and his moments of guilt or misery were far blacker. Adrian seemed to go through life treading on a tight wire, wobbling from side to side, from one side that was despair to the other side that was sparkling with joy. He never seemed to get his balance between the two.

  He listened carefully at the barricaded window because that fearful bull was still there somewhere. Adrian heard nothing, only the dripping of water, but there was a cold, raw feeling in the air that he had not noticed before.

  He removed the panel quietly, turned his light low, and slid over the sill to the ground. Instantly, his heart missed a beat. That horrid little dog of Harvey’s was baring its teeth not an inch from his ankle. He shuddered and hissed, ‘Go away! Go away!’ and then saw the rifle on the ground in the mud.

  He grabbed at the rifle and the dog didn’t dart for his hand, but jumped back, and Adrian realized that it was briskly wagging its ridiculous tail. Now what was that in aid of? Adrian was trembling all over, actually shaking at the knees with fright, because he wouldn’t have trusted this little hound as far as he could throw it. It was a thoroughly nasty dog and about as trustworthy as a death adder. Was it afraid of the rifle? Or was it, by instinct, ready for the hunt or eager for a frolic?

  Adrian tucked the butt of the rifle under his arm and the dog kept its distance without trace of hostility, continuing to wag its tail, continuing to appear in every way anxious to be on the move. Maybe this dog of Harvey’s was the source of the scratching sound he had heard. Perhaps the little dog had scratched against the door. Perhaps there weren’t any rats at all.

  Adrian shivered and looked up into the blackness towards the old log trail. The rain has ceased, but it had been replaced by a thin mist that turned the glass of his ugly storm lantern into a glowing form that reminded him of old-world Christmas pictures. It was this mist that had sharpened the air. He wondered what it might mean to him. If it were the cloud base sinking deeper and deeper into the valley, it might thicken as he climbed the hill. It might become a dense fog through which he could see nothing, not even the way back.

  He wiped the mud from the rifle and then checked it, ejecting the spent cartridge from the breach and ramming a fresh one home. He engaged the safety catch firmly, but the gun was ready to fire in an instant, and Buzz was watching him curiously, with his head cocked to one side. The gun was a comfort. It really was. It was like a friend with a strong arm.

  Slowly, then, and still not without fear, Adrian made his way along the road, through the maze of debris and rubble, with that strange little dog trotting at his side. Adrian saw nothing of the bull and heard nothing of it, but not for a moment was it out of his mind. So afraid was he that he stumbled along in all but total darkness rather than turn his lantern up. Even when he was out of the township and had begun the climb that would take him past the schoolhouse, he stood still for almost a minute of indecision, not knowing which was the greater danger, to grope in the dark or to turn up the flame.

  He shivered with his fear and peered into the night and heard again the hooting of the distant owl. It was an awful sound, and
he turned the lamp up sharply, panting, glancing round about into the fog, and his teeth started chattering and his legs were almost too weak to support him.

  He realized then, with a shock, that the dog was no longer with him.

  ‘Buzz,’ he cried.

  But the dog didn’t answer. All he heard was a peculiar sound that no dog could ever have made. His fears began to run riot, and because no one was there to hear him he didn’t try to stop the whimper of terror that welled up from within him. He didn’t wait any longer, couldn’t wait any longer. His indecision was gone, but not the way he had hoped.

  Adrian stumbled back down the hill, hating himself, terrified by the images of nameless perils that he knew he was creating in his own mind.

  Paul sat up suddenly.

  It was a strange feeling, though it had happened to him once or twice before—once at Christmas when someone had entered his bedroom, and another time when Gussie had been ill at night and no one else had heard her call.

  Wide awake. As alert as though he had not slept at all, and he saw the light in the window opening.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he whispered fiercely.

  Adrian came round the front of the counter walking unsteadily, carrying the rifle, and breathing so heavily that Paul could hear him.

  Paul wriggled out of his sleeping bag and quickly stepped over the sleeping figures round him, for some reason deeply anxious to get to Adrian as soon as he could.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Adrian slumped into his chair and dropped his rifle. ‘That rotten bull.’

  Paul gasped. ‘You haven’t been outside?’

  Adrian looked washed out, but his sigh expressed more than exhaustion. ‘Yeah, I’ve been outside. Butch…’

  ‘What about Butch?’

  Adrian told him.