Hills End Read online

  ‘You ought to hear this,’ said Butch’s dad proudly. ‘Young Christopher took on Rickard’s bull, bare-handed.’

  ‘Me, too,’ squeaked Harvey, ‘and Paul. Don’t forget Paul.’

  Ben Fiddler seemed to dig in his toes. He swayed a little, looked from face to face. He seemed to be ageing in front of their eyes.

  ‘Bull?’

  ‘I told you so,’ said Harvey’s father. ‘These kids have had a time.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me anything about a bull, Adrian.’

  Adrian shrugged and dropped his eyes.

  ‘Your son,’ said Mr Mace, ‘was not exactly encouraged to tell us anything.’

  That wasn’t entirely true, but seemed to be the thing to say.

  Big Ben ignored it. ‘Where’s Frances?’

  ‘At Campbell’s house,’ said Paul, ‘looking after Miss Godwin. Mr McLeod has gone on to her. Miss Godwin has taken a little broth.’

  ‘Adrian said she was desperately ill, that she needed a doctor. We’ve sent men back.’

  ‘She is ill,’ snapped Paul, with unusual heat.

  Big Ben glanced at the boy and Mr Mace said, ‘Be patient, Ben. He’s had a shock. He found Frank Tobias, dead.’

  Big Ben ran his hand across his brow and passed through the group in silence, and on into the township, with Adrian once more a few paces behind.

  Awkwardly, a couple at a time, they followed in a straggling procession, the joy of their reunion dampened and their realization of the destruction becoming stronger at every step.

  For a minute or two Ben Fiddler paused at the foot of the terraced hill below his home, and thereafter as he came to each house paused again, until they were standing in the midst of the wreckage of the hall.

  ‘The death of a town,’ he said. ‘Dead.’

  Adrian’s voice was very small. ‘It’s not dead, dad. We’re rebuilding already. We’ve started.’

  Big Ben turned his head slowly over the orderly heaps of broken timber and twisted iron, over the scratches in the ground where children had dragged garden rakes, and up to the smoke of the fires. ‘What are you burning?’ he said sharply. ‘How dare you burn? What are you burning?’

  ‘You’re a big bully,’ Paul yelled.

  ‘Paul!’ roared Mr Mace. ‘Be quiet. You don’t understand.’

  ‘I do understand,’ cried Paul. ‘We’re burning rubbish, that’s what. We’re cleaning up. We’ve raked the streets. Cleared the drains. Salvaged hymn-books and Bibles and people’s property. Adrian’s even tried to start the powerplant. Risked his life cutting wires and dragging them out of the mud. We’ve had to trap a bull. We’ve had to find Miss Godwin. We’ve had to do everything by ourselves. We’ve looked for the animals and fed them. We’ve even chased the fowls and caught them. We’ve fixed up the wireless and called for help. We’ve cleaned out all the refrigerators and the rotten, stinking meat. We’ve got a plan and it’s Adrian’s plan. He organized it. That’s what we’re doing, and don’t you dare say to us “how dare we do it”!’

  Big Ben Fiddler was white beneath his grime and dirt and a pulse was beating violently in his temple.

  ‘That was quite a speech, boy,’ he said coldly, ‘but I’ll overlook it because you’re upset and you don’t know what you’re saying.’

  He turned from the road onto the track up to Campbell’s house, and Adrian followed meekly. Paul’s father took him by the collar.

  ‘You’re to apologize to Mr Fiddler. At once. Get yourself after him.’

  Paul shook himself free. ‘I won’t apologize. He’s a rotten bully. If he thinks the town looks a wreck now he should have seen it before we started.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Butch stoutly.

  ‘Keep out of it, Butch,’ said Paul, ‘it’s not your fight.’

  ‘You will apologize, Paul,’ ordered Mr Mace. ‘Mr Fiddler built this town. It’s his life, and you can’t understand. You’re only a child. Even I can see it’s finished. It’d take a year to rebuild. Thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds. And while he rebuilds how does he pay his men? What happens to his contracts? Without the mill there’s nothing. The roads have gone. The bridge has gone. Do you understand now?’

  ‘I understand that insurance will pay most of it and I wouldn’t think much of my father if he couldn’t work without wages for a while.’

  Butch’s dad said quietly, ‘Our boys are growing up. Paul, why don’t you tell Mr Fiddler that you didn’t mean to hurt him, that you do respect him, in spite of what you said?’

  Paul looked at his father, and Mr Mace managed to smile back, because in truth he was filled with pride of his son. ‘Very well. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes, dad.’

  Gussie took his hand and all headed for the track to Campbell’s place, hurrying to overtake Ben Fiddler and Adrian.

  * * *

  Frances had made up a bed for Miss Godwin in the big kitchen of the Campbell home. The house had suffered, as all had suffered, yet the kitchen side had escaped almost unharmed. When they all entered the room was warm and a black iron kettle was boiling on the stove and teacups were lined up along the sink. There was the homely smell of eggs and sliced tinned meat frying in a large pan. There was Mr McLeod standing with his daughter at the head of the bed, and Miss Godwin, sitting up, supported by pillows.

  Her eyes seemed to be as pale as the rest of her, lost somewhere in the depths of the sunken shadows about them, but she was herself, because there was the kind smile they had always known. It seemed that she had been waiting for all the men to come and for all the children. She wanted all her children around her.

  Adrian felt towards her an outpouring of emotion such as he might have given to his mother, felt a bond towards her that was stronger than ever, perhaps because his father had treated him so badly and so ignorantly. But he felt, too, a deep and painful pang of conscience that he knew he would have to put right. That he had tried and failed as far as his father was concerned mattered a great deal, but this mattered more. He knew she was beckoning him, and he glanced at Paul and both stood beside her bed.

  She said thinly, ‘I’m so proud of my brave boys and girls. Frances has told me and I’m so proud. You’ve taught me such a lesson.’

  Adrian knew he had to say it, knew he had to say it now. ‘Miss Godwin, I told you a lie and I want to put it straight.’

  Her smile faded. ‘Don’t tell me anything that’s going to hurt you.’

  ‘I want to tell you. I’ve got to tell you. I didn’t know the paintings were in the cave. It was a big lie.’

  Adrian knew that every eye was on him, knew that his father had gasped aloud, but it didn’t silence him. Instead he felt a release from something bad, and the freedom from it warmed him through and through. ‘It’s not right,’ he said, ‘that the discovery should be called after me. I don’t deserve it. It’s to be called after you.’

  Her eyes had closed, almost tightly, and odd little movements had started flickering round her mouth. For a moment of panic Adrian thought he had said the wrong thing, but slowly her gentle smile began to form again long before she opened her eyes and reached out a hand to Frances.

  ‘No,’ she said clearly. ‘I’ve had my reward, in so many ways. Name it instead in honour of the children of Hills End. Let it be known as the “Cave of the Valiant Children”, because, good friends, the children have shown us the way.’

  Adrian saw then that she wasn’t looking at him at all, but looking past him into the eyes of the men, from man to man, deliberately, with an expression that might have been of wisdom, but might even have been a demand. Last of all she came to Ben Fiddler and held his gaze until he was compelled to step forward.

  He reached out both hands and drew Adrian into his right arm and Paul into his left. ‘Thank you, Miss Godwin,’ he said. ‘Indeed, they have shown us the way.’

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