Ann Pilling - Black Harvest

Colin saw him. “What are you doing, Oliver? Get a move on.”

“I think I’ll go back.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s not much farther now.”

Oliver dithered. Words like “Too hot”, “Not swimming” and “Doing a bit more to my hole” floated along the beach. He saw Prill take a step towards him then Colin holding her arm. “I can make the tea,” he shouted. “Well, I can get the table ready and everything, for when you come back.” He liked Auntie Jeannie and it might please her. That squalling baby was definitely getting on her nerves.

“Will you be all right on your own?” Prill called to him. She didn’t sound so bad-tempered as Colin. “You don’t have to climb the tunnel. You can go with Mum. Anyway, the bungalow’s locked.”

“I’ll ask Mrs O’Malley to let me in. She’s got a key. I’ll be all right,” he shouted. He was already turning his back, but he saw Colin pulling Prill impatiently in the other direction. “An utter drip” and “Chicken” were the last words he heard as he hurried along the beach, much faster now.

The door of Donal Morrissey’s caravan was shut, but smoke poured from the tin chimney. Oliver crept up through the vegetable patch and examined the plants at his feet. The stripy beetles were still thriving and nibbling away steadily, turning the leaves into pieces of green lace.

He stood up, took a deep breath, and hammered on the door. Instantly a dog barked inside. Oliver quaked. He was scared of dogs and that collie was a brute. But there was no time to run. The door opened and Donal Morrissey was looking down at him, holding on to the growling dog with a bit of rope.

Their eyes met. The old man’s gaze terrified Oliver. The wide-eyed, bloodshot stare was full of threat and there was an awful hardness about it. It was a face from which every drop of human kindness suddenly seemed to have drained away.

“What do you want? Get away from here or I’ll set this dog on you. I told you yesterday.” He gave the collie a bit more rope and it leaped to Oliver, snapping its teeth.

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