Ann Pilling - The Beggar’s Curse

Molly rammed her foot on the accelerator and they bumped noisily down the hill into Stang. The valley was quite large. Church, green, and duck pond formed the village centre but the road went on going down for some while, then turned up sharply, petering out in an old footpath called Coffin Lane. “There was a tax on salt in the old days,” Molly explained, “and they’re supposed to have smuggled it out of Stang in coffins along this track. Hence the name. I bet there were a lot of funerals!” At its lowest point the track bordered the edge of a deep pool called Blake’s Pit. This was the real heart of the village, she said, and several families still lived there, including the Edges, in houses above the water that clung for dear life to the steep valley sides.

“It’s a grim old spot,” she muttered, turning in at a gateway. “Walk down later and have a look. Can’t say I’d fancy living there myself though. I like it up here, where the life is. Welcome to Elphins anyway, dears. Can you sort yourselves out? I’ll just go and find Rose, and I’ll bung the poodles in the shed for a bit, so you can bring your dog in.”

“It’s the best house in the village,” Oliver said firmly. “My father said so.”

“Elphins” was a rambling old place, black and white with a mouldy thatched roof in such bad repair it looked as if giant moths had eaten great holes in it. It was set well back from the road, in a tangled wilderness that must once have been a garden. Prill and Colin looked at it in dismay.

“It obviously needs money spending on it,” Oliver said defensively, “But Molly’s not got any. That’s why she does bed and breakfast. Anyway, I like it.” And he lifted his suitcase out of the car and went up the path. The other two weren’t at all sure. Silently they manoeuvred their trunk out of the back and dumped it on the gravel. “You take that end,” said Colin. “It’s not too heavy.” But as they struggled with it he suddenly felt eyes on his back, and, glancing over his shoulder, he saw the face of Tony Edge staring across the road. The same strange feeling began to creep over him again, making him shiver.

“Hang on,” he lied to Prill. “I’ve not got hold of it properly. Let’s put it down for a minute,” and he turned right round and gave the face a good stare. But it wasn’t Tony at all; this boy was younger, about thirteen, much squatter and more thickset, wearing an old donkey jacket and a dirty baseball cap. But the face was the same, and the same hard, dark eyes were boring into him, making his hands sweat. It was uncanny.

“Look, have you got it?” Prill snapped. “Because I’m cold. . . Well, come on then.”

All the time they were at the car the boy lolled against his fence, watching the proceedings with intense interest. Then the church clock struck six and he stood upright, straightened his cap, and stared up the road. But someone was coming towards them; he suddenly put his hands back in his pockets and slouched against the fence, watching.

They saw the little figure creeping along, a small brown person enveloped in a dingy raincoat and carrying shopping. One hand held a plastic carrier with celery sticking out of the top, the other clutched the handles of an old-fashioned carpet bag.

“Hello, Rose,” the boy called out. She stopped and looked up. Her hair was tucked out of sight inside a brown knitted pixie-hood that buttoned under her chin, and they saw a small oval face, smooth and freckled like an egg. It was hard to work out how old she was; she might have been twenty, thirty, or anything in between. “Want me to carry your bags then?” the boy hollered, and stepped forward.

“No. . . no . . .” Rose stammered. The sad little face didn’t look anxious any more, it looked terrified. She started to run, but just outside Elphins the road was still cobbled and the ancient stones were loose and dangerous. Rose tripped and fell flat on her face. She clung grimly on to the carpet bag but the carrier landed on the cobbles. “Me eggs,” she whimpered. “All me eggs. Fresh today an’ all.”

As the sticky yellow mess oozed out on to the road she started to cry. The boy by the fence laughed loudly. “That’s typical of you, Rose Salt,” he sneered. “You can’t even carry a bit of shopping home. Cheshire born and Cheshire bred, Strong in th’arm and weak in th’ead. That’s you.” And he set off, up the street. Rose, still spreadeagled on the stones, sobbed harder than ever.

The two children were so taken aback they just stood by the car, goggling, but Rose’s wails had brought Molly out of the house. “It doesn’t matter at all, dear,” she said gently, helping Rose to her feet. “It wasn’t your fault. Come on in now, our visitors have arrived. And I saw you’d got tea ready, now that was clever of you, dear.” Then she called up the street in a very different voice. “As for you, Sid Edge, you’re Cheshire born too you know, just in case you’d forgotten. Thick as a brick, like all the Edge family,” she whispered to the two children, steering the sniffling Rose up the garden path.

“Who is Rose Salt?” Colin asked Oliver, when they were getting ready for bed.

“I don’t know. My father never mentioned her. I didn’t know she lived with Molly.”

“I think she’s a bit weird.” Colin was jumping up and down as he pulled his pyjamas on. “This place is freezing. Do you think Molly would mind if I filled my hot-water bottle?”

“Why should she?” Oliver was putting a pair of thick red socks on, to wear in bed. “She’s not the touchy type, you know.”

“No, she’s nice. But what about Rose , Oll? She gives me the creeps. And why does she wear that funny hat all the time? Do you. . . do you think she’s bald ?”

The two boys collapsed into giggles, then Oliver pulled himself together sharply. His mother wouldn’t approve of that kind of joke, she was rather religious. “I don’t know. She’s definitely a bit odd. Perhaps she’s the village idiot,” he said slowly.

“ Oliver , what a thing to say.”

“Well you said she was creepy,” he said huffily, tucking a scarf round his neck and climbing into bed.

Prill couldn’t get to sleep because of the cold. If this house didn’t warm up soon she’d spend the whole holiday in the kitchen. It had an open fire, and she quite fancied sleeping down there tonight, with Jessie. Colin’s stuff had been in the top half of the trunk. He’d unpacked, then dragged it along the creaking corridor to her room. There was something in the bottom that she hadn’t wanted anyone to see, and she was clutching it now, an old French doll called Amy.

Amy was the most precious thing Prill had. Her grandmother had given it to her on her tenth birthday. It was an heirloom, brought back from World War One by Grandad Blakeman’s father. Prill was too old for teddies and stuffed toys, and this doll usually sat on the shelf at home, above her bed. There was nothing cuddly about Amy, with her disapproving porcelain face, her frilled dress and her real leather shoes.

But she smelt of home, and Prill needed something to remind her of Mum, Dad and Alison. She’d only once been separated from them all before, and it was only for a day or so. She knew she wasn’t going to enjoy this holiday very much, and she didn’t like this cold, dark house either.

Much later, when someone crept into her room, Prill was still awake, though Stang church clock had already struck midnight. When she heard the door open she half closed her eyes and took deep, regular breaths, though her heart was thumping, and she peeped at the figure hovering near the bed.

It was Rose Salt, still in her pixie-hood, but now wearing a long yellow nightie. She stretched out a little brown hand and touched the doll’s blue frills, then ran a finger over the painted face. A tiny sound escaped from her lips. “Ah. . . Ah . . .” she was sighing, tenderly. But at that moment Prill turned over quite violently in the bed, closed her eyes properly, and clutched the little French doll much tighter.