Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

‘But just suppose, what if you were to let me go?’

‘Then they would beat me. You saw what happened just now.’ With her face inches from his the swelling of her cheek confirmed that her position was as precarious as his own.

Thomas placed his hand on the topmost brick. The response was a shower of sparks as the shovel struck, narrowly missing his fingers. For more than a minute neither child moved nor spoke.

For the second time Thomas prayed for guidance. It came in the form of scuffling tiny feet in the passage behind. Looking beyond his body into the gloom he could just make out a convulsing grey sheet from which arose a multitude of pin-point squeaks of anger. Had they too resented their new captivity, or was he their target? ‘I’m coming out,’ he shouted. The bricks flew from the violent thrust of his shoulder, dancing in the sunlight and choosing one from their number to be hooked like a cricket ball far into the distance by the force of Tessie’s shovel. But Thomas was ahead of the implement and his face and shoulders were already engulfed in the folds of her skirt. Locked together the pair fell backwards into the black and freshly dug channel that led away from the tunnel entrance.

His body thrilled to the struggling mass beneath him, but his mind was pierced by its desperation. When the writhing stopped he felt only the wetness of her cheek against his own.

He helped her to her feet and wiped the dirt from her mouth with the corner of his shirt-tail. Silently she took his hand and they crawled within the black channel until they were out of earshot of the men that must surely be returning.

‘Will they follow?’ Thomas whispered.

‘They know I have to go home. They’ll tell themselves they can wait. But I’ll stay out until they’ve drunk themselves silly. By morning they’ll have forgotten, or at least I can handle it.’

‘Are you poor?’ Thomas asked, without really knowing why.

‘The whole village is poor.’

He pulled out the two coins in his pocket and held them out to her.

‘What’s that?’ Tessie asked, intrigued by the smaller and brighter of the two.

‘A pound.’

‘Pounds are paper.’

‘Not anymore.’

‘Liar! I know because I had one once, after Aunt Ethel died – but they soon took it off me.’ She rummaged in her own pocket. ‘That’s what I’ve got. Three farthings.’

Their brief absorption with one another was interrupted by shouts of malice and retribution ringing across the meadow. Thomas thrust the coins into her hand, but the smaller one fell into the mud. Ignoring it, she tugged him down onto the floor of the channel and together they squirmed their way towards safety. After a hundred yards or so the channel ended abruptly in a vertical earth wall. Beyond the obstruction Thomas could hear the soft gurgle of running water.

‘They’ll have to dig this earth away when they let the water through the tunnel,’ Tessie explained.

The men’s expletives continued to swoop and dive through the still summer air, but there was no attempt at pursuit. Through the waving grass Thomas could see them repairing the damaged brickwork with demonic energy. ‘I think they really would kill anyone who broke it now,’ Tessie said. Thomas believed her.

They climbed the bank and made the greater safety of the stream. To Thomas’ surprise the water was not cold. For the first time he could take stock of his position.

Tessie stood with the water almost to her knees. To Thomas the damage to her face was apparent even in her reflection. He raised his eyes slowly, fearful of what he might see.

‘They could do that to you?’

‘It will heal. It has before.’

‘Would you let me… touch it?’ His embarrassment was acute.

He took a step forward in the water and raised his hand to her cheek. This time he could see the tears that flowed. He tried momentarily to substitute Mirabelle’s fair image but instead saw only injustice written there. ‘I shall have to go back,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you stay?’

‘Because they will come looking for me.’

‘Who?’

‘My aunt from Laurel House. And my cousin Mirabelle.’

‘House? I know Laurel Cottages. I don’t know of any house. I think you’re strange. But I wish you would stay. When the sun begins to go down, then you can go. At least that will give us time to wash our clothes.’

‘Here?’ Thomas was alarmed.

‘There’s a backwater where no-one can see.’ She took his hand.

The reeds opened upon a limpid pool, its banks a patchwork of mosses of the most subtle green, the winged life above its surface vibrant in the warmth and brilliance of the light falling through the trees. Its charm imposed an irresistible urgency on the two children. They entered and the reeds closed decisively behind them.

Later they climbed the new embankment of impacted earth. The girl’s hand was warm in his as they neared the top. ‘You still don’t believe? Look around. What do you see?’

‘There are no rails,’ Thomas said.

‘And that surprises you? The rails can’t get here until the embankment is finished. And your tunnel. Look at me.’

Her eyes were as blue as the sky and her hair the colour of the distant cornfields. ‘I think it might rain,’ she said.

‘But it’s bright sunl…’ Thomas’ eyes were drawn upwards, against his will for she continued to fascinate him. He felt her hand slipping away from his. There was a sharp bite of air against his cheek. A cloud as if from nowhere passed across the face of the sun. With sinking heart he saw others following, swirling across the sky until, in what seemed like seconds, the whole expanse was uniformly grey. Then Thomas looked down.

The rails were there, a little rusty, but solid against his toe. Weeds growing amongst the shingle had had time enough to encroach upon the wooden sleepers. Beside the track were dense thickets of brambles. He turned to look back. Far down the track, beyond the limits of certain recognition, a small figure hobbled upon a familiar stick. Thomas began to lift his hand to wave, then thought better of it: the matter could be resolved later.

The brambles clutched at his body as he forced his way down the embankment. The path became precipitous, seeming to lead nowhere. He followed its near vertical descent with a sureness that in other circumstances might have been suicidal. He had a new-found confidence that made him feel invulnerable. When he reached the bottom it set him apart from the youth standing distraught in the stream, contemplating the black orifice into which the waters flowed.

When the boy prevaricated it was no chance thing that directed the toss of the coin and his choice of call. The power of the arm that doubled the boy had only purpose, and held no malice. He regretted throwing the stone but, if the end had been determined, what point was there in not hastening it?

The force of the stream seemed to lessen and the elements of the water began to assume more harmonious murmurs. Thomas looked up to a new quality of light filtering through the swaying branches. A fresh gust brought down a shower of drops. He felt it as a ritual cleansing, washing away inhibition and bestowing purpose. In the reflection in the pool he noticed for the first time the width of his shoulders and the rake of his jaw. He smacked a fist into the palm of his other hand.

The owner of the voice that carried sweetly across the lawn was no longer invincible. She would deserve his answer, and he was set to deliver it. And then? Well, then there was the matter of Henry…

Paul Southery, having finished his mid-morning coffee, peered through the glass window of the library door, over the notice in Hebrew affixed to it – which he could just translate – requiring silence from its readers and consideration for others. The rule had been flagrantly broken: even through the closed door he could hear the animated voices of those clustered around the reception table within. Intrigued to know what the excitement was about he opened the door and went in. There on the table – the focus of attention – was a single page of script in Greek.