Unknown - Heartsease

“Not if I don’t think about it.”

“Is there any way round Hempsted? Someone’s bound to hear us with everything so quiet.”

“I don’t know. Anyway, I probably couldn’t find it. This is much the best way in, because the houses are only just on both sides of the road, and not spread out in a great mass. If we try some other way we might meet the dogs.”

“All right.”

If anyone heard them in Hempsted they gave no sign. It was impossible to tell when they were out of the little inhabited village and into the derelict suburbs. Scrub was tiring now, difficult to coax out of his stolid walk. Margaret dismounted and walked beside him. Tim came and strode on the other side of him, as though he felt some mysterious sympathy with the weary limbs. The moon blanked out, and then there was a swirling flurry of snow, much more wind-driven in this open flatness than it had been up in the hills. Margaret bent her head and plodded on, looking only at the faint whiteness of the road a few feet in front of her. The level crossing told her that they were nearly there — otherwise she might have trudged on forever.

The snow-shower stopped again just as they reached the docks, but the moon didn’t come out for several minutes, during which she edged forward onto the quay in a panic lest someone would fall into the bitter water. Her memory was mistaken, too; there seemed to be far more obstructions and kinks in the quayside than she’d remembered in the quick glance from the bridge. Then suddenly the light shone down between the blind warehouses and they could all see the whole basin.

“Those were the ones I meant, Jo,” she said.

“Yes, the middle one’s no good. It must be half full of water. I’ll nip ahead and nose around. You come on slowly.”

He flitted off between the shadows and was lost. Margaret heard a faint clunking. Scrub was worried and restless, and she herself was too tense to calm him. The water in the basin looked as black as polished slate. Jonathan came back.

“I’ve found one which will do for the time being,” he said. “There’s enough room for all three of them, and we needn’t try and get Otto down a ladder — I forced the door of the wheelhouse. We can cast off one hawser and slack off the other one and just shove her out into the middle of the basin. Then there shouldn’t be any trouble from dogs. But I’m worried about water.”

“Water?”

“For them to drink. The stuff in the basin doesn’t smell too good.”

“Couldn’t we melt some snow?”

“Good idea. You scout around and see if you can find something big enough to hold it. Tie Scrub up. Lucy, bring Tim along and I’ll show you what I want.”

Margaret explored all along the side of the quay, groping into shadows and waiting until the faint light reflected from the snow allowed her to distinguish the blacker shapes of solid objects amid the general blackness. She had in her mind’s eye some sort of galvanized iron washtub, and didn’t pause to wonder whether any such object was likely to be found in a commercial dockyard, so she came back to the tugs emptyhanded after twenty minutes’ search. The witch had vanished from the sledge and Tim was gone too. Jonathan and Lucy were performing a curious dance round a chimneyshaped thing, hopping, bending and half straightening before they hopped again. As Margaret came up Jonathan dragged the chimney-thing a couple of yards further on.

“No luck, Marge?” he said. “Never mind. Lucy found an old oil drum with the lid off. I think it’ll be all right — it holds water because we tried it in the dock, and it’s not too dirty. Give us a hand.”

So Margaret joined in the bending and hopping ritual, scooping up the light snow and throwing it into the drum.

“That’ll do,” said Jonathan at last. “We won’t be able to carry it if it gets any heavier. Hang on, Lucy, while I make a lashing; we’ll have to get it down into the hold or it won’t melt. Fetch that bit of rope you found while I try and get my fingers warm enough to make knots.” Margaret suddenly felt the bitter numbness in her own fingers and put her hands under her armpits and jigged up and down in the puddled snow to get her blood moving. Jonathan swung his arms against his ribs with a dull slapping noise while Lucy slid off into the dark. When she returned there was a long period of just watching and feeling useless while Jonathan fiddled and fussed with the rope. Then Lucy fetched Tim and persuaded him to lift the drum onto the tug and lower it down a hatch.

“That’s fine,” said Jonathan. “There should be enough melted by morning to drink. Don’t drink the water in the basin. Now we’ll put you out to sea. All aboard. Got that pole, Lucy?”

“Yes, master,” said the quiet voice.

“Show Tim how to push against the quay. I’ll shove with my leg. Marge, hang on to my hand so that I can let myself go a bit further, otherwise I’ll fall in. Off we go. All together now.”

Margaret held his hand and prepared to lean backwards against the weight of his stretch out over the water. Lucy found a good hold for the tip of her piece of timber; Jonathan began to shove; Lucy made Tim hold the pole where she’d been holding it and said, “Push. Push. That’s right.” Nothing happened for what seemed a long time, so that Margaret was sure that the basin must be silted up and the tug stuck. Then, suddenly, she saw a gleam of light between Jonathan’s feet, and the oily blackness of the water round the ripple of reflected moonlight.

“Hang on, Marge,” said Jonathan. “Don’t let him fall over, Lucy. That’s enough. We don’t want to shove it right round the other way.”

He hauled himself back onto the solid stone, and together they watched the tug drift, inch by inch, out over the water.

“That’s fine,” said Jonathan at last. “Lucy, you’ll have to keep an eye open. If you find yourself drifting too near the quay again Tim can pole you off. And if you want to get ashore just haul on the hawser. You’ve got enough food for three days, I should think. Marge or I will be down again with more before Friday. All right?”

“Yes master, and my thanks to you. And to you too, Miss Margaret.” Her silky whisper drifted over the water. Far off in the city a dog bayed. Then the moon went out.

“We must be off,” said Jonathan. “Do you think Scrub can stand it?”

“Yes. He’s been eating snow, which is just as good as drinking, and I think he’s found some grass in that corner. He’s had a good rest, haven’t you, boy?”

She knew he had heard the baying of the dog, and could feel the slight shivering of fright through his hide as she patted him in the pitch dark. He moved eagerly as she untied his reins from the stanchion, and she had a job walking as fast as he wanted to go along the treacherous cobbles, all littered with frozen hawser and rusting chains beneath the snow. Out on the road she climbed into the saddle and heard Jonathan settling at the back of the sledge. Scrub chose a quickish trot and bounced along the winding flat. They both got off to

walk up the slight slope into Hempsted, but rode again down to the bridge over the canal.

“Marge,” called Jonathan as they crossed the black water, “couldn’t we have come along the towpath? It must be quicker.”

“I expect so. I didn’t think of it. Anyway, it was too dark to be safe.”

“Let’s try next time we come down.”

“Yes.”

Then there was the easy straight along the big road that leads to Bristol and another fair stretch along the winding lane towards hills which seemed darker and taller with every pace. In one brief patch of moonlight she saw that it hadn’t snowed here since they came down, for the lines of the sledge’s runners slashed clear through the soft whiteness and between them were the scuffled ovals of Scrub’s hoofprints. Her legs were very tired when she dismounted to begin on the long climb up to Edge, and felt tireder still when the snow started again before they were halfway up to the main road. So there was nearly an hour’s slow plodding (head bent, shoulders hunched, little runnels of melting coldness beginning to find their way into the cringing skin) before they could once again start down the hill to the valley. Margaret was too tired to think about risks; she let Scrub take it at a dangerous, wallowing canter through the dizzying flakes. Jonathan had to shout to warn her at the two very steep places, but she didn’t even dismount then, only slowing the pony to a slithering walk while the brake scraped behind them. She had to walk up the far edge of the valley, and it took years of