Sandy had the feeling that, because she told her stories with her eyes closed and without the aid of books, his grandmother's tales had been real. This had shocked him into full attentiveness as a listener, and he had forgotten few of them. He remembered one now. It concerned a young girl who was taken to a gypsy camp and made to dance until she died, but when she died her spirit had been strong and she was able to cure her little sister who had been crippled.
Sandy knew that in essence the story was concerned with not fearing death, but there was something more to it. Who could say that he was not walking into a sacrifice? Rian had told him never to trust Robbie. Now he was in the hands of both Robbie and the aunt who, according to Rian, had wanted to use her cruelly. He had been stupid to come to this place.
A large mongrel dog, as if confirming his growing fears, barked at him viciously. It was tethered to one of the caravans, but only by a rope. He backed away from it, and in so doing edged closer to the old, cackling woman and her caravan. Robbie approached the animal and stroked it. It ignored him and went on barking and baring its teeth at Sandy.
'Come on and make friends,' Robbie called to him, patting the snarling beast.
'Come inside, dear,' coaxed the old woman with her dark mouth.
Sandy tore himself in two. Part of him ran to safety, but that was his spirit self; his body climbed the two iron steps slowly and was inside the caravan.
The woman stooped low over her cooker and ignited the gas. She pushed a blackened kettle on to the ring. Sandy inspected the cramped interior. There was nothing romantic or sensational about it. A small television sat on the only table, wired to a car battery on the floor. There were two bench-seats facing into this table, the whole contrivance becoming a small double bed when adjusted. Sandy liked caravans. He liked their clever compactness, not an inch of space wasted. He realised that life in the town was a little like that. He looked at the paintings on the walls, crude, cheap reproductions in plastic frames. There was no toilet.
He remembered the woman emerging from behind the caravan. He could taste mothballs at the back of his throat.
'Cup of tea, son?'
'Please.' The old woman grinned at him again.
'Scared of me, son? People are. People say it's because of me teeth. They say I should get new ones, but the price of these things is ridiculous. Besides, these have done me well enough over the years. I can still chew me meat with them, so there you are.'
So there he was. 'Yes,' he managed to reply.
'You a friend of our Robbie's? Robbie's not got many friends, has he?' She was watching the kettle as it began to steam. She moved to the tiny sink next to the stove and rinsed three cups in a thin trickle of water from the faucet.
'Bit of a loner like. Gypsies have to be, haven't they, son? Not much else open to them. Still, I wish the townies - no offence to yourself, son - would stop bothering us.' She glared at him for a moment, so that the point was not lost on him. 'It's a respectable life that we lead. Ancient, too. Goes back before towns was even invented. You look it up in your library, son.
Gypsies has been here since the country itself.' She chuckled. It was, Sandy realised, a matronly sound rather than a wicked one. He could talk.
'My mother's supposed to be a witch,' he said. He wondered why he had said that. Perhaps, he thought, to show that he understood.
'Is she now? Oh yes, I seem to remember being told about the town's witch. Ah yes. Cause of bad luck, wasn't she?'
'She's not really a witch.'
'Gracious me, of course she's not. Witches never existed, except in people's minds. All there was in the olden days was women and some men who believed in herbal cures and in folklore and in the wish to fly. Witches? We're all witches in one way or another. Witches was the invention of mankind, son. We're all witches beneath the skin.' Her words sounded wise to Sandy. She poured boiling water into a battered teapot. He wanted suddenly to be her friend.
'My name's Sandy,' he said. She smiled and nodded. His eyes were mesmerised by the loose fold of material pinned behind her with a large safety pin.
'You're wondering about me arm, Sandy,' she said, her back still towards him. He was stunned. It was as if she had really read his mind. He remained silent and she turned towards him and chuckled again. 'Course you are.' Then she went to the open door. Sandy noticed that it was growing dark outside, though it was only two o'clock. Clouds were gathering for a storm. The drought was about to break.
'Robbie!' shouted the old woman, 'Tea's up!' The dog barked keenly as Robbie sprinted to the caravan. There were specks of water on his shoulders as he entered, stooping.
'That's the rain on,' he said. 'Looks like a heavy one, though.'
Sandy began, almost instantly, to hear the raindrops on the roof, like sharp raps against a drum. Carsden had a fine pipe band, but they would have been hard-pressed to play the tune that was soon dancing on the caravan's skintight roof. They sipped the tea around the small table, Sandy's knees rubbing uncomfortably against those of the woman. They listened to the rain as if it were music.
"That's summer over,' said Kitty. She winked at the boy.
There was a trace of matter in one of her eyes. Sandy wondered if the eye, like her arm, was useless.
*You could be right, Kitty,' said Robbie. 'I was telling Sandy that I've noticed a cold air this past few days.'
'A cold air?' Kitty stared hard at her nephew. 'Cold air nothing. Look at you. You've been drinking too much and not eating a thing. You're dying of the wrong diet, Robbie. She's to blame.
You should come back here where you belong.'
'What about Rian? She belongs here too.' Robbie, having said this, supped his tea and kept his eyes on the table.
There was a silence, broken only by the heavy battering of the rain upon the roof.
'Leave her to her ruin,' said Kitty, her mouth brushing the edge of her chipped cup.
'I can't do that, Kitty.'
There was a pause, the most excruciating silence Sandy had ever heard. The air seemed tense with thunder. The rain was easing.
'Don't I bloody know it!' exploded the old woman. She glanced at Sandy and calmed down. 'Sorry, son. You shouldn't have to listen to this. It's the same every time Robbie conies back.' She chuckled hollowly. 'Will I make you something to eat?' She rose from the table. Sandy looked at Robbie, who was staring out of the rain-daubed window.
'Any smokes, Kitty?'
She rummaged in the pocket of her dress and threw a small pack of tobacco, a thin roll of papers and a box of matches on to the table.
Ta,' said Robbie. The threat of thunder eased, Sandy remembered that rain comes after thunder, not before it. He was sweating. The air was still and thick. The rain would freshen everything. It was great to walk about after rain. He hoped he could escape soon.
'Sandy here fancies Rian,' said Robbie casually as he rolled a cigarette. Sandy was startled by his friend's cruelty.
Is that surprising?' muttered Kitty. She turned towards them. 'Remember what I said about witches, Sandy? I take it all back. Witches do exist, and that bitch is one of them.
Steer clear of her. That's my advice and always has been.'
'Full of the milk of human kindness, that's my Aunt Kitty.'
Robbie lit his cigarette and winked at Sandy. Kitty shuffled over from the stove. Her hand snaked out viciously and she slapped Robbie so hard that the cigarette flew out of his mouth and into Sandy's lap. Sandy picked it up quickly and held it. There was a long, staring silence before the woman shuffled back to her stove. Robbie held out his hand for the cigarette. He puffed on it until it seemed to ignite from nothing.
'That girl is nothing but trouble and you know it.'
Sandy wondered if this were an act for his benefit. It did not seem like one. So was Rian lying to him then? Was she more than she seemed? Who could he trust to tell him the truth? The answer was simple - no one.
The sun broke through the fine sheen of rain. Sandy stared at the small windo
w. Dirt was now visible on the inside of the glass. The faint smell of soup touched his nostrils and pushed further back the tang of mothballs. It was a good smell; rich like the soup his grandmother had made, vegetables thick with a hint of stock. His stomach felt suddenly empty, though he had eaten not two hours before.
The pot was soon steaming. Two plates were placed on the table, either side of the small television, then two slices of thin white bread, and two discoloured spoons. Sandy warily examined the spoon before him. He knew that it would taste of metal and the thought made him shiver.
'Put out that roll-up while you eat.' It was a soft command.
Robbie flicked the butt out of the window.
'Satisfied?' he said. Kitty ignored him. She served the soup and squeezed in beside Sandy again. He felt his leg tingle as hers touched it. He drew it away awkwardly, and felt his other leg brushing against Robbie.
'Are you still at school, Sandy?' asked Kitty.
'Just until Christmas.' He drank the soup without letting the spoon enter his mouth. Kitty was studying him.
'And you've sat your exams then?'
He nodded. 'I got the results this morning.'
Tou never told me that,' said Robbie, taking big gulps of soup.
'You never asked.'
'Were the results good?' asked Kitty. Sandy nodded. Tour mum must be pleased, eh?'
'She doesn't know yet. I'm going to tell her tonight. It'll be a surprise for her.'
Kitty chuckled again. She was rolling a cigarette of her own. She did the whole thing expertly with her one hand and her teeth. Really, it was hard to believe that she had only one arm. Sandy tried not to stare.
Tou know how this happened?' she said, the cigarette wagging in her mouth. 'I'll tell you. I was mauled by a dog that was set on me by a farmer up north. Near Inverness, wasn't it, Robbie? He saw me coming up his drive and he set his bloody dog on me, the bastard. I wouldn't see no doctor afterwards, you see. Then it hurt too much, but by then it was too late. They had to amputate it. Robbie was about thirteen then, wasn't you?' He nodded, his eyes on the empty bowl in front of him. 'Aye, thirteen he was. You know what we did? A few of the menfolk and wee Robbie here, they snaked up to the farm one afternoon while the farmer was about his business and they killed the dog.' She chuckled mirthlessly. Her eyes were strong upon Sandy's. His stomach turned the soup in a slow, sickening revolution. The matter in her left eye was like a tiny maggot, alive and wriggling. 'They stoned it to death and threw it into the farmhouse. We had to get out of that neck of the country in a hurry, I can tell you. But it was worth it.' She laughed this time. Her mouth was a deep red cavern surrounded by teeth like chippings of coal. Robbie was scraping his spoon across the base of his bowl.
'I've got to go now,' said Sandy. 'Excuse me. Thank you for the soup and the tea.' He was aware of his false formality, aware that it showed his weakness. He blanched. The old woman slid from her seat to let him out.
'I'll stay on for a bit,' said Robbie. 'Aunt Kitty and me have things to talk about.' He reached across the table for another roll-up.
'It was nice seeing you,' Sandy said to Kitty.
'And you, son.' She chuckled, knowing the truth. 'Come and see us any time.'
He stepped outside and breathed in the grass-heavy air.
The dog stood up and barked again. He ignored it. A man watched him from the door of one of the other caravans. He was scratching his grizzled chin as if sizing the boy up for a potential meal. Sandy, his heart thudding, walked smartly away.
'Sandy!'
He turned and saw Robbie running awkwardly towards him, as if he had never run in his life. Sandy waited for him.
Robbie walked the last few yards and puffed on his cigarette.
He stopped beside his friend and stared into the distance.
He mumbled something, then looked back towards the caravans.
'Promise you won't tell Aunt Kitty,' he repeated. 'Promise you won't ever tell her or anyone else.' Sandy nodded.
'Promise,' said Robbie.
'I promise.'
'Okay.' He took a gulp of air. His eyes were like a mongrel's. 'Listen then. We never killed the dog. None of us had the guts. We sat in the woods for a while, had a smoke, then went back to the camp and told everyone our story. We said that we'd best be moving. We moved away so that she
wouldn't find out that we'd not done it. It would have killed her and killed us if we'd confessed. So don't feel bad about it, okay?' He put a hand gently on Sandy's shoulder. Sandy nodded. He was about to say something, but Robbie was already starting away. 'See you later,' he called back. 'Come up to the house.'
'Fine,' yelled Sandy. He walked away, sure in his heart that Rian had been lying to him about her brother and her aunt. He did not want to believe it, yet the evidence was before his eyes like the scenery. He could accept it or not; it was reality. He frowned. There was something he had meant to ask Aunt Kitty. The meaning of an itchy nose. That was it: what was the meaning of an itchy nose?
3
George Patterson had locked the door, pulled down the blind, and was busying himself with the small change at his till when a sharp rapping on the door told him that his friend was waiting to be let in. He came from behind the counter, crossed to the door, peered through the glass, and, a smile settling on his face, drew back the lock.
'Hello, George. Busy day?'
'Not bad, Matt. Yourself?'
Matt Duncan scratched his cheek. He had not shaved that day and the bristles were iron-grey and hard.
'Doing away, George,' he said. 'That's all we can do, eh?
Just doing away.'
'Aye, Matt, it's the truth.' Patterson relocked the door and ushered the smaller man through to the back room where hair was occasionally cut. 'Go on through, Matt,' he said.
Tfou know your way. I'll be with you in a minute.' He went back to his counting, his fingers springy and agile. He totalled the day, scratched with his pen on a piece of paper, put the paper and the notes in his pocket, closed the till and locked it. Then he walked slowly through to the back room, opened another door, and was in a tiny room which was comfortably furnished. Matt Duncan was opening a can of beer.
'It's grand to have a beer these nights,' he said, handing the can to Patterson.
George Patterson sat down. He knew that Matt Duncan was a bit of a rogue, but he was an old friend. Patterson did not have many friends. He rejected invitations the way other men refused to play with their children. Yet he had known Matt Duncan, who was five years older than him, since his schooldays. Only in the past five or so years, however, had they become good friends. Both had bitter pasts to complain about, and both had patient ears as long as they knew that their own complaints would be listened to eventually.
Patterson watched the foxy old man sink into an ancient armchair. The room contained two armchairs, a small writing desk, and a fridge. The beer had been kept in the fridge. It was chilled, and the bubbles caused Patterson to burp silently and often. It was gassy stuff this; not the same as you got in the pub. Eventually they would go out to the pub, but it was nice to sit and talk together first.
'Weather turned stormy today,' said Matt Duncan.
'Aye,' said Patterson, 'but not before time. It's been a good few weeks since we had some rain. I could see the paper bags and rubbish blowing about outside, just like tumbleweeds in a Western.'
They both chuckled, sharing as they did a liking for old cowboy films. Duncan liked novels about the West, too, but George Patterson found them banal. They did not discuss these novels in case they should argue. Neither could afford to lose the other, though neither really knew why.
'It was terrible. I got caught in the rain as I was going down to the bookie's.'
'Win anything today, Matt?'
Duncan's face screwed in disgust. 'Not a bloody thing,' he said. 'But Dod Mathieson, a man that's not needing money, he won naturally.' His voice was bitter. He hated the man who had won. Td like to know how he manages to win
so bloody much and I lose. I think he's in on some game with the manager of that shop. They're always gassing together, yet the bugger would hardly give me the time of day. Aye, there's something funny there all right. You take my word for it.'
Patterson shook his head in sympathy. Yes, the world seemed cruel to Matt Duncan. The grass was always greener. You lose a son, you lose your job. You've lost everything, and you're bitter. Patterson was not himself a bitter man, not really. He fed on guilt instead. He was, he knew, worse off than Matt Duncan, for he could not reveal his guilt, though often he had come close. Poor Hugh. What good had it all been? He had to feed perpetually on his shame, with no one knowing. Well, hardly anyone.