It was comforting to get back to the farmhouse, to shuck off his boots and go through the door into the warm kitchen. The table was laid for lunch, and Will sat there reading the paper, but he laid this aside when Oliver appeared.
“We thought you’d got lost.”
“I saw a dead rabbit.”
“Plenty of those around.”
“And a hawk hovering.”
“Little kestrel. I saw it too.”
Sarah, at the stove, ladled soup into bowls. As well, there was a dish of fluffy mashed potatoes and a loaf of wheaty brown bread. Oliver took a slice and buttered it, and Sarah sat opposite him, a bit away from the table because of her size.
“You found the shop all right?”
“Yes, and there was a man there, hugely tall, with red hair and a red beard. He was called Ben.”
“That’s Ben Fox. He rents a little house from Will up on the hill. You can see his chimney from the bedroom window.”
It sounded spooky. “What does he do?”
“He’s a wood carver. He’s got a workshop up there, does quite well. Lives on his own, save for a dog and a few chickens. There’s no track to his cottage, so he keeps his truck down on the road, carries everything he needs up on his back. Sometimes, if it’s heavy stuff, like a new cultivator, Will lends him the tractor, and in return he gives us a hand at lambing time, or hay making.”
Oliver, eating his soup, thought about this. It all sounded quite friendly and harmless, but did nothing to explain the coldness of those blue eyes, the unfriendliness of the man.
“If you like,” Will said, “I’ll take you up to meet him. One of my cows has got a passion for that bit of the hill, gets out and takes her calf up there at the drop of a hat. She’s up there now. Took off this morning. This afternoon I’ll have to fetch her back.”
“You’ll need to build up that wall,” Sarah pointed out.
“We’ll take a couple of posts and some fencing wire and see if we can make a good job of it.” He grinned at Oliver. “Like to do that, would you?”
Oliver did not answer at once. In truth, he was apprehensive of meeting Ben Fox again, and yet fascinated by the man. Besides, he could come to no harm if Will was there. He made up his mind. “Yes, I’d like it.” And Sarah smiled, and poured another ladleful of soup into his bowl.
* * *
Half an hour later they set off, with Will’s sheepdog at their heels. Oliver carried a roll of fencing wire, and Will a couple of sturdy fenceposts across his shoulder. A heavy hammer weighed down the pocket of his dungarees.
They made their way across the first pastures, climbing up towards the moor. At the top of the last field they came upon the gap in the wall, where the errant cow had knocked aside several stones in her determined efforts to get through. Here Will set down the posts and the hammer and the wire, then climbed the wall and led the way into the tangle of bracken and bramble that lay beyond. A tiny path, a warren, led through the undergrowth, scarcely visible through the thorny gorse bushes, but they came at last to the foot of the great cairns, steep as cliffs, which crowned the hill. Between two of these massive boulders, a narrow gully led them up to the summit, where the mossy turf was studded with outcrops of lichened granite and the cool, salty air, blown straight off the sea, filled Oliver’s grateful lungs. He saw the ocean to the north, the moor to the south; and the little house. They had come upon it almost by surprise. Single-storeyed, crouched against the elements, it snuggled into the natural hollow of the terrain. Smoke rose from a single chimney and there was a small garden, sheltered by a dry stone wall. By the wall, placidly munching, stood Will’s cow and her calf.
“You stupid animal,” Will told her. They left her, browsing and went around to the front of the house, where stood a spacious wooden shed with a corrugated iron roof. The door of this was open and from inside came the whine of a chain saw, and then a ferocious barking, and the next moment a great black and white dog bounded out at them, making a fearful racket, but not, Oliver was glad to realise, with the intention of doing anything worse.
Will stooped to greet the animal. The sound of the chain saw abruptly ceased. Presently Ben Fox himself appeared in the open doorway.
“Will.” That deep growl of a voice. “Come for a cow, have you?”
“Hope she’s done no damage.”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’ll fence the gap.”
“She’s better down in the pasture, might come to harm up here.” His eyes moved down to Oliver, who stood, with his face tipped up, staring.
“This is Sarah’s brother, Oliver,” Will told him.
“Met you this morning, didn’t I?”
“Yes. In the shop.”
“I didn’t realise who you were.” He turned back to Will. “Like a cup of tea?”
“If you’re making one.”
“Come on inside, then.”
They followed him through a gate in the wall, which was opened and then firmly latched shut behind them. The garden was neat and marvellously productive, filled with vegetables and little apple trees. Ben Fox toed off his boots and went indoors, ducking his great red head beneath the lintel, and Will and Oliver did likewise, stepping down into a room so unexpected that Oliver could only gaze in disbelief. For every wall was covered with bookshelves, and every shelf was crammed with books. As well as this, the furniture was surprising. A great big sofa, an elegant brocade chair, an expensive hi-fi with stacks of long-playing records. The plain wooden floor was scattered with rugs which Oliver thought beautiful and decided was probably precious. A fire burned in the cave of a fireplace, and on the granite slab of the mantelshelf stood an astonishing clock, gold and turquoise enamel, with its slowly turning mechanism visible through glass.
Everything, although cluttered, was nevertheless neat and ship-shape, and there was something of this neatness about Ben Fox, too, as he filled the kettle and plugged it in and reached for mugs and a jug of milk and a sugar bowl. The tea made, the three of them sat at the scrubbed table, and the men talked together, not including Oliver in their discussion. He sat, quiet as a mouse, taking surreptitious glances at his host’s face, in between sips of scalding tea. Looking at him, he was certain of mystery, baffled by those empty eyes.
When it came time to go, having contributed nothing to the conversation, he said, “Thank you.” The ensuing silence was disconcerting. He added, “For the tea.”
There was no smile. “You’re welcome,” said Ben Fox. That was all. It was time to go. They rounded up the cow and the calf and headed for home. Ben Fox watched them go. At the top of the hill, just before they descended into the gulley, Oliver turned to wave goodbye, but the bearded man had disappeared, and so had his dog, and as Oliver cautiously followed Will down the precipitous track, he heard the sound of the chain saw start up again.
* * *
As Will mended the gap in the wall, “Who is he?” Oliver asked.
“Ben Fox.”
“But don’t you know anything about him?”
“No, and I don’t want to, either, unless he chooses to tell me. A man has a right to privacy. Why should I pry?”
“How long has he lived here?”
“Couple of years.”
It seemed amazing that a man could be your close neighbour for two years, and still you know nothing about him.
“Perhaps he’s a criminal. On the run from the law. He could be. He looks like a pirate.”
“Never judge a man by his appearance,” said Will, shortly for him. “All I know is, he’s a craftsman, and he’s hardworking and seems to be making a living for himself. Pays his rent regularly. What more would I want to know about him? Now you hold the hammer and take this end of the wire…”
* * *
Later, he tried pumping Sarah, but she was no more informative than Will had been.
“Does he ever come and see you?” he wanted to know.
“No. We asked him for Christmas, but he said he was better on his own.
”
“Does he have friends?”
“Not close friends. But sometimes, you’ll see him in a pub on a Saturday night, and people seem to like him all right … he’s just very reserved.”
“Perhaps he’s got a secret.”
Sarah laughed. “Don’t we all?”
Perhaps he’s a murderer. The thought flashed across the back of his mind, but was too terrible to say aloud. “His house is full of books and precious things.”
“I think he’s a cultured man.”
“Perhaps they’re loot.”
“I doubt it.”
She maddened him. “But, Sarah, don’t you want to know?”
“Oh, Oliver.” She rumpled his hair. “Leave poor Ben Fox be.”
* * *
That night, as they sat by the fire, the wind began to get up. Gently at first, whining and whistling, and then with a greater force, roaring up the valley, striking the thick walls of the old house in great thumps and clouts. Windows rattled and curtains stirred. When he went to bed, Oliver lay for some time and listened, awestruck, to its fury. Every so often there would be a lull, and then he could hear the murmurous roar of the sea breaking against the cliffs beyond the village.
He imagined the monstrous rollers, surging in; thought of the dead rabbit and the hovering hawk and all the terrors of this primaeval countryside. He thought of the little house, high and exposed on the top of the hill, and Ben Fox inside it, with his dog and his books and his unsmiling eyes and his secret. Perhaps he’s a murderer. He shivered and rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over his ears, but nothing could keep out the sound of the wind.
* * *
The next morning the storm had not abated. The farmyard lay littered with blown debris and one or two smashed slates that had been torn from the steading roof, but the damage was not instantly visible because the wind had brought rain on its wings, a thick driving mist that blurred and blotted out all visibility. It was like being marooned in a cloud.
“Dirty morning,” said Will at breakfast. He was dressed in his good suit and a collar and tie because he was going to market. Oliver went to the door to watch him leave, driving the truck so that Sarah could have the use of the car. As the truck bumped over the cattle grid of the first gateway, it disappeared, swallowed into the murk. Oliver shut the door and went back into the kitchen.
“What do you want to do with yourself?” Sarah asked him. “I’ve got some drawing paper and new felt pens for you. Bought them in case of a rainy day.”
But he didn’t feel much like drawing. “What are you going to do?”
“A bit of baking.”
“Rock buns?” He was very fond of Sarah’s rock buns.
“I’ve run out of dried fruit.”
“I could go to the shop and get some.”
She smiled down at him. “Wouldn’t you mind, walking all that way in this fog?”
“No, I’ll be all right.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to do. But put on your oilskin and your boots.”
* * *
With her purse in his pocket, and his oilskin buttoned up to his neck, he set off, feeling adventurous—like an explorer—and exhilarated by the force of the wind. It was against him, so that he had sometimes to lean against it, and it drenched him in mist so that in no time his hair was plastered to his head and there was an ominous trickle of water down the back of his neck. The ground beneath his feet was heavy with mud and littered with torn bracken, and when he reached the first bridge and paused to lean over, he saw the swollen brown waters of the stream, pouring in a torrent down towards the sea.
It was very exhausting. To cheer himself on, he thought of the return journey when he would at least have the wind at his back. Perhaps Mr. Thomas would give him another bar of chocolate to munch on the way home.
But as it happened, he never got to the village or the shop. Because when he came to the bend of the lane where the oak tree stood, he could go no further. The old tree, after centuries, had succumbed at last to the wind; had been torn up by the roots, and lay in a confusion of massive trunk and shattered limbs across the road, its topmost branches tangled inextricably with the broken wires of the telephone line.
It was an awesome sight. But what frightened him more was the knowledge that this disaster could only just have happened, for Will had got through in his truck. It could have fallen on me. He had a vision of himself, trapped beneath that monstrous trunk, dead as the rabbit, for no living being could survive such a horrible fate. His mouth was dry. He swallowed the lump in his throat, shivered with a sudden chill, and then turned and ran all the way home.
* * *
“Sarah!”
But she was not in the kitchen.
“Sarah!” He had pulled off his boots, was fumbling with the toggles of his streaming oilskin.
“I’m in the bedroom.”
He raced upstairs in stockinged feet. “Sarah, the oak tree’s fallen across the road. I couldn’t get to the village. And…” He stopped. Something was wrong. Sarah, still fully dressed, lay across the bed, her hand over her eyes, her face very pale. “Sarah?” Slowly, she took her hand away, her eyes met his; she managed a smile. “Sarah, what is it?”
“I … was making the bed. And I … Oliver, I think I’ve started the baby.”
“Started…? But you’re not meant to have it for another two weeks.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Are you sure?”
After a little she said, “Yes, I’m sure. Perhaps we should ring the hospital.”
“We can’t. The tree’s broken the telephone line.”
The road blocked. The telephone dead. And Will far away in Truro. They looked at each other in a silence fraught with apprehension and dismay.
He knew he must do something. “I’ll get to the village. I’ll climb through the tree, or go round by the moor.”
“No.” She was herself again, blessedly in charge. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “That would take too long.”
“Is the baby coming soon?”
She managed a grin. “Not immediately. I’ll be all right for a bit. But I don’t think we should waste any time.”
“Then tell me what to do.”
“Fetch Ben Fox,” Sarah told him. “You can find the way, you went yesterday with Will. Tell him to come and help us—and he’ll need to bring his chain saw for the tree.”
Fetch Ben Fox. Oliver gazed in horror at his sister. Fetch Ben Fox … go alone, up the hill, in the fog, to fetch Ben Fox. He wondered if she had any idea of what she was asking of him. But as he stood there, she pulled herself cautiously to her feet, placing her hands around the great curve of her abdomen, and he knew a strange surge of protectiveness, as though he were not a boy but a grown man.
He said, “You’ll be all right?”
“Yes. I’ll maybe make a cup of tea and sit down for a bit.”
“I’ll be as fast as I can. I’ll run all the way.”
* * *
He thought of taking Will’s sheepdog with him, but the sheepdog was a one-man animal and would not leave the farmyard, so he had to set off on his own, heading for the fields across which, yesterday, he and Will had made their way. Despite the fog, the first bit was not difficult, and without much delay he found the gap in the wall where they had fixed the makeshift fence, but once he had scrambled over this and into the tangle of undergrowth that lay beyond, he was in trouble. The wind up here seemed fiercer than ever, the rain even colder. It drove into his eyes, blinding him, and he could not find the path, could not see beyond the end of his nose. All sense of distance and direction were lost. Brambles tripped him up, gorse tore at his legs, and more than once he slipped in the mud and fell, painfully bruising his knees. But somehow he struggled on, always climbing. He told himself that all he had to do was get to the top; after that it would be easy. He would find Ben Fox’s house. He would find Ben Fox.
After what seemed like an eternity he re
alised that he had reached, at last, the base of the rocks. He put up his hands and leaned against the solid wall of granite, wet and cold and steep as a cliff. The path, yet again, had disappeared, and he knew that he had to find the gulley. But how? Out of breath, waist-deep in gorse, lost, he was all at once filled with a panic that was magnified by his own loneliness and hopeless sense of urgency, and he heard himself, like a baby, whimpering. He bit his lip, closed his eyes and thought hard, and then, keeping close to the rock, edged his way around its base. After a little, it began to curve inwards, and peering upwards, he saw the two flanks of the gulley rearing up towards the low, flying grey sky.
With a sob a relief he began to scramble, on all fours, up the steep track. He was dirty, muddy, bleeding, and wet, but he had found the way. He was on the summit and he could not see the house, but he knew that it was there. He began to run, stumbled, fell, got up and ran on. Then the dog began to bark, and out of the mist emerged the line of the roof, the chimney, the light in the window.
He was at the wall, the garden gate. As he struggled with the latch, the front door was opened, and light and the barking dog poured out towards him, and Ben Fox stood there.
“Who’s that?”
He went up the path. “It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
Incoherent, breathless, weak with relief, Oliver began to gabble.
“Now, take a deep breath. You’re all right.” Holding Oliver’s shoulders, he squatted before him, so that their eyes were level. “What’s happened?”
Oliver took the deep breath and let it all out again, and told him. When he had finished, Ben Fox, surprisingly, did not leap immediately into action. He said, “And you found your way up the hill?”