The Death of Grass

TEN

Pirrie walked with John for a time when they set out again; Jane, at a gesture from Pirrie, walked a demure ten paces in the rear. John had taken, as Joe Ashton had done, the head of the column, which now ran to the impressive number of thirty-four—a dozen men, a dozen women, and ten children. John had appointed four men to accompany him at the head of the column and five to go with Roger at the rear. In the case of Pirrie, he had made specific his roving commission. He could travel as he chose.

As they went down the road into the valley, separated somewhat from the other men, John said to him:

“It turned out very well. But it was taking a bit of a chance.”

Pirrie shook his head. “I don’t think so. It would have been taking a chance not to have killed him—and a rather long one. Even if he could have been persuaded to let you run things, he could not have been trusted.”

John glanced at him. “Was it essential that I should run things? After all, the only important thing is getting to Blind Gill.”

“That is the most important thing, it is true, but I don’t think we should ignore the question of what happens after we get there.”

“After we get there?”

Pirrie smiled. “Your little valley may be peaceful and secluded, but it will have defences to man, even if relatively minor ones. It will be under siege, in other words. So there must be something like martial law^{136}, and someone to dispense it.”

“I don’t see why. Some sort of committee, I suppose, with elected members, to make decisions… surely that will be enough?”

“I think,” Pirrie said, “that the day of the committee is over.”

His words echoed the thoughts that John himself had felt a short while before; for that reason, he replied with a forcefulness that had some anger in it:

“And the day of the baronn is back again? Only if we lose faith in our own ability to cope with things democratically.”

“Do you think so, Mr Custance?” Pirrie stressed the “Mr” slightly, making it clear that he had noticed that, following the killing of Joe Ashton, the expression had somehow become a title. Except to Ann, and Roger and Olivia, John had now become Mr Custance; the others were known either by Christian names or surnames. It was a small thing, but not insignificant Would Davey, John wondered, be Mr in his turn, by right of succession? The straying thought annoyed him.

He said curtly: “Even if there has to be one person in charge of things at the valley, that one will be my brother. It’s his land, and he’s the most competent person to look after it.”

Pirrie raised his hands in a small gesture of mock resignation. “Exit the committee,” he said, “unlamented. That is another reason why you must be in charge of the party that reaches Blind Gill. Someone else might be less inclined to see that point.”

They moved down into the valley, passing the signs of destruction, which had been evident from higher up but which here were underlined in brutal scoring. What refugees there were avoided them; they had no temptation to look to an armed band for help. Near the ruins of Sedbergh they saw a group, of about the same number as their own, emerging from the town. The women were wearing what looked like expensive jewellery, and one of the men was carrying pieces of gold plate. Even while John watched, he threw some of it away as being too heavy. Another man picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and dropped it again with a laugh. They went on, keeping to the east of John’s band, and the gold remained, gleaming dully against the brown grassless earth.

From an isolated farm-house, as they struck up towards the valley of the Lune, they heard a screaming, high-pitched and continuous, that unsettled the children and some of the women. There were two or three men lounging outside the farm-house with guns. John led his band past, and the screams faded into the distance.

The Blennitts’ perambulator had been abandoned when they left the road on the outskirts of Sedburgh, and their belongings distributed among the six adults in awkward bundles. The going was clearly harder for them than for any of the others, and they made no secret of their relief when John called a halt for the day, high up in the Lune valley, on the edge of the moors. The rain had not returned; the clouds had thinned into cirrus^{137}, threading the sky at a considerable height Above the high curves of the moors to westward, the threads were lit from behind by the evening sun.

“We’ll tackle the moors in the morning,” John said. “By my reckoning, we aren’t much more than twenty-five miles from the valley now, but the going won’t be very easy. Still, I hope we can make it by tomorrow night For tonight—he gestured towards a house with shattered windows that stood on a minor elevation above them—“… that looks like a promising billet Pirrie, take a couple of men and reconnoitre it, will you?”

Pirrie, without hesitation, singled out Alf Parsons and Bill Riggs, and they accepted his selection with only a glance for confirmation at John. The three men moved up towards the house. When they were some twenty yards away, Pirrie waved them down into the cover of a shallow dip. Taking leisurely aim, he himself put a shot through an upstairs window. They heard the noise of the rifle, and the tiny splintering of glass. Silence followed.

A minute later, the small figure of Pirrie rose and walked towards the house. Apart from the rifle hunched under his arm, he had the air of a Civil Service official making a perfunctory business call. He reached the door, which apparently he found to be ajar, and kicked it open with his right foot. Then he disappeared inside.

Once again John was brought up sharp with the realization of how formidable an opponent Pirrie would have been had his ambition been towards the conscious exercise of power, instead of its promotion in another. He was walking now, alone, into a house which he could only guess to be empty. If he had any nerves at all, it was difficult to envisage a situation in which they would be drawn taut.

From an upper window, a face appeared—Pirrie’s face—and was withdrawn again. They waited, and at last he came out of the front door. He walked back down the path, sedately, and the two men rose and joined him. He came back to where John was.

John asked him: “Well? O.K.?”

“Everything satisfactory. Not even bodies to dispose of. The people must have cleared off before the looters arrived.”

“It has been looted?”

“After a fashion. Not very professionally.”

“It will give us a roof for the night,” John said. “What beds there are will do for the children. The rest of us can manage on the floor.”

Pirrie looked round him in speculation. Thirty-four. It isn’t a very big house. I think Jane and I will risk the inclemency of the weather.” He nodded, and she came towards him, her rather stupid country face still showing no signs of anything but submission in the inevitable. Pirrie took her arm. He smiled. “Yes, I think we will.”

“Just as you like,” John said. “You can have a night off guard duty.”

“Thank you,” Pirrie said. “Thank you, Mr Custance.”

John found a room in the upper storey which had two small beds in it, and he called up Davey and Mary to try them. There was a bathroom along the landing, with water still running, and he sent them there with instructions to wash. When they had gone, he sat on a bed, gazing out of the window, which looked down the valley towards Sedbergh. A magnificent view. Whoever lived here had probably been very attached to it—an indication, if such were needed, that immaterial possessions were as insecure as material ones.

His brief musing was interrupted by Ann’s entry into the room. She looked tired. John indicated the other bed.

“Rest yourself,” he said. “I’ve sent the kids along to smarten themselves up.”

She stood, instead, by the window, looking out.

“All the women asking me questions,” she said. “Which meat shall we have tonight? … Can we use the potatoes up and rely on getting more tomorrow? … shall we cook them in their jackets or peel them first? … why me?”

He looked at her. “Why not?”

“Because if you like being lord and master, it doesn’t mean that I want to be the mistress.”

“You walked out on them, then?”

“I told them to put all their questions to Olivia.”

John smiled. “Delegating responsibility, as a good mistress should.”

She paused; then said: “Was it all necessary—joining up with these people, making ourselves into an army?”

He shook his head. “No, not all. The Blennitts certainly not—but you wanted them, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want them. It was just horrible, leaving the children. And I didn’t mean them—I meant the others.”

“With the Blennitts—just the Blennitts—the odds would have tipped further against our getting through to the valley. With these others, we’re going to make it easily.”

“Led by General Custance. And with the able assistance of his chief killer, Pirrie.”

“You underestimate Pirrie if you think he’s just a killer.”

“No. I don’t care how wonderful he is. He is a killer, and I don’t like him.”

“I’m a killer, too.” He glanced at her. “A lot of people are, who never thought they would be.”

“I don’t need reminding. Pirrie’s different.”

John shrugged. “We need him—until we get to Blind Gill.”

“Don’t keep saying that!”

“It’s true.”

“John.” Their eyes met. “It’s the way he’s changing you that’s so dreadful. Making you into a kind of gangster boss—the children are beginning to be scared of you.”

He said grimly: “If anything has changed me, it’s been something more impersonal than Pirrie—the kind of life we have to lead. I’m going to get us to safety, all of us, and nothing is going to stop me. I wonder if you realize how well we’ve done to get as far as this? This afternoon, with the valley like a battlefield—that’s only a skirmish compared with what’s happening in the south. We’ve come so far, and we can see the rest of the way clear. But we can’t relax until we’re there.”

“And when we get there?”

He said patiently: “I’ve told you—we can learn to live normally again. You don’t imagine I like all this, do you?”

“I don’t know.” She looked away, staring out of the window. “Where’s Roger?”

“Roger? I don’t know.”

“He and Olivia have had to carry Steve between them since you’ve been so busy leading. They dropped behind. The only place left for them to sleep, by the time they got to the house, was the scullery.”

“Why didn’t he come and see me?”

“He didn’t want to bother you. When you called Davey up, Spooks stayed behind. He didn’t think of coming with him, and Davey didn’t think of asking. That’s what I meant about the children becoming scared of you.”

John did not answer her. He went out of the room and called down from the landing:

“Rodge! Come on up, old man. And Olivia and the kids, of course.”

Behind him, Ann said, “You’re condescending now. I don’t say you can help it.”

He went to her and caught her arms fiercely.

“Tomorrow evening, all this will be over. I’ll hand things over to Dave, and settle down to learning from him how to be a potato and beef farmer. You will see me turn into a dull, yawning, clay-fingered old man—will that do?”

“If I could believe it will be like that…”

He kissed her. “It will be.”

Roger came in, with Steve and Spooks close behind him.

He said: “Olivia’s coming up, Johnny.”

“What the hell were you doing settling in the scullery?” John asked. “There’s plenty of room in here. We can put those beds together and get all the kids on them. For the rest of us, it’s a nice soft floor. Fairly new carpets in the bedrooms—our hosts must have been on the luxurious side. There are blankets in that cupboard over there.”

Even while he spoke, he recognized his tone as being too hearty, with the bluffness of a man putting inferiors at their ease. But there was no way of changing it The relationship between himself and Roger had changed on both sides, and it was beyond the power of them to return to the old common ground.

Roger said: That’s very friendly of you, Johnny. The scullery was all very nice, but it had a smell of cockroaches. You two, you can cut along and line up for the bathroom.”

From the window Ann said: “There they go.”

“They?” John asked. “Who?”

“Pirrie and Jane—taking a stroll before dinner, I imagine.”

Olivia had come into the room while Ann was talking. She started to say something and then, glancing at John, stopped. Roger said:

“Pirrie the Wooer. Very sprightly for his age.”

Ann said to Olivia: “You’re looking after the knives. See that Jane gets a sharp one when she comes in to supper, and tell her there’s no hurry to return it.”

“No!” The incisiveness had been involuntary; John moderated his voice: “We need Pirrie. The girl’s lucky to get him. She’s lucky to be alive at all.”

“I thought we could see our way now,” Ann said. “I thought tomorrow evening would see things back to normal. Do you really want Pirrie because he is essential to our safety, or have you grown to like him for yourself?”

“I told you,” John said wearily. “I don’t believe in taking any chances. Perhaps we won’t need Pirrie tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean that I take cheerfully to the idea of your egging the girl on to cut his throat during the night.”

“She may try,” Roger observed, “of her own accord.”

“If she does,” Ann asked, “what will you do, John—have her executed for high treason?”

“No. Leave her behind.”

Ann stared at him. “I think you would!”

Speaking for the first time, Olivia said: “He killed Millicent.”

“And we didn’t leave him behind?” With exasperation, John went on: “Can’t you see that fair shares and justice don’t work until you’ve got the walls to keep the barbarians out? Pirrie is more use than any one of us. Jane is like the Blennitts—a passenger, a drag. She can stay as long as she’s careful how she walks, but no longer.”

Ann said: “He really is a leader. Note the sense of dedication, most striking in the conviction that what he thinks is right because he thinks it.”

John said hotly: “It’s right in itself. Can you find an argument to refute it?”

“No.” She looked at him. “Not one that you would appreciate.”

“Rodge!” He appealed to him. “You see the sense in it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I see the sense.” Almost apologetically, he added: “I see the sense in what Ann says, too. I’m not blaming you for it, Johnny. You’ve taken on the job of getting us through, and you have to put that first. And it’s Pirrie who’s turned out to be the one you could rely on.”

He was about to reply argumentatively when he caught sight of their three faces, and memory was evoked by the way they were grouped. Some time in the past they had been in much the same positions—at the seaside, perhaps, or at a bridge evening. The recollection touched in him the realization of who he was and who they were—Ann, his wife, and Roger and Olivia, his closest friends.

He hesitated, then he said:

“Yes. I think I see it, too. Look—Pirrie doesn’t matter a damn to me.”

“I think he does,” Roger said. “Getting through matters to you, and so Pirrie does. It’s not just his usefulness. Once again, Johnny, I’m not criticizing. I couldn’t have handled the situation, because I wouldn’t have had the stamina for it. But if I had been capable of handling it, I would have felt the same way about Pirrie.”

There was a pause before John replied.

“The sooner we get there the better,” he said. “It will be nice to become normal again.”

Olivia looked at him, her shy eyes inquiring in her large placid face. “Are you sure you will want to, Johnny?”

“Yes. Quite sure. But if we had another month of this, instead of another day to face, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Ann said: “We’ve done beastly things. Some of us more so than others, perhaps, but all of us to some extent—if only by accepting what Pirrie’s given us. I wonder if we ever can turn our backs on them.”

“We’re over the worst,” John said. “The going’s plain and easy now.”

Mary and Davey came running in from the bathroom. They were laughing and shouting; too noisily.

John said: “Quiet, you two.”

He had not, he thought, spoken any differently from his custom. In the past, the admonition would have had little if any effect. Now both fell quiet, and stood watching him. Ann, and Roger and Olivia, were watching him, too.

He bent towards Davey. “Tomorrow night we should be at Uncle David’s. Won’t that be good, eh?”

Davey said: “Yes, Daddy.”

The tone was enthusiastic enough, but the enthusiasm was tempered by an undue dutifulness.

In the early hours of the morning, John was awakened by a rifle shot and, as he sat up, heard it replied to from somewhere outside. He sat up, reaching for his revolver, and called to Roger, hearing him grunt something in reply.

Ann said: “What’s that?”

“Nothing much, probably. A stroller, hoping for easy pickings, maybe. You and Olivia stay here and see to the children. We’ll go and have a look.”

The sentry’s duty was to patrol outside the house, but he found Joe Harris, whose turn it was, staring out of a front room window on the ground floor. He was a thin dark man, with a heavy stubble of beard. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, which shone into the house here.

“What’s happening?” John asked him.

“I seen ’em when I was outside,” Harris said. “Comin’ up the valley from Sedburgh way. I figured it might be best not to disturb ’em in case they was going right on up the valley, so I came on back into the house, and kept a watch from here.”

“Well?”

“They turned up towards the house. When I was certain they was coming this way, I had a crack at the bloke in front.”

“Did you hit him?”

“No. I don’t think so. Another one had a shot back, and then they went down among the shrubs. They’re still out there, Mr Custance.”

“How many?”

“It’s hard to say, in this light. Might have been a dozen—maybe more.”

“As many as that?”

“That’s why I was hoping they would go right through.”

John called: “Rodge!”

“Yes.” Roger was standing at the door of the room. There were others in the room as well, but they were keeping quiet.

“Are the others up?”

“Three or four out here in the hall.”

Noah Blennitt’s voice came from close behind John.

“Me and Arthur’s here, Mr Custance.”

John said to Roger: “Send one of them up to the back bedroom window to keep an eye open in case they try to work round that way. Then two each in the front bedrooms. Noah, you can take up your place at the other ground-floor window. I’ll give you time to get into position. Then when I shout we’ll let them have a volley. It may impress them enough to make them clear off. If it doesn’t, pick your own targets after that. We have the territorial advantage. Women and kids well away from the windows, of course.”

He heard them moving away, as Roger relayed the instructions to them. In the room beside him a child’s voice began to cry—Bessie Blennitt. He looked and saw her sitting up in an improvised bed; her mother was beside her, hushing her.

“I should take her round to the back,” he said. “It won’t be so noisy there.”

His own mildness surprised him. Katie Blennitt said:

“Yes, I’ll take her, Mr Custance. You come along, too, Wilf. You’ll be all right. Mr Custance is going to look after you.”

To the other woman, he said: “You might as well all go to the back of the house.”

He knelt beside Joe Harris. “Any sign of them moving yet?”

“I thought I saw summat. The shadows play you up.”

John stared out into the moonlit garden. There was no trace of cloud in a sky which was heavy with stars—fate playing tricks on both sides. The moonlight gave the defenders a considerable advantage, but if the cloud had held, the maurauders would probably have missed seeing the house, standing as it did apart and on a rise, altogether.

He thought a shadow moved, and then knew one did, not more than fifteen yards from the house. He cried very loudly:

“Now!”

Although he did not rate his chances of hitting anything with a revolver as very high, he took aim on the shadow that had moved, and fired through the open window. The volley that accompanied his shot was ragged but not unimpressive. He heard a cry of pain, and a figure spun round and fell awkwardly. John ducked to the side of the window in anticipation of the reply. There was a single shot, which seemed to splinter against the brickwork. After that, he could hear only a mumble of voices, and groaning from the man who had been hit.

The weight of fire-power must have come as an unpleasant surprise to them. They could not have expected an isolated house such as this to be held in force. Putting himself in the position of their leader, John reflected that his own concern, on stumbling on this kind of opposition, would have been to get his men out of the way with the least possible delay.

On the other hand, still retaining that viewpoint, he could see that there were snags. The moonlight certainly aided the defenders; and it was sufficiently bright to make good targets out of the attackers if they attempted any sudden disengagement. John peered up into the night sky, looking for cloud. If the moon were going to be obscured, it would be common sense for them to wait for it. But stars sparkled everywhere.

A further consideration must be that if the defenders could be overcome, the attackers stood to make a neat haul of arms, and possibly ammunition. Guns were worth taking risks for. And it was very probable that they had the advantage both in men and weapons.

It occurred to him that his show of force could have been tactically an error. Two or three rounds, instead of seven, might have been more likely to put them on the retreat Pirrie might… Pirrie, he remembered, was somewhere outside, enjoying his nuptials.

The children must have all awoken by now, but they remained quiet. He heard someone coming downstairs. Roger called to him softly:

“Johnny!”

He kept his eyes on the garden. “Yes.”

“What next?” There’s one fellow standing out like a sore thumb from up there. Can we start knocking them off, or do you want to give them a chance to blow?”

He was reluctant to be the one to open the firing again. They knew his strength now. Further firing would be an expenditure of valuable ammunition with no prospect of any practical benefits.

“Wait,” he said. “Give it a little longer.”

Roger said: “Do you think…?”

In the moonlight a shout rose: “Gi’e it ’em!” John ducked automatically as a volley of shots slammed against the house with a shivering protesting crash of splintered glass. From above he heard one of his own men reply.

He called to Roger: “All right. Get back upstairs, and tell them to use their discretion. If that gang change their minds and decide to pull out, let them go.”

This time one of the children had begun to cry, a frightened piercing wail. John felt far from optimistic as to the prospects of the attackers pulling out. They had presumably weighed the considerations as he had done, and decided their best chance lay in pressing the attack home.

While the new lull held, he called out into the garden:

“We don’t want any trouble. We’ll hold our fire if you clear off.”

He had taken the precaution of first flattening himself against the wall beside the window. Two or three shots thumped against the far wall of the room in answer. A man laughed, and he fired the revolver in the direction of the laugh. There was a rattle of sporadic fire, either way.

Watching intently, he saw a figure heave up out of the shadows, and fired again. Something sailed through the air, hit the side of the house, and dropped, not far from the window at which he and Joe Harris stood.

He shouted: “Down, Joe!”

The explosion shattered what glass was left in the window panes, but did no other damage. A rattle of fire issued from the house.

Grenades, he thought sickly—why had the possibility not occurred to him? A fair portion of the guns that were now scattered throughout the countryside had originated in army barracks, and grenades were obviously as useful. For that matter, the men themselves had very possibly been soldiers; their present unconcern had a professional air to it.

Without any doubt, grenades tipped the scales against the defenders. A few more might miss, as the first had done, but eventually they would get them into the house, silencing the rooms one by one. The situation had suddenly changed its aspect. With the valley so close, he was facing defeat, and death, almost certainly, for all of them.

He said urgently to Joe Harris: “Get upstairs and tell them to keep as continuous a fire on as they can. But aiming—not popping off wildly. As soon as they see someone lift his arm, slam everything at him. If we don’t keep the grenades out, we’ve had it.”

Joe said: “Right, Mr Custance.”

He did not seem particularly worried; either because he lacked the imagination to see what the grenades meant, or possibly owing to his faith in John’s leadership. Pirrie had done a good job in that respect, but John would have exchanged it for Pirrie beside him in the house. If any of the others scored a hit, under these conditions, it would be by a fluke; Pirrie would have picked off the vague moonlit shadows without much difficulty.

John fired again at a movement, and his shot was reinforced by shots from upstairs. Then from outside there was a swift concentrated burst directed towards one of the bedroom windows. Simultaneously, from another part of the garden, an arm rose, and a second grenade was lobbed through the air. It hit the side of the house again, and went off harmlessly. John fired at the point from which it had been thrown. There was a scatter of shots in different directions. In their wake came a cry which cut off half-way. The cry was from the garden. Someone had claimed another of the attackers.

It was encouraging, but no more than that It made little difference to the probabilities of the outcome. John fired another round, and dodged sideways as a shot crashed past him in reply. The people outside were not likely to be discouraged by a lucky shot or two from the house finding their marks.

Even when, after a further interchange of shots, he saw a grenade arm rise again, and then saw it slump back with the grenade unthrown, he could only see the incident as a cause for grim satisfaction—not for hope. Two seconds later, the grenade went off, and set off a riot of explosion that made it abundantly clear that whoever held it had been carrying other grenades as well. There were shouts from that part of the garden, and some cries of pain. John fired into the noise, and the others followed suit. This time there was no answer.

All the same, it was with both astonishment and relief that John saw figures detach themselves from the cover of the ground and run, keeping as low as possible, away down the slope towards the valley. He fired after them, as the others did, and tried to number them as they retreated. Anything between ten and twenty—and with one, possibly two or three, left behind.

Everyone came crowding into the room—the women and children along with the men. In the dim fight, John could see their faces, relieved and happy. They were all chattering. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard:

“Joe! You’ve got another half-hour on guard. We’re doubling up for the rest of the night. You’re on with him now, Noah. Jess will go with Roger afterwards, and Andy with Alf. I’ll take a turn myself with Will. And from now on, raise the alarm first—and start wondering what it might be afterwards.”

Joe Harris said: “You see, Mr Custance, I was hoping they would go on past.”

“Yes, I know,” John said. “The rest of us might as well get back to bed.”

Alf Parsons asked: “Any sign of Pirrie and his woman?”

He heard Olivia’s voice: “Jane—out there…”

“They will turn up,” he said. “Go on back to bed now.”

“If that lot fell over them, they won’t be turning up,” Parsons said.

John went to the window. He called: “Pirrie! Jane!”

They listened in silence. There was no sound from outside. The moonlight lay like a summer frost on the garden.

“Should we go and have a look for them?” Parsons asked.

“No.” John spoke decisively. “Nobody’s moving out of here tonight. For one thing, we don’t know how far those boys with the grenades have gone, or whether they have gone for good. Off to bed now. Let’s get out of this room first, and give the Blennitts a chance. Come on. We need to rest ourselves ready for tomorrow.”

They dispersed quietly, though with some reluctance. John walked upstairs with Roger, following behind Ann and Olivia and the children. He went into the upstairs cloakroom, and Roger waited for him on the landing.

Roger said: “I thought we’d had it for a time.”

“The grenades? Yes.”

“In fact, I think we were a bit lucky.”

“I don’t quite understand it. We were certainly lucky dropping that bloke while he still had the grenades. That must have shaken them quite a bit. But I’m surprised that it shook them enough to make them pack things in. I didn’t think they would.”

Roger yawned. “Anyway, they did. What do you think about Pirrie and Jane?”

“Either they had gone far enough away to be out of earshot, or else they were spotted and bought it^{138}. Those people weren’t bad shots. Not being in the house, they wouldn’t have had any protection.”

“They could have drifted out of earshot.” Roger laughed. “Along the paths of love.”

“Out of earshot of that racket? That would have brought Pirrie back.”

“There is another possibility,” Roger suggested. “Jane may have tucked a knife in her garter on her own account These ideas probably do occur to women spontaneously.”

“Where’s Jane, then?”

“She still might have run across our friends. Or she might have tumbled to the fact that she would be less than popular here if she came back with a story of having mislaid her new husband on her bridal night.”

“She’s got enough sense to know a woman’s helpless on her own now.”

“Funny creatures, women,” Roger said. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they do the sensible thing without hesitation. The hundredth time they do the other with the same enthusiasm.”

John said curiously: “You seem cheerful tonight, Rodge.”

“Who wouldn’t be, after a reprieve like that? That second grenade came within a couple of feet of pitching in at my window.”

“And you won’t be sorry if Pirrie has bought it, either from Jane or the grenade merchants.”

“Not particularly. Not at all, in fact. I think I’d be rather pleased, I told you—there’s been no need for me to get myself fixated^{139} on Pirrie. I haven’t had to run things.”

“Is that what you would call it—fixated?”

“You don’t find many Pirrie’s about. The pearl in the oyster—hard and shining and, as far as the oyster is concerned, a disease.”

“And the oyster?” John offered ironically: “The world as we know it.”

“The analogy’s too complicated. I’m tired as well. But you know what I mean about Pirrie. In abnormal conditions, invaluable; but I hope to God we aren’t going to live in those conditions for ever.”

“He was a peaceable enough citizen before. There’s no reason to think he wouldn’t have been once again.”

“Isn’t there? You can’t put a pearl back inside the oyster. I wasn’t looking forward to life in the valley with Pirrie standing just behind you, ready to jog your elbow.”

“In the valley, David’s boss, if anyone has to be. Not me, not Pirrie. You know that.”

“I’ve never met your brother,” Roger said. “I know very little about him. But he hasn’t had to bring his family and hangers-on through a world that breaks up as you touch it.”

“That doesn’t make any difference.”

“No?” Roger yawned again. “I’m tired. You turn in. It’s not worth my while for half an hour. I’ll just look in and see that the kids have bedded down.”

They stood together in the doorway of the room. Ann and Olivia were lying on blankets under the window; Ann looked up as she saw them standing there, but did not say anything. A shaft of moonlight extended to the double bed that had been created out of the two single ones. Mary lay curled up by the wall. Davey and Steve were snuggled in together, with one of Davey’s arms thrown across Steve’s shoulder. Spooks, his features strangely adult without his spectacles, was at the other side. He was awake also, staring up at the ceiling.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful for Pirrie,” Roger said. “But I’m glad we’ve found we can manage without him.”

In the new pattern of life, the hours of sleep were from nine to four, the children being packed off, when possible, an hour earlier, and sleeping on after the others until breakfast was ready. It began to be light during the last watch, which John shared with Will Secombe. He went out into the garden and examined the field of the skirmish. There was a man about twenty-five, shot through the side of the head, about fifteen yards from the house. He was wearing army uniform and had a jewelled brooch pinned on his chest. If the stones were diamond, as they appeared to be, it must have been worth several hundred pounds at one time.

There were tatters of army uniform on the other body in the garden. This one was a considerably more ugly sight; he had apparently been carrying grenades round his waist, and the first one had set them off. It was difficult to make out anything of what he had been like in life. John called Secombe, and they dragged both bodies well away from the house and shoved them out of sight under a clump of low-lying holly.

Secombe was a fair-haired, fair-skinned man; he was in his middle thirties but looked a good deal younger. He kicked a protruding leg farther under the holly, and looked at his hands with disgust.

John said: “Go in and have a wash, if you like. I’ll look after things. It will be time for reveille^{140} soon, anyway.”

Thanks, Mr Custance. Nasty job, that I didn’t see anything as bad as that during the war.”

When he had gone, John had another look round the environs of the house. The man who had had the grenades had had a rifle as well; it lay where he had lain, bent and useless. There was no sign of any other weapon; that belonging to the other corpse had presumably been taken away in the retreat.

He found nothing else, apart from two or three cartridge clips and a number of spent cartridge cases. He was looking for signs of Pirrie or Jane, but there was nothing. In the dawn light, the valley stretched away, without sign of life. The sky was still clear. It looked like a good day lying ahead.

He thought of calling again, and then decided it would be useless. Secombe came back out of the house, and John looked at his watch.

“All right. You can get them up now.”

Breakfast was almost ready and there were sounds of the children moving about when John heard Roger exclaim:

“Good God!”

They were in the front room from which John had directed operations during the night John followed Roger’s gaze out of the shattered window. Pirrie was coming up the garden path, his rifle under his arm; Jane walked just behind him.

John called to him: “Pirrie! What the hell have you been up to?”

Pirrie smiled slightly. “Would you not regard that as a delicate question?” He nodded towards the garden. “You cleared the mess up, then?”

“You heard it?”

“It would have been difficult not to. Did they land either of the grenades inside?” John shook his head. “I thought not.”

“They cleared off when things were beginning to get hot,” John said. “I’m still surprised about that.”

The side fire probably upset them,” Pirrie said.

“Side fire?”

Pirrie gestured to where, on the right of the house, the ground rose fairly steeply.

John said: “You were having a go at them—from there?”

Pirrie nodded. “Of course.”

“Of course,” John echoed. “That explains a few things. I was wondering who we had in the house who could hit that kind of target in that kind of light, and kill instead of just wounding.” He looked at Pirrie. “Then you heard me call you, after they had cleared off? Why didn’t you give me a hail back?”

Pirrie smiled again. “I was busy.”

They travelled easily and uneventfully that day, if fairly slowly. Their route now lay for the most part across the moors, and there were several places where it was necessary to leave the roads and cut over the bare or heathery slopes, or to follow by the side of one of the many rivers or streams that flowed down from the moors into the dales. The sun rose at their backs into a cloudless sky, and before midday it was too hot for comfort. John called an early halt for dinner, and afterwards told the women to get the children down to rest in the shade of a group of sycamores.

Roger asked him: “Not pressing on with all speed?”

He shook his head. “We’re within reach now. We’ll be there before dark, which is all that matters. The kids are fagged out.”

Roger said: “So am I.” He lay back on the dry, stony ground, and rested his head on his hands. “Pirrie isn’t, though.”

Pirrie was explaining something to Jane, pointing out over the flat lands to the south.

“She won’t knife him now,” Roger added. “Another Sabine woman^{141} come home to roost I wonder what the little Pirries will be like?”

“Millicent didn’t have any children.”

“Conceivably Pirrie’s fault, but more probably Millicent’s. She was the kind of woman who would take care not to be burdened with kids. They would spoil her chances.”

“Millicent seems a long time ago,” John said.

The relativity of time. How long since I found you up in your crane? It seems something like six months.”

The moors had been more or less deserted, but when they descended to cross the lower land north of Kendal, they witnessed the signs, by now familiar, of the predatory animal that man had become: houses burning, an occasional cry in the distance that might be either of distress or savage exultance, the sights and sounds of murder. And another of their senses was touched—here and there their nostrils were pricked by the sour-sweet smell of flesh in corruption.

But their own course was not interrupted, and soon they began to climb again, up the bare bleak bones of the moors towards their refuge. Skylarks and meadow pipits could be heard in the empty arching sky, and for a time a wheatear ran along ahead of them, a few paces in front Once they sighted a deer, about three hundred yards off. Pirrie dropped to the ground to take careful aim on it, but it darted away behind a shoulder of the moor before he could fire. Even from that distance it looked emaciated. John wondered on what diet it had been surviving. Mosses, possibly, and similar plants.

It was about five o’clock when they came to the waters of the Lepe. It tumbled with the same swift urgency of pace that it had always had; here its course lay between rocky banks so that not even the absence of grass detracted from the evocation of its familiarity.

Ann stood beside John. She looked more calm and happier than she had done since they left London.

“Home,” she said, “at last.”

“About two miles,” John said. “But we’ll see the gateway in less than a mile. I know the river for several miles farther down. And a bit farther up you can get into the middle of the river, on stepping-stones. Dave and I used to fish from there.”

“Are there fish in the Lepe? I didn’t know.”

He shook his head. “We never caught any inside the valley. I don’t think they travel so far up. But down here there are trout.” He smiled. “We’ll send expeditions out and net them. We must have some variety in our diet.”

She smiled back. “Yes. Darling, I think I can really believe it now—that everything’s going to be all right—that we’re going to be happy and human again.”

“Of course. I never doubted it.”

“Dave’s stockade,” John said. “It looks nice and solid.”

They were in sight of the entrance to Blind Gill. The road squeezed in towards the river and the high timber fence ran from the water’s edge across the road to the steeply rising hillside. That part which covered the road looked as though it might open to form a gate.

Pirrie had come forward to walk with John; he too surveyed the fence with respect.

“An excellent piece of work. Once we are on the other…”

It was the crude anger of machine-gun fire that broke into his words. For a moment, John stood there, shocked. He called, more in bewilderment than anything else: “Dave!”

There was a second burst of fire, and this time he ran to get Davey and Mary. He shouted to the others: “Get into the ditch!” He saw that Mary was pulling Davey and Spooks down with her, and that Mary was already crouching in the ditch beside the road. He ran for it himself, and lay down beside them.

Mary said: “What’s happening, Daddy?”

“Where is it firing from?” Ann asked.

He pointed towards the fence. “From there. Did everyone get clear? Who’s that on the road? Pirrie!”

Pirrie’s small body lay stretched across the camber^{142} of the road. There was blood underneath him.

Ann caught hold of John as he began to rise. “No! You mustn’t. Stay where you are. Think of the children—me.”

“I’ll get him away,” he said. “They won’t fire while I’m getting him away.”

Ann held on to him. She was crying; she called to Mary, and Mary also grasped his coat. While he was trying to pull himself free, he saw that someone else had got up from the ditch and was running towards where Pirrie lay. It was a woman.

John stopped struggling, and said in amazement: “Jane!”

Jane put her hands under Pirrie’s shoulders and lifted him easily. She did not look at the fence where the gun was mounted.

She got one of his arms over her own shoulder and half dragged, half carried him to the ditch. She eased him down beside John and sat down herself, taking his head in her lap.

Ann asked: “Is he—dead?”

Blood was pouring from the side of his head. John wiped it away. The wound, he could see at once, was only superficial. A bullet had grazed his skull, with enough force to knock him over. There was an abrasion on the other side of his head, where he had probably hit the ground. It was very likely the fall which had knocked him unconscious.

John said: “He’ll live.” Jane looked up; she was crying. “Pass the word along to Olivia that we want the bandage,” John added. And a wad of lint.”

Ann stared from Pirrie to the fence barring the road. “But why should they fire at us? What’s happened?”

“A mistake.” John stared at the fence. “A mistake—we’ll sort it out easily enough.”