Black Harvest by Ann Pilling Page A

had it as babies. All it did was knock you out for a bit, so Dad and I could get some sleep. It doesn’t really cure anything.”
    “What are we going to do, Mum?” Colin asked. “And what about Jessie? You said you’d ask him about her.”
    “I know,” Mrs Blakeman said wearily. “But how could I? Oh, I just don’t know. Perhaps Mr O’Malley’s got something we could dose her with, but I don’t like to keep running up there. I must speak to your father tomorrow. Somebody’s got to have a phone that works. Surely the whole of Ireland can’t be cut off? Anyway, I think I’ll have a bath. Can you copewith Alison, between you? I don’t think I can stand much more of her today.”
    She would have a good long soak, and a think. Then she’d make another pot of tea. When in doubt, have a bath and a cup of tea. She knew the baby would start yelling the minute she went through the door, but she still shut it firmly. Then she locked herself in the bathroom. There were now two closed doors and the running taps between her and the baby.
    Prill had been watching Oliver closely. He obviously couldn’t stand it when Alison cried. For a while he stared at her intently, his face white and tense, his strange, large eyes goggling, then he stood up suddenly, unstrapped her from the high chair and took her in his arms.
    “I hate it when she cries, Prill, I just can’t stand it,” he whispered, walking round and round the kitchen table, making soothing noises. His shoulders were shaking. Prill looked at Colin but he just shrugged in embarrassment.
    She went up to them. His face was hidden against Alison’s sticky babygro, but she knew he was crying. “Oliver, don’t. It’s all right, honestly. She cries a lot sometimes. Don’t get upset.”
    “I can’t bear it somehow.”
    “Look,” Colin said, trying to be practical. “We’ve got these now, this stuff may do the trick.” But nobody believed him. He didn’t believe it himself.
    To everyone’s surprise Alison had stopped crying. She began making little cooing noises and pulling at Oliver’s hair. “Huh, she won’t shut up for me,” Colin said enviously. But he was glad really. Oliver went up half a notch in hisestimation, he was gentle with Alison.
    They all sat round the table with the baby on Oliver’s knee. He rubbed his eyes. “I think your mother should take her to a hospital,” he said firmly.
    Prill was shocked. “But why, Oll? What could they do? Don’t you think it’s just a mood she’s in? I mean, she’s not got a high temperature, and she’s eating.”
    “I think she may be starving.”
    “Oh, come on, that’s just ridiculous,” Colin exploded.
    “No it isn’t,” Oliver said patiently. “There is an illness, I don’t know what it’s called and it’s very rare, when whatever you eat doesn’t do you any good. It’s something to do with your blood and things. You just lose weight, and—”
    “And what?”
    “What happens if they can’t get you better?” Prill asked anxiously.
    “You die.”
    “Oh, how on earth can that be right?” Colin was shouting. “How on earth do you know that?” But he was frightened.
    Oliver was maddeningly calm. “Don’t forget my mother was a nurse. She’s treated all kinds of people. When she worked on the intensive care unit at St Thomas’s—”
    “Yes, well, don’t let’s go into that,” Colin said curtly, “you’ve said enough for one day.”
    Prill was looking at Alison. “You’ve certainly done the trick with her, Oll, she’s actually smiling.”
    He was pleased. “Do you think she likes me?” He didn’t seem to notice how she was bending his fingers back, or making a wet patch on his knees.
    “Seems to.” In spite of everything, Prill was feeling better. They had misjudged Oliver, saying he was babyish, having quiet sniggers behind his back. Just in these last few minutes he seemed to have come over to their side. If her mother did go off tomorrow to find another doctor,