it was reassuring to think of Oliver being there. The thought of it actually comforted her.
Chapter Thirteen
I T WAS VERY hot when they went to bed, but there was thunder around and no one could sleep. Colin and Prill lay sweating under damp sheets, and all the doors and windows were open to bring the temperature down. Oliver was in his usual cocoon of bedding, breathing steadily, with his face to the wall. Colin envied him, not knowing he was wide awake listening to Alison crying.
They were all hungry. Prill had brought nothing back from Mooneys’ Stores so Mrs Blakeman had made do with what was left, three very small eggs, a heel of bread, and the rest of the frozen chips. After that there were two wrinkled apples to share out. Colin was ravenous. He’d always said it looked disgusting but he really believed he could have eaten a jar of Alison’s baby food. The only other food in the house was dog meat, about a dozen tins of it, in one of the kitchencupboards. Because of Jessie’s lack of interest the supply was going down extremely slowly.
Oliver wasn’t thinking about meals. Under the bedclothes his hands were clapped over his ears again, anything to muffle the baby’s crying. It could never have been as bad as this before. Auntie Jeannie was forever getting up, walking about with her and going back to bed again. He did feel sorry for her.
At one in the morning a storm broke over the bungalow. The thunder was ear-splitting and as it rolled and crashed over the sky the baby cried quite hopelessly, and louder than ever. Prill didn’t like storms either and the rain was coming into her room. She got up and closed the windows. The lightning was like an arc lamp, splashing the small field with a second’s jagged light before it plunged her back into the hot, airless dark.
The field was empty. The picture of that wasted, ragged creature clawing soil into her mouth then wordlessly screaming at her, close at hand, was carved deeply into Prill’s memory. But Father Hagan could be right. She did have a vivid imagination; Mrs Pollock was always telling her that in English lessons. Perhaps that, and the feverishness, and something she’d read… But Prill could no longer distinguish between what she actually saw and heard and the strange tricks her mind was playing on her. So much had happened.
The baby’s pain was real enough. They were all awake and they all heard it. As the storm raged over their heads, that voice said everything. Their fear was in it, and their pain, andtheir sense of loneliness. Oliver found it unbearable. He felt he might suddenly get up and quietly strangle Alison if she didn’t stop crying, and yet he wanted to comfort her too. It was the most heartrending cry he had ever heard.
When daylight came Colin got up first, feeling very light-headed. It was the effect of sleeplessness and very little food. Instinctively he made his way to the kitchen for something to eat, but someone was there already. The door was open a crack, and he could hear noises.
Something told him not to burst in so he nudged the door open with his foot. He could hear Alison growling bad-temperedly. “Na… na…” she was moaning, and pushing a spoon away from her mouth. Then he heard his mother’s voice. She was crying.
Colin stepped back. He’d only seen her in tears once before, when Grandpa Blakeman died; they had been very fond of each other. Now he was appalled, not because he thought mothers had no right to cry, but because of what it meant, here, in this strange house, all on their own, without his father.
She had become a different person in the last few days. Dad was the moody one, given to fits of bad temper and the occasional rage. Mum was much calmer. She always coped in a crisis.
But now she was withdrawing from them; she seemed unable to make her mind up about anything. One minute she was all for getting Dad back, the next she was off the idea and seemed perfectly happy to stay where she was. All
Chapter Thirteen
I T WAS VERY hot when they went to bed, but there was thunder around and no one could sleep. Colin and Prill lay sweating under damp sheets, and all the doors and windows were open to bring the temperature down. Oliver was in his usual cocoon of bedding, breathing steadily, with his face to the wall. Colin envied him, not knowing he was wide awake listening to Alison crying.
They were all hungry. Prill had brought nothing back from Mooneys’ Stores so Mrs Blakeman had made do with what was left, three very small eggs, a heel of bread, and the rest of the frozen chips. After that there were two wrinkled apples to share out. Colin was ravenous. He’d always said it looked disgusting but he really believed he could have eaten a jar of Alison’s baby food. The only other food in the house was dog meat, about a dozen tins of it, in one of the kitchencupboards. Because of Jessie’s lack of interest the supply was going down extremely slowly.
Oliver wasn’t thinking about meals. Under the bedclothes his hands were clapped over his ears again, anything to muffle the baby’s crying. It could never have been as bad as this before. Auntie Jeannie was forever getting up, walking about with her and going back to bed again. He did feel sorry for her.
At one in the morning a storm broke over the bungalow. The thunder was ear-splitting and as it rolled and crashed over the sky the baby cried quite hopelessly, and louder than ever. Prill didn’t like storms either and the rain was coming into her room. She got up and closed the windows. The lightning was like an arc lamp, splashing the small field with a second’s jagged light before it plunged her back into the hot, airless dark.
The field was empty. The picture of that wasted, ragged creature clawing soil into her mouth then wordlessly screaming at her, close at hand, was carved deeply into Prill’s memory. But Father Hagan could be right. She did have a vivid imagination; Mrs Pollock was always telling her that in English lessons. Perhaps that, and the feverishness, and something she’d read… But Prill could no longer distinguish between what she actually saw and heard and the strange tricks her mind was playing on her. So much had happened.
The baby’s pain was real enough. They were all awake and they all heard it. As the storm raged over their heads, that voice said everything. Their fear was in it, and their pain, andtheir sense of loneliness. Oliver found it unbearable. He felt he might suddenly get up and quietly strangle Alison if she didn’t stop crying, and yet he wanted to comfort her too. It was the most heartrending cry he had ever heard.
When daylight came Colin got up first, feeling very light-headed. It was the effect of sleeplessness and very little food. Instinctively he made his way to the kitchen for something to eat, but someone was there already. The door was open a crack, and he could hear noises.
Something told him not to burst in so he nudged the door open with his foot. He could hear Alison growling bad-temperedly. “Na… na…” she was moaning, and pushing a spoon away from her mouth. Then he heard his mother’s voice. She was crying.
Colin stepped back. He’d only seen her in tears once before, when Grandpa Blakeman died; they had been very fond of each other. Now he was appalled, not because he thought mothers had no right to cry, but because of what it meant, here, in this strange house, all on their own, without his father.
She had become a different person in the last few days. Dad was the moody one, given to fits of bad temper and the occasional rage. Mum was much calmer. She always coped in a crisis.
But now she was withdrawing from them; she seemed unable to make her mind up about anything. One minute she was all for getting Dad back, the next she was off the idea and seemed perfectly happy to stay where she was. All
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