wall and climbed over into the garden, hoping to look in through the windows.
The windows were boarded up.
Panic washed over him. He hammered on one of the sealed windows with his fist.
‘Hey, Joe?
Joe
?’
There was no answer. He hammered again, calling Joe’s name. A piece of red flannel, bleached by the elements, was nailed to the window frame, but it looked old, finished, last year’s magic. Behind the house a screen of tall weeds – hemlock and wormwood and rosebay willowherb – hid the abandoned allotment.
Jay sat down on the wall, regardless of the rain which glued his T-shirt to his skin and dripped from his hair into his eyes. He felt completely numb. How could Joe have gone,he asked himself stupidly. Why hadn’t he said something? Written a note, even? How could Joe have gone without him?
‘Don’t take on, lad,’ called a voice behind him. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’
Jay whipped round so fast he almost fell off the wall. Joe was standing some twenty feet behind him, almost hidden from sight behind the tall weeds. He was wearing a yellow sou’wester on top of his pit cap. He had a spade in one hand.
‘Joe?’
The old man grinned.
‘Aye. What d’you think, then?’
Jay was beyond words.
‘It’s me permanent solution,’ explained Joe, looking pleased. ‘They’ve cut off me lectrics, but I’ve wired mesself up to bypass the meter, so I can still use em. I’ve bin diggin a well round back so I can do waterin. Come over and tell me what you think.’
As always, Joe behaved as if no time had passed, as if Jay had never been away. He parted the weeds which separated them and motioned the boy to follow him through. Beyond, the allotment was as ordered as it had always been, with lemonade bottles sheltering small plants, old windows arranged to make cold frames, and tyres stacked up for potato-planters. From a distance the whole thing might just have been the accumulated detritus of years, but come a little closer and everything was there, just as before. On the railway banking, fruit trees – some shielded with sheets of plastic – dripped rain. It was the best camouflage job Jay had ever seen.
‘It’s amazing,’ he said at last. ‘I really thought you’d gone.’
Joe looked pleased.
‘You’re not the only one that thinks that, lad,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Look down there.’
Jay looked down into the cutting. The signal box which had been Joe’s greenhouse was still standing, though in aState of dereliction; vines grew out of the punctured roof and tumbled down the peeling sides. The lines had been taken up and the sleepers dug out – all but the fifty-yard stretch between the box and Joe’s house, as if overlooked by some accident. Between the rust-red tracks weeds were sprouting.
‘Come next year no-one’ll even remember there were a railway down Pog Hill. Praps people’ll let us alone then.’
Jay nodded slowly, still speechless with amazement and relief.
‘Perhaps they will.’
19
Lansquenet, March 1999
THE AIR SMELT OF NIGHTFALL, BITTER-SMOKY, LIKE LAPSANG TEA , mild enough to sleep outside. The vineyard on the left was filled with noises: birds, frogs, insects. Jay could still see the path at his feet, faintly silvered with the last of the sunset, but the sun had left the face of the house and it was lightless, almost forbidding. He began to wonder whether he should have postponed his visit till the morning.
The thought of the long walk to the village dissuaded him. He was wearing boots, which had seemed like a good enough idea when he left London, but which now, after so many hours of travelling, had grown tight and uncomfortable. If he could only get into the house – from what he’d seen of security that wouldn’t be difficult – he could sleep there and make his way to the village in daylight.
It wasn’t as if he were trespassing, really. After all, the house was nearly his. He reached the vegetable patch. Something on the side of the
The windows were boarded up.
Panic washed over him. He hammered on one of the sealed windows with his fist.
‘Hey, Joe?
Joe
?’
There was no answer. He hammered again, calling Joe’s name. A piece of red flannel, bleached by the elements, was nailed to the window frame, but it looked old, finished, last year’s magic. Behind the house a screen of tall weeds – hemlock and wormwood and rosebay willowherb – hid the abandoned allotment.
Jay sat down on the wall, regardless of the rain which glued his T-shirt to his skin and dripped from his hair into his eyes. He felt completely numb. How could Joe have gone,he asked himself stupidly. Why hadn’t he said something? Written a note, even? How could Joe have gone without him?
‘Don’t take on, lad,’ called a voice behind him. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’
Jay whipped round so fast he almost fell off the wall. Joe was standing some twenty feet behind him, almost hidden from sight behind the tall weeds. He was wearing a yellow sou’wester on top of his pit cap. He had a spade in one hand.
‘Joe?’
The old man grinned.
‘Aye. What d’you think, then?’
Jay was beyond words.
‘It’s me permanent solution,’ explained Joe, looking pleased. ‘They’ve cut off me lectrics, but I’ve wired mesself up to bypass the meter, so I can still use em. I’ve bin diggin a well round back so I can do waterin. Come over and tell me what you think.’
As always, Joe behaved as if no time had passed, as if Jay had never been away. He parted the weeds which separated them and motioned the boy to follow him through. Beyond, the allotment was as ordered as it had always been, with lemonade bottles sheltering small plants, old windows arranged to make cold frames, and tyres stacked up for potato-planters. From a distance the whole thing might just have been the accumulated detritus of years, but come a little closer and everything was there, just as before. On the railway banking, fruit trees – some shielded with sheets of plastic – dripped rain. It was the best camouflage job Jay had ever seen.
‘It’s amazing,’ he said at last. ‘I really thought you’d gone.’
Joe looked pleased.
‘You’re not the only one that thinks that, lad,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Look down there.’
Jay looked down into the cutting. The signal box which had been Joe’s greenhouse was still standing, though in aState of dereliction; vines grew out of the punctured roof and tumbled down the peeling sides. The lines had been taken up and the sleepers dug out – all but the fifty-yard stretch between the box and Joe’s house, as if overlooked by some accident. Between the rust-red tracks weeds were sprouting.
‘Come next year no-one’ll even remember there were a railway down Pog Hill. Praps people’ll let us alone then.’
Jay nodded slowly, still speechless with amazement and relief.
‘Perhaps they will.’
19
Lansquenet, March 1999
THE AIR SMELT OF NIGHTFALL, BITTER-SMOKY, LIKE LAPSANG TEA , mild enough to sleep outside. The vineyard on the left was filled with noises: birds, frogs, insects. Jay could still see the path at his feet, faintly silvered with the last of the sunset, but the sun had left the face of the house and it was lightless, almost forbidding. He began to wonder whether he should have postponed his visit till the morning.
The thought of the long walk to the village dissuaded him. He was wearing boots, which had seemed like a good enough idea when he left London, but which now, after so many hours of travelling, had grown tight and uncomfortable. If he could only get into the house – from what he’d seen of security that wouldn’t be difficult – he could sleep there and make his way to the village in daylight.
It wasn’t as if he were trespassing, really. After all, the house was nearly his. He reached the vegetable patch. Something on the side of the
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