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.’Rachel had ignored him.‘It smells as though something had died in it.’ She had addressed the bad news to Larry alone.The children will be into the pond there for sure.’Her husband’s expression had hardened then.And she remembered too late that he was a country boy, country-bred, and she had known then that resistance was in vain.‘Well, darling—‘ For an instant he had looked up at the ancient beam above him, with a mixture of love and bitterness, because his ownership of it was to be so brief ‘—well then … they’ll just have to do what they’re told, and keep away from it.It can’t be more dangerous than London, any day of the week, anyway.’That had made it certain, even though they were a partnership of equal partners.But then he had made it easier by twisting one of his smiles at her, which she could never resist.‘I’ll talk to Chris, darling—don’t worry.And … while we’re here … you can look for another place, without a pond—eh?’But with a five-hundred-year-old beam, eh? she had thought lovingly, understanding that he felt he was coming home at last, even if only temporarily here, but at least away from his hated asphalt jungle in Highbury.But, very strangely, it hadn’t been like that at all.Or, at first, it had been—‘Mummy, Mummy!’ Mel had cried, as she came down the back stair into the kitchen that first morning.‘There’s an old cottage in the trees down there—‘ She pointed vaguely in the fatal direction.‘What, darling?’ Rachel had pretended not to hear.Larry looked up from his yesterday’s paper, which he hadn’t got round to reading in the chaos of their arrival.‘That’s the old Griffin place,’ he had said, matter-of-fact and ready to fulfil his promise as Chris arrived breathlessly behind his sister.‘It’s part of our property.But it’s only a ruin.’ He had looked down at his paper again.‘An old lady named “Griffin” was the last occupant.That’s why it’s called “the old Griffin place”.’Chris had sat down without a word.And, as Chris played his cards close to his chest even then, that meant that Chris had his plans worked out.‘Was she a witch?’ inquired Mel.‘It looks like a witch’s cottage, Daddy—it’s … yrrch!’Chris had considered the choice between cornflakes and muesli with ostentatious innocence.‘There are no such things as witches,’ he admonished his sister.Then he had selected the cornflakes.‘Can I have two boiled eggs, Mother?’Rachel knew her son almost as well as she knew her husband.So she had waited for his next move.And Chris had waited too until the second egg.‘I think I’ll go down and have a look at it,’ he addressed no one in particular.‘Is that okay, Father?’‘What?’ Melanie, at the age of six, didn’t know anyone very well, but she knew her brother better than anyone else.‘Me too!’Larry looked up from his paper.‘Not just you—all of us, Chris.’ He grinned at Rachel, then at Melanie, and finally at Chris.‘After the washing-up we’ll go down and look at old Mrs Griffin’s cottage.And then we’ll make the rules.Okay?’And it had been much better than Rachel had expected, after Larry had slashed his way through all the obstacles with a terrifying weapon he had acquired from somewhere, which looked as though it had last been carried by an angry sans-culotte in the French Revolution.So, finally, they had reached the mouldering wreck of old Mrs Griffin’s home: all the paraphernalia of a humble, long-lost and once-upon-a-time existence had still been there, among the nettles and fallen bricks and timbers, and the coarse-leafed growth: broken chairs and smashed furniture, the bits of an immense iron bedstead; the shards of crockery, and bottles and broken bottles—bottles everywhere—and the rusty evidence of tinned food—tins of every shape and size, mixed with rusty springs from an antique armchair mouldering on the edge of the pond.‘What’s this?’ Melanie held up half of a chamber-pot by its handle.‘Is it for fruit salad?’‘I’ll have this, for my bedroom,’ Chris, eagle-eyed, held up a pewter candle-stick.But then he’d looked at his father.‘Father—let’s go back now.’Larry looked at his son.‘What’s the matter?’‘I don’t like the smell.’ Chris had balanced himself on a sheet of corrugated iron.‘It smells like … I don’t know what—drains, maybe?’‘Yyyrrrch!’ Melanie threw her half-chamber-pot into the pond, raising oily circles of water, to disturb clouds of insects.‘Drains!’‘Let’s go back,’ Chris had repeated his demand.‘This is a beastly place.’‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie.‘And … I bet she was a witch—old Mrs Griffin!’So they had gone back [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]