Читать книгу The Witch of Lagg - Ann Pilling - Страница 8

“You can go,” said Aunt Phyllis, “as long as you’re back by six. No, no, leave Alison with me. Don’t want any disasters. Now about the swimming—”

“Mother, we aren’t going swimming,” Oliver said impatiently. “I’ve told you, we just want to have a look at the beach, that’s all.”

“We saw it from Mr Grierson’s room,” added Prill. “It looks beautiful.”

“All right then.” Aunt Phyllis sounded distinctly put out. She’d decided to make them all tidy up their rooms before the evening meal. The Blakemans didn’t put anything away, and there were books all over Oliver’s bed. Still, it was a fine afternoon, and there may not be too many of those. Let them go to their beach. It’d be quieter anyway, with just the toddler to cope with.

Prill half ran there, partly because she was trying to keep up with Jessie, partly because she wanted to escape from Lagg’s woodlands and get by the sea. At least Grierson didn’t own that. When the two boys caught up with her she was standing quite still on the edge of the plantation. The trees were small here and many were half buried in fine sand. It was such an exposed stretch of coast Prill wondered how anything could survive for very long. Except on the calmest day the winds rushed across wildly and the currents were highly dangerous, according to Duncan, the tide creeping up quite without warning. There were ugly “No Swimming” notices all along the dunes, at lurching angles, like old gravestones.

Colin and Oliver came up behind and stared with her. Directly in front of them, stretching for miles on each side, were the most marvellous dunes. The sand was silver-white, so clean you could almost smell it, and moulded into great mounds and hollows by the endless wind that had made holes and dips and craters in it, like the surface of the moon.

Colin wished he was six again. He wanted to kick his shoes off and roll in those hollows, he wanted to tear away and hide, he wanted to run to the very tops and pelt down the sandy slopes and plop into the bottom like a baby. But Oliver’s eyes saw none of this. They were riveted on the stake.

“Let’s walk out to it,” he said in an odd, faraway voice. “Let’s get there before the tide comes in. I want to see it properly.”

“Oh, it’ll be hours before we need to worry about that,” said Colin, clambering down through the dunes and on to the flat of the beach. “It’s not turned yet, surely.”

“It has, you know, and it comes up quite suddenly just here. Your friend Duncan said so.” Oliver’s voice was sarcastic. He was a bit sick of hearing all about what Duncan Ross said and did. Colin so obviously preferred the Scots boy to him. “Come on Prill,” he called. She was still up on the dunes, throwing sticks to Jessie. “We don’t want to go back without seeing it.”

Prill came, reluctantly. It was a beautiful beach but the stake spoiled it. Unless you hid in one of the moon craters there was nowhere you could go without your eye catching it. Its knobbled blackness reared up, staining the pure sand, and made strange witchy shadows as the afternoon sun sank lower, and the first chill of the evening crept up on them.

“It’s much bigger than it looks,” said Oliver, crouching down, “Thicker as well as taller.” They were right up to the stake now, and wandering all round it. “And it’s pine, not oak,” he added, squinting at it.

“Grierson said it was oak,” Prill muttered, standing away from it. “Best oak from my own woodland,” she repeated. “That’s what he said.”

“Well, the first one must have been oak in that case,” said Oliver, taking a tape measure from his pocket. “But, if the site’s as old as people think, it must have been replaced several times.”

“How long has it been here then?” asked Colin.

“Oh, hundreds of years. I don’t know exactly. I’ve not researched it properly yet,” his cousin said self-importantly, measuring the girth of the trunk. “How tall do you think it is?”

Colin stood next to it. “Well, I’m five foot six, so I reckon … one … two … about eight feet, say eight and a half. But what’s it doing here? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Dunno. We can ask the Rosses. They look after it,” said Oliver, “according to Drac. It obviously marks some significant event though. Perhaps it was the scene of a fight or something. We’re quite near the English border here after all.” He pocketed his tape measure, folded his arms and stared at it thoughtfully. Prill had her back to the two boys and was leaning against the stake, staring out to sea.

“The tide is coming in,” she said dreamily. “Look, it’s filling all these little channels now. We’ll get our feet wet if we don’t budge.”

Colin suddenly whispered something to Oliver and the boy smiled, and dug in his pocket. A minute later poor Prill found herself grabbed from behind and tied securely to the old wooden stump with a green tape measure. The others were running off up the beach. Jessie was leaping about, pawing and slobbering all over her, and the tide was filling those deep channels faster and faster.

“Come back!” she screamed, tugging at the tape. “Don’t be so foul, you two. It’s not funny. This thing’s really tight … I’m getting wet. Oh, come on”

She didn’t want to do an Oliver and be a spoilsport, though it was rather typical of him to lend his tape measure for a trick he’d have hated himself. But Prill didn’t like it. The tide was coming in, and the bumps and knobbles of the slimy black stake were digging into her back. “Colin!” she yelled, starting to panic.

“All right, all right. Hang on Joan of Arc.” He came racing back. He knew Prill was rather thin-skinned about practical jokes. They were both ankle-deep in water now while the cowardly Oliver was striding off firmly towards the dunes. “Sorry,” he muttered, as Prill stood there crossly, lashed to the great wooden stump with her brother picking at the knots. “I didn’t mean to tie it quite so tightly … there.”

She was free, rubbing her wrists and trying to find a bit of sandbank to stand on, to escape from the swirling water. “Trying to drown me, were you? And listen to Oliver, he’s laughing at us. He’s an absolute pig. I’ll tie him up, next time.”

“Nobody’s laughing,” Colin said quietly. “Don’t over-react. He’s just embarrassed because it was his tape.”

“He is laughing,” Prill interrupted angrily, starting to run. “Just wait till I get hold of him.” She began to chase up the beach after the skinny retreating figure in its baggy shorts.

Colin stared after them, and the laughter came again, on the wind. The sound sent an icy chill through him. Prill was quite right, someone had laughed at her as she stood lashed to the stake with Oliver’s tape measure, and they were laughing now. But it was a thin, high-pitched screaming kind of laugh, not Oliver’s voice at all. He’d heard it before. It was the laughter he’d heard in the woodland when the barrow tipped over and the stones hurt his foot.