Читать книгу Come Away With Me - Sara MacDonald, Sara MacDonald - Страница 25

I walked the narrow path through the reed beds at the far end of the creek away from the houses. Today the sky was clear blue, cloudless, but the cold bit into me. As I walked, the sun began to reach through my coat and warm me. I felt as light as air, as if I were floating along, as if my feet were not touching the ground; as if I were moving very fast covering the ground without effort.

I stopped at the small bridge where the water tumbled into a small waterfall to join the creek. Long, long ago Jenny and Ruth played Pooh sticks here. Jenny and Ruth? Longago children, happy and carefree. Pictures of them floated across my mind.

What am I doing here? My heart beat so fast it hurt. I tried to think, but my mind would not clear. I went on walking. I walked on down the path and came to the only cottage at this end of the creek. I remembered it. It used to be derelict, now it was a renovated modern house with a double garage. Strange, it looked, on the edge of the woods; out of place, as if someone had dropped it in the wrong spot by mistake.

I stared at it, remembering the crumbling stone walls with heavy clumps of ivy clinging to the cracks, and a roof that had caved in and was covered with moss and flowers that grew in the sills. The ruined house never got any sun and neither did this ugly modern house, which looked dark and unloved despite the yellow paint.

I passed it quickly. The path turned to the right and led through the woods. I climbed up the chiselled steps cut into the tree roots on to a higher path that ran above the creek. The trees grew close here, close and dark, and I felt myself melting into them, gliding over fallen brown pine needles as soft as cotton wool until I was at one with the trees, as if I were tree and shadow.

The creek glittered at a steep angle below me and I heard singing. Clear through the wood someone was singing in a high, childish voice although the words were lost to me. When the singing stopped there was a smattering of clapping, then a pause and someone started to play a recorder. Slowly I made my way towards the sound.

The trees grew thinner by a clearing and beyond it there was a small gate in the middle of a hedge. The sounds were coming from the other side. I moved towards the gate and saw the old manor house, which stood on a steep slope facing the wood and creek. A lawn sloped down to the latch gate and not far from the gate, on an even patch of grass like a small terrace, a semicircle of people were sitting on chairs playing musical instruments.

The terrace had been made to catch the early morning sun. The people were swathed in coats and scarves. They were making a lot of noise and seemed excited. Then I saw they were children. The recorder player stopped and made an awkward bobbing bow, and the others put down their instruments and clapped.

I watched them. I saw something was wrong. Their movements were disjointed. They seemed unable to keep still. Some children got up and ran around in circles, their limbs flaying out at odd angles.

A man with a beard called out, clapped his hands for order. He got the children sitting down again and a tall, lanky boy started to play the violin. He played beautifully. The music was haunting and the children swayed and rocked to the sound. He played for two or three minutes, then his concentration suddenly went and he stopped mid piece and stared straight across into my eyes.

The sudden silence shivered, unbroken. I held his eyes and grief rose up in me like an echo. His fear was mirrored in me. I felt the form of his fleeting, terrifying confusion.

The man with the beard touched his arm. So soft were his words to the boy that I could not hear them. The children rushed from their chairs and surrounded the boy. They threw their arms round him, making small noises of comfort and encouragement. They patted and stroked and keened to him until he jerked back into life.

I turned and ran back into the closeness of the trees. I followed the path of soft pine needles as it wound back down to the water and into sunlight. It felt as if the boy’s eyes followed me into the shadows. What am I doing? What am I doing? Someone tell me.