Black Harvest. Ann Pilling

with its flat white cheeks, its curious hard stare.

      Mr Blakeman had set off for Dublin at seven that evening, when the baby had finally dropped off to sleep. But Prill didn’t walk down the track with the others, to wave him goodbye as he turned the car out on to the metalled road. She shut herself in her room, flung herself down on the bed, and cried.

       Chapter Three

      COLIN WENT OUT before breakfast to have a look at the building site, and Oliver trailed after him. On the land side of the bungalow, where the earth sloped up and turned into a field, the builders had started digging a huge hole. There were piles of sand everywhere, and bricks stacked neatly. A yellow skip full of soil stood blocking the path to the back door.

      “Do you think we could dig here?” Oliver said. “Are we allowed?”

      It was the third time he’d asked Colin about what was “allowed”. They had woken up early and decided to go out while the others slept on. “But are we allowed?” he’d asked anxiously, as Colin slid back the door bolts. “And are you allowed to go outside without your shoes on?” Aunt Phyllis must be very strict with him.

      Colin looked at the piles of sand. “I shouldn’t think it would matter if you poked round here with a spade. When they come back in September they’re going to dig down about three metres with an excavator. Well, so Dad said. The roof of the new garage will be level with the house, and it’s going to be a patio with plants on, or something. It sounds very elaborate. What do you want to dig for, anyway?”

      “I want to dig a hole,” Oliver said, eyeing the shovels and spades propped against the concrete mixer.

      “What on earth for?”

      “I’d like to build a den.”

      “How babyish,” Colin thought, and nearly said so. Then he thought better of it. After all, the best summer he could remember had been spent in a den, in a field behind their house, before they’d built the new estate. They had made it out of an enormous hole that used to be an air-raid shelter, roofed it over with bits of corrugated iron, and made a lookout with old tea-chests. It was the worst moment of his life when the contractors arrived, filling the hole in and flattening everything. He was just about Oliver’s age then.

      He said, “Well, I suppose it’d be all right. We’d better ask Dad though, when he rings up. You could always dig in the sand, Oliver. It looks a fabulous beach.”

      Oliver didn’t reply. He’d never had a proper seaside holiday. He couldn’t even swim. Those two had been going on in the car about swimming awards and different kinds of diving. He’d be happier up here on his own, digging his hole.

      “That dog needs a long walk,” Mum said after breakfast. Prill knew that voice, it was ragged at the edges. It meant she’d had enough of Alison bawling and of the others hanging around. She wanted some peace and quiet.

      Jessie had spent a well-behaved night under the kitchen table but now she was tied up outside, barking madly at Kevin O’Malley, the boy from the farm who’d just brought them some milk.

      “Come on,” Prill said to Colin. “Let’s take Jess down to the beach. Coming, Oliver?”

      Colin waited for him to say no. He hoped his cousin would want to stay behind and make a start on his den. It would be a good chance for them to talk privately, and work out how they were going to survive for a month with him around. Colin wasn’t very patient and Oliver was getting on his nerves. He hated the way he stared at people, and never spoke unless you spoke to him. Mum said that he was an only child, with rather elderly, fussy parents, and that they must “make allowances”. But she didn’t have to share a room with him.

      “OK,” Oliver said, quite eagerly. He put his anorak on and zipped it up.

      “You don’t need that, it’s boiling!”

      “I’m not hot.”

      He was already walking ahead of them, keeping well away from the dog as she leapt about wildly on the end of her lead. It was another perfect day and already very warm, but Prill felt better. A fresh smell of fields blew across as she followed Colin along the path, and the sick feeling had gone completely. Dad had phoned after breakfast to tell them he was making a start on his first sketches for the portrait. Yesterday’s panic, down on the beach, seemed slightly ridiculous now.

      “Not that way, Oliver,” Colin was shouting. “We’ve got to drop down here, on to the shore. Come on.” But Oliver carried on making for the green thicket that hid Donal Morrissey’s caravan. “There’s a footpath here,” he shouted back. “I found it on a map.”

      “Oh, come on, can’t you? We’ve been told that the old man… Oh, damn!” With an almighty tug, Jessie had wrenched the lead out of his hand and was tearing after Oliver, barking madly. The small boy started to run and soon disappeared into the trees. Colin and Prill pelted after him. Seconds later all three were standing at the open door of a decrepit wooden caravan. Colin had grabbed Jessie’s collar and was trying to calm her down. Inches away, a mangy black collie, stretched out across the ramshackle steps, was growling at them.

      “Be quiet, girl. Sit!” Colin shouted, but Jessie was almost throttling herself in her efforts to break free. The collie stood up, cringing and whining, then it took a step forward and showed its teeth. Bedlam followed. The two dogs made for each other in a tangle of hair, tongues, and frenzied barking. Oliver backed away and clutched nervously at Prill’s arm. “Sit, can’t you, sit! Gedoff, will you!” Colin was bellowing, and in the racket someone appeared in the doorway.

      Donal Morrissey was thin and extremely tall, and stood glowering at them, his knotted hands shaking. The wispy remains of his hair blew about in the wind, silver-white but still reddish at the edges, and his bald, domed head was splodged with big freckles. He must once have had auburn hair, like Colin and me, thought Prill.

      His face was so wrinkled it looked like a piece of paper someone had screwed up very tight then smoothed out again, leaving hundreds of tiny lines. There was so little flesh on it the skin was stretched over the bones like thin rubber, and every single one poked out. It was the kind of face you see in religious paintings.

      But the voice that came from it was shrill and harsh. They couldn’t tell whether he was speaking Irish or just making horrible noises at them to scare them off. They backed away as he came down the steps, waving his arms about and yelling.

      Prill’s stomach heaved. The old man stank. It was the smell of someone who never washed his hair, or his clothes, or had a bath. How could that Father Hagan come visiting him here, week after week? She’d be sick.

      His dog had slunk off and was lying under the van, peering out at them. “Go on! Go on!” he was shouting. “There’s been enough of it, I’m telling you. Leave a soul in peace will you, coming round here. God help me.”

      Jessie, always slow on the uptake, leapt at the old man and tried to lick his face. He lost his balance, swayed about, then fell heavily, crashing back against the side of the caravan. Prill gasped, he was so old, and Colin let go of Jessie and went to help him. But he was back on his feet almost at once, towering over them and letting out a stream of foul Irish as he pushed them back down the path, spitting the words out and slavering, his parchment cheeks turning a slow, bright red with pure rage.

      As they reached the trees he picked up a handful of stones and flung them hard. Half a brick followed. There was nothing wrong with his eyesight. It caught Jessie in the middle of the back and she yelped with pain.

      “Serves you right,” Colin told the dog angrily when they were safely out of sight. Prill had found a handkerchief,