Black Harvest. Ann Pilling

“I’ve been so busy lately, I’ve probably just not noticed.”

      “Our milk went off last night,” Colin said suddenly. His mother frowned at him. “I left it out after supper,” she said firmly. “I must have, and obviously the heat turned it.”

      Kevin appeared in the kitchen doorway and started pulling his boots off. “Don’t do that,” his mother ordered. “Slip across to the dairy and fetch some more milk for Mrs Blakeman. Last night’s was off apparently.”

      Mum was embarrassed. “Really,” she began. “We really don’t need—”

      “Don’t worry about it, Mrs Blakeman. It may well have been the old milk you got, by mistake. It happens sometimes. I’ll ask Donal. He helps us in the evenings and he gets confused these days about what goes where.”

      Kevin came back with a can and put it on the table. He grinned at Colin. “I’ve been trying to persuade your cousin to go up the Yellow Tunnel, but he doesn’t seem too keen. He wants to keep on with his digging.”

      “What’s the Yellow Tunnel?”

      “Well, if you want a good walk, one that’ll tire out that dog of yours, go along the shore, below the bungalow. You could do it this afternoon, it’s low tide. You walk right along the sands as far as Ballimagliesh Strand then you can climb up to the chapel. It’s a ruin really, right on the cliff edge. It’s a proper beauty spot, isn’t it, Mam?”

      “So it is. We used to have picnics there years ago. All the young people went. Beautiful, it is.”

      “But what about this tunnel?”

      “Well, there’s a track up to the ruin, through the grass, a bit steep in places but sure it’s fine in dry weather like this. But you can climb up through a crack in the rocks. It’s great. It brings you out by the chapel walls in the middle of the old graveyard.”

      “Do you need ropes?”

      “Oh no, there are plenty of footholes. But I should take a torch.”

      Colin could see that climbing up a real tunnel might not appeal to Oliver, and anyway, Mum might prefer him not to do it. He was still rather shaky after his illness. Digging a little hidey-hole in your garden was one thing, feeling your way up a great crack gouged out by the waves was quite another. It appealed to Colin, though.

      When they were back at the bungalow he got everybody organized. Prill didn’t need persuading. She cheered up a bit when he told her Mrs O’Malley had reported that their phone was out of order, but she still didn’t want to stay in the house.

      “Well, who wants to, anyway,” Colin said, “on a day like this?”

      They put some food together and installed Alison in a canvas carrier that Colin usually wore on his back like a rucksack. Most days she didn’t care who carried her around but she was being awkward this morning. It had to be Mum.

      Oliver kept on digging till the very last moment, muttering darkly that he didn’t want to go. He had things to do that afternoon which didn’t include the Blakemans.

      “Oh, come on, Olly!” Prill shouted. “We’re wasting the day. It’ll be cooler down by the sea. You could take your sweater off,” she added, unable to resist.

      “I don’t think—” he began.

      “Look, it’s only a bit of a climb up a cliff path. You can walk with Mum if the tunnel’s bothering you. Don’t be so pathetic,” Colin said impatiently.

      That did it. Oliver chucked his spade down, pushed past both of them, and was soon walking with Mrs Blakeman. It was quite peaceful. At least the carrier was keeping that awful baby quiet.

       Chapter Six

      AS THEY WALKED along the beach, Oliver was planning his getaway. This was his sly streak coming out. He did have one, and he told lies sometimes to get what he wanted. He’d once listened, through a closed door, to his parents discussing the fact that he was adopted. “Perhaps it’s not our fault,” his father said. “Perhaps it’s just, well, in the blood.”

      “Blood? Rubbish!” his mother had said sharply. “It’s training. He’s our son now and he’ll tell the truth.” That night he’d been made to stay in his room without anything to eat. Mother was very strict with him. Sometimes she seemed to forget he was just a little boy. Mr Catchpole was scared of her too.

      It was a long walk to the Yellow Tunnel. In spite of its name, Ballimagliesh Strand seemed to be miles beyond the village. They could soon see the crumbly yellow cliffs that gave the crack its name, but it never seemed to get any nearer.

      The dog leaped ahead and was soon out of sight. Oliver plodded along at his aunt’s side. The sand and the sea, all bathed in sunshine, lifted everybody’s spirits, but made no impact at all on him. His mind was full of beetles. Overnight the leaves in the jar had been virtually chewed to nothing, and he was certain the insects had multiplied. He must go back and talk to Donal Morrissey. He wasn’t scared of him.

      Gradually he dropped behind and left his aunt to walk on her own. Colin and Prill were deep in conversation, about him probably. He dropped back still farther and pretended to examine a bit of driftwood. Then, when the others were well ahead, and Mrs Blakeman nearly out of sight, he turned round and started to walk back.

      Colin saw him. “What are you doing, Oliver? Get a move on.”

      “I think I’ll go back.”

      “Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s not much farther now.”

      Oliver dithered. Words like “Too hot”, “Not swimming” and “Doing a bit more to my hole” floated along the beach. He saw Prill take a step towards him then Colin holding her arm. “I can make the tea,” he shouted. “Well, I can get the table ready and everything, for when you come back.” He liked Auntie Jeannie and it might please her. That squalling baby was definitely getting on her nerves.

      “Will you be all right on your own?” Prill called to him. She didn’t sound so bad-tempered as Colin. “You don’t have to climb the tunnel. You can go with Mum. Anyway, the bungalow’s locked.”

      “I’ll ask Mrs O’Malley to let me in. She’s got a key. I’ll be all right,” he shouted. He was already turning his back, but he saw Colin pulling Prill impatiently in the other direction. “An utter drip” and “Chicken” were the last words he heard as he hurried along the beach, much faster now.

      The door of Donal Morrissey’s caravan was shut, but smoke poured from the tin chimney. Oliver crept up through the vegetable patch and examined the plants at his feet. The stripy beetles were still thriving and nibbling away steadily, turning the leaves into pieces of green lace.

      He stood up, took a deep breath, and hammered on the door. Instantly a dog barked inside. Oliver quaked. He was scared of dogs and that collie was a brute. But there was no time to run. The door opened and Donal Morrissey was looking down at him, holding on to the growling dog with a bit of rope.

      Their eyes met. The old man’s gaze terrified Oliver. The wide-eyed, bloodshot stare was full of threat and there was an awful hardness about it. It was a face from which every drop of human kindness suddenly seemed to have drained away.

      “What do you want? Get away from here or I’ll set this dog on you. I told you yesterday.” He gave the collie a bit more rope and it leaped to Oliver, snapping its teeth.