On the Edge of Darkness. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ word softly. Then she laughed again.

      They walked for about twenty minutes around the shoulder of the ridge, following a faint deer track through the heather before Adam saw in the distance below them the flickering light of a fire. As they scrambled down towards it he smelled meat cooking. Venison, he reckoned, and the juices in his mouth ran. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. He refused to think about the empty cold kitchen at home, concentrating instead on his new friends.

      At the sight of their destination he frowned slightly. It was no more than a round ramshackle bothy, thatched with rushes, hidden in a fold of the hill beside a tumbling burn. The fire, he saw as they drew closer, was being tended by a woman, from her looks the mother of Brid and Gartnait, who, he had already guessed, were brother and sister. The woman, tall and slim, very erect when she straightened from poking the logs beneath her cooking pot, had hair as dark as her daughter’s, and the same clear grey eyes. Throwing down her makeshift poker she made him welcome, a little shyly, and pointing to a fur rug spread on the ground near the fire indicated that he sit down. Her name, Brid told him, was Gemma. Gartnait, he saw, had gone to wash the stonedust from his hands in the stream. Brid too had disappeared inside the bothy. She returned seconds later with four plates and a loaf of bread which she broke into four pieces and laid on the plates near the fire.

      The meal he was given was, he thought, the best he had eaten in his whole life. The bread was rough and full of flavour, spread with thick creamy butter. With it they ate – with their fingers – venison cut into wafer-thin portions by Gartnait’s razor-sharp knife, mountain trout, cooked on slender twigs above the fire, and wedges of crumbling white cheese. Then there was more bread to mop up the rich gravy. To drink they had something which Adam, who had never touched alcohol in his life, suspected was some kind of heather ale. Mesmerised by the fire and the food and by his smiling though silent companions he drank heavily and within minutes, leaning back against a log, he was fast asleep.

      He was awakened by Brid’s hand on his knee. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was, then he realised he was still outside. To his surprise he found he was lying warmly wrapped in a heavy woollen blanket. The fuzz of the wool was soaked with dew as he sat up and began to unwrap himself, but inside he was warm and dry.

      ‘A-dam.’ He loved the way she pronounced his name, carefully, liltingly, a little as though it were a French word. She pointed up at the sky. To his horror he could see the streaks of dawn above the hill. He had been out all night. His father would kill him if he found out. Frightened, he began to scramble to his feet.

      Behind Brid her mother was bending over a brightly burning fire. Something was simmering in the pot suspended above it. He sniffed and Brid clapped her hands. She nodded and, taking a pottery bowl from her mother, spooned some sort of thin porridge into it. Taking it from her he sniffed, tasted, and burned his tongue. As breakfasts went it was pretty tasteless, not nearly as nice as the meal the night before, but it filled his stomach and when at last Brid led him back the way they had come he was feeling comparatively cheerful.

      The cross-slab was wrapped once more in mist as they passed close beside it and he walked onto the hillside and stood looking down at his own valley, still wrapped in darkness. Brid pointed, with a little smile, and Adam stepped away from her. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘And thanks.’

      ‘Goodbye and thanks.’ The girl repeated the words softly. With a wave she turned and vanished into the mist.

      The manse looked bleak in the cold dawn light. There was still no smoke coming from the chimneys and the front door was locked. Biting his lip nervously Adam ran soundlessly round the side, praying under his breath that the kitchen door would be open. It wasn’t. He stood there for a moment undecided, looking up at the blank windows at the back of the house. The awful misery was returning. Swallowing it down he turned and headed back into the street.

      The manse might still be asleep but the village was stirring. The sweet smell of woodsmoke filled the air as he turned up Bridge Street and into Jeannie Barron’s gate and knocked tentatively at the door. The sound was greeted by a frenzy of wild barking.

      The door was opened seconds later by Jeannie’s burly husband, Ken. A pretty sheltie was leaping round his heels, plainly delighted to see Adam, who stooped to give her a hug. The dog had been his once. But for some reason Adam had never understood his father had disapproved of his son having a pet and the puppy had been given to Jeannie. Ken stared down at Adam with a surprised frown and then turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Jeannie, it’s the minister’s lad.’

      Jeannie’s kindly pink-cheeked face appeared behind him. She was wearing her overall just as she always did at the manse.

      ‘Hello, Mrs Barron.’ Adam looked at her and to his intense embarrassment his eyes flooded with tears.

      ‘Adam.’ She pushed past her husband and enveloped the boy in a huge plump hug. ‘Oh, my poor wee boy.’ He was almost as tall as she was but for the moment he was a small child again, seeking comfort and warmth and affection in her arms.

      She ushered him into her kitchen, pushed her husband outside and sat Adam down at her table. A mug of milky tea and a thick wedge of bread and jam later she stood looking down at him. His pale face had regained its colour and the tears had dried but there was no disguising the misery in the boy’s face. The dog was sitting pressed against his legs.

      ‘Now, do you understand what’s happened?’ She sat down opposite him and reached for the large brown teapot.

      He shrugged. ‘Father said Mother has gone.’ The tears were very near. ‘He said she had sinned.’

      ‘She’s not sinned!’ The strength of her voice helped him control the sob which was lurking in his throat. ‘Your mother is a decent, beautiful, good woman. But she’s been driven to the end of the road by that man.’

      Adam frowned. Not recognising her metaphor he pictured a car, driven by a stranger.

      Jeannie Barron scowled. Her fair hair leaped round her head in coiled springs as she wielded her pot and filled both their mugs again. ‘How she put up with him so long, I’ll never know. I only hope she’ll find happiness where she’s gone.’

      ‘Where has she gone?’ He looked at her desperately.

      She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Adam, and that’s the truth.’

      ‘But she’d tell you?’ Adam was biting his lip.

      She shook her head again. ‘She told no one that I know.’

      ‘But why did she leave me behind?’ It was the bewildered cry of a small child. ‘Why didn’t she take me with her?’

      Jeannie pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know.’ She sighed unhappily. ‘It’s not because she doesn’t love you. You must believe that. Perhaps she didn’t know herself where she was going. Perhaps she’ll send for you a wee bit later.’

      ‘Do you think so?’ His huge brown eyes were pleading.

      Meeting them she couldn’t lie to him and give him the reassurance he wanted. All she could say was, ‘I hope so, Adam, I do hope so.’ Susan Craig had been her friend but not her confidante. To confide too much in another was not in her nature. It was enough that she knew that Jeannie would be there for Adam.

      It was as he was standing up to leave he remembered why they were here in her kitchen and not in the manse. ‘Do you really not work for us any more?’

      She shook her head. СКАЧАТЬ