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‘Wendell Hamilton the Third.’
‘How’d ya know?’
‘Lucky guess. I’m Harvey.’
‘Yeah, I know. D’ya like tree-houses?’
‘I never had one.’
Wendell pointed up at the tallest tree. There was a platform perched up amongst the branches, with a rudimentary house built upon it.
‘I’ve been working up there for weeks,’ said Wendell, ‘but I can’t get it finished alone. Ya want to help me?’
‘Sure. But I’ve got to eat something first.’
‘Go and eat. I’ll be around.’
Harvey headed back inside, and found Mrs Griffin setting out a breakfast fit for a prince. There was milk spilt on the floor, and a cat with a tail hooked like a question mark lapping it up.
‘Clue-Cat?’ he said.
‘Yes indeed,’ Mrs Griffin said fondly. ‘He’s the wicked one.’
Clue-Cat looked up, as if he knew he was being talked about. Then he jumped up on to the table and searched amongst the plates of pancakes and waffles for something more to eat.
‘Can he do whatever he likes?’ Harvey said, watching the cat sniff at this and that. ‘I mean, does nobody control him?’
‘Ah, well, we all have somebody watching over us, don’t we?’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘Whether we like it or not. Now eat. You’ve got some wonderful times ahead of you.’
Harvey didn’t need a second invitation. He dug into his second meal at the Holiday House with even more appetite than he had the first, and then headed out to meet the day.
OH, WHAT A day it was!
The breeze was warm, and smelt of the green scent of growing things; the perfect sky was full of swooping birds. He sauntered through the grass, his hands in his pockets, like the lord of all he surveyed, calling to Wendell as he approached the trees.
‘Can I come up?’
‘If you’ve got a head for heights,’ Wendell dared him.
The ladder creaked as he climbed, but he made the platform without missing a step. Wendell was impressed.
‘Not bad for a new boy,’ he said. ‘We had two kids here couldn’t even get half-way up.’
‘Where’d they go?’
‘Back home, I s’pose. Kids come and go, you know?’
Harvey peered out through the branches, upon which every bud was bursting.
‘You can’t see much, can you?’ he said. ‘I mean, there’s no sign of the town at all.’
‘Who cares?’ said Wendell. ‘It’s just grey out there anyway.’
‘And it’s sunny here,’ Harvey said, staring down at the wall of misty stones that divided the grounds of the House from the outside world. ‘How’s that possible?’
Wendell’s answer was the same again: ‘Who cares?’ he said. ‘I know I don’t. Now, are we going to start building, or what?’
*
THEY SPENT THE NEXT two hours working on the tree house, descending a dozen times to dig through the timbers heaped beside the orchard, looking for boards to finish their repairs. By noon they’d not only found enough wood to fix the roof, but they had each found a friend. Harvey liked Wendell’s bad jokes, and that who cares? which found its way into every other sentence. And Wendell seemed just as happy to have Harvey’s company.
‘You’re the first kid who’s been real fun,’ he said.
‘What about Lulu?’
‘What about her?’
‘Isn’t she any fun?’
‘She was okay when I first arrived,’ Wendell admitted. ‘I mean, she’s been here months, so she kind of showed me the place. But she’s got weird the last few days. I see her sometimes wanderin’ around like she’s sleep-walkin’, with a blank expression on her face.’
‘She’s probably going crazy,’ Harvey said. ‘Her brain’s turning to mush.’
‘Do you know about that stuff?’ Wendell wanted to know, his face lighting up with ghoulish delight.
‘Of course I do,’ Harvey lied. ‘My Dad’s a surgeon.’
Wendell was most impressed by this, and for the next few minutes listened in gaping envy as Harvey told him about all the operations he’d seen: skulls sawn open and legs sawn off; feet sewn on where hands used to be, and a man with a boil on his behind that grew into a talking head.
‘You swear?’ said Wendell.
‘I swear,’ said Harvey.
‘That’s so cool.’
All this talk brought on a fierce hunger, and at Wendell’s suggestion they climbed down the ladder and wandered into the House to eat.
‘What do you want to do this afternoon?’ he asked Harvey as they sat down at the table. ‘It’s going to be really hot. It always is.’
‘Is there anywhere we can swim?’
Wendell frowned. ‘Well, yes …’ He said doubtfully. ‘There’s a lake round the other side of the House, but you won’t much like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘The water’s so deep you can’t even see the bottom.’
‘Are there any fish?’
‘Oh sure.’
‘Maybe we could catch some. Mrs Griffin could cook ’em for us.’
At this, Mrs Griffin, who was at the stove piling up a plate with onion rings, gave a little shout, and dropped the plate. She turned to Harvey, her face ashen.
‘You don’t want to do that,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Harvey replied. ‘I thought I could do whatever I wanted.’
‘Well yes, of course you can,’ she told him. ‘But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. The fish are … poisonous, you see.’
‘Oh,’ said Harvey, ‘well maybe we won’t eat ’em after all.’
‘Look at this mess,’ Mrs Griffin said, fussing to cover her confusion. ‘I need a new apron.’
She hurried away to fetch one, leaving Harvey and Wendell to exchange puzzled looks.
‘Now I really have to see those fish,’ Harvey said.
As he spoke, the ever-inquisitive Clue-Cat jumped up on to the counter beside the stove, and before either of the boys could move to stop him he had his paws up on the lip of one of the pans.
‘Hey, get down!’ Harvey told him.
The cat didn’t care to take orders. He hoisted himself up on to the rim of the pan to sniff at its contents, his tail flicking back and forth. The next moment, disaster. The tail danced too close to one of the burners and burst into flames. Clue-Cat yowled, and tipped over the pan he was perched upon. A wave of boiling water washed him off the top of the stove, and he fell to the ground in a smoking heap. Whether drowned, scalded or incinerated, the end was the same: he hit the floor dead.
The din brought Mrs Griffin hurrying back.
‘I think I’m going to go and eat outside,’ Wendell said as the old woman appeared at the door. He snatched up a couple of hot dogs, and was gone.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ Mrs Griffin cried when she set eyes on the dead cat. ‘Oh … you foolish thing.’
‘It was an accident,’ Harvey said, sickened by what had happened. ‘He was up on the stove—’
‘Foolish thing. Foolish thing,’ was all Mrs Griffin seemed able to say. She sank down on to her knees, and stared at the sad little sack of burned fur. ‘No more questions from you,’ she finally murmured.
The sight of Mrs Griffin’s unhappiness made Harvey’s eyes sting, but he hated to have anyone see him cry, so he fought back his tears as best he could and said:
‘Shall I help you bury him?’ in his gruffest voice.
Mrs Griffin looked round. ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ she said softly. ‘But there’s no need. You go out and play.’
‘I don’t want to leave you on your own,’ Harvey said.
‘Oh, look at you, child,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘You’ve got tears on your cheeks.’
Harvey blushed and wiped them away with the back of his hand.
‘Don’t be ashamed to weep,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘It’s a wonderful thing. I wish I could still shed a tear or two.’
‘You’re sad,’ Harvey said. ‘I can see that.’
‘What I feel is not quite sadness,’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘And it’s not much solace, either, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s solace?’ Harvey asked.
‘It’s something soothing,’ Mrs Griffin said, getting to her feet. ‘Something that heals the pain in your heart.’
‘And you don’t have any of that?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Mrs Griffin said. She reached out and touched Harvey’s cheek. ‘Except maybe in these tears of yours. They comfort me.’ She sighed as she traced their tracks with her fingers. ‘Your tears are sweet, child. And so are you. Now you go out into the light and enjoy yourself. There’s sun on the step, and it won’t be there forever, believe me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll see you later then,’ Harvey said, and headed out into the afternoon.
V (#ulink_e85c857d-0d2e-54e5-8c53-3f43beb27acf)
The Prisoners (#ulink_e85c857d-0d2e-54e5-8c53-3f43beb27acf)
THE TEMPERATURE had risen while Harvey had been at lunch. A heat-haze hovered over the lawn (which was lusher and more thick with flowers than he remembered) and it made the trees around the House shimmer.
He headed towards them, calling Wendell’s name as he went. There was no reply. He glanced back towards the House, thinking he might see Wendell at one of the windows, but they were all reflecting the pristine blue. He looked from House to heavens. There was not a cloud in sight.
And now a suspicion stole upon him, which grew into a certainty as his gaze wandered back to the shimmering copse and the flowers underfoot. During the hour he’d spent in the cool of the kitchen the season had changed. Summer had come to Mr Hood’s Holiday House: a summer as magical as the spring that had preceded it.
That was why the sky was so faultlessly blue, and the birds making such music. The leaf-laden branches were no less content; nor the blossoms in the grass, nor the bees that buzzed from bloom to bloom, gathering the season’s bounty. All were in bliss.
It would not be a long season, Harvey guessed. If the spring had been over in a morning, then most likely this perfect summer would not outlast the afternoon.
I’d better make the most of it, he thought, and hurried in search of Wendell. He finally discovered his friend sitting in the shade of the trees, with a pile of comics at his side.
‘Wanna sit down and read?’ he asked.
‘Maybe later,’ said Harvey. ‘First I want to go and look at this lake you were talking about. Are you going to come?’
‘What for? I told you it’s no fun.’
‘All right, I’ll go on my own.’
‘You won’t stay long,’ Wendell remarked, and went back to his reading.
Though Harvey had a good idea of the lake’s general whereabouts, the bushes on that side of the House were thick and thorny, and it took him several minutes to find a way through them. By the time he caught sight of the lake itself the sweat on his face and back was clammy, and his arms had been scratched and bloodied by barbs.
As Wendell had predicted, the lake wasn’t worth the trouble. It was large – so large that the far side was barely visible – but gloomy and drear, both the lake and the dark stones around it covered with a film of green scum. There was a legion of flies buzzing around in search of something rotten to feed on, and Harvey guessed they’d have no trouble finding a feast. This was a place where dead things belonged.
He was about to leave when a movement in the shadows caught his eye. Somebody was standing further along the bank, almost eclipsed by the mesh of thicket. He moved a few paces closer to the lake, and saw that it was Lulu. She was perched on the slimy stones at the very edge of the water, gazing into their depths.
