The Grasshopper's Child (28 page)

‘Yeah, but, I'm in bother with my Old Wreck. I did something stupid and I'm scared to ask her permission in case she blows up again.'

‘Don't ask!' piped Andy Mao, wiping snail-tracks of tears with the dangling cuffs of his work shirt sleeves. ‘We don't ask Mum
anything
when she's in a strop. You only get hit. We just get on with it, until she's better. She never minds.'

‘I'll be there,' said Brook. ‘They'll drag me home early, but I wouldn't miss it.'

‘There'll be pulled pork,' said Cyril seriously. ‘Fried chicken, sausages, and
roast trout
.'

‘And elderflower champagne!' added Challon. ‘Come on Heidi. Sneak out!'

‘The Werenips have a great drummer!' added John. ‘And really heavy bass!'

‘Okay,' said Heidi, overwhelmed. ‘I'll do my best.'

‘It's a date,' said the Hooded Boy.

Friday was the first truly warm day of the year. It was even still warm when Heidi arrived at the site. A banner on poles hung above the field gate to the meadows, glowing white in the twilight and announcing boldly:

AN EVENING WITH THE IMMORTALS.

The first thing she saw was a shiny Knowells Farm Land Rover (with their CK insignia on the doors), and the lord and lady of the manor getting into it. Portia's mane was piled into a tower and fastened with gold combs. George's dad wore a classic black leather jacket, probably the same one as at the Insanitude. Heidi dodged back and hid in the hedge, ridiculously scared, until the Land Rover had gone by. She didn't need to see that face again.

There was a marquee, and an open-fronted outdoor kitchen that was giving out delicious savoury smells. People were queuing, people were carrying off gorgeous heaps of meat, and sauce and slaw, on paper plates. Heidi's mouth watered. The pulled pork ought to smell like drowned bodies, the elderflower champagne ought to choke her. But she was always hungry, and she hadn't eaten meat for months. Never eaten Organic pulled pork, fried chicken or roast trout in her life. At home all they ever got was vat meat in various disguises, and good old grey, dry and gritty English Venison. The monsters were gone. They wouldn't
see
her tucking in. She joined the queue, got her plate filled, and her cup dipped in pale foam, and took her riches over to the table the Teens had claimed.

‘You've missed
Gravity
,' said Clancy, making space for her. ‘And
Rivermead.'

‘I don't mind. Seen them both.'

‘D'you fancy the second show? It's the antique, black and white, subtitles feature.'

After the meal break Film Night was offering a rare chance to view two masterpieces by Renoir, a famous old French director:
Partie de Campagne
and
La Grande Illusion
.

‘I'm not scared of subtitles. Let's give them a go.'

‘Hey!' shouted Sorrel. ‘Cinderella Laureate and the boyfriend, pay attention! D'you realise we never celebrated! We didn't get drowned, nobody ended up a foreign farm-slave!'

She and George were drinking beers from the ice barrel, supposed to be for adults only.

She waved her bottle, rather wildly. ‘Here's to US!'

‘Who's
us
?' muttered Jo Florence, wiping beer slosh off her teeshirt. Her brothers had been gone before the police arrived. She didn't know where they were now. There could be a
warrant
out for them, over that False Head wreckers' fire stunt. She hadn't dared to ask.

‘I'll drink to not getting drowned,' said Clancy. ‘Here's to Cyril, and his hotline to Jesus.'

Cyril turned red. ‘I did what I could.'

Andy Mao jumped up on the bench. ‘Here's to
Corporal Harris
. He's the hero!'

‘Here's to old Eric Dyson,' added Brook. ‘No particular reason.' She stood up. ‘And goodnight all! My late pass just expired, Mum and Dad are making wind up gestures.'

The Exempt Teens, even Sorrel, who had clearly already emptied a bottle or three, were silent as they watched her walk away: head high, but looking so fragile.

‘Here's to
my
old dear,' bawled John, to break the moment. ‘She's a proper hero too!'

Here's to my dad
, thought Heidi, raising her paper cup.
Here's to my plan
.

Despite what she'd seen in the churchyard, and despite what Brook had said, she'd half expected to be fighting George off this evening. She'd even been counting on it, as a chance to get him to talk. It wasn't going to happen. He was sprawled by Challon, tickling her with a grass stalk: they were giggling and whispering together.

Heidi wasn't proud of the way she'd felt about Gorgeous George, a short while ago: but this was hard to take. Chall, who must have suspected; who now definitely probably knew George's dad was a dirty Recruiter, all over the Golden Boy—

Good luck, Chall. Hope you know what you're doing.

The second showing was announced: hardcore movie fans drifted to the marquee. The Wernips were setting up, the drummer and the bass guitar already smacking out raucous rural thrash riffs. John Fowler hopped onto the sprung wooden deck to test the vibrations, and went in search of his mum and dad; who also loved dancing.

Later on, Heidi and the Hooded Boy sat opposite each other, sharing the last paper cup of flowery champagne, sip by sip.

Jo, Cyril and Andy were enjoying the cheesy horrors of the midnight show. Challon and George had disappeared together into the night. Elaine was long gone; Andy's brothers and sisters slept on a heap of coats. A few couples were still dancing: Daffodil Dyson with her current beau, Bald Dave from the Garage Shop. Andy's Mum with one of the Knowells heavies. John and his parents, their arms around each other—

‘It's the pure sadism that gets to me,' said Clancy. ‘The Demon Crace is well-paid. She lives in that nice house, all her bills covered. There's no reason to be so nasty, except she enjoys it. Won't even let my old dear out into the garden, fixes it so she misses visitors, even tries to stop me coming round—'

‘Is she physically abusive?'

‘I think so, yes. Nothing to leave a mark, she's not stupid. But Mrs Scott-Amberley is terrified of her. It's sickening.'

Heidi thought Clancy had too many issues to be doing Share the Care. But that didn't mean he was making it up about Irene Crace. She took the cup, sipped, and rolled her eyes.

‘In ways you've led a sheltered life.'

The Hooded Boy drew back into his hood. ‘Yeah, right.'

‘No offence. Your old dear's got money, hasn't she?'

‘I suppose. The house; and probably savings.'

She wouldn't have that house all to herself, thought Heidi, if she was anywhere but here. And she'd be better off, from what you're saying—

‘Well, it's classic. It's all in
Sharing the Care One
. Elder abusers pick a lonely old dear with assets, and move in like sharks. They cut the vulnerable person off from friends and family, they turn away visitors. They keep the victim totally scared and dependent, and it's all to manipulate them out of their savings. Put it this way. If your Mrs Scott-Amberley had made a will, for instance, I bet she'd got a different one by now—'

‘Oh, my God. You're right.' said Clancy, staring at her. ‘My God!
Amazing!
'

‘Huh? If the abuse is for profit, you feel better?'

‘Yes! Absolutely. I'm an
idiot
, I've had things all the wrong way—'

‘You are weird, Hooded Boy.'

‘I can't tell you,' breathed Clancy. ‘Can't tell you what this means, but thanks a million.'

‘My pleasure, strange creature.'

The horror show ended, the Wernips started packing up. Knowells Farm staff were noisily taking down the field kitchen, flinging table tops, trestles and benches onto a horse cart.

Merril Florence walked around clapping her hands and shouting ‘Time to go home!'

Clancy drained the last drops of the delicate wine.

‘The night is young. How about coming back to the Temple to hear the nightingales? Their season's nearly over, it could be your last chance.'

Heidi laughed. ‘I can hear the immortal birds from my attic. They never shut up.'

‘They sound better from my Temple.'

They scrambled over the wall, and no one saw them go. The blackberry sky, brimming with stars, disappeared. In beechen green and shadows numberless, where birdsong replaced the scent of meadow flowers, they climbed the hillside to the thickets where the rooftree dragon pranced; and found the stars again, hanging over the Temple courtyard. They sat outside, each of them wrapped in one of Clancy's blankets, and listened to the nightingales: and talked, for hours.

‘
La Grande Illusion
was good. I didn't really get
Partie de Campagne
.'

‘But it's rare. We can show off now, to all our arty friends . . .'

‘Schools won't ever open again. Nothing's going to be like it was.'

‘We don't belong at school. We're far older at fifteen than we would have been if this was, I don't know, the year 2000. Because everything's changed.'

‘Younger, too,' said Clancy wryly. ‘The government says so.
It's important to be young
.'

‘I think it was Bob Dylan who said that, originally.'

‘Or Jesus, as Cyril would tell you.'

The sky paled at last. The nightingales either went to sleep, or were drowned in the dawn chorus. Clancy brewed tea, and served a ration of bread and chocolate.

‘You don't have to get back yet, do you?'

‘I'm okay for a bit. And I'm not tired.'

‘Good, because I've got a surprise.'

He crawled into his bivvy, and emerged with a glossy yellow tool box.

‘What's that?'

‘A listening device for water leaks. I borrowed it from John's dad.'

‘Huh? But he's Deaf.'

‘You don't have to be hearing, you only have to read the dials, but that's not why I thought of him. He's in charge of retooling the Cement Works. I thought, there must be a lot of pipes, some of them leaking. So I asked. We could take it up on Lark Down and see if we can locate the Ripple Brook culvert, and the header tank.'

Their work on the Baroque Fountain project had stalled, before the shipwreck. They'd proved the second fountain's bowl was water-tight. They'd cleaned and adjusted all the connections in the access chamber. The results had been disappointing. The second fountain now had clear water in it, and was harbouring newts, but that was all. For some reason, there was nothing like enough water in the system to run the jets.

‘That's a
brilliant
idea.'

They climbed the north wall and took a steep white footpath, sunk in the hollow time had dug for it, up to the crest of the downs; at first following the route Clancy had taken when he went to spy on the Tower Builders. The sky was brightening all the time, so that they climbed as if from a black and white movie into colour: from shades of grey to green turf, pink orchids; yellow trefoil, purple cushions of wild thyme, and palest blue overhead.

There were no earthworks of any kind marked on the summit of Lark Down, on Clancy's Ordnance Survey map. They walked around feeling frustrated, until Heidi decided the tank probably wouldn't be buried on top of a hill. She scrambled to a lower level, made a viewing square with her hands, and scanned the slope that faced the Gardens, frame by frame, until she spotted a jutting lump, half buried in gorse scrub. They deployed the device, Heidi taking the earmuff headphones and the prod; Clancy watching the dials.

‘I can't tell,' she complained. ‘It's whooshing like the sea in a shell—'

‘Don't worry, the machine has no imagination, and it says we have struck water!'

‘Gold water! Yay! Fantastic!'

They danced a victory dance. Then Clancy did the frame by frame, and found a possible culvert. He was right. The device confirmed it.

Running
water.

‘We're in business!' shouted Clancy. ‘The Ripple is still doing what it ought to do!'

The outlet pipe defeated them. According to the yellow box there was no water flowing out at the downhill end of the tank.

‘But we know it's there,' said Clancy. ‘It has to be.
Something's
feeding the Second Fountain. Maybe it's too feeble, or deeply buried—'

‘Let's leave it for now. It's time I was heading back.'

They sat on the summit bench by the footpath, to stare at the view for a while before heading off. A flock of rooks arrived and landed nearby.

‘I should go,' said Heidi, watching the birds and wondering what they were doing. ‘Did you ever ask Mrs Scott-Amberley about the Vietnam War, or the Birth of the Internet?'

‘No. There's no point, is there?'

‘Why not?'

‘What's the use of history when there's no future?'