The Mersey Girls (8 page)

‘You’re not thinking of eating here, on this enchanted beach, are you?’ Caitlin said incredulously. ‘Why
she
might suddenly appear and magic the sandwiches from our very hands so she might.’

‘She’ll have her work cut out to get a sandwich off me, I’m so hungry I could eat grass,’ Lucy said. ‘And if she tried I’d kick her straight back into the water . . . suppose it was mermaids? Suppose they swam up the creek and fancied the boat and pulled it into the water . . .’ But her tone lacked conviction; she had, after all, seen the footprint.

‘Or the sea-king, as big as the tower and lying on his belly to get up the creek, and opening his mouth and crunching the curragh down,’ Caitlin suggested cheerfully. ‘He probably t’ought it was a stranded whale.’

‘Small whale,’ Lucy pointed out through a mouthful of sandwich. Despite Caitlin’s strictures she had unwrapped the greaseproof to disclose ham sandwiches – her favourite – with Maeve’s own mustard pickle. ‘He could’ve thought it was a seal, or a walrus, I suppose.’

‘Oh, you!’ Caitlin sat down on the grass at the edge of the creek with her feet dangling over the beach and opened her own packet. ‘When we’ve eaten our dinners and drunk me mammy’s barley water we must be sure not to sleep, though. It doesn’t do to sleep in enchanted places.’

‘Whenever do we sleep except in our beds of a night?’ Lucy scoffed. ‘But I think you were right, we ought to explore the creek now we’re here. We can follow it up as far as it goes.’

She did not want to say so to her friend, but she thought that if they went up the creek they might well come upon the curragh and whoever had taken it away. Because the view of the lough from here was a good one, and we’d have noticed a boat, I’m sure we would, she told herself, tucking into ham sandwiches. But if I say that to Caitlin she’ll go on about witches and the sea-king until I’m afraid to look round the next bend . . . better just pretend it’s to explore.

‘I wonder what the time is?’ Caitlin said presently, as they passed the lemon barley water from one to the other. They had decided to save the fruit cake for later.

‘Dunno; mid afternoon, I guess,’ Lucy said. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to explore the creek, especially if we go now.’

‘Right.’ Caitlin corked the empty bottle and put it into the blue cloth bag. ‘Off we go, then.’

It was great exploring the creek. The sun continued to shine and when they got further inland, to where trees leaned over the water, they moved slowly and dreamily along in the dappled shade, watching their feet and legs made green by the ripples, scarcely talking at all save to draw each other’s attention to a fish, a particularly fine shell, an unusual wild flower on the bank.

It took them longer than they had thought to reach the head of the creek and both girls were secretly glad to turn back; it had been a long day.

‘I’m starved,’ Caitlin said, pushing damp hair out of her eyes. ‘Let’s go back to the castle now and eat your Maeve’s fruit cake!’

Oddly enough it did not take them very long to go down the creek, nowhere near as long as it had taken them in the opposite direction. But even so the sun was low in the sky when they reached the little beach, with the castle very black against the red-streaked heavens.

The first thing they noticed was the curragh, of course. Drawn up precisely where they had seen it earlier, lying innocently upon the shingle.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Caitlin gasped. ‘Oh Lucy, it
is
a fairy boat – can you see any footprints now?’

Lucy went over the beach with a fine-tooth comb, but this time could see no signs of human interference. She looked uneasily across at Caitlin who was standing on the grassy bank looking smug. ‘I don’t think there are any footprints this time,’ she admitted. ‘Suppose – suppose there
is
a witch up there, looking down at us?’

‘Do you not want to go back to the castle, then, fraidy cat?’

‘We-ell . . .’

‘We won’t if you’d rather not,’ Caitlin said, suddenly all concern. ‘It’s been quite a long day . . . we can go straight home across the marsh if you’d rather.’

But past experience told Lucy that if she agreed to go straight home, Caitlin would never let her forget it, so she shook her head until her sun-bleached curls bounced on her shoulders.

‘No, we’ll go back to the castle. Come on, because I want to be home before dark.’

They set off at once, though their leaps from tuft to tuft certainly lacked the enthusiasm of earlier in the day, and reached the castle breathless but on Lucy’s part, at least, determined to scotch any idea that she was afraid.

‘Come on then, let’s take a look round,’ she said. ‘Are you coming up to the roof this time?’

It was a below-the-belt remark and Caitlin didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she said, ‘Tell you what; let’s hide in the secret room and watch through the window-slits, see if anything out there moves.’

It was, Lucy decided, a good idea. Agreeing, she dumped her blue bag on the ground outside the keep entrance and the two of them went in, far more cautiously this time. Even if Caitlin pretended to believe that a witch or a leprechaun had moved the curragh, she must realise, as Lucy did, that it was far likelier to have been moved by human intervention and, since the boat was now back on its beach, that must surely mean that someone was lurking in or around the castle?

So up the horrible steps they toiled, neither keen if the truth were known, Lucy decided, but both determined not to be the one who said so.

They reached the top of the stair and the blandly empty little room met their gaze. Was the hay more rumpled, as though a body had been lying on it? She didn’t really think so, but put the question anyway. Caitlin sniffed.

‘Course not, it’s just the same. You go to that slit and I’ll keep guard on this one.’

‘It’ll be sunset soon,’ Lucy said when they’d been watching – and mildly squabbling – for what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes. ‘We’ve got a good walk, Cait. And we’ve not eaten the fruit cake yet.’

‘Oh well, if you’re fed up . . . no, don’t start, I’m fed up, too,’ Caitlin said at once. ‘You go down first, though . . . I really hate those stairs.’

‘Oh . . . perhaps I should’ve gone up to the top of the tower, in case there was someone hiding there,’ Lucy said belatedly, halfway down the stone steps. She was descending with her eyes shut and one hand clutching grimly at the stone wall. ‘Don’t you fall on me, Caitlin Kelly, or you’ll kill the both of us for sure.’

But no one fell on anyone and within six feet of the ground Lucy opened her eyes and found that she wasn’t quite so scared this time. She finished the steps at a gallop, just to prove it, and then turned and told Caitlin to jump, holding out her arms to catch her.

‘No, I’m too heavy for you,’ Caitlin said. ‘Get out of the way, I’m coming down like a ton of bricks!’

She hurtled down the last few steps, cannoned into Lucy, and the pair of them, winded and giggling, rolled around on the floor, clutching their stomachs, until they could breathe properly again.

‘Come on, then,’ Caitlin said, struggling to her feet. ‘Let’s have that cake.’

They galloped good-naturedly out of the castle and Caitlin grabbed the blue bag and swung it at Lucy, who promptly tried to wrestle it away from her. They fought amicably over the bag for five minutes, then there was an ominous tearing noise.

‘It’s all right, it’s only a bit of stitching,’ Lucy said, having anxiously examined the bag. ‘Phew, and isn’t that a relief? Maeve wouldn’t have taken kindly to another bag going west. My satchel sprang a hole when I tossed it across the floor as I got back from school yesterday afternoon.’

‘I’ll mend it for you,’ Caitlin said. She was good with her needle, Lucy was hopeless. ‘Give it here, you can have it back before bedtime.’

‘Thanks, Cait,’ Lucy said gratefully. ‘Now let’s eat the fruit cake.’ She opened the bag, rummaged around for a moment, then stared at her friend, her eyes rounding.

‘Cait, the cake’s gone,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I swear to God it was there when we came in but it’s gone now – there isn’t a crumb of it left!’

Later that night, when the hens, pigs and ducks had been fed, tea had been eaten, and the washing up and clearing away done, Maeve sat down by the hearth with her knitting whilst her father settled himself in his chair opposite her and got out his favourite pipe and the farming quarterly which he favoured. When they were all settled, Lucy with her English books spread around her, Lucy cleared her throat and looked up at her aunt.

‘Maeve, do witches eat fruit cake?’

Maeve put her knitting down and stared, plainly astonished. ‘What a question! There’s no such t’ing as witches and well you know it, young lady. But most people like fruit cake I’m thinking, so if there were such things as witches, and they were offered fruit cake, I daresay they’d eat it and enjoy it.’

‘Umm . . . would they steal it, though? Would they take it from – from a person’s box, or bag, or whatever?’

‘Now where’s all this leading, alanna? No more answers unless I get some questions in, first. Who stole your fruit cake? And what makes you think it was a witch when it was far more likely to have been a wandering child, or a dog even, if you put it down somewhere.’

Lucy looked thoughtfully around the room. She did not intend to tell Maeve any lies, but she had no intention of admitting they had been playing at the castle, either. As she had told Caitlin, a secret place of your own was only a secret so long as you told nobody, especially an adult who would feel bound to check out that you were safe and the play-place suitable. And if Maeve ever saw those stone steps – well, Lucy could almost hear the words:
You’ll not go there again, alanna, tis far too dangerous. There’s a million places you can play so stay away from the castle, and that’s an order.

‘We did lay the bag down for a moment,’ she admitted, therefore. ‘And when we got back the cake had gone, clean disappeared, and Caitlin said probably a witch had taken it. I expect it was a dog or perhaps even the cattle, because they like sweet things, don’t they? I didn’t really think it was a witch, but I just wondered whether they had a fondness for sweet things, that’s all.’

‘Hmm,’ Maeve said. She looked rather piercingly at Lucy, then picked up her knitting once again. ‘Well, don’t go handing me good fruit cake to a cow another time, ástor.’

‘I won’t, don’t you worry,’ Lucy said fervently. ‘I’ll keep me bag fastened tight.’ As she said the words she was remembering the fastening – tied tight. She sighed and opened her English book. It was a mystery and no mistake, not that they’d tried to solve it, mind. The truth was they had taken one quick look behind them to where the castle loomed, and they had run as if their lives depended on it, bounding from tussock to tussock, letting the lemon barley water bottle fall and not stopping to pick it up, whilst behind them they seemed to hear a cackle of mocking laughter.

Once safely in the sloping meadow where the Murphy sheep grazed, however, they had thrown themselves down on the soft grass and looked at one another a trifle shamefacedly.

‘Someone played a trick on us,’ Lucy said. ‘There
is
someone in that old castle no matter what anyone says. After all, we know the boat was moved, don’t we? And we know the cake was eaten. Someone had to do both those things and don’t you say “witches” again, Caitlin Kelly, or I’ll scream and hit you, so I will!’

‘Witches, undoubtedly witches,’ Caitlin said with great promptitude, and ducked Lucy’s half-hearted swipe with ease. ‘Well, that settles it; we’ll go back as soon as we finish our work tomorrow and search the place from top to bottom. Or we’ll hide in the nice little room and watch the curragh through the window-slits and see who moves it. And if it’s an old woman with a pointy hat, or a little feller in green, about so high . . .’ she held a hand six inches from the ground on which they lay, ‘then you may tell me how sorry you are you called me a liar.’

‘I never did!’

‘You did so! Well, not in so many words, but you meant it, you t’ought I’d imagined the witches, did you not?’

‘Well, you certainly did not see them,’ Lucy pointed out. ‘Look, let’s not argue, alanna. Tomorrow we’ll find out, hey?’

‘Tomorrow. Give me your hand on it, then.’

Solemnly, they spat in their palms, then shook hands. The handshake started out as a pact and speedily became a trial of strength, then went to the sort of wrestling which Maeve disapproved of because she said girls didn’t need to fight and besides, it was unfeminine.

‘So’s planting spuds and carting manure,’ Lucy had said and Maeve laughed and tutted and said that work was a different matter altogether, bless the child, and when a farmer didn’t have sons his daughters – and granddaughters – have to do all sorts.

But now, sitting by the fire and knitting, Maeve was a picture of feminine domesticity, and indeed, these past couple of years, with Mr Murphy taking on extra help outside, she worked mostly in the house, apart from those times of year when all hands were needed outside. When the sheep lambed, the cows calved and the pigs had their litters, then both Maeve and Lucy were needed to help. And when potatoes, wheat or barley were being sown then again it was all hands to the fields, as it was when the crops were harvested.

And the housework, come to that, was no sinecure; the Murphy home was a big, old-fashioned farmhouse with four bedrooms on the first floor and two attic rooms above, and Maeve, her father and Lucy rattled round in it like peas in a half-empty pod.

‘What are you studying, alanna? You look more as though you’re dreaming, again. As I said, the sooner you get your holiday tasks out of the way the sooner you’ll be able to enjoy some freedom.’

‘It’s holiday reading, this,’ Lucy said, flourishing the book. ‘It’s quite good . . . I thought if I read a chapter a night . . .’

‘Then read, girl,’ her grandfather growled. ‘And stop this chatterin’ before you drive me mad as you are yourself.’

Lucy sighed, then got up and dropped a kiss on her grandfather’s brow. He pretended to rub it off and scowled at her, but she could see he was pleased, really.