The Rotters' Club (43 page)

Ben didn’t say anything back but I’ve never seen him look so upset. I thought he was going to cry. He is still like that now, just along from me on the sofa, and I can tell he is thinking hard about something, trying to make a decision. I don’t know what it is.

I’m going to have to borrow an extra page from Ben’s pad, and paste it in afterwards, I think.

Anyway, now for the funny thing. Dad has just come in in the most deplorable condition. There is no proper sewerage in the caravan, just a chemical loo filled with urine and poo, not to mince my words or beat about the bush. Every second day Dad has to go to the cess-pit at the end of the field and empty the contents of the loo into it. What a job! Only today the wind was so strong that it blew him over. It blew him right over while he was tipping the stuff out and the next thing he knew he was covered from head to foot in the family business, as it were.

Well, I thought his language was bad enough yesterday, but now I realize that was nothing. He stood there in the awning, dripping wet and ponging to high heaven, with the wind still howling around like a force ten gale (which I believe is exactly what it is), and he was screaming at Mum, ‘This is supposed to be a f-king holiday, people are supposed to relax on holiday, they’re supposed to lie in the f-king sunshine and drink cocktails, and here I am, soaked to the skin and covered in s–t, and we’re in the middle of a f-king monsoon…’ and on and on like that for about half an hour.

Well I’m sorry but I had to see the funny side. I became completely hysterical, in fact. And that got Mum started, as well. Dad was horrified. He couldn’t believe we were laughing at him in that state, only we weren’t really, we were just laughing at the whole terrible situation we were in, and the way the holiday was turning into a complete disaster.

Perhaps women are better at making a joke out of things like that. Benjamin certainly hasn’t seen the funny side. Just now – about five minutes ago – he stood up and said, ‘Dad’s right. This is no way to spend a holiday. I’m getting out of here.’

What does he mean by that?

9.40 p.m. Well, now we know. Benjamin has gone. He said he wanted to go home to Birmingham so Dad drove him off to Pwllheli station and put him on the train. It’s a rotten journey, you have to make about three connections, I hope he’s all right.

It’s still teeming down out there. He’s probably done the right thing but I wish he hadn’t left me in the lurch, all alone here with no one but Agatha Christie for company.

Come on, Lois, you can do it! You’ve been through worse! What was it Dr Saunders used to say?

27

The storm raged on. Darkness fell and Benjamin could barely see more than five yards in front of his face. The narrow, winding lanes seemed endless. There were no cars any more, and he hadn’t seen another walker for at least an hour. He was hopelessly lost. In the unbroken darkness, as the sharp arrows of rain drove stingingly into his eyes, he couldn’t have said whether the mountains lay to his left, or the ocean to his right. Even these, the most obvious landmarks, had been obliterated by the elements.

After his father had put him on the train at Pwllheli, Benjamin had waited for the car to drive away and then swiftly disembarked. He was not going back to Birmingham at all. He was going to find Cicely.

He walked back along the Abersoch road for fifteen minutes and then managed to find a lift to Llanbedrog in a farmer’s van. The weather seemed to be getting steadily worse, if that were possible, and he stopped for a while at the Glen-y-Weddw pub, hoping to allow time for the rain to die down a little. But it merely thickened and intensified. At about eight o’clock Benjamin began climbing the hill towards Mynytho. He was walking straight into the gale so it took almost an hour to reach the village, and by then it was quite dark. He continued on the road towards Botwnnog but soon plunged down a steep, single-track lane to the left, which he took to be the direction of the sea. Before long he realized that this had been his first mistake.

How long ago had he left the pub? Two hours? Three? And why had he not passed through Llangian or reached the grassy lowlands which led to Porth Neigwl? He had made a wrong turning somewhere, that much was clear. Surely this lane
had
to lead to a farm, or cottage, or village; surely there had to be some other living creature in this drenched and blasted spot, someone who could show him the way or even suggest a place to sleep for the night.

And then a living creature did jump out of the gloom. Three of them, to be precise, three terrified sheep running at full gallop down the lane towards him, their frantic bleating the first sound he had heard, apart from the wind and rain, since leaving the Botwnnog road. Benjamin leaped to one side, just as startled as they were by this freakish encounter. He looked back over his shoulder and quickened his pace, interpreting their sudden appearance as a bad omen. If even the sheep got lost on a night like this, what chance did he have?

After walking for another two or three miles, he came upon an empty barn at the side of the road, its broken doors flapping madly in the wind. He looked inside. There were a few scraps of straw on the earth floor; just enough to sleep on, if he gathered them all together. But it wasn’t an appealing prospect. He was shivering violently, now, and didn’t relish the thought of trying to sleep in his sopping clothes, with the wind pounding the walls of the barn and those doors banging all night. He threw his rucksack down on the floor and stood for a few minutes in the doorway, looking out into the storm. There was no sign of it fading. The blackness of the night remained absolute. It was easy to imagine that he was the last man on earth.

But then Benjamin felt a surge of hope: he glimpsed a pinprick of light in the distance. It had just appeared, he was sure of that. Somebody, somewhere, must have only recently switched a lamp on. In another moment it could go out again. He must head towards it as quickly as possible.

He grabbed his rucksack and began to run along the lane, but he was too tired to keep this up for long. He settled into a brisk, breathless stride and felt his heart thumping complainingly against his ribcage. The light vanished periodically and re-emerged again; Benjamin took this to mean that it was partly hidden by trees. And then a mountainous bulk rose without warning in front of him and the road began to trace a steep upward incline. The trees were to his right, a dense cluster of them; an unusual feature, on this peninsula, where the landscape tended to be sparse and unwooded. Now there was a thundercrack, followed by a jagged flash of lightning which flickeringly revealed the ocean, heaving with massive and angry breakers, only a quarter of a mile to his left. This, then, was Porth Neigwl, or as the English called it, Hell’s Mouth. He could not be far from Rhîw now. Buoyed up by this realization, he hurried onwards up the hillside with redoubled energy; the light had disappeared now but he was sure he could find it again. And Benjamin only had to walk a few more hundred yards when he saw what he was looking for: a rough wooden sign, nailed to a tree at the entrance to a long drive, bearing the two words ‘PLAS CADLAN’.

He did not know it, but he was on the point of collapsing from exhaustion. He tripped and stumbled along the drive which for most of its considerable distance felt more like a tunnel, so low and tangled were the many overhanging branches. Torn from its tree by the buffeting wind, one branch struck him on the head and almost knocked him out cold as he passed by. Then the lamplight flared up again, much closer and to his left this time, and although it was blocked out at once by a row of unkempt rhododendron bushes, within another minute Benjamin found himself standing by a tiny wrought-iron gate. He pushed it open and it shrieked in the dark. He felt gravel beneath his feet, strode keenly onwards, then missed his footing and fell over almost immediately, landing in the middle of something angular and prickly: perhaps a miniature box-hedge. He stood up and tried to calm himself. There were scratches on his hand and he sucked on one of them, tasting warm blood.

Treading more carefully, he followed the narrow gravel path as best he could, rounded three or four corners and came at last upon the house. His heart surged with joy. There were lights in two of the downstairs windows, and an oil lamp burned outside, illuminating a long covered walkway that ran the length of the house and led to a small cottage or annexe at its furthest end.

He had found it. He was there. The nightmare was over.

Benjamin hammered at the door and when it was pulled back found himself staring into one of the most frightening faces he had ever seen. A tall man in his fifties or sixties, his grey hair wild and unruly, his skin weatherworn liked tanned hide, an astounding white beard reaching almost to his waist, stood on the doorstep glaring at him with manifest hostility and suspicion in his fiery brown eyes. The first words he spoke to Benjamin were in Welsh; and when they produced no response he barked:

‘Well, come on then? Who are you and what do you want?’

‘I’m a friend of Cicely’s,’ Benjamin stammered.

‘You’re
what?’

‘Glyn! Glyn!’ The reproving tones came from a small and motherly woman of about the same age who came padding up behind him. ‘Can’t you see the boy’s wringing wet?’ She took Benjamin by the arm. ‘Come in, my boy, come in.’

‘I’m a friend of Cicely’s,’ Benjamin repeated, as he stood dripping on the flagstones. It was the only thing he could think of. It was his calling card.

‘I’m Beatrice, Cicely’s aunt,’ said the woman. ‘And this is her Uncle Glyn.’

The man glowered at him again; but this time, it seemed to be by way of greeting.

‘Glyn, run and fetch this boy some whisky.’

They gave him a tumbler of whisky, neat, and he drank it much too fast. Then they sat him by the glowing hearth in the kitchen and instead of feeling better he began to shiver even more uncontrollably. They gave him another glass of whisky, this time mixed with ginger and hot water. And then, presumably, they must have put him to bed.

*

When Benjamin awoke, he was dead and gone to heaven. There could be no doubt about that. He had never actually tried to imagine what heaven would be like, but he recognized it as soon as he saw it. Or heard it, rather, for the first thing he noticed about heaven was the sound: the sound of birdsong. He couldn’t still be in Llýn, because you never heard real birdsong on the peninsula: only the lonely wailing of gulls. But the birds here were singing in a mellifluous, unending chorale, to which the humming of bees provided a tunefully droning counterpoint. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. Heaven felt good, as well: he was lying on crisp, thick, newly laundered cotton sheets. Sun was streaming in through the window in shafts of white gold, which rippled slightly as they passed through the white lace curtains which swung and drifted in a gentle breeze. Cool currents of air played on his face. In the background, waves broke softly on a distant shore.

Benjamin had never tried to imagine what heaven was like; but he knew, for certain, that it had one essential component, one criterion that simply had to be met. Cicely had to be there.

And here she was. Sitting at the end of his bed, gazing intently at him as his eyes struggled to open. She was dressed all in white, too, a loose white summer dress, and her hair was long and golden, she had grown it long again, and she was paler than ever and more slender than ever and the blue of her eyes seemed more fragile than ever before.

So it was true, then. Heaven existed; and he was the latest arrival.

‘Hello, Benjamin,’ said Cicely.

Benjamin sat up in bed. He seemed to be wearing a nightshirt that didn’t belong to him. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘You came to find me.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Yes.’ Cicely smiled. ‘I knew that you would.’ Benjamin seemed surprised by this, so she added: ‘What I mean is – I knew that if anybody came, it would be you. Here –’

She took a cup of tea from his bedside table, and offered it to him. The tea in heaven tasted much the same as anywhere else, it transpired. A little too milky, if anything. All right, so this wasn’t heaven after all. Benjamin didn’t mind. Cicely kissed him on the forehead and whispered, ‘I’m so glad that you’re here,’ and he knew that he was somewhere else altogether, somewhere even better.

*

The smell of fried bacon drifted out of the kitchen, through the cavernous hallway, up and around the ancient oak staircase and into every bedroom, bathroom, study, parlour, laundry room and attic in Plas Cadlan. It drew Benjamin, newly bathed and clothed, swiftly down to the kitchen, a room which never saw much sunlight, and where he found Cicely already sitting at the vast dining table with her uncle and aunt. They served him fried eggs, black pudding, coarse and delicious cuts of bacon and challengingly large slices of soft white bread.

‘I’m afraid we are going to have to disillusion our niece,’ said Beatrice, beaming with satisfaction as Benjamin laid into his breakfast. ‘She’s under the impression that you came all the way from Birmingham to see her.’

Apparently, even in his state of near-delirium the night before, Benjamin had managed to offer some rambling explanation about being on holiday with his family near by. He now elaborated on this for the benefit of Cicely, who had been in bed at the time.

‘I don’t care where he came from,’ she told her aunt. ‘It’s just so nice that he’s here. Benjamin is the kindest and most thoughtful of all my friends.’

‘And is this your first visit to Llýn?’ Beatrice asked.

‘Oh, no.’ At once Benjamin felt the need to stake some sort of proprietorial claim. ‘This is a kind of second home to my family. We’ve been coming here for years. Every year, to the same caravan site.’

There was now a minor eruption as Cicely’s uncle slammed his teacup down on the table and let out what could only be described as a snarl. It seemed that he was also on the point of speaking, but his wife warned him off by murmuring, ‘Glyn! Glyn!’, and explaining to Benjamin: