Inside the house Aunt Esther was waiting for them. Mirabelle passed by without a word, her lips taut and her expression vindictive. Had she bothered to look back she might have seen Thomas being guided secretively into the drawing room.
It was getting dark and the woman’s features were indistinct. Thomas wondered why she did not put on the light.
‘Thomas, can you give an old woman credit for remembering her youth and all its problems?’
He was immediately out of his depth. ‘I don’t know. Well, I suppose so. Why?’
‘Because I was watching you both at the stream. Oh, let me be honest – as I believe one must be with children – I deliberately followed you. Does that surprise you?’
Thomas had already learnt that dreams are made only to be shattered. Without thinking he answered sullenly, ‘no.’ But, as he said it, he was aware of an incongruity. He should have been resentful and angry. For a fleeting moment it had seemed that the woman was involved as if by right; even that he welcomed her intrusion, as one might heed the advice of a long-departed friend. But the moment passed as the door to his subconscious mind closed. He was suddenly resentful. ‘You’ve no right…’
‘I admit it was slightly underhand. But it’s done. I just wanted to remind you that girls and boys of your age are not necessarily – how can I put it simply – at the same stage of growing up. Your cousin is a determined young lady. And other things besides.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘It would not be impossible for you to return home now, if you wished. Your mother is not well. With your father away she would appreciate having you back home. I can easily say she rang.’
‘No!’
In the fading light Thomas could just discern the transient whiteness of a smile.
‘I didn’t expect you to agree.’ Suddenly she was serious. ‘But Thomas, I did want you to think about your position here. Just promise me you will consider everything you do and not do anything foolish.’ She paused, withdrawing into the darkness behind him. ‘My, the moon has risen. Do you see it, Thomas? Beautiful things can still be found outside mere relationships.’
Thomas looked at the yellow orb in grateful relief, hardly aware that she had taken his hand and pressed something into the palm. ‘Yes,’ he replied a moment later, into an empty room.
Although Mirabelle’s fair image returned to dominate his thoughts, he could not quite expunge Esther’s admonition from his mind. And he was puzzled, as well as delighted, by her apparent gift of a double headed penny.
Thomas did not wish to sleep. He wished to dream in a state of sensual wakefulness. He left the curtains open, so that the light could stream in, and the window ajar to subject himself to the sounds of the night. He tried to scheme, to devise strategies, to construct rigorous arguments. He prepared fine speeches with which to impress and once he leapt from his bed to practice appropriate gestures in front of the mirror. Then he lay in quiet despair with his second pillow a pale imitation of her beside his restless body. I would do anything, he told himself, forgetting Aunt Esther’s warning. By the time the door opened hope had all but gone.
‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought we ought to talk.’
This may still be a dream, he told himself. Keep control. ‘What about?’ he asked. It was difficult to suppress the tremor in his voice.
‘About things. About you and me. It seems you don’t like me, Thomas.’
Was this the opportunity that he craved? The item of advantage that could be turned to useful effect. ‘I tried not to let it show,’ Thomas said. ‘Perhaps I could get to like you.’ He hoped desperately that she could not hear his heart pounding.
‘It’s what I feared.’ She sniffed twice and grasped Thomas’ hand, placing it on her thigh. ‘I think I’d better go.’
‘No! I mean, no, there’s no need to go.’
‘Mummy would be awfully cross if she found me here.’
‘You can stay.’
‘I thought we might talk about Horace.’
‘Henry.’
‘Whatever. I thought I might give him to you.’ She waited for a response that did not come. ‘You don’t want him then?’
‘I could just take him off you,’ Thomas said gruffly.
‘Of course, you’d have to prove to me that you’re serious about him.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘It’s something I’ve always wondered. Nothing difficult. Something you can help me to find out. Will you do it for me? Please.’
‘If I can I will.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘On this bible?’ She had a book in her hand.
‘On this bible I promise. Now tell me what it is.’
‘To crawl through that tunnel to see what’s on the other side.’
Thomas chose not to interpret her cough as she left the room as suppressed laughter. But he tried desperately to recall having seen the bible on his bedside table.
In the early hours of the morning Thomas’ dilemma assumed gargantuan proportions. Fear of the unknown was dwarfed by a more focused dread of being confined in a small space that had first come to light two years before in a traumatic encounter with Crighton, the school bully.
There was also the problem of when. If he went early it was just possible he could overcome his fears by being alone, but he would be missed; if late… well… all manner of unforeseen difficulties might be put in his way. In the end he decided on a compromise: he would slip away unseen just after breakfast, having misled Mirabelle as to his intentions. To his surprise it worked. ‘But you mustn’t leave it too late,’ she said. ‘The weather forecast said more showers.’
Under a dark sky only partially visible through the swaying branches above Thomas contemplated the swirling water. It must have rained during the night: what had been a benign trickle the previous day now seemed a cauldron of mutually hostile elements frantically competing to escape the light. By pinching his arm he forced himself into the tunnel entrance – just to see, nothing more. If he had to he could still swallow his pride, catch the next train home and never make contact with this wretched family again. Except that not seeing Mirabelle again was not an option.
The bite of the water across his feet had the same cold cruelty as its appearance. It filled his trainers and surged over his hands as he groped his way forward. To his dismay he found it was not possible to kneel. Worse still, he could not turn around. Any further progress depended upon squirming, eel-like, with lateral undulations of his shoulders and hips. Suddenly he panicked. He emerged backwards out of the hole like a piece of excrement.
In the rising water he cried bitter tears of frustration, unable to make any decision that might relieve his situation. For the first time in many months Thomas prayed.
The Almighty’s response began with a crackle of twigs on the embankment above. At first Thomas thought it was Mirabelle selecting a favourable position of vantage from which to crow. But a moment later a youth of about his own age and appearance, with torn clothes and bleeding scratches on his cheeks, climbed – or rather slid – down the bank towards him. Thomas stared in disbelief.
‘You’ve set yourself a difficult task there,’ the boy observed.
‘Yes, haven’t I just,’ Thomas replied.
‘Think you can make it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then why are you doing it?’
‘I promised someone I would.’
‘And what do you get in return?’