“No. You’re right, Johnny. It’s got to be done. We’re going to make it?”
“We’re going to make it.”
The houses they passed were closed and shuttered; if people still lived in them they were giving no external sign of occupancy. They saw fewer people even than would have been normal in these parts; and when they did encounter others, there was no attempt at greeting on either side. For the most part, the people they met gave ground before the little party, and detoured round them. But twice they saw bands similar to their own. The first of these was of five adults, with two small children being carried. The two parties stared at each other briefly from a distance, and went their separate ways.
The second group was bigger than their own. There were about a dozen people in it, all adults, and several guns were in evidence. This encounter happened in the afternoon, a few miles east of Aysgarth. Apparently this group was crossing the road on their way south to Bishopdale. They halted on the road, surveying the approach of John and the others.
John motioned his own group to a stop, about twenty yards away from them. There was a pause of observation. Then one of the men who faced them called:
“Where are ye from?”
John said: “London.”
There was a ripple of hostile interest. Their leader said:
“There’s little enough to be got in these parts for those who live here, without Londoners coming up scavenging.”
John made no reply. He hefted his shot-gun up under his arm, and Roger and Pirrie followed suit They stared at the other group in silence.
“Where are ye making for?” the man asked them.
“We’re going over the moors,” John said, “into Westmorland.”
“There’ll be nought more there than there is here.” His gaze was on the guns, longingly. “If you can use those weapons, we might be willing to have you join up with us.”
“We can use them,” John said. “But we prefer to stay on our own.”
“Safety in numbers these days.” John did not reply. “Safer for the kiddies, and all.”
“We can look after them,” John said.
The man shrugged. He gestured to his followers, and they began to move off the road in their original direction. He himself prepared to follow them. At the road’s edge, he paused, and turned back.
“Hey, mister!” he called. “Any news?”
It was Roger who replied: “None, but that the world’s grown honest.”
The man’s face cracked into a laugh. “Ay, that’s good. Then is doomsday near!”
They watched until the group was nearly out of sight, and then continued their journey.
They skirted to the south of Aysgarth, which showed signs of defensive array that had now become familiar. They rested, in the afternoon’s heat, within sight of the town. The valley, which had been so green in the old days, now showed predominantly black against the browner hills beyond. The stone walls wound their way up the hillsides, marking boundaries grown meaningless. Once John thought he saw sheep on the hillside, and jumped to his feet to make sure. But they were only white boulders. There could be no sheep here now. The Chung-Li virus had done its work with all-embracing thoroughness.
Mary was sitting with Olivia and the girl Jane. The boys, for once too tired to skylark{114}, were resting together and discussing, so far as John could judge from the scraps of conversation he picked up, motor speedboats. Ann sat by herself, under a tree. He went over and sat down beside her.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked her.
“I’m all right.”
She looked tired, and he wondered how much sleep she had managed to get the night before. He said:
“Only two more days of this, and then…”
She caught his words up. “And then everything’s fine again, and we can forget all that’s happened, and start life all over from the beginning. Well?”
“No. I don’t suppose we can. Does it matter? But we can live what passes for a decent life again, and watch the children grow up into human beings instead of savages. That’s worth doing a lot for.”
“And you’re doing it, aren’t you? The world on your shoulders.”
He said softly: “We’ve been very lucky so far. It may not seem like that, but it’s true. Lucky in getting away from London, and lucky in getting as far north as this before we ran into serious trouble. The reason this place looks deserted is because the locals have retired behind their defences, and the mobs haven’t arrived. But I shouldn’t think we’re more than a day’s march ahead of the mobs—we may be less. And when they come…”
He stared at the tumbling waters of the Ure. It was a sunlit summer scene, strange only in the absence of so much of the familiar green. He didn’t really believe the implications of his own words, and yet he knew they were true.
“We shall be at peace in Blind Gill,” Ann said wearily.
“I wouldn’t mind being there now,” John said.”
“I’m tired,” Ann said. “I don’t want to talk—about that or anything else. Let me be, John.”
He looked down at her for a moment, and then went away. As he did so, he saw that, from under the next tree, Millicent was watching them. She caught his eye, and smiled.
The valley narrowed towards Hawes, and the hills on either side rose more steeply; the stone walls no longer reached up to their summits. Hawes did not appear to be defended, but they avoided it all the same, going round on the higher ground to the south and fording the tributaries of the Ure, fortunately shallow at this time of year.
They made camp for the night in the mouth of Widdale Gill, securing themselves in the angle between the railway line and the river. Fairly near them they found a field that had been planted with potatoes, and dug up a good supply. Olivia made a stew of these and the salt meat they carried; Jane helped her and Millicent gave some half-hearted assistance.
The sun had set behind the Pennines, but it was still quite light; John looked at his watch and saw that it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. Of course, that was British Summer Time{115}, not Greenwich{116}. He smiled at the thought of that delicate and ridiculous distinction.
They had done well, and the boys were not too obviously fatigued. Normally he might have taken them further before halting, but it would be stupid to begin the climb up into Mossdale in such circumstances. Instead, they could make an early start the following morning. He watched the preparations for supper with a contented eye. Pirrie was on guard beside the railway line.
The boys came over to him together. It was Davey who spoke; he used a tone of deference quite unlike his old man-to-man approach.
“Daddy,” he said, “can we stand guard tonight as well?”
John surveyed them: the alert figure of his son, Spooks’s gangling lankiness, Steve’s rather square shortness. They were still just schoolboys, out on a more puzzling and exciting lark than usual.
He shook his head. “Thanks very much for the offer, but we can manage.”
Davey said: “But we’ve been working it out. It doesn’t matter that we can’t shoot properly as long as we can keep awake and make a noise if we see anyone. We can do that.”
John said: “The best thing you three can do is not to stay awake talking after supper. Get to sleep as quickly as possible. We’re up early in the morning, and we’ve got a stiff climb and a long day to face.”
He had spoken lightly enough, and in the old days Davey would have argued strenuously on the point. Now he only glanced at the other two boys in resignation, and they went off together to look at the river.
They all had supper together, Pirrie having come down from the line with a report of emptiness as far as the eye could see. Afterwards, John appointed the hours of sentry duty for the night.