had felt that she must go away to relax; so that afternoon she had left Colin and had come to the quarry. She stood on the edge of a slab of rock that stretched into the water, and lost herself in the grey shadows of fish. She was there a long time, slowly unwinding the tensions of the days: and then a noise made her look up.
“Hallo. Who are you?”
A small black pony was standing at the edge of the water on the other side of the quarry.
“What are you doing here?”
The pony tossed its mane, and snorted.
“Come on, then! Here, boy!”
The pony looked hard at Susan, flicked its tail, then turned and disappeared among the trees.
“Oh, well – I wonder what the time is.” Susan climbed up the slope out of the quarry and into the field. She walked round to the wood on the far side, and whistled, but nothing happened. “Here, boy! Here, boy! Oh don’t then; I’m – oh!”
The pony was standing right behind her.
“You made me jump! Where’ve you been?”
Susan fondled the pony’s ears. It seemed to like that, for it thrust its head into her shoulder, and closed its velvet-black eyes.
“Steady! You’ll knock me over.”
For several minutes she stroked its neck, then reluctantly she pushed it away. “I must go now. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.” The pony trotted after her. “No, go back. You can’t come.” But the pony followed Susan all the way across the field, butting her gently with its head and nibbling at her ears. And when she came to climb through the fence into the next field, it put itself between her and the fence, and pushed sideways with its sleek belly.
“What do you want?”
Push.
“I’ve nothing for you.”
Push.
“What is it?”
Push.
“Do you want me to ride? That’s it, isn’t it? Stand still, then. There. Good boy. You have got a long back, haven’t you? There. Now – whoa! Steady!”
The moment Susan was astride, the pony wheeled round and set off at full gallop towards the quarry. Susan grabbed the mane with both hands.
“Hey! Stop!”
They were heading straight for the barbed wire at the top of the cliff above the deepest part of the quarry.
“No! Stop!”
The pony turned its head and looked at Susan. Its foaming lips curled back in a grin, and the velvet was gone from the eye: in the heart of the black pupil was a red flame.
“No!” Susan screamed.
Faster and faster they went. The edge of the cliff cut a hard line against the sky. Susan tried to throw herself from the pony’s back, but her fingers seemed to be entangled in the mane, and her legs clung to the ribs.
“No! No! No! No!”
The pony soared over the fence, and plunged past smooth sandstone down to the water. The splash echoed between the walls, waves slapped the rock, there were some bubbles: the quarry was silent under the heavy sky.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” said Bess. “Susan mun get her own tea when she comes in.”
“Ay, let’s be doing,” said Gowther. “Theer’s one or two things to be seen to before it rains, and it conner be far off now: summat’s got to bust soon.”
“I’ll be glad when it does,” said Bess. “I conner get my breath today. Did Susan say she’d be late?”
“No,” said Colin, “but you know what she is. And she hadn’t a watch with her.”
They sat down at the table, and ate without talking. The only sounds were the breathing of Bess and Gowther, the ticking of the clock, the idiot buzz of two winter-drugged flies that circled endlessly under the beams. The sky bore down on the farm-house, squeezing the people in it like apples in a press.
“We’re for it, reet enough,” said Gowther. “And Susan had best hurry if she dunner want a soaking. She ought to be here by now. Wheer was she for, Colin? Eh up! What’s getten into him?” Scamp, the Mossocks’ lurcher, had begun to bark wildly somewhere close. Gowther put his head out of the window. “That’ll do! Hey!
“Now then, what was I saying? Oh ay; Susan. Do you know wheer she’s gone?”
“She said she was going to the quarry for some peace and quiet – I’ve been getting on her nerves, she said.”
“What? Hayman’s quarry? You should have said earlier, Colin. It’s dangerous – oh, drat the dog! Hey! Scamp! That’s enough! Do you hear?”
“Oh!” said Bess. “Whatever’s to do with you? Wheer’ve you been?”
Susan was standing in the doorway, looking pale and dazed. Her hair was thick with mud, and a pool of water was gathering at her feet.
“The quarry!” said Gowther. “She mun have fallen in! What were you thinking of, Susan, to go and do that?”
“Bath and bed,” said Bess, “and then we’ll see what’s what. Eh dear!”
She took Susan by the arm, and bustled her out of sight.
“Goodness knows what happened,” said Bess when she came downstairs half on hour later. “Her hair was full of sand and weed. But I couldner get a word out of her: she seems mazed, or summat. Happen she’ll be better for a sleep: I’ve put a couple of hot-water bottles in her bed, and she looked as though she’d drop off any minute when I left her.”
The storm battered the house, and filled the rooms with currents of air, making the lamps roar. It had come soon after nightfall, and with it a release of tension. The house was now a refuge, and not a prison. Colin, once the immediate anxiety for Susan had been allayed, settled down to spend the evening with his favourite book.
This was a musty, old ledger, covered with brown suede. Over a hundred years ago, one of the rectors of Alderley had copied into it a varied series of documents relating to the parish. The book had been in Gowther’s family longer than he could say, and although he had never found the patience to decipher the crabbed handwriting, he treasured the book as a link with a time that had passed. But Colin was fascinated by the anecdotes, details of court leets, surveys of the parish, manorial grants, and family histories that filled the book. There was always something absurd to be found, if you had Colin’s sense of humour.
The page that held him now was headed:
EXTRACTS: CH: WARDENS’ ACCS. 1617
A true and perfect account of all such Sumes of Money as I, John Henshaw of ye Butts, Churchwarden of Neither Alderley and for ye parish of Alderley have received and likewise disburst since my first entrance into Office untill this present day being ye 28 May Anno Di. 1618.
| £ | s. | d. | |
| Imprimis Payed for Ale for ye Ringers and oure Selves | 0 | 3 | 2 |
| Item to John Wych his bill for a new Sally Poll | 0 |
|