Black Harvest by Ann Pilling

past them trying to make out what was on the shelves. Why was it so dark inside? There was hardly enough light to read her mother’s shopping list. Then she remembered, there was a power cut in Ballimagliesh. They were doing some maintenance work, Mrs O’Malley had told her. That would be why they’d rigged up this smelly oil-lamp that smoked and spluttered over her head.
    When a wave of fresh customers came in Prill was pushed to one side. People jostled each other and tried to get to the front of the queue. But it was strangely quiet. All she could hear was money chinking and things being slid across the counter. The shop was so crowded she couldn’t raise her arm to hold the list under the lamp. When her turn came she’d give it to the shopkeeper, that would be the quickest. She wanted to get out really, she could hardly breathe in this stuffy place.
    The shop door rattled again and Prill glanced back. Her heart warmed to see the fat face of a clergyman. It just had to be that Father Hagan. Oliver was right, he was a bit like Friar Tuck. She smiled at him. But he had already turned his back to talk to someone. She just caught the words “tobacco”, “very difficult” and “old Donal”. Then she heard something else. An argument was going on at the counter. The generalmumbling in the queue died away and everyone leaned forward to listen.
    But the customer clearly didn’t want anybody to hear. Prill could only make out the tone of the voice, the note of pleading. Then she heard, “Give me what you have then,” from the shopkeeper. “We’ve got little enough ourselves, God knows.” And suddenly, very close, she could see a hand thrust out at him, with the fingers drawn tightly over the palm, shrivelled yellowing fingers like turkey claws.
    It lay lifeless on the bare counter and Prill watched the plump, pink hand of the man prise the fingers open slowly, one by one, revealing nothing.
    “I’m sorry, but if you have no money at all…“Then the words turned into mumbling again. The woman’s voice deadened into a low, monotonous keening. It was the most desolate sound Prill had ever heard.
    Suddenly there was a shriek. “For the love of God, spare me something !” Then several things happened at once. The shop door blew shut with a bang and buckets rolled over the floor. Prill heard Father Hagan wheezing at the back, helping another man stack them up again and laughing. A strip light over the counter was flickering into life and the tubby, white-overalled shopkeeper blinked up at it. In that instant the shawled figure at the counter leaned forward and grabbed.
    A neat pyramid of loaves, buns and cakes toppled over. “Take what I have, and may God help me,” the woman cried shrilly and, pulling a bundle from under her arm, she thrust it at the goggling shop owner.
    As she pushed past, Prill could smell the new loaf in her hand. The swinging oil-lamp turned the woman’s face a muddy yellow and patched the shrunken face with shadow. The girl saw the familiar domed head, the remains of springy, russet hair, the gaunt cheekbones almost breaking the flesh.
    All the lights were back on in the shop and the man was reading her list and saying pleasantly, “I’ll get you a little box for this surely. Oh, you’ve got a bag? If you’ll give it to me then. The bacon’s out at the back, I won’t be a minute.”
    As she waited, Prill fingered the sacking bundle lightly, then laid her whole hand flat upon it. A coldness came up through the coarse webbing. She pushed at it. The lump inside was heavy, unyielding, and gave off a high, gamey smell.
    Her fingers crept to the end of the sacking where the loose brown folds had fallen open. She could hear the bacon-slicer whining faintly in the back room, and Father Hagan chatting away somewhere behind her. She didn’t want to unwrap the bundle, she wanted to run out of the shop. But something compelled her to roll the thing over and over on the counter till the sacking