Black Harvest by Ann Pilling Page B

handfuls of moist, peaty stuff, like black matting, with the shapes of twigs and leaves still visible in it.
    He’d put everything of importance in a black plastic rubbish sack under some bushes. The bones were in it, and the bits of pottery and the clay pipe. Only the treasures for Donal Morrissey were ready in their box, transferred to the pocket of his trousers.
    Auntie Jeannie was sitting at the kitchen table reading, with her back to the window. The baby was asleep presumably. He didn’t intend to disturb her, in case there were awkward questions. He scribbled, “Gone for a short walk,” on a scrap of paper and weighted it down with a stone. Jessie opened one eye as Oliver crept about. She was tied up again. It was the first time she’d not barked at him and she looked strangely listless. It must be the heat, he decided. Then he smiled at himself. He was saying it now. It was the Blakeman explanation for everything.
    But it was hot. He peeled off his sweater, left it neatly folded by the note, then started to walk rapidly along the track.
    The door of the caravan was propped open with an old broom and he saw an upturned yellow bucket next to it, crowned with a scrubbing brush. A pile of neatly cut new timbers lay close by, together with a collection of tools. The O’Malleys must think a lot of Donal Morrissey. They’d already started repairing the van and someone had been inside, washing the floor. The old man wouldn’t like that much; old people got agitated if you moved their things.
    There was nobody about but Oliver still looked round carefully before climbing up into the van. The vegetable patch was now a pathetic black square. The scorched remains of stalks and leaves lay twisted together on the ashy ground, and last night’s rain had turned everything tarry. His rubber soles made black, striped marks on the clean floor.
    The van was lighter inside and smelt much fresher. The tiny windows had been rubbed clean and the smelly dog blanket had disappeared. It was probably tumbling round in Mrs O’Malley’s washing machine by now. Donal wouldn’t like that either.
    He sat down on an old stool, took the little box from his pocket and put it in front of him on the table. Then he looked round. Mrs O’Malley certainly hadn’t cleaned the shelves, the piles of tins and boxes were so thickly furred with dust nobody could have touched them in years. But one of themwas quite shiny; it was on its own in a corner, next to a cracked mug and some old pipes. It looked as if someone had polished it.
    Oliver went over and lifted it up. It was quite heavy and rattled. Very carefully he put it on the table and sat down again.
    His fingers itched. This would be the old man’s treasure box, where he kept all his precious, most private things. Mr Catchpole had one too, but it wasn’t as big as this. There was a brass lock, but when Oliver lifted the lid it gave way. He pushed it right back and looked inside. Whatever the box contained was hidden by folds of thick yellow newspaper. Oliver’s little finger played with one corner of it. He couldn’t stop now.
    Then a dog barked outside. Oliver pushed the box right away from him and stood up, but Donal Morrissey had swung himself up into the van before he could get through the door. The dog snarled, straining at the end of a short rope, and the old man stared at him in disbelief across the rickety table.
    Oliver, trembling and white-faced, was starting to sweat in the strange heat. Donal Morrissey’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging, weariness filled his crumpled, bony face. So the boy had come a second time, and he’d just walked all the way back from Father Hagan’s place in Ballimagliesh, to be on his own again, to have some peace.
    Oh, he didn’t blame him for starting the fire, not now the Father had explained it all to him. Donal thought the lad maywell be a bit weak in the head. He’d been very ill apparently, perhaps it had affected him. There was a funny look in