The Hollow Land by Jane Gardam Page B

“The flags’ll need scrubbing,” he said, “and the lino’s stained for ever. And the bowl’s done for.”
    â€œThrow it,” said Granny Crack.
    â€œ
Throw?
”
    â€œThrow it int’ midden and cover it.”
    â€œI’ll throw it,” said Harry, “if you’ll come out in the garden and have your feet washed at that tap.”
    â€œKill me,” she said. “You want to kill me.”
    But when Harry had thrown the broken bowl away on the midden she trotted after him into the front garden and stood quite interestedly with her feet under the tap. He turned it on and the flute laughed. “Like Castle Beck,” she said. “Gives you the jumps.” Then she skipped off and wiped her feet all over the grass right down to the garden gate.
    â€œI’m off now,” said Harry. “You’ll be all right.” He opened the gate.
    Granny Crack trotted after him in her white nightie.
    â€œHey—you can’t come with me! Go back,” he said, feeling he’d got landed with some sort of crazy, disobedient dog.
    Granny Crack grinned and sat down by the gate with her back to the wall where Mr. Bateman had sat to read his book. The September sun shone down on her and she turned her smooth face up to it and munched with her small mouth at nothing for a time. She twiddled her lilac-coloured feet and let the sun warm them on the warm bank.
    â€œYou’re a boy,” she said. “I had boys. They went off. There wasn’t enough for them. You’re not from these parts.”
    â€œSome of the time I am,” said Harry. “Off and on I’ve been here for ages. We live in London mostly though.”
    â€œLondon,” said Granny Crack. “I never saw London Town.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Harry. “Up here’s better. More seems to go on up here.”
    She turned her head to him. Every bone in it could be seen through the wispy white hair and her mouth fell open in a little O. Her blue eyes stared in great surprise.
    â€œMore goes on,” the distant flute said. It was difficult, Harry thought, to know what feelings started the words off, for the voice had no expression in it. It was a voice just taken out for use after being long put away.
    â€œI’d like once to have seen London Town.”
    Harry found that he was trying to tell her. He was not much of a talker and never had been, but once he got going he found it easy—she looked at him with such wide eyes he might have been telling her adventures. Yet it was only the zoo and the Tower and Buckingham Palace and Nelson’s Column and all the old boring things you take visitors to. He told her biking on the Common was best—but nothing like biking here. And you never noticed weather hardly, or trees and so on. There were drunks, of course, to look at on Waterloo station and painters hanging their pictures on Hyde Park railings on Sunday mornings, and the lights over the bridges coming back late after the pantomime at Christmas. No excitements much though . . .
    He droned on and on. After a time Granny Crack turned her queer old face from him and seemed to be smiling. She turned her face up to the white crescent of the daytime moon. And Harry droned.
    The Egg-witch found the pair of them sitting there, contented in the sunshine.

T HE I CICLE R IDE
    C an Harry come out?” asked Bell bobbing up at Light Trees’ kitchen window and making Harry’s mother drop a pan. She had been standing at the sink dreaming out over the snow-covered view to see if she could sight Helvellyn and the Saddleback sparkling against the sky.
    â€œHeavens, Bell, wherever did you spring from? Only sheep look in on me at this sink.”
    â€œI come over the stile. You could have seen me all across the field. I were watchin’ you.”
    â€œYou might have waved, Bell.”
    â€œI waved and I called but you were busy over me