35
Pilgrims Return

The first signs that they were approaching Dead River were the wilting crops in the countryside.

Behind the mauve mountains, the scorching ball of the sun was lowering itself like an old man into bed.

As the silver Spider entered the town, Pip saw Jack gazing wistfully at the twinkling lights of the university on the hill. All three of them knew that the strange summer of 1963 was drawing to a close.

It had been a long journey. They had spent three more days just drifting and enjoying each other’s company, passing the nights in comfortable hotels. And no matter how much Jack protested, Pip had insisted on footing the bill.

By the time they swung off the road at the familiar poplar trees and bounced along the rutted track, it was almost dark and all conversation had ceased. A feeling of nervousness settled on the returning travellers.

Outside the white bungalow Jack switched off the ignition and a deep silence fell. Pip realized that both Jack and Hannah were doing the same as him – staring across the track to Dead River Farm, scanning the yard for Erwin’s Jeep. Mercifully it was not there.

Hannah was the first to move. In her flowery dress and leather boots, with guitar case in hand, she walked round the car to where Jack was sitting at the wheel. She kissed his curly head with simple affection, and by the time he and Pip had climbed out the girl had spirited herself away.

It seemed a lifetime since their first cautious meeting, but now age, education and race seemed meaningless as Jack and Pip hugged each other like an uncle with his favourite nephew.

When Pip walked wearily into the yard, with his satchel hanging from one shoulder, he heard a commotion, and there was Amigo bounding across to greet him. With tail thumping, the old dog almost knocked him off his feet.

Under a bare lightbulb on the farmhouse porch, Zachery was drinking coffee, with a cigarette to keep the bugs at bay.

‘Decaided t’ come back, did ’ee? Ah figured ye an’ the gull run off fer good. Lemme look at ye, boy . . . Y’ seem kinda diff’rent somehow . . .’

‘That’ll be the hat, Mr Zachery, sir.’

‘Ain’t the hat.’

‘Wal, it’s good to see you, Mr Zach. Guess I’ll get some rest so I’m ready for work tomorrow . . .’

‘Reck’n Lilybelle laike t’ see ye now. She got awl kindsa crazy notions in her heed since you bin gawn.’

So Pip pushed open the creaking screen door and stepped into the farmhouse. There was the clock stopped at twenty to nine. There were the glass-eyed animals – although now they did not seem so threatening. He walked along the gloomy corridor and was amazed to see two live chickens pecking on the tabletop – in his absence the kitchen had become almost as chaotic as the yard.

Lilybelle must have heard him because he was greeted by the same tinkling bell and soft call as he had heard on his first visit to that peculiar house.

‘Come an’ show yerself. Don’ be shaiy now. Is that mah precious boy outsaide?’

Pip smiled to himself, and turned the rose-petal handle. To his surprise Lilybelle was sitting with her barrel legs hanging over the side of the bed and a lively expression on her doll-like face. She had a paintbrush in one hand and a large painting on the bed beside her. In the short time he had been away she seemed to have lost weight. Her pink nightdress hung loosely around her now so that she resembled a circus tent pitched in a field.

‘Oh, Pip! Ah’m so glad t’ see yer. Bless yo’ heart, I do believe mah li’l Pip has grown into a man.’

‘And you look wonderful, Lilybelle! You’re breathin’s all clear, an’ your face – well, it’s sorta glowing! Have you been on some kinda diet?’

‘Oh, look at me blush, Pip! You know how t’ sweet-tawk a gull an’ that’s the truth. Wal, if ah’ve lost a li’l weight it’s ’cos Zach don’t know how t’ cook nothin’ but aigs ’n beans. Aigs ’n beans is awl ah ate since you been gawn. Makes me windy as a typhoon, but ah don’ maind, Pip. Ah been real busy, see . . .’

And she had been busy. The room was filled with colourful artwork, pinned to the walls and propped on every surface. Pip saw wonderful imaginary worlds of forests, tumbling waterfalls, beaches and oceans, rainbows and sunsets, flying fish, wild animals of every kind, cities swarming with cars and bicycles, all populated by extraordinary people.

The half-finished painting on the bed was the strangest of them all. It showed a bearded man and a large woman in transparent nightclothes flying together through a starry sky.

‘Lilybelle, is . . . is that you an’ Mr Zach?’

‘Sho’ is!’ she crooned. ‘Ah painted it for a real special occasion. It was our weddin’ an’versary, see. An’, Pip, it makes me blush t’ say it, but Zach say he’s mainded t’ move back into the bedroom with me!’

‘That’s wonderful! I’m real pleased for the both of you, because I’ve got something to tell you too . . . See, I love being with you, Lilybelle, but Hannah and I been thinking . . .’

She placed a stubby finger on her lips. ‘Pip, whatever it is y’ gotta say, ah don’ wanna hear it raight now if it’s awl th’ same t’ you. Ah’ve missed you like mah own son . . . Besaides, you ain’t finished readin’ Great Ex’tations, Pip, an’ ah’m dyin’ to know what occurs.’

‘Course I’ll read to you, Lilybelle. It’s always my pleasure.’ Pip opened his satchel and pulled out the book.

‘You’re a good boy, Pip . . . But ah don’ even know where y’ bin or what ye seen . . .’

‘I don’t know how to say it, Lilybelle. I went to the past . . . I seen the future too an’ it sure looked bright to me.’

When he climbed the ladder in the stable block and crawled beneath the itchy blankets, Pip was restless. He wondered how many more nights he would spend on that makeshift bed. The trip to his village had been a kind of miracle; but he knew that his life journey had barely begun. Now he reflected on the story he had been reading to Lilybelle and the equally miraculous events that had happened to his namesake, Pip. Pip had come upon an unexpected fortune too, but it had turned his head. The hero of Dickens’s story had become arrogant and spoiled. He had shown contempt for the decent ordinary folk who had been his friends, and his new wealth had brought nothing but unhappiness.

But my life is not a story laid out by an author, Pip thought to himself. He resolved that he would not make the sort of mistakes people made in books; he would care for his friends, especially Hannah, and treat them with the kindness they deserved. More than anything, he would become the man who would have made his parents proud.

And all night long, Pip’s dreams clinked and clanked and rustled with the sound of dollars and dimes in a cookie jar.