DURING ELEVENSES IT OCCURRED to Polly that she should have telephoned Thea to tell her that she wouldn’t be going over to stay and also to impart the good news about the baby. It seemed very unlikely that Michael would have done so. Now that she came to think of it, she was rather surprised that Cass, or at least Saul, hadn’t telephoned her to see how she was coping. She decided that she felt a little hurt. In fact, by the time she had finished her coffee, she had worked herself up into that ‘nobody cares about me’ state of mind that is so injurious to our well-being. Nevertheless, she decided, it was only right that she should inform Cass that Harriet was safe and well and delivered of a new son and then telephone Thea for a good long chat.
She settled Hugh with his new colouring book and crayons, gave the dogs a biscuit each and picked up the receiver. Silence. She pressed the rest a few times and peered to check that the plug was firmly in. It was. How odd, thought Polly, jiggling the rest a few more times.
After a moment, she left the kitchen and went into the sitting room to try the phone there. More silence. Polly stood frowning. Michael had rung earlier and it was fine then . . . Slowly a dreadful thought crept into her mind. The telephone had been cut off. The snow must have brought down the lines since Michael’s call. In a sudden panic, Polly banged the rest up and down again. Nothing. Very slowly she replaced the receiver and stared about her. She was cut off, alone. If there were to be an emergency she would be able to contact nobody. No one would come to her aid. Her heart gave a great somersault of terror and she strove for calmness. Hugh must not suspect that anything was wrong. Be calm, she told herself and took several deep breaths. There’s nothing to fear. We have food and heat . . . Another thought struck her and galvanised her into action. She leaped for the light switch and pressed it down. Nothing. She switched it up and down furiously, ran across to the television and pushed the ‘on’ knob. The screen remained blank.
Polly stood up and pressed both hands to her mouth. They were completely cut off. What Michael had feared had happened. Thank God he’d been able to tell her what to do about lamps. Polly stood for a little longer trying to pull herself together before she crossed to the wood-burning stove to pile on more logs. The flames leaped up, warming and encouraging her. She must get more logs in from the porch before it got dark and she must put the Gaz lamps ready. Preparing her face in what she hoped was an ‘isn’t this all fun?’ expression but which in fact looked more like the death rictus of a homicidal maniac, she went back to the kitchen.
‘Look!’ cried Hugh. He brandished his colouring book. ‘I done a picture of Mummy and Daddy and the new bruvver.’
Polly went to look. It was a picture of the Holy Family. ‘Lovely,’ she said automatically, ignoring the fact that Mary had become Negroid, Joseph Chinese and the infant Jesus bright blue. Perhaps he’s feeling cold there, lying in a manger with no clothes on, thought Polly and pulled herself up sharply. ‘It’s smashing, Huge,’ she said. ‘Mummy will love it. Now you must do one for Daddy.’
‘No.’ Hugh was bored with colouring. ‘He can share. Get down.’ Polly sighed and lifted him out of his high chair. He went to Max, who lay before the Aga, and knelt beside him. Bending his head so that it rested on the big dog’s back, he took some of his own hair and some of Max’s between his fingers and began to twiddle it. His face took on a dreamy expression and he began to suck his thumb. Presently he slid sideways and closed his eyes.
Polly left him to it and went to fetch the lamps. She put one on the kitchen table to light as soon as it should become necessary and took another through to the sitting room with a spare box of matches. She remembered that Michael had told her not to light them all at once and felt another thrill of terror at the thought of all three lamps running out of gas and she and Hugh and the dogs left alone in the dark.
Stop it! she told herself fiercely. Michael would get here somehow, she was sure, even if he had to walk all the way. He would try to telephone again and would realise what had happened. There was really no need to panic. If only his cousin would arrive. Perhaps he’d been caught in the snow himself and was lost on the moor. She found herself wishing that she’d let Saul stay after all and then remembered that she had to get the logs in.
Leaving Hugh and Max fast asleep, she went into the hall and opened the door into the porch. Taking armfuls of logs, she went to and fro until the two wicker baskets w ere full to the brim. Perhaps it would be sensible to get some more logs into the porch in case the snow kept on falling. She pushed her feet into gumboots, pulled on her coat and, opening the porch door, stood looking out.
The snow still fell; slowly, silently, inexorably covering the garden so that it now merged in one long stretch with the moor beyond. The path that she had so laboriously dug had virtually disappeared and there was no sign of Ozzy’s tracks from his earlier expedition. Polly realised there was a world of difference between the Christmas card version of snow with blue skies and j oll ν robins and this cold, bleak white-out with its eerie silence.
She shivered and then gasped. Out of the white landscape a figure loomed beyond the snow-covered wall. Polly’s heart gave a leap upwards. Could Michael possibly have . . . ? She hurried out of the porch, wading and kicking her way through the snow and calling to the figure who was still partially obscured by the falling snow.
‘Hi! Hello!’ she called. ‘Can you find the gate? How did you get here?’
The figure remained quite still.
At this point she reached up against the barrier of the gate and found herself looking at a man who was certainly not Michael. ‘Oh,’ she said, nonplussed and feeling rather foolish. ‘I thought you were Michael.’
He was staring at her, too, as if in amazement and then, as realisation dawned, her face cleared and she laughed.
‘Of course!’ she cried, relief flooding through her. ‘You’re cousin Jon and you’re wondering who on earth I am. Michael’s taken Harriet in to have the baby and he can’t get back because of the snow. They’ve got another boy. I’m Hugh’s godmother, Polly Wickam. We’ve never met because you’ve always been abroad but I’ve been expecting you. I’m delighted to see you. I’m all on my own with Hugh, and a three-year-old isn’t exactly a comfort in these conditions. For heaven’s sake, climb over the wall and come in.’
After a moment, the man did as she suggested and followed her back to the cottage.
‘Goodness,’ she said, as they stood in the porch together. ‘You’re soaked. Have you walked miles? Take off that coat and your shoes and get into the warm. I suppose you’ve had to abandon your car and your luggage. Never mind, Michael’s got loads of stuff.’
He took off his coat and, with some difficulty, prised his soaking shoes from his frozen feet. The lower legs of his trousers were caked in snow. He was as tall and as dark as Michael but there any resemblance ended. He was pale and in need of a shave and he looked desperately tired.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Polly, overcome with remorse at her garrulity. ‘You must be exhausted and I’m rattling on at you. The thing is, we’re totally cut off. No electricity. No telephone. And the relief of seeing another human being was too much.’ She held out her hand. ‘In case you didn’t grasp it all before, I’m an old friend of Harriet’s and Hugh’s godmother, Polly Wickam, and you’re Michael’s cousin, Jon. How d’you do?’
After a moment, Jon put his hand in hers. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit punch-drunk. I seem to have been walking for hours.’
Flis voice was husky with weariness and Polly opened the inner door. ‘Come in and get some dry clothes on while I heat up some soup,’ she said, ‘and then you can meet Hugh and Max and Ozzy.’
He hesitated, frowning. ‘Max and who?’
Ozzy. You know? Michael’s Newfoundland dogs? I’m sure you’ve heard about Max and Ozzy.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jon shut the door behind him. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Clothes first,’ said Polly briskly. ‘I’ll show you where everything is and then I’ll get some soup on the go. Would you like a bath?’
‘You can’t possibly imagine how wonderful that would be,’ said Jon.
‘OK, then,’ said Polly. ‘Follow me.’
TOM CAME INTO THE kitchen and regarded his sons with irritation. Flis trousers were tucked into thick socks and he wore the superior air of one who was busy whilst those around him remained idle.
‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘Aren’t you finished yet? It’ll be lunch time before you two even finish breakfast.’ He pushed the kettle on to the hotplate. ‘We’ve got to dig a path to the woodshed or we shall be out of logs. I’ve made a start but I don’t see why I should do all the hard work when there are two able-bodied young men around. Although I suppose it’s a triumph of hope over experience to imagine that you two will do anything useful while I’m here to do it for you!’
Saul rolled his eyes ceilingwards and Oliver sniffed the air with loud deliberation. He leaned towards Saul. ‘Do I smell a martyr burning?’ he suggested.
‘Oh, very funny!’ said Tom, making himself some coffee.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Cass, coming into the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t seem to be getting any better, does it? Has anyone seen a weather forecast?’
Tom was understood to say that he’d been far too busy to watch television but the other three ignored him.
‘I’ll go and see if there’s anything on,’ said Oliver, pushing back his chair and thereby neatly avoiding the washing-up.
‘And then come on out!’ Tom shouted after him. ‘Don’t think you’re going to lounge in there watching the box while I work!’
Saul sighed and began to pile the plates together. He had just finished when Oliver reappeared looking, for Oliver, rather ruffled.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Cass at once. ‘Have vou seen a forecast?’
‘Not as such,’ said Olher. He glanced at Saul and back at Cass.
‘What is it?’ asked Saul, surprised at Oliver’s reticence. ‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s been a breakout from Princetown,’ said Oliver. ‘A prisoner escaped last night.’
The other three stared at him in silence.
‘Oh, God!’ Saul burst out. ‘And Polly’s all on her own.’ He plunged out into the hall and everyone started to speak at once.
‘He won’t get far in this weather, the police will soon bring him back . . . ’
‘Polly will be terrified . . . ’
‘Listen. Before Saul gets back . . . ’
But Saul was already back, brandishing Cass’s address book. He looked quite wild, his hair on end and his eyes wide with anxiety.
‘What’s Harriet’s surname?’ he cried. ‘1 can’t remember her bloody surname.’
‘Wait!’ said Tom. His voice was quiet but years of authority in the Navy gave it a quality that made the others turn to look at him. ‘Let’s be calm, shall we?’ he said. ‘A prisoner has escaped. It’s a well-known fact that any prisoner escaping from the moor has very little chance unless it’s a set-up job with help from outside.’ He turned to Oliver. ‘Was any mention made of that?’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘The spokesman said that it was, without question, set up with outside help.’
‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘That means that a car with clothes in it will have been left at a prearranged spot and, in normal conditions, the prisoner would be well away from the moor in no time. Obviously, the snow will probably put a stop to that. But if he broke out last night, he might have got some distance before he ran into trouble.’ Here, Oliver opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again. Tom raised his eyebrows. Oliver shook his head. ‘I think that we can safely assume that he’s at least well away from Princetown and, therefore, from Polly. But, even if he weren’t, there’s no point at all in telephoning her and frightening her to death. There was no mention of the escape on the television last night so there’s every chance that she knows nothing about it. In fact, I’m perfectly certain that if she’d heard anything she’d have been on to us like a shot.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ agreed Cass. ‘Tom’s quite right. You mustn’t frighten her, Saul.’
‘By all means phone and have a chat with her,’ said Tom. ‘But keep calm. She’s got Max and Ozzy, after all.’
‘Oh, the Newfies!’ said Saul contemptuously.
‘Yes. The Newfies.’ Tom nodded at Saul. ‘We may all know them as lazy great bundles. But to anyone who doesn’t know them, they’re bloody big brutes and, what’s more, very protective when it comes to Hugh.’
‘That’s true,’ said Cass again. ‘They’re very wary of strangers around Hugh. Go and get dressed, Saul, and then we’ll phone Polly and see how she is. Go on,’ she said firmly as Saul hesitated, ‘a few minutes won’t make any difference and you’re beginning to shiver.’
Saul went, reluctantly, and Cass, waiting until she heard him reach the top of the stairs, pushed the kitchen door to and turned to Oliver.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘What haven’t you told us?’
Oliver grimaced. ‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘the man’s a murderer. And in the second they had the snowploughs out this morning and found what they believe to be his escape car. It seems he ran off the road near Merrivale quarry.’
There was a complete silence.
‘That’s only a few miles from Lower Barton,’ said Cass at last.
‘Quite,’ said Oliver.
‘It still means nothing,’ said Tom. ‘The last thing that escaped prisoners want is to go straight back inside. They stay away from human habitation for as long as possible. It would be different if he’d been on the loose for days in these conditions and was starving and frozen.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Oliver, ‘but which way would he go? He’d probably want to get away from the road and he’d want to get as far from the prison as he could. What happens if you go up behind the quarry?’
‘Well. There’s a bridlepath from the quarry that leads straight past Michael’s place as it happens,’ said Tom, rather reluctantly, ‘but it would be covered by snow and not that obvious.’
‘Oh, Tom. A murderer!’ Cass looked frightened. ‘I wish one of you had stayed with her.’
With great restraint, Tom refrained from pointing out that he’d offered to do just that. The situation was too serious for cheap victory. He put an arm round Cass’s shoulder and looked at Oliver. ‘Did they say what sort . . .’ he began but stopped as they heard Saul on the stairs. ‘When he’s phoned Polly,’ he said, quietly but urgently, ‘get him out digging and I’ll phone the police to tell them that Polly’s on her own. I don’t want any silly mercy dashes so that we have to rescue him as well.’
The door opened. ΌΚ,’ said Saul. ‘What’s the number, Ma?’ Cass and he went out into the hall.
‘What sort of murderer?’ asked Tom.
‘Killed his wife,’ said Oliver succinctly. ‘She neglected their kid or something and it died so he did her in. I didn’t get it all. Apparently, ever since, he’s had a grudge against women.’
‘That’s all we need,’ said Tom, and turned as Cass and Saul reappeared.
‘Oh, Tom,’ said Cass. ‘There’s no reply.’
‘Did you give her time to answer?’ asked Oliver.
‘She doesn’t mean that,’ said Saul. He rubbed his face with his hands and gazed round rather desperately. ‘There’s just silence. No ringing tone. Nothing. I think their phone has been cut off.’
There was a long silence and then Cass looked at Tom.
‘Do you think we ought to telephone the police, just to warn them that Polly’s all on her own?’ she asked.
Tom nodded. He went into the hall but returned almost immediately.
‘Bloody marvellous!’ he said. ‘The phone’s dead! We’re cut off, too!’
‘GEORGE.’ THEA PUT HER head round the sitting-room door where George was watching television, hoping to catch a forecast. ‘I can’t make the telephone work and I’m still trying . . . ’
She broke off as the announcer’s words caught her attention and moved to stand behind the sofa, staring at the photograph on the screen of the prisoner who had broken out of Dartmoor the night before. His name, it seemed, was John Middleton, he was an astrophysicist and a murderer and now he was at large on the moor.
‘Now don’t get worked up,’ said George, wishing that he’d heard her coming so that he could have switched the television off. ‘They’ll have him back inside in no time. He hasn’t got a hope.’
‘Oh, George. Polly will be mad with terror. She’ll die of fright. Oh, can’t we possibly get to her?’
‘Now darling, you simply must be sensible.’ George hauled himself out of the armchair, went to her and took her hands in his. ‘It’s not going to do Polly any good if we all set off and get stuck in a snowdrift. For all we know Michael’s back by now. She’ll be OK.’
Thea sighed, her heart heavv. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t both go, anyway. I couldn’t take Amelia.’
‘Of course not.’ He drew her close and kissed her. ‘Now stop worrying. At least Mother’s all right. She’s got plenty of food in and Mr Ellis was going round clearing paths and things.’ George had telephoned Esme as soon as he had got up and seen the snow. ‘To be honest I think she was enjoying it.’
Thea smiled a little. ‘She probably is. I wish I could think Polly is, too.’
‘Now, now. No good dwelling on it. Let’s think about lunch. I think I can hear Amelia. Go and bring her down and we’ll have a drink.’
Thea nodded and he hugged her tightly before she went away to fetch Amelia.
‘George.’ Her voice floated back to him. ‘Try the telephone, will you? It’s making a funny noise. I’d like to be able to speak to Polly and find out if Michael’s back.’
George rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his jaw. He had already guessed from Thea’s earlier remark that the lines were down and the telephone cut off but he had hoped to divert her by talking of lunch and Amelia. It would take Thea two seconds to realise that if they were cut off then so was Polly, and probably more than just by the telephone. George swore softly to himself and went into the kitchen. He could probably bluff a little longer; say that he’d spoken to the engineers about a fault and so on. He poured himself a drink and, hearing Thea approaching, arranged his face in an appropriate expression for lying.