Until You’re Mine
Samantha Hayes
For Lucy, my shining light. With all my love.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author is only the start of a book. So many other people are involved once the story has left my head. I’d like to thank, sincerely, Oli Munson, my agent extraordinaire, my brilliant and insightful and lovely editors Selina Walker and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore for believing and making things even better, Dan Balado for seeing things I couldn’t, Richard Ogle for a beautiful cover, and the entire team at Century and Arrow from publicity to marketing to sales and beyond – I am so very grateful for all your hard work. Big thanks also to my publishers around the world for spreading the words. Finally, my love to Terry, Ben, Polly and Lucy. Thanks for being a part of it. Couldn’t do it without you!
PROLOGUE
I’VE ALWAYS WANTED a baby, even when I was little and didn’t know where they came from. It’s been an ache deep in my soul for as long as I can remember – a sickness, a malignant desire creeping through my body, winding its way around my veins, twisting along the billions of nerve pathways, wrapping up my brain in a hormonefogged desire. All I wanted was to be a mother. A little baby girl. Is that too much to ask?
It’s funny and makes me embarrassed to remember now. As a kid, I used to wish and wish with screwed-up eyes, summoning all the magic I could through clenched teeth and tight fists, concocting an imaginary magic powder from my mother’s pink-smelling talc and a tube of silver glitter. I sprinkled it over Tiny Tears, holding my breath for the moment she would come to life – my pain-free, virgin labour lasting all of three minutes. Yes, it makes me laugh now. Makes me want to smash things. I remember the dusty halo of sparkly powder falling to the carpet in a disappointing drift when I gently poked the inanimate plastic doll. Why wasn’t she breathing? Why wasn’t she alive? Why hadn’t the magic powder, or God, or my special powers – anything–made my dolly real? She was still cold plastic and as good as dead. How I sobbed when she just lay there, unmoving and rigid in my arms, swaddled in a knitted blanket. What about all the love I had given her over the years – the longest gestation on record? Didn’t that count for anything? I wanted to snatch her from toy-box-land into real life so I could be her mummy. Didn’t she want to be mine? Didn’t she want to be loved and fed and rocked and played with and gazed at and cherished above anything else? Didn’t she love me back?
I must have tried the magic powder a hundred times. Each time was a failure, like some kind of useless, waste-of-money IVF – not that I knew what that was back then. By the time I was twelve years old, I’d pulled Tiny Tears’s head off and pushed it into the glowing
coals of the living-room fire when no one was looking. She drizzled into the ash pan. Her eyes melted last, each one staring up at me in a different dizzy-blue direction.
Stupid molten baby.
‘If anyone’s going to give me grandchildren, it’ll be you,’ Mum always used to say as her right cheek twitched a feverish dance. I prayed I wouldn’t let her down. Mum wasn’t the kind of person who took kindly to disappointment. She’d had too much of it in her life to be lenient with it any more.
‘Sissy’ was what my older sister called me. The name had stuck when she couldn’t pronounce my real one. There are only eighteen months between us in age, and being the only live babies our mother had, we were driven closer still by her smothering. Apart from us, there were eight miscarriages, three stillbirths and a little brother who died from meningitis aged two. I was the youngest –luckylast.
‘We nearly lost you, too,’ she reminded me regularly, as if losing children was what everyone did. She was sitting on the old bench, caught up in the dangling red creeper, crunching her tablets and chain smoking. She looked on fire.
Telling me how I survived against the odds should have made me feel special, as though I was her clever near-miss who had somehow broken the spell, like I shouldn’t really be there at all but by good luck; by huge sprinklings of magic powder, here I was.
Breathing and alive.
In contrast, Pa was a quiet, unassuming man, who ate his food leaning against the sink, watching the three women in his life, winking at me when the wretched guilty feeling about my existence squeezed tears from my virtually dry eyes. I felt sorry for all my dead brothers and sisters, as if I’d pushed in and taken their places. Pa forked up his mashed potato, a ciggie tucked behind his ear for afters, and always with those lines of coal dust circling his throat. Pa loved me. Pa stroked my hair when Mum wasn’t looking. Pa had been dying for as long as I could remember.
The dirty circles were still round his neck when I peeked into his coffin as a virtually mute fifteen-year-old. The tattooed necklace
from years down the mines (lung cancer and emphysema to boot, my mother proudly told everyone) was the only thing I recognised about him. At the wake, I overheard Mum talking to Aunty Diane about the likelihood of Pa having gone to heaven and becoming a baby again. Mum was into all that crazy spiritual stuff and went to see a medium before Pa’s body was even cold. Usually Aunty Diane would humour Mum during her ‘less-than-normal times’, as she called them, to make her feel better. But now, I think it was just to make me and my sister feel better, to make us believe that everything was all right when it wasn’t. ‘Your mother’s as loopy as a box of weasels,’ she told us once. After that, I wished Aunty Di was our real mother.
Later, in the bath, I scattered the remains of my old magic talc mixture all over my tummy, pretending it was my poor Pa’s ashes, praying he would somehow be absorbed into my eggs, my womb, become a baby and not be dead at all. All I’d ever wanted was to take care of something. I figured it was the next best thing to being taken care of. Better than anything, though, I knew it would make Mum happy to have Pa alive again – even if he was born a little girl. Having a baby, I decided, would be my life’s mission.
‘ SOMEONE’S REPLIED TO our advert.’ I peer over my laptop lid, making a semi-pained face. Part of me had been hoping no one would answer, that I could somehow manage alone. The heat of the computer is cooking my legs but I can’t be bothered to move. It’s work and a winter-warmer rolled into one.
‘You shouldn’t have that thing so close, you know.’ James taps the screen as he walks past on his way to the cupboard. He pulls out the wok. ‘Radiation and all that.’ I love him for cooking, for caring.
‘The scan says she’s got all her arms and legs. Stop worrying.’ I’ve shown him the ultrasound pictures a dozen times. He’s missed all my scans so far. ‘We have a healthy little baby girl on the way.’ I shift uncomfortably and put the computer on the old saggy sofa beside me. ‘Aren’t you interested in who’s replied to the advert?’
‘Of course I am. Tell me.’ James splashes oil in the pan. He’s a messy cook. The ring of blue flames leaps into life as he turns the gas burner to high. He bites his lower lip and tosses pieces of chicken into the wok. The smoke gets sucked up into the extractor fan.
‘Someone called Zoe Harper,’ I say above the sizzling noise. I read the details in the email again. ‘It says she’s got loads of experience and has all the right qualifications.’ I will phone her later, get a feel for how she sounds. I must show willing even though the thought of a stranger in the house isn’t a particularly pleasant one. I know how worried James is about me coping when he goes away again. He’s right, of course. I am going to need help.
Our nanny chatter is suddenly interrupted by noise and fuss and screaming coming from the sitting room. I heave myself up from the sofa, legs apart and hands wedged in the small of my back to stop my spine giving way. I raise my hands to halt James’s rescue dash. ‘It’s OK, I’ll go.’ He seems to think I’m incapable of anything since he’s been home. Probably because last time he saw me I didn’t resemble a house.
‘Oscar, Noah, what’s going on?’ I stand in the sitting-room doorway. The boys look up at me. Forlorn, they have been sprung in the early stages of war. Oscar has something crusty and yellow stuck in the corner of his mouth. Noah is brandishing his brother’s toy gun. I only let them play with toys like that when James is home. He doesn’t see the problem. Other times, they’re locked away in a cupboard. Toy weapons were a hot topic at that dreadful dinner party, a few years ago now, not long after I’d met James. I’d wanted all his friends to like me, to not make comparisons, to trust that I had my own set of maternal instincts when it came to bringing up my newly-inherited sons.
‘How do you handle things like that with the twins, Claudia?’ she’d asked me, when I stated I didn’t like to see children playing with swords and guns. God knows, in my job I see enough messedup kids to know that there are better things they could be doing with their time. ‘Must be hard being a mother . . . but not beingone,’ she finished. I could have slapped her.
‘Come here, Os,’ I say, and do the unthinkable. I lick a tissue and wipe his mouth. He wriggles away. I eye the gun in Noah’s hand. Taking it away from him would cause a major incident.
At the dinner party, I’d feebly explained that as step-mother to twin boys who’d lost their birth mum to cancer, I believed it pretty much gave me the right to call myself their mother – but no one really cared or was listening by then. The topic had moved on.
‘James is in the Navy,’ I heard myself saying, ‘so of course they’re fascinated by wars . . . it’s not taboo as such in our house but . . .’ I was burning crimson by that point. I just wanted James to take me home.
‘Give the gun back to your brother, Noah. Did you snatch it?’
Noah doesn’t reply. He holds up the plastic weapon, aims it at my belly and pulls the trigger. There’s a weak crack of plastic as it play-fires. ‘Bang. Baby’s dead,’ he says with a toothy grin.
‘They’re asleep. Kind of,’ James says. He’s wearing his favourite sweater, the one he doesn’t know I take to bed with me when he’s away. And he’s got a glass of wine. Lucky him on a Friday night. I’ve
got peppermint tea and a pain in my lower back. I’m convinced my ankles look swollen today.
He sits down beside me on the sofa. ‘So, what did she sound like, this Mary Poppins woman?’ An arm goes around my shoulders, fingers twirling the ends of my hair.
While he was tucking the boys into bed – drunkenly singing Aerosmith’s ‘Janie’s Got a Gun’ but putting the names Oscar and Noah in instead – I’d phoned Zoe Harper, the woman who replied to our advert.
‘She sounded . . . fine.’ I say it rather flippantly because I hadn’t expected her to sound fine at all. ‘Lovely, in fact. To be honest, I was hoping she’d sound like a witch and be slurring from booze.’ The thing is, I’ve tried two nannies before and, one way or another, they weren’t exactly what they claimed to be. Besides, the boys didn’t take to having them around at all. So between understanding friends, day-care and, more recently, school breakfast and afternoon clubs, we’ve somehow managed to cope. James thoroughly advocates them being cared for in their own home while I’m at work and, now our own baby’s nearly due, he wants things more settled.
‘But she really didn’t,’ I say, watching his expression change to one of hope. ‘Sound like a witch, that is.’ What with James away at sea for weeks or even months at a time and me trying to cram a demanding job into hours that often aren’t regular, I was tearing my hair out with guilt. I wanted to be the best mother I could but not give up my career. That was one thing I’d promised myself when I took on this ready-made family. I love my job, it’s who I am. I guess I wanted it all, and now I’m paying the price.
‘Yes, she sounded perfectly normal and down to earth.’
We sit in silence for a moment, both pondering the reality of what we’ve done – the advertisement took up several nights of deliberation. I don’t think we ever considered the reality of what came after that: actually having someone live with us again.
‘Oh God, but what if she’s like the last two? It’s not fair on the boys. Or the baby. Or me.’ I shift my bump so I can curl my legs up on the sofa.
‘Nanny-cam?’ James says. He pours another glass of wine.
‘Give me a sniff,’ I say, leaning over, desperate for a sip.
‘Fumes,’ he says, holding the glass away from me and covering it with his other hand. I slap him on the shoulder and grin. It’s only because he cares.
‘But I need fumes. Nanny-cam? You’re not serious, right?’
‘Of course I am. Everyone does it.’
‘Buggering hell, they do. It’s a violation of . . . of their human nanny rights or something. Besides, what do you want me to do? Sit staring at my computer all day watching the boys play Lego while nanny feeds the baby? Kind of defeats the point of having her, doesn’t it?’
‘Give up work, then,’ he says in his faint-but-serious voice.
‘Oh, James,’ I say, hardly believing he’s trying that one again.
‘Let’s not go there.’ A hand on his thigh is warning enough as he shrugs and turns the telly up. It’s Children’sHospital. The last thing I want to watch is sick kids but there’s nothing much else on.
I consider the nanny-cam idea. I suppose it could work.
Suddenly Oscar is standing frozen in the doorway for effect (he does it so well) – tiny boy in dramatic period setting with blood pouring from his nose. He doesn’t even attempt to contain the flow. His Ben 10 pyjamas look theatrical.
‘Oh, darling Ossy,’ I say. No point me moving. James is up quickly with a handful of tissues plucked from the box on the table as he goes. ‘Not again.’
James swipes our son up and plants him on the sofa next to me. He goes off to fetch ice, and Oscar leans on me for a cuddle. He rests his head on my bump and blood gets on my old T-shirt.
‘Baby says she loves you, Ossy,’ I tell him. He looks up at me with big blue eyes and a murderous bloody nose. James comes back with a pack of frozen peas. ‘Tea towel?’ I say, not wanting to put them on Oscar’s skin directly. James nods and goes off to get one.
‘How can she love me? She doesn’t even know me.’ He sounds all bunged up.
‘Well . . . ’
James returns again. I wrap the peas in the tea towel and hold it against the bridge of Oscar’s little nose while also pinching it
gently. The GP says if it keeps happening it’ll need to be cauterised. ‘She loves you, I guarantee it. It’s instinctive, built-in. Babies come with their own love and she already knows we love her.’
‘Noah doesn’t love her,’ Oscar says from beneath the peas. ‘He says he hates her and wants to shoot her off the planet.’
Even though it’s just Noah, my little son-by-proxy, I flinch inside. ‘He’s perhaps a bit jealous, that’s all. He’ll be fine when she’s born, you see.’ I glance over Oscar’s head and catch James’s eye. We each pull a face, wondering what delights are in store with three underfives, and then I’m fretting about getting them used to a new nanny again. Perhaps it would be easier if I did give up work.
‘Now, let’s see how things are going here.’ I lift the bag of peas and peel away the red sodden tissue. The bleeding seems to have stopped.
‘As I was saying,’ I continue when Oscar’s tucked up in bed, ‘Zoe Harper sounded . . . lovely.’ Other adjectives evade me. ‘No, really.’ I chuckle when James pulls a face. ‘Oh God, I don’t know.’ I run my hands over my tummy. ‘She’s worked in Dubai and London apparently.’
‘How old?’ James’s breath smells all winey. I want to kiss him.
‘Thirty-something, I suppose. I didn’t actually ask.’
‘That was smart. She could be twelve.’
‘Give me some bloody credit, James. I’m going to put her through the mangle, turn her hide inside out and then re-mangle her again. By the time I’ve finished with her I’ll know more about her than she knows about herself.’
‘I just don’t understand why you’re bothering to go back to work at all. It’s not as though we need the money.’
This is the point at which I laugh. A good belly laugh. ‘Oh, James.’ I shift myself sideways and press up against him. I kiss his neck. ‘You’ve known the deal from the start. We wanted a baby but I also love my work. Am I selfish to want everything?’ I kiss him again and this time he turns his head and reciprocates, but it’s so very hard for us. He knows the deal. Doctor’s orders and I’m sticking to them this time. ‘Anyway, everything would go to hell in a handcart in
the department if I stopped working completely. We’re understaffed as it is.’
‘I thought Tina was running things while you’re away?’
I shake my head, starting to feel stressed. ‘Everyone’s sharing out my caseload while I’m on maternity leave, but when the baby and the boys are settled, I’ll want to go back. At least if I work up to my due date, I’ll have more time at home with the baby after she’s born.’
Sensing my anxiety, James cups my face and plants a smacker on my mouth. It’s a warm kiss and says: I won’t mention it again and, more importantly, I won’t pressure you for sex.
‘Anyway, Zoe Harper, nanny extraordinaire, is coming for coffee tomorrow morning at eleven.’ I grin.
‘Fine,’ James says, switching the channel to Sky News. He starts hoovering up all the stock market stuff and moans about his pension and investments. I can’t really see that far ahead – being old, retiring, needing to draw off James’s inherited pot. I can only see as far as the end of this pregnancy, having my baby, being a complete family. Becoming a real mother, finally.
I’M GOING TO be late. I feel the frown chiselling into my face as the freezing air bites at my skin. I can’t afford to be late. I need this job badly and it’s not an option to fail. God, no one knows how much I need this position with James and Claudia Morgan-Brown. Get them – double-barrelled and all big-housed in Edgbaston. I pedal harder. I’m going to be a sweaty red mess when I arrive. Who decided cycling was a good idea? Was it to impress them with my love of the outdoors, my penchant for green transport, my love of exercise that I’ll no doubt impart to their offspring? Or perhaps it’ll just make them think I’m an idiot for arriving at an interview on a bike.
‘St Hilda’s Road,’ I say over and over, squinting at road signs. I wobble as I stick out my arm to turn right. A car honks as I dither and waver in the middle of the road. ‘Sorry!’ I yell, although it doesn’t look like the kind of neighbourhood where one yells. It’s a far cry from my place . . . my lastplace.
I pull over to the kerb and take a bit of paper from my pocket. I check the address and cycle on. I pedal past two more streets and turn left into their street. The houses were big before but they’re massive down St Hilda’s Road. Imposing Georgian buildings sit squarely in their own grounds either side of the tree-lined street. Gentlemen’s residences, they’d be called by estate agents.
James and Claudia’s house is, like all the others, a detached period property, the lower half of which is being strangled by a twiggy Virginia creeper. I’m no gardener but I recognise it from my childhood home, which incidentally would have fitted twenty times inside this place. The creeper still has a few scarlet leaves clinging on even though it’s mid-November. I wheel my bicycle through a huge pair of open wrought-iron gates. Gravel crunches beneath my feet. I have never felt so conspicuous.
The Morgan-Brown residence is a symmetrical house built of red brick. The front door, surrounded by a stone portico, is painted shiny green. Either side of the impressive entrance are large stained-glass
windows. I don’t know what to do with my bike. Should I just lie it down on the gravel at the bottom of the front steps? It’ll make the diamond-shaped rose beds and the neat squares of lawn set into the sweeping parking area look like a scrapyard. I glance around. There’s a tree just outside the main gates. I quickly go back out onto the street. Its roots are pushing up and splitting the tarmac like a mini earthquake and the trunk is too big to get my security chain around. I walk along the pavement a bit further, wheeling my bike, and notice that there’s another, smaller drive down the side of the house leading to a triple garage. I tentatively enter the property again, feeling as if dozens of eyes are staring out at me from the windows, watching my silly, incompetent arrival.
I still don’t know what to do with my bike. It looks too shiny and new for someone who’s meant to cycle everywhere. I decide that resting it against the side wall of the garage, out of view from the street and house, will have to do. I’m careful not to scrape the handlebars down the side of the massive four-wheel-drive or the BMW that sit side by side.
I take a deep breath and finger my hair into some kind of style again. I wipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve. I walk back to the front door and knock three times on the huge brass upside-down fish knocker. Its mouth gapes open at me.
I don’t have to wait long. A small child pulls the door open as if it’s taking all his strength. The little boy is almost see-through pale, about hip height, with shaggy mousey-blonde hair. One of my charges, I assume. They’re twins apparently.
‘What?’ he says rudely.
‘Hello.’ I crouch down like nannies do. I smile. ‘My name’s Zoe and I’ve come to see your mummy. Is she here?’
‘My mummy’s in heaven,’ he says, trying to close the door. I should have brought sweets or something.
Before I can decide whether to push against him and risk a tussle with the kid or revert to knocking with the fish again, a beautiful woman is looming over us. Her belly is enormous and pushes out from beneath a black stretchy top. It’s right in front of my face. I can’t take my eyes off it. ‘You must be Zoe,’ she says. Her
voice is just as lovely as the rest of her. It jolts me back to reality. The smile she gives me makes a fan of tiny lines on the outside of each eye as well as two dimples in her cheeks. She looks like the friendliest woman in the world.
I stand up and hold out my hand. ‘Yes, and you must be Mrs Morgan-Brown.’
‘Oh, call me Claudia, please. Come in.’ She grins.
Claudia steps aside and I go into the house. It smells of flowers – there’s a vase of lilies on the hall table – but mostly it smells of burnt toast.
‘Let’s go and get comfy in the kitchen. There’s coffee.’ Claudia beckons me on with her smile and her burgeoning belly. The kid that opened the door trots between us, glancing up at me as we walk along the black-and-white chequerboard tiled floor. He’s got a toy gun tucked into the waist of his trousers.
We go into the kitchen. It’s huge.
‘Darling, Zoe’s here.’
A man looks up from behind TheTimes. Good-looking, I suppose, as they all appear to be in this family.
‘Hello,’ I say, sounding as cheery as I can.
There is a moment’s hesitation between us.
‘Hi, I’m James. Good to meet you.’ He stands briefly and offers me his hand.
Claudia gives me a coffee that’s magically come from a shiny machine that looks impossible to use – a machine I’ll no doubt have to operate if I get the job. I take a sip and look around, trying not to gawp. It’s an impressive kitchen. Where I live . . . nearly don’t live . . . has a kitchen the size of a cupboard. No room for a dishwasher or any fancy appliances, but then I remind myself it’s just the two of us and it hardly takes any time at all to swill a couple of plates and a saucepan through.
This kitchen, though, it takes my breath away. Great big Georgian windows rise from behind the double Belfast sink affording a view down a garden that’s far too huge to be in a city. There are cream-painted cupboards spanning three sides of the room with a red Aga as big as a car set into the old chimney breast. Wooden
worktops the same honey colour as the old wooden floor give it a country feel. Up this end of the room, near the pine table, there’s a saggy old sofa piled with cushions and a rucked-up rather grubby throw. It’s littered with Lego pieces.
James folds his newspaper and shifts over. I sit down next to him. He smells of soap. There’s no room for Claudia but she drags a chair over from the table. ‘I’m better perched on this,’ she remarks. ‘It takes a crane to haul me out of that old thing.’
A moment’s silence.
Then there are two little boys skittering at our feet. Both identical. They are squabbling over a plastic toy.
‘Oscar,’ James says wearily, ‘give it up.’
I’m not sure why he should. He had it first.
‘So,’ I say when the din has subsided, ‘you’ll want to know all about my experience.’ I have it all prepared, learnt off pat. Right down to the colour of my last employer’s eyes and the engine size of their car. Greeny-brown and two point five litres. I am ready for anything.
‘How many families have you worked for?’ Claudia asks.
‘Four in total,’ I reply easily. ‘The shortest term was three years. I only left because they went to live in Texas. I could have gone with them but preferred to stay in England.’ Good. She’s looking impressed.
‘Why did you leave your last job?’ James pipes up. First bit of interest he’s shown. He’s probably leaving the decision-making to his wife so he doesn’t get it in the neck if they end up with a nanny fresh from hell.
‘Ah,’ I say with a confident smile. ‘Nannies tend to get made redundant when the kids grow up.’
Claudia laughs but James doesn’t.
I was careful to dress down for this morning – sensible tapered trousers for cycling, kind of rust colour, and a high-necked grey Tshirt with a pleasant primrose-yellow cardigan over it. Short and slightly mussed-up hair – trendy but not overly so. No rings. Just my silver heart necklace. It was a special gift. I look nice. Nanny-abouttown nice.
‘I was with the Kingsleys for five years. Beth and Tilly were ten and eight when I arrived. When the youngest went off to boarding school aged thirteen they didn’t need me any more. Mrs Kingsley, Maggie, said I was worth having another baby for.’ I put in her first name because that’s obviously how Claudia likes things to be. Firstname terms.
Thewayherhandsrestgentlyonherswollenstomach. . . it’s killingme.
‘So how long have you been unemployed?’ James asks rather bluntly.
‘I don’t see myself as unemployed exactly. I left the Kingsley house in the summer. They took me to their place in the south of France as a good-bye treat then I went on a short but intensive course in Italy at a Montessori centre.’ I wait for the reaction.
‘Oh, James. I’ve always said we should get the boys registered at a Montessori school.’
‘It was an amazing experience,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to put into practice what I learnt.’ I make a mental note to re-read the Montessori information.
‘Does it help with four-year-old delinquent boys?’ James asks with a smirk.
I can’t help a little laugh. ‘Definitely.’ Then, right on cue, I’m showered with a bunch of wax crayons. I try not to flinch. ‘Hey, are you trying to colour me in?’ The twin from the front door – I only know this because of the green top he’s wearing – hisses at me through gritted teeth. He grabs a couple of crayons from the floor and hurls them at me from point-blank range.
‘Pack it in, Noah,’ his father says, but the boy pays no attention.
‘Have you got any paper?’ I ask, ignoring the sting on my cheek.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Claudia says. ‘I’d say they’re feisty, not delinquent as such. And it’s just Noah who’s occasionally challenging.’
‘Birth troubles,’ James adds quietly as the boys fight over who’s going to fetch the pad of paper.
I look at Claudia and wait for her to tell me. I know it all anyway.
‘Not mybirth troubles,’ she begins with a fond swipe of a hand across her belly. Then, in a whisper, ‘The twins aren’t mine. I mean, they are, of course, but I’m not their biological mother. Just so you know.’
‘Oh. OK. That’s fine.’
‘My first wife died of cancer when the boys were two months old. Came out of nowhere and swept the life from her.’ He raises his hands at my sudden pained expression. ‘Nope. It’s OK.’
I switch to a little sympathetic purse of my lips and a respectfully low flick of my gaze. It’s all that’s needed. ‘Hey, well done, you,’ I say as Noah races back to me flapping a pad of paper. ‘Now, why don’t you have a race to see who can collect the most crayons off the floor? Then it’s a competition to see who can draw the best picture of me. Right?’
‘Wight!’ says Oscar. He jumps up and down with excitement. His cheeks turn pink.
Noah stands staring at me for a second – unnerving, I have to say – and then quite calmly he tears a piece of paper from the pad. ‘For you, Oscar.’ And he gives it to his brother.
‘Good boy,’ I say. ‘Now, off you go and I want to see them both when you’re finished!’
The twins shuffle off in their silly slippers – characters from some cartoon or other – and settle down at the table with the crayons. Oscar asks his brother for the blue. Noah hands it over.
‘I’m impressed,’ James says reluctantly.
‘Pure distraction with a bit of healthy sibling competition thrown in for good measure.’
‘We’re looking for someone to live in Monday to Friday, Zoe. Would that be a problem?’ Claudia’s cheeks have turned coral, making me imagine I’ve touched my thumb to them, a little smudge of powder blush. The heat of pregnancy.
‘That wouldn’t be a problem at all.’ I think of the flat, of everything contained in it. Then I think of living here. My heart flutters so I take a deep breath. ‘I can totally understand why you’d need someone on hand all hours during the week.’ If I’m honest, the timing of this job is perfect.
‘But you could go home at weekends,’ she says.
My heart sinks, though I don’t show my disappointment. I must fit in with what they want. ‘I could disappear on Friday evening and reappear magically on Monday morning. But I can stay weekends too if you need me.’ An answer to satisfy for now, I hope. In reality, it won’t work like this. I can’t help believing in fate.
‘Look!’ Noah calls out. He flaps a piece of paper in my direction.
‘Ooh, keep it a secret until you’re finished,’ I tell him, and turn back to his parents. ‘When I take a job I like to become part of the family but to keep my distance too, if you know what I mean. I’m here if you need me, vanished if you don’t.’
Claudia nods her approval.
‘I’m away at sea much of the time,’ James informs me. He doesn’t need to. ‘I’m a Naval officer. A submariner. You’ll mainly be dealing with Claudia.’
You’llmainlybedealingwith. . . as if I already have the job in his mind.
‘Do you want to look around the house? See what you’d be letting yourself in for?’ Claudia is standing, hands on the back of her hips in that typical pregnant-woman pose. I make a point of not staring at her bump.
‘Sure.’
We start downstairs and Claudia leads me from one room to another. They are all grand and some don’t look like they’re ever used. ‘We don’t use this one very often,’ she says as we enter the dining room, echoing my thought. ‘Just at Christmas, on special occasions. When friends come for supper we usually eat in the kitchen.’ The room is cold and has a long shiny table with twelve carved dining chairs set around it. There’s an ornate fireplace, intricate plaster cornices, and a chandelier in dusky hues of violet hangs centrally. It’s a beautiful room but not at all cosy.
We cross the chequerboard hallway again.
‘And the boys, well, they don’t come in this room very often.’ Not allowed to, she means. She shows me a large room with sumptuous cream sofas. No television, just lots of old paintings on the walls and antique tables with glass dishes and lamps set upon
them. I imagine the twins wearing their muddiest shoes, leaping from sofa to sofa, brandishing large sticks, while the ornaments go flying and the paintings rip. I stifle the smile.
‘And we watch telly in here,’ she says as we move into the next room. ‘It gets really warm and snug when the fire’s lit.’ Claudia holds the door open and I peek in. I see big purple sofas and a thick furry rug. One wall is lined with bookshelves, overflowing with paperbacks. I imagine reading with the boys in here, waiting for Claudia to get home, running her a bath, wondering about her due date. I will be the perfect nanny.
‘And then there’s the playroom.’ She hesitates, hand on door knob. ‘Sure you want to go in? It’s usually a bit of a zoo.’
‘Very nice,’ I say, stepping past Claudia. This is where I must shine. ‘Excellent. You have loads of Lego. I love it. And look at all their books. I insist on reading to my children at least three times a day.’ I’d better be careful. Claudia is looking at me as if I’m almost too perfect.
Upstairs an array of bedrooms spans off the galleried landing. I peek into the guest suite, and then she shows me the boys’ room. They share. The room is tidy. Two single beds with scarlet and blue duvets, a big rug printed with grey roads and flat houses, and, over in the corner, a couple of cages with, I suppose, hamsters or mice inside.
‘We have a cleaner who comes in three times a week. You wouldn’t need to do any of that.’
I nod. ‘I don’t mind doing bits and pieces around the house but I prefer to spend my time caring for the children.’
‘Come up and see your rooms then.’
Yourrooms.
Another flight of stairs takes us to the top floor. It’s not an attic of the dusty-full-of-boxes kind but the sort with sloping ceilings, beams and old country-style furniture. A battered white-painted chest stands on the small landing. The floor is covered with sisal and patchwork hearts hang from the doors that lead off the area.
‘There are three rooms up here. A small bedroom, a living room and a bathroom. You’re welcome to eat with us in the kitchen. Use it
as your own.’
Yourown.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Very homely.’ It’s like something out of an interiors magazine and not really my style, if I’m honest.
‘You’ll get a bit of peace up here. I’ll make it a no-fly zone for the boys.’
‘Oh, that’s not necessary. We could have fun up here.’ I check out the rooms again, stepping into each like an excited kid. The bedroom has a sloping ceiling and a little window overlooking the garden, while the bathroom has a roll-top bath and an old-fashioned loo. ‘I love it,’ I say, desperate for her to know I like it without giving away my virtual homelessness.
Back in the kitchen, where James is behind the newspaper again, Claudia hands me a list. It spans two pages. ‘Something for you to take away and consider,’ she says. ‘A list of duties and things we expect. Plus those we don’t.’
‘A great idea,’ I say. ‘There’s no chance of confusion then,’ I add, thinking that however many lists she writes, whatever ground-rules and job descriptions she dreams up, they’ll all seem rather futile in the long run. ‘I’m always open to suggestions from my families. I like to have a weekly meeting with parents to discuss how the children are doing, stuff like that.’
Then the twins are leaping about at my side like a pair of yapping terriers.
‘See mine, see mine!’
‘No, mine!’
‘Look what you’ve started,’ Claudia says with a laugh but then suddenly stretches her hands round her lower back. She leans against the worktop and grimaces.
‘Are you OK, darling?’ James makes to get up but Claudia wafts her hands at him, mouthing I’mfine.
‘Let me see then. Hmm. In this picture I look like an alien with huge pink lips and no hair. And in this one I think I’m half human and half horse with a mane down to the ground.’
‘Nooo!’ the boys chant in unison. They giggle, and Noah shoves Oscar. He stands his ground. ‘Which one, which one’s the best?’
‘I love them equally. You are brilliant artists and both winners. Can I keep them?’
The boys nod in awe and their mouths hang open, exposing tiny teeth. They run off happily and I hear a waterfall of Lego as an entire box is tipped out in the playroom.
‘I think you’re a hit,’ Claudia says. ‘Are there any questions you’d like to ask me?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, unable to help the glance at her bump. It’s as if someone’s revving the accelerator to my heart. ‘When’s the baby due?’
It’s what I’ve been dying to ask all along.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR LORRAINE Fisher had never thrown up on a job before. Leaning against the wall, she wiped her mouth across the back of her hand. She didn’t have a tissue.
‘Who are you?’ she said to a man standing in the flat’s tiny hallway. Her throat burned and her expression was sour.
‘Will you give me an exclusive statement, Detective? Do you believe this is a murder inquiry?’ he said.
‘Get him the shit out of here, you idiots, this is a crime scene,’ she barked at her colleagues.
A white-suited flurry of activity ensued and it was as if the journalist had never existed.
Lorraine felt another surge rising in the gurgling, disgusted pit of her belly but she knew there was nothing else left inside. She’d not had time for breakfast, skipped lunch, and dinner was looking unlikely. Even that bag of crisps wasn’t inside her now.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said, raising her hand to her forehead. She snapped it back down when she realised the gesture could give the wrong impression to those who didn’t know her. Twenty years in the force and nothing this grim or pitifully sad had come her way. As a woman – as a mother– she was angered to the core. She pulled the white mask down over her face again and drew in a deep breath – partly for courage and partly so she didn’t have to suck in the decaying stench that filled the small bathroom.
It had all taken place in here, she could see that instantly. There was no blood anywhere else in the flat. The ceramic tiles, once white with mouldy grout stretching around the edge of the bath, were spattered and smeared with blood – some of it pinky-red and some of it dark burgundy, almost brown, as it crazed the tiles like some weird piece of congealed art at the Tate Modern.
SweetJesus. . . whathadgoneoninhere?
In the basin there was a claw hammer and a kitchen knife. The knife was part of a set from the flat’s kitchen. Both were bloodied.
The bath tap was dripping every couple of seconds, making a clear river of white one end of the blood-stained plastic bath. The woman lying in it was half naked. The plug was in. The baby was blue and lifeless, its powdery skin mottled and delicate. Finger-shaped bruises decorated its shoulders from when, she supposed, it had been pulled from the womb.
Lorraine stopped herself. It?she thought. It’saboy, she chastised herself inwardly. Alittlebabyboy.
She thought of her own children and glanced at her watch. Stella had a piano exam tomorrow morning and practice hadn’t exactly been top of her agenda recently.
She had to think of these things – force her mind to focus on the normal, the everyday, the mundane.
Then there was Grace and her damned A levels. She had several exams after Christmas and Lorraine had no idea if she was on track with her work. She made a mental note to find out as she stared at the mess in the bath. Images of her girls as babies flashed through her mind. It’sOK, she thought. I’mfine. . . justgrounding myselfinthisfucked-upworld. What didn’t seem OK or fine was thinking about her family in the same headspace as whatever shit had done this.
The woman was young. Early to mid-twenties, Lorraine reckoned, though it wasn’t easy to tell. Her once-pregnant abdomen had been cut open – quite cleanly, she had to admit – from sternum to pubic bone and was now puckered and deflated. There was still the slightly sweet smell of amniotic fluid swirled up with the metallic tang of blood, but mostly the nauseating stench was from decomposition. The plug was keeping safe whatever secrets the inch or so of viscous liquid contained. It would soon be on its way to the lab for careful analysis.
‘He wouldn’t have passed his medical exams,’ Lorraine said through her mask and over her shoulder. She’d noticed DC Ainsley wobbling in the doorway, his hand clamped over his mouth. ‘Wrong way, look.’ She indicated with her finger, drawing a line in the air above the body. ‘My scar’s down low.’ She felt compelled to touch it,
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
might go over the horse’s head. But he came back safely, and at last brought the horse down to a walk.
“Whoa there, Charley Boy,” he said as soothingly as a panting breath would permit. “Good boy now! Keep quiet!” And then he managed to bring the horse to a standstill.
When the others came up Randy dismounted and all saw that the horse had received several deep scratches on the flank, and from these the blood was still flowing. Randy and Jack attempted to wipe the blood away, but the horse would not have this and acted as if he meant to “kick them into kingdom come,” as Andy expressed it. So then they let him alone.
“What became of the wildcat?” questioned Randy.
“It wasn’t a wildcat. It was a young mountain lion,” declared Jack. “Fred and I tried to get a shot at it, but it got away up the mountainside before we could get our guns around to taking aim.”
“Didn’t the mountain lion hit you at all, Randy?” questioned his brother anxiously.
“No, he missed me by a couple of inches,” was the reply “I saw him coming and I dodged. He went right over my shoulder and then struck the horse. Of course Charley Boy wouldn’t stand for that, and he swung around as if hit with a red-hot whip. That threw the mountain lion to the ground, and what happened to the animal after that I don’t know because I had my hands full with the horse.”
“Gee, I’m sorry we didn’t get a crack at that beast!” said Fred regretfully
“Well, there’s one thing sure,” returned Andy, and something of a grin showed on his face. “We know that there’s one kind of game around here. In fact, two kinds, if you’re going to count the fish.”
After the horse that had been attacked had been thoroughly subdued the boys continued on the trail around the lake. Now, however, they kept their guns handy, hoping they might get a sight of the mountain lion or some other game.
But nothing appeared and, having come to the point from which they had started, they climbed up the road leading to Sunset Trail. By this time the sun was descending behind the mountains to the westward and they thought it time to return to Gold Hill.
When they got back to the boarding house they found that Peter Garrish had been busy during their absence. Evidently the mine manager had called upon the colored man who kept the place, for Toby was no longer as affable as he had been on their first appearance.
“Very sorry to tell you,” he announced. “But I’m expecting some other miners in a day or two, so I’ll have to ask you all to give up your rooms and go elsewhere.”
“Have you told my father this, White?” demanded Randy.
“I ain’t seen your father. He didn’t even come back for his dinner.”
“That’s because he had to go away on an errand,” answered Andy. “He said he’d be back by supper time, and it’s almost that now You had better not try to do anything until you see him.”
“Well, I’ve got to have the rooms, that’s all there is to it,” answered Toby White, and started to shuffle off.
“I suppose Mr. Garrish put you up to this,” called Jack after him.
“That don’t make no difference—I’ve got to have them rooms,” muttered the colored man, and then went away
A little later Tom Rover appeared and the boys at once acquainted him with what Toby White had said. They had agreed to say nothing about the encounter with the mountain lion, fearing that Tom might keep them from going out camping as they had hoped to do.
“I expected something of that sort,” answered the twins’ father. “And after I had sent off my telegrams I had a talk with Terwilliger, the keeper of the store. He told me of a man who lives up on Sunset Trail just a short distance from here—a man named Corning. I went and saw this Corning, who used to run the Mary Casey mine. I made an arrangement to stop at Corning’s house provided we were put out here. Corning has his two old-maid sisters with him, and Terwilliger
says they are good cooks and good housekeepers, so I imagine we won’t miss anything by making a change.”
“But don’t you want to keep an eye on this place?” questioned Jack.
“Yes, I’m going to keep an eye on it, and in a way Garrish little expects. But I won’t be able to do much openly until I hear from Mr. Renton and two other stockholders named Parkhurst and Leeds. If I can get those three stockholders to act with me we’ll control a majority of the stock, and then we’ll be able to run things here to suit ourselves.”
“Did you hear anything at all from Billings?” asked Fred.
“Not a word. He wasn’t seen around Maporah nor at Allways, the next station. I am satisfied that he is either in hiding or else he’s met with foul play.”
The meal served to the Rovers that evening was a fairly good one, but it was plainly to be seen that Toby White was more than anxious to have them take their departure. Tom said but little to the colored man, fearing that the fellow was entirely under Garrish’s thumb.
“I don’t believe in staying where I’m not wanted,” he told Toby White. “I’ll settle with you right now and we’ll leave as soon as we can pack our things.”
“Sorry, Mr. Rover, very sorry,” said the colored man. “But you know how it is here—this place is leased to me by the mining company and I’ve got to keep my rooms for nothing but miners.”
“Yes, I know. And we’ll go.” And shortly after that the boys and Tom Rover took their departure.
It was not a long journey to Cal Corning’s place, a long, low log cabin containing eight rooms, all on the ground floor. Behind the cabin were half a dozen outbuildings, for Corning was the only man in that vicinity who kept any cattle.
“Well, I’ll say this is an improvement over Toby White’s place,” remarked Jack, when they were settling down in the three rooms
assigned to them. Two were of fair size, and these were taken by the boys, while the third, a smaller room, went to Tom Rover.
“I’ve made a deal with Corning,” announced the twins’ father, when the Rovers were alone. “He is going to keep an eye on the office of the Rolling Thunder mine.”
“The office?” asked Jack. “Is he an expert bookkeeper, or something like that?”
“No, no! Nothing of that sort, Jack,” and Tom Rover smiled. “I’m simply going to have him watch, so that Garrish doesn’t take it into his head to have the records of the mining company carted away. I want to get at the bottom of this deal with that concern that is getting a good part of our ore.”
After that several days slipped by without anything unusual happening. Tom and the boys took a look around the outside of the mine, and even glanced in at the office. They saw Peter Garrish, but had no further words with him.
“He can stew until I’m ready to move,” said Tom to the boys. “I’ll wager he’s doing a lot of deep thinking right now.”
On the afternoon of the third day the boys rode over to Maporah to post some letters, the post-office being in Gus Terwilliger’s store.
“Here are some letters for you fellows, and also a letter for Mr. Rover,” said the storekeeper, and he handed the epistles over. “They came in on the noon train.”
“Hurrah! That’s just what we’ve been looking for,” cried Fred.
Then the boys went outside and sat down on the stoop of the store to read the communications.
“Here comes a fellow tearing along on horseback,” announced Jack, looking up. “He seems in a tremendous hurry.”
The rider had come from a trail which crossed the railroad close to the station. Now he sailed past the Terwilliger store at full speed. He wore a miner’s outfit, and the flap of his broad-brimmed hat flew
back in the breeze. In less than a quarter of a minute he was out of sight down a side trail.
“My stars!” ejaculated Fred, leaping to his feet. “Did you recognize that man?”
“It was Tate—the oil man from Texas!” answered Randy.
CHAPTER XXIII AT LAKE GANSEN
“Are you sure it was Tate?” demanded Andy, who had had his back turned to the rider.
“It certainly was,” answered his twin.
“What in the world can that man be doing here?” demanded Jack.
“Don’t ask me!” returned Randy. “I suppose now they’ve let him out of prison he has as much right to roam around as Davenport has.”
“I remember now that Tate did come from the West,” said Jack. “He was a miner before he became an oil man. Perhaps he’s interesting himself in the mines in this vicinity.”
“He couldn’t have anything to do with the Rolling Thunder mine, could he?” questioned Fred.
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Let’s go in and ask Mr. Terwilliger if he knows Tate,” suggested Fred, after a pause.
“Never heard of such an individual,” answered the storekeeper when the question had been put to him. “I don’t believe he belongs around here. Anyway, he doesn’t get any mail at this office.”
The boys talked the matter over for several minutes more. But then they were anxious to get at their letters and returned to the store stoop for that purpose. There were long letters from the girls postmarked at Jacksonville, Florida, where the steam yacht on which they were taking their outing had stopped. One letter to Jack was from Ruth, and this, it can well be imagined, the young major read with much interest. Ruth was enjoying herself greatly and trusted that Jack and his cousins were having a good time.
“Hello, here’s news that’s mighty interesting!” cried Randy “Here is a letter from Phil Franklin, and he says that he and Barry Logan have made half a dozen efforts to bring up the silver trophy from the bottom of the lake. He says that once they had it hooked up and brought it to the top of the water, but before they could grab it the thing slipped from the trawl and sank out of sight again.”
“Oh, what a shame!” murmured his twin. “To almost have it and then lose it again!”
“It’s just like the big fish that gets away,” returned Fred. “But, anyway,” he added, his face brightening, “they must know the exact spot now.”
“They do,” answered his cousin. “Phil writes that as soon as the vase slipped out of sight he and Barry took a piece of fish line, weighted it well, and let it go down to the bottom. Then they tied a bit of board to the top of the line, and on this hoisted a rag on a stick so they could see the board from a distance. He wrote this letter the day after the thing happened and said they were going out again just as soon as it stopped raining.”
“They’ll get it, I’m sure of it!” declared Jack.
“Well, I’ll feel better when that silver trophy is safe in the glass case in the gymnasium,” answered Randy.
All was going well with the folks who were taking the steam yacht trip, and for this the boys were thankful. They had a letter from Sam Rover, and from this learned that he and Jack’s father were exceedingly busy in Wall Street. There was also a letter from Dick Rover, but this was for Tom. When the latter received this communication he read it with great satisfaction.
“Your dad is right on the job,” he said to Jack. “He had been communicating with two other stockholders in the Rolling Thunder mine and has got them to put their proxies in my hands. That means that I can vote for them at any meeting of the stockholders that may be called. Those two men represent a hundred and ten thousand dollars’ worth of stock. And that means that I can get along without Leeds if I have to. All I shall want now is the backing of Mr Renton
and Mr Parkhurst and then I’ll be ready to put the screws on Garrish.”
The boys told Tom Rover of having seen Tate, and this interested the twins’ father at once.
“You want to keep your eyes open for that rascal,” said Tom. “He used to be in cahoots with Davenport, and he may be yet.”
“We’ll watch out for him, never fear,” answered Jack.
All of the boys were anxious to go farther westward on Sunset Trail and it was finally arranged for them to take an outing to last several days. They went on horseback, carrying such things as they needed with them.
“It’s a pretty wild country, don’t forget that,” said Tom Rover. “But you have been out before and have always been able to take care of yourselves, so I don’t suppose that I should worry. Just the same, remember that I shall be thinking of you,” and he smiled faintly.
“And we’ll be thinking about you, Dad,” said Andy. “I hope by the time we get back you’ll be in a position to tell Garrish where he gets off.”
“I hope so myself, Son.”
“I’ll bet you have a hot time with him when you tell him to clear out,” put in Randy.
“It’s awfully queer you don’t get some sort of word from that Lew Billings,” declared Jack.
“You couldn’t get word very well if he’s dead,” was Fred’s comment.
“Hank Butts gave me an idea yesterday,” said Tom Rover. “He’s got a hunch that Billings was made a prisoner by the Garrish crowd first and that he got away and is now in hiding, probably watching what is being done by that outside company that is taking some of our ore. Of course, Butts may be mistaken, but he’s a rather shrewd old fellow and may have struck the truth.”
As the weather was clear and warm the boys did not deem it necessary to take much in the way of shelter. They carried their sleeping bags and also a dog tent and blankets, and that was all. They took with them a few cooking utensils and a few necessary provisions.
“We know we can get fish and we ought to be able to get some small game,” said Jack. “Anyway, it won’t hurt us to rough it. If we have to starve a bit, why, that may be good for our digestions,” and he smiled faintly.
“We shan’t starve as long as we have got our beans and bacon,” answered Fred. “We’ll get along. We’ve done it before, and we can do it again.”
From Cal Corning they obtained directions regarding the best points to visit along Sunset Trail.
“That lake you fished in was Dogberry Lake,” said their host. “About ten miles farther on is Gansen Lake. I know you’ll like it up there. The fishing is good, and you ought to be able to stir up something in the way of game.”
Once on the road, the boys felt in high spirits and for the time being the trouble at the Rolling Thunder mine was forgotten. Swinging his cap high in the air, Andy led the way with Fred close behind him and Jack and Randy following.
“I’ll tell you what—this is the life!” sang out Andy gayly. “I feel as if I could keep riding right along to the Pacific Ocean.”
“Sounds good,” answered Fred. “But I think your horse will have something to say about that. You’d better take it a bit slow climbing these hills.”
The two Corning sisters had put up a lunch for the boys, and this was partaken of shortly after noon, when they reached a high spot on the trail. Here was a precipice, and standing on its brink they could look down into a stony valley six or seven hundred feet deep.
“Gee, this is a jumping-off place, I’ll say!” remarked Andy.
“It would be a bad spot for a runaway,” returned Jack.
Back of the precipice was some brushwood, as well as a number of tall trees, and here the boys proceeded to make themselves at home. They had sandwiches, cake, and some fruit, and that being so did not deem it necessary to start a fire for the purpose of making anything hot to drink. They had passed a spring in coming up to the precipice, and obtained a bucket of cool, clear water.
“This region is certainly a lonely one,” said Jack while they were eating. “Just think—we’ve been traveling for better than three hours and haven’t met a soul!”
“It would be a great place for a stage hold-up,” returned Randy “The bandits could get away with almost anything out here.”
“We don’t want any hold-up,” put in Fred. “All we want to do is to enjoy ourselves,” and he leaned back contentedly against a tree while munching a chicken sandwich.
A little later found the boys again on the way, and by three o’clock in the afternoon they came in sight of Gansen Lake. The lake was supplied from a mountain torrent and the torrent contained a waterfall ten or twelve feet in height and half that in width.
“Here is certainly an ideal place for camping out!” exclaimed Jack. “To my mind, it could not be better.”
“It’s all to the mustard!” sang out Andy. “Let’s unload right here and call it a day.”
“That lake looks mighty inviting to me,” declared Fred. “I’ll say a swim wouldn’t go bad.”
“Now you’ve said something!” burst out Randy. “Let’s get settled as soon as we can and then go swimming.”
The idea of getting into the lake after the long and somewhat warm ride appealed to all the lads, and in less than quarter of an hour they had their horses unloaded and properly tethered and then hurried down to a point along the lake shore where the water looked particularly inviting.
“I don’t suppose there can be anything dangerous in this lake,” said Jack.
“Nothing more dangerous than a few sharks and whales,” answered Andy, with a grin. “What did you expect to find here— leviathans?”
“There might be some water snakes,” put in Fred. “However, I’m not going to worry about that. I’m going to have a swim,” and without further words he proceeded to disrobe and the others did likewise.
At first the mountain water seemed exceedingly cold. But soon the boys got used to it, and then they proceeded to have as much fun as possible. They dived and raced, and Andy and his brother indulged in all manner of horseplay Near the shore they found the lake quite shallow, but farther out they were unable to touch bottom.
“These lakes are very deceiving,” said Jack. “Sometimes they lie right in between steep mountains and the bottom is hundreds of feet down.”
“We ought to be careful about diving too deep,” cautioned Randy. “There might be some outlet to this lake at the bottom. And if so, a fellow might be sucked down and be unable to come up again.”
“Let’s get up another race,” suggested Andy, after they had gotten through splashing water in each other’s faces.
“See that rock over yonder?” returned Fred. “Let’s race to that and back. Come on! Everybody ready?”
“All ready!”
“Then go!”
Away the boys started side by side, laughing and shouting merrily. Soon Randy pulled slightly to the front, with Jack close behind him.
“Hi, you fellows, wait for me!” spluttered Fred, who was last.
“The fellow who wins can cook supper for us!” sang out Jack.
“Nothing doing!” yelled back Randy. “The loser can cook supper and wash the dishes too.”
He came in ahead, the others following closely in a bunch. Then, somewhat out of breath, the four boys crawled out on some flat
rocks to rest before swimming back to where they had left their clothing.
“My gracious!” suddenly exclaimed Andy, and leaped to his feet in astonishment. “Look there, will you?”
He pointed across the water to a spot midway between where they had left their clothing and their camping outfit.
“Wolves!” breathed Jack. “Three of them! What do you know about that!”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE TIMBER WOLVES
“Now we are in a pickle!”
“I’ll say so! Why, we haven’t even got our clothing, much less our guns!”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Don’t ask me! I was never good at answering riddles!”
Thus speaking, the four Rover boys gazed in wonder and astonishment at the sight before them. Sneaking along cautiously were three large gray timber wolves, gaunt and fierce in appearance. They had evidently been attracted to the spot by the scent of the boys and the horses and also, possibly, by the bacon in the supplies.
“There comes another one,” said Fred.
“Yes, and two more are crouched up on the rocks a short distance behind,” came from Jack.
“Six wolves! Maybe there’s a regular pack of them.”
“Shouldn’t wonder. They often travel in packs.”
“And they look hungry enough to eat us up,” came from Fred, and the tone of his voice showed that he felt anything but comfortable.
For the matter of that, all of the boys felt uneasy. Not only were they without their clothing but their four guns lay within a hundred feet of where the three leading wolves were standing.
The horses had also discovered the wolves and were now snorting wildly and trying to break from their tethers. Charley Boy, Randy’s mount, was particularly nervous, probably from his experience with the mountain lion.
The wolves had been sniffing first in the direction of the boys’ clothing and then in the direction of the supplies and the horses. Now they looked across the small arm of the lake at the boys themselves and uttered a series of snarls, baring their teeth as they did so.
“Oh, if I only had a rifle or a heavy shotgun!” murmured the young major.
“Can’t we heave some rocks at them?” suggested Fred.
“I don’t think it would do any good,” answered Randy. “We’re too far off. We were foolish to rove around in a wild place like this without our guns.”
Although the wolves snarled viciously, they did not as yet make any attempt to approach the four boys. Instead, while two sniffed at the clothing on the rocks, turning it over with their noses and paws, the others loped over to the supplies.
This was more than the horses could stand, and, plunging wildly, one after another broke his tether and shot off out of sight along the mountainside.
“Good-by to the horses!” cried Fred. “Now we sure are in a pickle even if we can manage to get rid of those wolves.”
“They’re coming this way!” yelled Randy.
“Pick up as many loose stones as you can carry,” ordered Jack. “Then wade out into the lake. I guess it’s about the only thing we can do.”
Three of the wolves were advancing around the arm of the lake in the direction of the boys. Evidently they were exceedingly hungry, for otherwise they would have run away at the sight of human beings.
Small stones were handy, and it did not take the four boys long to pick up half a dozen each. Then they waded out in the lake until they were in water up to their waists. By this time the three wolves had reached the flat rock on which the youths had been resting. They snarled repeatedly, showing their fangs, and their eyes gleamed in a
manner that indicated they would like nothing better than to get hold of the lads and make a meal of them.
“Let ’em have a dose of rocks!” cried Jack. “Be careful how you throw! Don’t waste your ammunition!”
“LET THEM HAVE A DOSE OF ROCKS,” CRIED JACK.
He let fly, and so did the others, and all the wolves were hit in the head or in the side. They set up a fearful howl of commingled pain and rage and then made a move as if to leap into the lake after the lads.
While this was going on the other wolves had approached the duffel bags of the boys and were tearing the outfit apart in an endeavor to get at the bacon and dried beef the lads carried.
Crack!
It was the report of a rifle and the shot startled the boys quite as much as it did the wolves. Then came a second crack, and, looking across the arm of the lake, the boys saw one of the big gray wolves leap into the air and fall back lifeless. Then came a third shot and a second wolf sprang into the air and then came down and with a wild snarl went limping away into the forest.
“Hurrah, somebody has come to our assistance!” cried Jack. “Give it to ’em! Give it to ’em good and plenty!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Plug every one of ’em!” came from Andy.
“Shoot ’em down!” added his twin.
“Don’t let any of them get away!” was the way Fred expressed himself.
At the first crack of the rifle the three wolves that had come after the boys raised their heads to listen. Then, as they saw one wolf killed and another wounded, they waited no longer, but, turning, leaped swiftly over the rocks and then up the mountainside, their movements being hastened by a bullet that hit the rocks between them as they fled. In the meanwhile the remaining wolves had also taken their departure.
Satisfied that the coast was now clear, the boys swam across the arm of the lake. As they did this they saw a somewhat elderly man
approaching on horseback, his rifle in his hands. He was a tall man with a short-cut black beard and he wore a miner’s outfit.
“Reckon I come just about in time,” he sang out as he watched the approach of the boys. “Didn’t think any timber wolves would attack you like that.” And then he replaced the empty cartridges in the magazine rifle with fresh ones and waited for the lads to come up.
“It was fine of you to arrive as you did,” sang out Jack, who was the first out of the water. “We were caught good and plenty with our guns over in our outfits yonder.”
“Where do you belong? I don’t think I ever saw you before,” said the miner, as he dismounted. Then he added quickly: “You ain’t them Rover boys, are you?”
“Yes, we are,” answered Jack.
“Well, now, ain’t that great!” and the miner began to grin broadly. “Bet you a dollar you don’t know who I am.”
“We know you’re our friend,” came quickly from Fred.
“I’m Lew Billings,” answered the miner. “I guess Mr. Tom Rover has talked about me.”
“Lew Billings!” gasped all of the boys in concert.
“That’s it! And I’m downright glad I got here just in time to take care of them timber wolves for you. That one yonder is as dead as a doornail, and I don’t think them others will bother you again for a while. You see, timber wolves has been multiplying most amazing in Canada, and they’ve got so thick they’re slipping all over us down here. There’s a bounty on killing ’em, but what it is I don’t just know.”
“But where have you been, Mr. Billings?” questioned Randy. “My dad has been looking all over for you.”
“I know it, lad. But I had to lay low. I had a good reason for doing it, too. Your father will know all about it as soon as I reach him. I understand he’s stopping with Cal Corning.”
“He is,” put in Andy. And then he went on: “From what Hank Butts said, my dad thought you might have been made a prisoner by Mr.
Garrish.”
“So I was. And Garrish wanted me to sign some reports that was all false. I wouldn’t do it, and I got away from him and since that time I’ve been spying on him and on them fellers who’re running the Bigwater crusher. I’ve got a lot to tell Mr. Rover when I see him. And I’ve got an account to settle with Peter Garrish, too,” went on the old miner.
The boys dressed, and while so doing Lew Billings gave them a few particulars of what had happened to him. But he was in a hurry to go on and left them as soon as he felt satisfied that they were now able to take care of themselves.
“As you’ve all been to a military academy you ought to know how to shoot,” he declared. “And as you’ve got your guns and also a couple of pistols with you, it ain’t likely that you’ll have any more trouble—especially if you keep your firearms handy. You don’t want to prowl around in these mountains without some kind of a gun.”
“Believe me, you won’t catch us without our guns again,” answered Fred.
“Even when I sleep I’m going to have a pistol under my pillow,” added Randy.
They thanked Lew Billings heartily for what he had done and then watched the old miner as he rode away on Sunset Trail in the direction of Gold Hill Falls.
“If you ask me, I’ll say he was a friend in need if ever there was one,” declared the young major “I don’t know what we’d have done if he hadn’t come along.”
“It ought to be a lesson to us to be on our guard,” answered Fred.
“Now I am armed, oh, how I’d love to get a shot at those wolves!” remarked Andy
“What about the horses?” questioned Randy. “We’ve got to find those animals. I think the quicker we get after them the better If they’re allowed to stay away all night there’s no telling if we’ll ever be able to round ’em up.”
But rounding up the four horses proved easier than expected. None of them had gone away any great distance. Two of them were found on Sunset Trail just above the lake and the others in the bushes on the mountainside. They were rather difficult to handle for a few minutes, but presently calmed down when spoken to soothingly.
The boys did not know exactly what to do with the lean gray wolf that had been laid low by Billings’s bullet. At first they thought to skin the animal and save the pelt. But the hair was poor at this time of year, and none of the boys relished the labor, so they simply dragged the carcass down the lake shore for a distance, and then threw it in an opening between the rocks.
By nightfall the boys had erected their little shelter and had a campfire going, and all did their share in preparing the evening meal and in cleaning the dishes afterward.
“Wonder what will happen to-night,” said Randy, as they turned in, thoroughly tired out over the happenings of the day. “Maybe we’ll see more wolves, or a mountain lion or a bear.”
None of them cared to admit it, yet each was a trifle nervous, thinking that possibly the timber wolves might return. But nothing came to disturb them, and, having made sure that their campfire would not set fire to the forest around them, one after another fell asleep and slumbered soundly until after sunrise.
The next day proved to be one of unalloyed pleasure for all the boys. In the morning they went fishing and managed to get a goodsized catch. In the afternoon they tramped through the forest and there managed to bag several squirrels and also a somewhat larger animal which none of them could name.
“I thought we’d strike a bear, or something like that,” said Andy.
“I guess you want too much,” answered Fred, with a laugh.
The boys returned to camp while it was still light. All were hungry and immediately set to work to clean some of the fish for supper. They were hard at work at this when they saw a man on horseback riding rapidly toward them.
