Black Harvest by Ann Pilling Page B

said slowly. “They must have had enough of us for one day, after Oliver’s performance with the petrol.” Then something made her turn round. He was standing in the bedroom doorway in his pyjamas.
    “That was quick. Don’t you want any supper?”
    “No. I just want to go to bed.” His face was smeary from crying.
    “All right, love, sleep well then. Do you think you should send your mother a card in the morning, just to tell her you’ve arrived and everything? She’ll be missing you.”
    “She’s not written to me. She said she’d write. She said there’d be a letter waiting for me when we got here.”
    Mrs Blakeman had noticed. Nobody had written, not even Prill’s best friend Angela who always sent letters when they were separated. There had been no letters at all.
    “I’m sorry about what happened, Auntie Jeannie.” A tear ran slowly down Oliver’s left cheek.
    “Don’t worry about that now, no harm was done. Off you go to bed.” She hugged him but he went off looking utterly miserable. Prill felt sorry for him.
    “So much for the wonderful engineer,” Mum said gloomily, putting Alison on the bed to change her. Prill went away. She didn’t know exactly how phones worked but she felt secretly that if a man came a thousand times to mend this one it would make no difference. The fact that it didn’t work was nothing to do with cables or electrical impulses.
    Something was closing in on them and driving themslowly but relentlessly into a dark place, where there was loneliness and some kind of immense suffering. Wherever that place was, phones did not ring, letters were not delivered, pain and sickness came inexplicably and were not relieved. Over everything was the stink and rottenness of death itself.
    And all of them had been touched by it in some way. Except Oliver. Why was he on the outside of everything? He was only unhappy now because of what had nearly happened to Donal Morrissey. The house itself held no terrors for him. In a little while he would probably drift off to sleep quite peacefully.
    She and Colin hadn’t really been fair to him. If they’d been a bit more friendly from the beginning he might not have gone off on his own, then the fire wouldn’t have happened. She decided to talk to him tomorrow. Oliver was clever. He was so clear-thinking and cool, wise beyond his years. Talking to him might actually be a relief.
    In Dr Moynihan’s dream kitchen there was an electric deep-fryer the size of a small aquarium. Mum switched it on.
    “Right. Chips, beans and sausages,” she announced firmly. “Come on, we’re all hungry. Don’t mope around, Prill, let’s just be grateful Alison’s nodded off. You can speak to Dad tomorrow morning.”
    Prill didn’t reply. Her mother’s forced cheerfulness grated on her; she hated people jollying her along when she felt really miserable. She decided to feed the dog. When the human race got too much to bear there was always Jessie, faithful, loving, a bit mad.
    But even she was in a mood. At the first sniff of dinner she was usually there at your feet, wagging her tail and butting her head into your legs till you gave her the dish. But now, when Prill put her meal down on the glossy kitchen tiles, she hardly looked at it, and when the girl stroked her neck and made a few coaxing noises, she shook her off irritably and gave a low growl, slinking off to her lair under the table where nobody would bother with her.
    “I’ll peel the spuds,” Colin said, wanting to hurry the meal up. He had griping pains in his stomach again. He felt like eating a horse. Silently Prill got cups and plates out and banged them miserably on the kitchen table. “D’you know where the vegetables are, Mum?” he asked.
    “In the utility room, on that tiled counter. I thought it would be the coolest place to store them.” She was trying to use the electric tin opener. “Never seen one of these before. Wonder how it works?”
    Colin was soon back with a polythene