No Way Of Telling (27 page)

“Well, so do I need to be fed,” said Ivor. “I haven’t hardly begun on my porridge yet.”

“I’ll keep it warm for you, Ivor. It won’t take you many minutes—better to get it done. We have to carry on like it was any other day, that’s what I mean.”

He saw her haunted eyes. “All right then, Mum, I’ll do it. But you don’t have to get in such a fret about Dad—he knows how to take care of himself—he won’t come to any harm. And he’ll watch out for the others too, you see if he doesn’t.”

“Oh, Ivor—you’re a good boy,” she said, giving him a squeeze.

To Ivor’s great relief the blizzard had passed. He had felt guilty at sending Ginger out to battle with it again. But his conscience was spared. Moving with the speed and the violence of a hurricane, the storm had blown over and on, leaving behind a residue of exhausted snowflakes floating down in a fine soft veil. There was a brightness irradiating the fine veil, and a gleam to the snow lying on the ground, like a promise of peace ahead.

Ivor saddled Ginger.

“Are you really an Ambassador?” he asked, as he tightened the girths.

“I am—yes. Really! Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’re the first one I’ve ever seen, and last night you turned up here on Ted Jones’s snow-plough, and now you’re going to ride my pony. It’s just I thought Ambassadors were different. I thought they went about in big cars and that.”

“Sometimes I have to use a big car, and sometimes I have to use a snow-plough. It is a matter of circumstances. And for me to be an Ambassador—that is simply for me to be a man. There are good men, and there are bad men, and there are stupid men. This Vigers is a bad man, and I am beginning to believe that I must be a stupid one for otherwise I should have provided myself with skis, as he has done, and I should then have been in your village by now—instead of which I must beg of you to hurry with those buckles.”

“Hadn’t I better drop the stirrups a bit? Your legs are longer than mine are.”

“Very well—if you think it necessary, do so. Only let us make haste.”

Ivor led Ginger through the back-yard and round the side of the house to the front-yard. Here the Ambassador swung himself into the saddle with an ease that surprised Ivor.

“All you have to do is, just leave it to Ginger. He’ll take you down the village all right. He won’t slip—he’s a marvel in snow.”

Having said this, Ivor still held on to the bridle, for there was something more he had to ask:

“My dad—he won’t come to any harm, will he, up at the Gwyntfa? Or Colin, or Ray?”

The dark foreign face looked down at him gravely.

“That is not a question I can answer, Ivor,” said the Ambassador. “What I am able to do I am now going to do.”

Ivor let go of Ginger’s bridle and stepped back. The last remnant of snow blew away and the sky was transfigured, blue, and the world lit up. He watched the solid black-coated figure being carried away from him by Ginger’s quick neat agile walk. The sun shone and the pony’s flanks were the colour of a conker and the long black tail hung down, swaying, almost to the ground. Everything about him sparkled, brilliant and clear: the storm was over. Slowly Ivor turned and walked past the side of the house and into the back-yard. He picked up two buckets. The animals had to be fed and watered, as on any other day; his mother was right.

But it was not a day like any other day all the same. The words his father had spoken earlier came back to Ivor: “We might get into something real nasty. I don’t want you mixed up in it.” He had said so from prudence, because it was his nature to be cautious, but he had not really believed it himself, Ivor knew. And after all it had been the truth. Somewhere out of sight, out of earshot, on the other side of those silent hills his father and his two brothers were involved in danger and he, Ivor, could do nothing to help them. And however speedily their visitor was transported to the Post Office by Ginger and however urgently he there summoned aid, and whatever the aid was, however fast and willingly it came, it would still be too late. There was nothing he or anyone else could do about it—nothing! A bucket dangling forgotten from either hand, Ivor leant against the yard gate to gaze with despair at the great empty snowy waste that stretched up and up to the summit of Cader Ddu.

But it was not empty!

A man was racing downhill towards him, fast, as though he were flying, as though he were a bird planing on the wind, swooping and swerving, lower and lower—a man on skis.

Ivor clenched his fists on the bucket handles and glanced quickly over his shoulder at the scullery door. Should he run and tell his mother? Tell her what? To bolt and bar the house? There was no time. He glanced uphill again and the man was nearer—nearer. The sun shone and the sky was blue and the snow spurted glittering from his long skis and his slender sticks as he turned and turned again. It was a beautiful sight: Amy had said so. And Amy was sitting now by their kitchen fire, wrapped in a blanket, feverish—with nothing to worry about, his mother had told her. What else had Amy said? He had to remember everything so as to prepare himself, to be ready—for what?—for whom? There had been two men on skis, she had said. Which one was this?

With a final graceful curve, a hiss of metal on frozen snow, a final sprouting of white feathers, the solitary skier drew up beside Ivor. Only the gate was between them. His pale brown clothes were sunny in the sunshine. His pale blue eyes blazed as bright as the blue sky blazing above; as blue, as bright, as pale as the eyes of the Post Office cat. Ivor knew who it was: it was Vigers.

“Hullo,” said Vigers, with a careless friendly air. He was breathing hard, smiling at Ivor.

“Hullo,” said Ivor.

All the things he had heard about this man crowded into Ivor’s mind: he was a devil; his sport was cruelty. He could look right into your head and know what you were thinking—but that, of course, was just silly talk. Vigers could not possibly tell that Amy was in their kitchen now; she was far more likely to be at the bottom of a snow-drift, she and her tidings of terror. Unless, Ivor reasoned with himself, Vigers were actually to see Amy he would most probably believe that no one here at Dintirion knew anything about him. Therefore, he had to be kept out of the kitchen; he had to be kept out of the house altogether. And he must not be allowed to guess that except for Ivor and Ivor’s mother the farm was deserted. Whereupon Ivor’s heart gave a sudden thump, for it had come to him, sickeningly, that there was indeed nobody else to deal with this situation but himself. His father and brothers were miles from home, their visitor half-way to the village by now—even the telephone was out of order. It all depended on him. He put the buckets down with a clank and rubbed his hands on his knees and slowly picked them up again so as to give himself time to get accustomed to this uncomfortable idea.

Vigers was scanning the yard, the buildings, the house beyond.

“Is your father about?” he asked.

Ivor shifted the buckets uneasily.

“Well—that all depends. What was it you were wanting him for?”

There was a pause. Ivor stared at the ground. Using the toe of his boot he dislodged an icicle from the lowest bar of the gate. The silence went on for so long that at last he was compelled to raise his head. Vigers was still scrutinizing the yard. Ivor was much relieved—he had been afraid that Vigers might have been scrutinizing him; but it was plain that his interest lay elsewhere.

He was standing rather to one side of the gate so that a holly-bush partly screened him from the house, and with a flash of insight Ivor realised that he was not just looking to see whom he could see, but was looking to see if he had been seen. “I am astonished that he should have come himself,” the Ambassador had said. “I should have thought the risk would have been too great.” Vigers was hoping his approach had passed unnoticed except by Ivor, a stupid young boy, who would provide him with the information he needed and could no doubt be bribed not to give his presence away. These thoughts occurred to Ivor with the conviction of absolute certainties, and in the light of his new understanding he was emboldened to say, craftily:

“Do you want me to fetch my dad for you, then? He’s busy, but I daresay he’ll come if it was for something important—is it?”

“Oh, no—if he’s busy there’s no point in disturbing him,” answered Vigers, just as Ivor had trusted he would. “I was only wondering—there’s been a rumour of a child missing from home—some little girl. Have you heard anything about it?”

With his expression as dull as he could manage to make it, Ivor shook his head.

“That’s what I thought,” said Vigers. “Ah, well—there’s no need to worry on that account then. But as a matter of fact I’m really trying to trace a man who’s had a bit of an accident. He’s damaged his arm and he doesn’t speak English. I was thinking he might have turned up here—or he might have simply passed by without stopping. You haven’t seen any strangers about by any chance, this morning? Or yesterday?”

Ivor dropped a bucket and opened his mouth. Up till now his main preoccupation had been to get rid of Vigers, simply to send him away from here, and with this as his object he was on the very point of declaring categorically that no stranger of any description had been seen near Dintirion, today or at any other time, and advising him to try down in the village which lay over in
that
direction; but even as he raised his arm ready to wave it obligingly towards Melin-y-Groes there came before his eyes like a warning, suddenly, a picture of the sturdy brown hindquarters of his pony, black tail swaying and black-coated rider sitting solid as a rock on top, disappearing down the road at a quick walk: not quick enough. Skis, he had seen for himself, travel faster on snow than hooves. Vigers would be bound to catch up with Ginger. And then whatever news there had been in the letter Amy carried through a blizzard it would certainly cease to exist somewhere between their farmhouse and the village. With his mouth open, his arm half-raised, Ivor checked himself.

“Yes?” prompted Vigers; and now his attention was entirely fixed on Ivor, who felt, with a tightening sensation of his chest, that Amy might have been right after all when she had described those eyes as being able to look inside a person’s head and know what they were thinking. Curiously enough, although Vigers was not touching him, Ivor had the impression of being gripped and held, so that he could not move.

“Yes?” said Vigers again, quite gently. “You were just going to tell me something, weren’t you? What was it? And why did you suddenly decide not to tell me? Why was that?”

As though he had been gripped and held Ivor could not move his limbs, but his mind in contrast had never moved so fast. It surveyed the problem from every angle at lightning speed. Vigers must be kept from going into the house—that was certain. Equally certainly he must be kept away from the village. Somehow he had to be prevented—delayed. He had to be kept—kept how? Kept where? And then the solution dawned on Ivor like the sun rising on a dark world. Of course! There was only one thing that could be done. He had to do it.

“Answer me!” said Vigers, and his voice was different: low still, but passionate.

During those few long seconds Ivor’s arm had remained upraised, arrested in the middle of his intended gesture. Now Vigers reached across the gate and took him by the wrist with fingers that bit like teeth. This physical contact had an unexpected effect on Ivor. While Vigers had not touched him he had felt captured; as soon as Vigers caught hold of his wrist, he felt freed—angry too, and reckless and confident, all at the same time.

“Are you looking for that murderer, too?” he blurted out, almost joyously because the moment of fear and indecision was past.

Across the surface of Vigers’ face there passed a flicker—not more—of surprise. His eyes contracted. He let go of Ivor’s wrist.

“Why ever did you have to grab hold of me like that?” Ivor grumbled. “That hurt, that did.”

“What murderer?” said Vigers.

“The same one as you were talking about, I suppose. There wouldn’t be two of them on the loose, would there? Both foreign, and sailors, and both got awful great gashes in their arms?”

“You seem to know a good deal about this man; what else do you know?” asked Vigers, speaking in the sort of pleasant conversational tone that Mr Williams used at school when it was a Current Affairs lesson.

“I know everything,” replied Ivor boastfully. “He killed a man down Cardiff way, didn’t he? We’ve had the police here all night, off and on—there’s two of them in our kitchen this very minute, eating their breakfast,” he added, on an extra burst of imagination; and was pleased to see Vigers cast a fleeting glance towards the scullery door and move a step further behind the holly-bush. He waited hopefully. Would Vigers believe him? Had he sounded convincing?

“So the police have been brought in, have they?” said Vigers, reflectively. “I suppose, sooner or later, it was inevitable. And do the police have any idea where this murderer might be?”

“Oh, they know all right.”

Again there was that flicker of surprise.

“They
know
where he is?”

“Well, of course they do,” said Ivor, with a show of impatience. “They caught him, didn’t they? They’ve got him trussed up like an old hen. And now they’ve cleared off, the most of them, gone to fetch transport I heard. Only they’ve left these two chaps behind—to keep a watch on him, they said.” “I see!” It was a long-drawn-out considering exclamation. “So he’s been caught, has he? By the police! And he’s here now. In that case I’m just in the nick of time, it seems. Well, that’s time enough,” said he musingly—caressingly, almost. It sounded as though he were uttering his thoughts aloud and his thoughts pleased him. “The nick of time is time enough—a perfection of timing, in fact! If these two policemen are having breakfast in your kitchen,” he went on to Ivor, “then presumably their prisoner must be in your kitchen too—is that right?”

“Oh, no! He’s not in our kitchen,” said Ivor, hurriedly. “They put him somewhere else, out of the way, but I can’t tell you where. We had to promise to keep our mouths shut, not to go spreading the tale around. It’s a secret—I shouldn’t have told you as much as I have done, only you made me. I’d rather you didn’t hurt my arm again,” he added truthfully, retreating.