Oliver said proudly.
Colin would have preferred Coke to the sour, gritty concoction provided by Oliver’s mother, his Great Aunt Phyllis, but she said fizzy drinks rotted your teeth and kept you awake at night. Everything was going to be home-made for the next few weeks because she was in charge of all the cooking.
Lochashiel was on the lower fringes of a vast plantation, which belonged to Hugo Grierson. David Blakeman, Colin and Prill’s father, had come up to Scotland to paint the master of Lagg. He was an art teacher at a big comprehensive school but he sometimes got commissions for portraits. Not enough to give up teaching, though, which was what he really wanted to do.
His wife had stayed behind to look after Grandma Blakeman. She’d just recovered from very bad influenza and the doctor said she shouldn’t really be left. She’d actually caught it from Mrs Blakeman, and neither of them were feeling too fit. “It’s a case of one old crock looking after another,” their mother had laughed, pale-faced but cheerful, waving them off a few days before. Dad had been keen to do this Scottish portrait but when his wife fell ill, and Mr Grierson phoned to say his housekeeper had just given in her notice and left, he thought the whole plan would have to be scrapped. The children couldn’t run round the place unsupervised, the man had made that quite clear. Then Great Aunt Phyllis came to the rescue.
She was Grandma’s younger sister and Oliver was her adopted son. They lived with miserable Uncle Stanley in a London flat at the top of 9, Thames Terrace, a forlorn-looking house near the river where she looked after six elderly people and where Oliver had to creep round in soft shoes, and whisper all the time, in case he annoyed the old folk.
They’d all gone away for the summer, while repairs were being done to the house, but Uncle Stanley had refused to budge. He didn’t trust those workmen, they might steal his books, or interfere with his collections.
Aunt Phyllis was all for getting Oliver out of London, away to the country, and when Dad told her that the holiday was off because Hugo Grierson had just lost his housekeeper she immediately offered to help Mum could stay behind with Grandma, and get her strength up again, and she would cope with the family, Oliver, his two older cousins, and their little sister Alison who was just walking. The toddler had her moments but she was no match for her Aunt Phyllis. After years of handling difficult old people, and years before that as a hospital matron, she reckoned she could manage Alison blindfold, with one hand tied behind her back.
Rather to Dad’s surprise, Mr Grierson had agreed instantly, over the phone. His main concern was to have peace and quiet for the painting sessions, and not to be disturbed by a troop of noisy children. Aunt Phyllis sounded ideal.
“It’s all worked out beautifully,” she’d announced, patting her new steel-grey perm when they eventually met up at Dumfries Station, but one look at Oliver and the Blakemans’ spirits sank. He’d muscled in on their family holiday yet again, and this time all his pernickety, nit-picking habits would be reinforced by his mother.
Anyway, if either of them upset Alison it was going to be all-out war. They’d agreed that on the train.
“She’s not going to be bossed round by those two,” Prill had said fiercely. “She’s only little, and they’ll just have to make allowances. Aunt Phyllis is always so mad keen to get people organized. Ugh!”
It was their aunt who’d roped them in for this rock-shifting exercise. She firmly believed that “the devil made work for idle hands to do” and when she’d discovered that Duncan was expected to do the job all on his own she’d immediately dispatched the children up to Lochashiel.
“Go and give the poor boy a bit of help,” she’d ordered, immediately after breakfast. “Get some fresh air in those lungs. Four pairs of hands are better than one. Lunch at twelve-thirty sharp. I’ll cope with Alison.”
Oliver hadn’t wanted to touch those stones at all. The first couple of days with his cousins were always difficult anyway, because he irritated Colin, who made no secret of the fact, but the minute he saw the huge heap, piled up like a cairn on the top of a mountain, in the middle of that cottage garden, he knew that there was something special about it, and that it shouldn’t be tampered with.
He’d said nothing, realizing they’d probably laugh at him, or say he’d got a bee in his bonnet, as usual. Instead, he’d hung about by the little garden gate as the other three inspected the mysterious rocky mound, with cold shivers running up and down his back, silently willing them to leave the thing alone. When they started to load the barrow he came forward very reluctantly, but he didn’t offer to help. Prill and Colin knew he wasn’t strong, and he was ill quite a lot. He’d trade on that if the Scots boy tried to get him working.
He stood watching nervously while the others removed the first few layers of stones and chucked them into the barrow. When two loads had been wheeled down to the field, and they were doing a third, Oliver peered forward and suddenly put a hand on the greenish mossy stones that were now coming to light. They were damp.
“I bet it’s a well,” he said quietly, a strange excitement creeping into his voice. He jabbed at the boulders with a stick. “Look, you can see now. It’s definitely circular, and these stones have sunk in a bit. I bet that’s what it is.”
Duncan glanced across at Oliver as he took a swig from the lemonade bottle. This boy puzzled him. A queer staring look had come into his eyes when he saw the cairn, his thin little body had gone all rigid for a minute and he had obviously been very reluctant to join in. The Scots boy wasn’t too impressed. It was a hard job they were doing, and he needed all the help he could get. The girl hadn’t been able to do very much, because most of the stones were just too heavy for her to lift, but this boy could have surely had a go. His first attempt had sent him staggering backwards and his second had grazed his knuckles. He’d then spent a full five minutes complaining, and inspecting his injuries, and after that he’d not helped at all; instead he’d fiddled round by the well, poking round with a penknife and putting bits of rubbish in his pockets. He just didn’t like hard work. Oliver didn’t exactly resemble Superman. He was thin and bony, and short for his age, and he wore thick black glasses that gave him an owlish look.
“I reckon it’ll take maybe another twa loads to finish this job,” Duncan grunted, casting a scowl at Oliver as he helped Colin back on to the track with the barrow. “Aye, an’ yon laddie’s neither use nor ornament the noo.”
“No,” Colin muttered in embarrassment. “It’s a bit typical I’m afraid. He’s a skiver. I’d like to tell him exactly what I think of him but it’s rather difficult with his mother always breathing down our necks.”
He could have said a lot more about his cousin but he decided to keep quiet. They’d been on holiday together before and Oliver got weird ideas about all sorts of things. Events had often proved him right, but somehow Colin didn’t want to embark on all that, not with this straightforward Scots boy. He’d certainly noticed Oliver’s odd reaction to the cairn of stones, his bulging eyes, his shaking; he might tackle him about it later, when they were on their own. He knew his cousin wouldn’t say anything himself, he was too secretive.
They were tireder than they knew after all the fetching and carrying. Colin could hardly push the barrow along the path, though it was downhill all the way to the field.
“Is it stuck?” said Prill, tugging at the rough wooden handles. “Let’s all pull together. One, two, three … there you are. You’re off.” And Colin staggered away into the trees with his creaking load.
He was halfway down the track when something odd happened. At first he
