was a library, at the other end was a master bedroom, a bathroom and a dressing room. Everything was on a very grand scale.
“You could fit our whole house into this,” Prill whispered to Colin. “Isn’t it gloomy though?”
Off the dressing room was a second vast bedroom which had been cleared out to make a studio. Grierson disappeared into it with Dad. Now the tour was over he seemed to have forgotten all about the children and they wandered about looking at things on their own.
“For heaven’s sake don’t touch anything,” Prill’s father muttered to her as Grierson swept him off to discuss progress so far. He was obsessively interested in his portrait.
Prill went straight over to the library window with Alison in her arms. You could see the sea from there, and that was where she wanted to be, not here in this unlovely, silent house stuffed with all its dusty relics. The tide was out and the sand gleamed, peach-coloured and glistening in the afternoon sun. It was a wide, wide beach with dark woods sloping down to it, and a strip of whitish stones where the sand began. Some way out from the trees she saw a great blackened stake. It was hard to tell how tall it was, from this distance, but it looked like the trunk of a very large, straight tree, and it was driven right into the sand like a gigantic nail.
Grierson, coming through from the studio for a minute to check that nothing was being tampered with, saw her staring down. A strange, blank look came into his eyes, then his mouth twisted into a little smile. “No doubt you’re wondering what that is? It’s an old family memorial. Not ours, mind you. Now there are Rosses round here again they waste my time keeping it standing. They go down there sometimes, scraping the barnacles off. Hub!” He gave a loud, unpleasant laugh. “Best oak that was, from my woodland. Rosses … huh.” He spat the name out as if it was poisonous.
He went back into the studio and shut the door, leaving Prill by the open window, clutching Alison, and shaking. Grierson’s presence had had the most extraordinary effect on her. She’d felt almost suffocated by him, and by the sheer weight of malice and loathing in his voice. He really did seem to hate the poor Rosses, and that stake on the beach obviously had some strange significance for him. What could be wrong with the man to speak so savagely to a young girl he hardly knew?
Alison had burst into tears when she saw that thin mean face close up. She’s struggled in Prill’s arms and waved her little pink paws at the open window, pointing down urgently.
“Yes, beach,” Prill murmured soothingly. “Sand. Allie go to beach soon. Don’t cry, pet.” It was better now Grierson had gone back to his precious portrait. Alison hadn’t just disliked him, she’d been scared. Her small firm body had gone all rigid and stiff in Prill’s arms, and that only ever happened when something really frightened her.
On the other side of the room Colin had made an interesting discovery. Tucked behind a cabinet, as if Grierson wanted nobody to see it, a sampler, worked in coloured wool, hung on a nail. It was the most curious text he’d ever seen on a thing like that. His grandmother had several, and they all went on about virtue and piety. But in large red letters this one stated boldy, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live: Exodus 22 v. 18”, and the date was embroidered underneath in blue cross-stitch. “May 20th 1865”.
Oliver was the person to ask about this. His general knowledge was amazing and his mother, who was very religious, had just had him confirmed. She now took him to church twice every Sunday and made him sit through extremely long services. He’d have something to say about this sampler. But when he saw what his cousin was doing Colin didn’t dare call him over in case Mr Grierson suddenly came out of the studio again. The little nosy parker was bent over a large writing desk, where he actually seemed to be looking at Grierson’s private papers.
What Oliver had under his nose was a diary written up for the day before, and he was busily inspecting it. Well, it couldn’t be very private if the man left it open for all to see, so why not? There was nothing exciting in it anyway, just a very boring account of a very boring day, about six lines, with some additions and subtractions pencilled in the margin. What caught his eye, though, was the bit at the end in red. It was written backwards, in mirror writing, but Oliver had no problem with it. He was left-handed and he often wrote like that, when he was bored in lessons. “Oh God,” he read, “wherefore art Thou absent from us so long? Why is Thy wrath so hot against the sheep of Thy pasture?”
What on earth was that doing there? It was from one of the Psalms, one of the really miserable ones that went on and on moaning while your neck got stiff and your bottom sore, listening to the choir. Daringly, he turned back a few pages. Each entry was the same, a factual account of his day then these awful back to front bits in red. “Haste Thee, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord.” And, “Save me, O God, for the waters are come in, even unto my soul.”
At the sound of Grierson’s voice droning on and on about canvases and poses and what he ought to wear for his portrait, Oliver retreated hastily and whipped round. Colin stepped back from the queer sampler and pretended to be inspecting a clock, and Prill came forward into the middle of the room with Alison held in front of her, like a shield. In Grierson’s presence they all lined up automatically, like an army waiting for instructions.
He came over to the window, pushed past Prill, stood looking out for a minute, then slammed it shut quite violently. It was as if he’d seen or heard something down there that displeased him. He even drew a curtain half-way across and darkened the room. All sense of peace had vanished with his coming, and as soon as she saw him, Alison began to cry bitterly. He clearly wanted them out of the way. An accountant called Robert Guthrie was due, and Dad had been asked to stay for a drink so they could meet each other, and have a look at the portrait together.
The children were offered nothing, and Mr Grierson was steering them testily towards some cold back stairs.
“You’ll get down quicker that way,” he said stiffly, almost pushing them through the door. Alison was now crying quite hysterically. She was cold out here and she wanted to stay with her father.
“Never mind, pet,” Prill said, stroking her cheek. “He’s a horrid man, he doesn’t understand about families. Don’t cry. We can take you down to the beach.”
“No wonder his daughter married and left home,” Colin whispered to Oliver as they clattered down the icy stone staircase. “No wonder she never comes to see him. Can’t blame her. Can you?”
“You can go,” said Aunt Phyllis, “as long as you’re back by six. No, no, leave Alison with me. Don’t want any disasters. Now about the swimming—”
“Mother, we aren’t going swimming,” Oliver said impatiently. “I’ve told you, we just want to have a look at the beach, that’s all.”
“We saw it from Mr Grierson’s room,” added Prill. “It looks beautiful.”
“All right then.” Aunt Phyllis sounded distinctly put out. She’d decided to make them all tidy up their rooms before the evening meal. The Blakemans didn’t put anything away, and there were books all over Oliver’s bed. Still, it was a fine afternoon, and there may not be too many of those. Let them go to their beach. It’d be quieter anyway, with just the toddler to cope with.
Prill half ran there, partly because she was trying to keep up with Jessie, partly because she wanted to escape from Lagg’s woodlands and get by the sea. At least Grierson didn’t
