‘Try me,’ he said patiently.
She looked him unwaveringly in the eyes, and took him at his word. Again, in the same clipped, bare terms she retold that fantastic story of hers.
‘Mrs Blacklock gave me practically a whole week off, from Thursday morning, because she was going to the child care conference at Gloucester. She asked me to come in again on Wednesday – yesterday – and clear up any routine correspondence, and then she came home in the evening. So I had five free days. I hadn’t made any plans to do anything special. I meant to go to choir practice on Friday night, as usual. Maybe to the dance on Saturday, but I hadn’t decided, because Myra was going with a party to the theatre in Wolverhampton, so I hadn’t anyone to go with. They must have missed me at choir practice, and at church on Sunday. If I’d intended not to be there, shouldn’t I have let them know?’
‘He rang up on Friday night,’ said Mrs Beck, a little huskily. ‘Mr Blacklock, I mean – after choir practice. He was worried because she didn’t turn up, wondered if she wasn’t well. I told him she had a bit of a cold. He was quite alarmed, and I had to put him off, or he’d have been round to see her. I said it was nothing much, but she was in bed early, and asleep, so he couldn’t disturb her, of course. He rang again on Sunday morning, after church, to ask how she was.’
‘He only has four altos,’ put in Beck with pathetic eagerness. ‘And she never lets them down. Mr Blacklock knows he can always rely on Annet for his alto solos.’
Annet’s clenched lips quivered in a brief and wry smile. It was all a part of the well-meaning communal effort to keep Annet busy and amused, everyone knew that. The Blacklocks had been taken into Mrs Beck’s embittered and indignant confidence, after that abortive affair with Miles Mallindine, and with her usual competence Regina had stemmed every gap in the fence of watchful care that surrounded the girl, and poured new commitments into every empty corner of her days. Probably the choir was one of the things she’d enjoyed most. Regina couldn’t sing a note; it was Peter, with his patient, fastidious kindness, who manipulated the casual material at his disposal into a very fair music for a village church. No wonder he rejoiced in Annet’s deep, lustrous, boy’s voice. And as charged by his wife, he always brought or sent her home in the car; that was a part of his responsibility. If Annet ever defected again, it mustn’t be while she was in their charge.
‘So from Thursday morning you were free,’ said George mildly, undistracted by these digressions. ‘What did you do with your freedom?’
‘I was home all Thursday afternoon. I washed some things, and played a few records, and wrote one letter. And my mother had two more to post, so about half past three I said I’d go and post them, and then go for a walk. I said I’d be back to tea. I met Mr Kenyon just at the gate, and he offered to post the letters for me, but I told him I wanted some air and was going for a walk. It was just beginning to rain, but I didn’t mind that, I like walking in the rain. I posted the letters in the box by the farm, and then I went on up the lane and over the stile on to the Hallowmount. I climbed right over the hill and went down into the valley by the brook, on the other side. I remember coming to the path there, this side of the brook. I can’t remember how much farther I walked. I can’t remember noticing which way I went, or when it stopped raining. But suddenly I realised it was dark, and I turned back. It wasn’t raining then. I thought I’d better get home the shortest way, so I climbed over the hill again, and there the grass was quite dry, and so were my shoes, and the moon was out. And just below the rocks there I met Mr Kenyon and my father, coming to look for me. They
George sat silent, studying her thoughtfully for a moment. Nothing of belief or disbelief, wonder or suspicion, showed in his face; he might have been listening to a morning’s trivialities from Mrs Dale. Annet knew how to be silent, too. She looked back at him and added nothing; she waited, her hands quite still in her lap.
‘You met no one on the hill? Or along by the brook?’ It was hardly likely on a rainy Thursday afternoon, but there was always the possibility.
‘No.’
‘Mr Kenyon saw her,’ said Mr Beck quickly.
‘I was driving back along the lane about four,’ confirmed Tom, ‘on my way home for the week-end, and I happened to look up at the Hallowmount just as the sun came out on it. I saw her climbing towards the crest, just as she says.’
‘Could you be sure it was Annet, at that distance?’
‘I’d seen her go out, I knew just what she was wearing.’ Carefully he suppressed the aching truth that he would have known her in whatever clothes, by the gait, by the carriage of her head, by all the shape and movement that made her Annet, and no other person. ‘I was sure. Then, when I got back here on Tuesday evening, and found she’s been missing all that time, I told Mr and Mrs Beck about it, and we went there on the off-chance of picking up any traces. We didn’t expect anything. But we found her.’
‘She was surprised to see us,’ said Beck eagerly. ‘She asked what we were doing there, and if anything was the matter. She said she knew she was very late, but surely we didn’t have to send out a search party.’
‘She was particularly surprised to see me,’ added Tom. ‘She said she thought I should have been home by then, and surely I didn’t stay behind because we were worried about her.’
They were all joining in now, anxiously proffering details of the search for her, of her return, of the terrible consistency of her attitude since, which had never wavered. George listened with unshakable patience, but it was Annet he watched. And when he had everything, all but those tyre-tracks of which her parents knew nothing, and which Tom must mention only privately if he mentioned them at all, it was still to Annet that he spoke.
‘So you went up the Hallowmount,’ he said, ‘and vanished out of time and place, like Tabitha Blount in the seventeenth century. And came back, also like Tabby, sure you’d been there no more than an hour or two, and never strayed out of this world. She never could give any account of her fairyland. Can you do any better?’
‘I know I was happy,’ said Annet, disregarding all but what she wished to hear; and suddenly the blue eyes deepened and warmed into such a passion of triumph and anguished joy that George was startled and moved. ‘Happy’ was a large word, but not too large for the blaze that lit her for a moment.
‘There’s nothing more you wish to tell me? And nothing you want to amend? It’s up to you, Annet.’
‘There’s nothing else I can tell you,’ she said. ‘I told you that before I began. Ask them if I’ve changed anything. I told you they didn’t believe me. I can’t help it if you don’t believe me, either.’
