A Time for Courage Read Online Free PDF Page B

and craned his neck round the down.
    ‘Good idea, these rubber tyres, aren’t they, my boy?’
    Harry nodded. The early morning mist still lay over the harbour and cliffs which they would soon leave behind as they travelled inland. Their fishing rods rattled as they rested almost upright in the back of the cart and he wondered whether he should wedge the picnic basket against them. He looked but the rods had not moved so he did nothing.
    He loved the early morning but not the fishing. In fact he had forgotten all that he had been taught by his father when they were here two years ago but a repeat of the lesson might jolly the old man along a bit. He seemed even more taciturn than at Christmas, more preoccupied if that was possible. But bloody hell, fishing was so boring. Standing about waiting for the trout to bite, trying to think of things to say to the old boy. Feeling on edge all the time in case that tension which was never far below the surface of this dark man would snarl out from those eyes, that mouth, and make his stomach churn and his hands tremble. Was it fear his father aroused in him, he wondered, and knew that it was.
    Perhaps Hannah was having the best of it after all, tucked up in a warm cottage; her feet weren’t going to get wet and her hands numb with cold. Women were lucky; looked after and cosseted as they were.
    ‘Move him on a bit, boy, we’ve a fair way to go this morning, you know.’ The pony had slowed to an amble and his father’s elbow dug hard into his ribs.
    Damnation, he’d want to take the reins soon and that would mean a sweated pony and shaken wine. He edged further along the seat, away from the pressure of his father’s arm. ‘Yes, Father,’ he replied, but quietly, since the mist silenced the countryside, turning its atmosphere into that of the school chapel. To speak in more than a whisper seemed somehow vulgar. His father had shouted, of course. But now, all was quiet again except for the quickening hoofs, the creaking of the harness and the rattle of the bit as the pony mouthed the metal, tossing its head as it did so. Harry eased his shoulders. It was strange to come down so early in the school holiday but his father said that his mother had been ill again. He lifted his tweed cap briefly from his head and wiped the droplets of mist from his forehead with the back of his hand. The mist clung also to his sleeve, caught on the hairs of the tweed. The reins felt damp in his hand so he caught the leathers between his knees, shaking his head as his father leant over to take them, while he drew his gloves from his pocket. Then the pony shied at a magpie breaking cover from the hedge that seemed to loom higher than it really was in the uncertain light, and he breathed, ‘whoa, boy’, as he took up the reins again, pulling the glove over his wrist with his teeth.
    A breeze was setting up, gentle but definite, which meant that the sun would soon break through the dim mist and the pony would settle.
    His father was sitting with arms crossed, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed, and only now did Harry feel able to relax and think about why his mother had arranged for Hannah to stay with a friend of Aunt Eliza’s further inland and not with them. She had explained that Eliza had enough with three of them, especially after poor Simon’s death, but Beaky had said that Hannah had been difficult. Just that, nothing more, but she had clasped her hands as she said it and rolled her shoulders and though her face hadn’t smirked, her body had. He was glad that the old bat had not come down here with them and that Father had left the staff at home on board wages. That would wipe the smile off her face but it was hard on Polly and the gardener, he supposed.
    What was wrong with Hannah, he mused. She was so quiet with him now and when he had asked what the problem was she had just looked at him. I don’t know, she had said, I wish I did, and had turned from him and walked from the room,