The Hollow Land Read Online Free PDF

same.
    â€œWe saw the gypsies again today,” said Harry’s mother. “First they were there, then they were gone. Like magic. I think they put a spell on Harry. I’ve never known him so naughty. Or maybe it was that woman. Did you hear Mrs. Teesdale say she was a witch?”
    â€œRubbish.”
    â€œShe was funny about selling eggs. Very superstitious, that. Perhaps she is a witch after all.”
    â€œNo different from Mrs. Teesdale. Didn’t you notice? She wouldn’t take money from you today either.”
    â€œShe was different from Mrs. Teesdale. Mrs. Teesdale spares your blushes. And she makes you laugh. In her pink hat.”
    â€œThe pink hat makes the difference? If the egg-witch woman had a pink hat . . . ?”
    â€œLet’s buy her one.”
    â€œShe’d paint it black.”
    Harry behind them was content upon the horse rake. He swung it up high in the sky over the fells and looked down on the sleeping land. He droned happily to himself as he wheeled and swung high in the sky with the pale stars beginning to show. He wondered why they had had to go out visiting for tea when there was a horse rake and Light Trees to play in.

S WEEP
    T he chimney sweep, who also kept the fish and chip shop, had said that he would take the big London lads fishing one day and they had said thank you. Smashing. “Oh great,” they had said—and forgotten. They weren’t prepared then on a dark wet August day for a knock on Light Trees’ ancient oak door and the sweep—Kendal was his name—to be standing there sopped through, with floods streaming from his hat and his arms full of rods.
    It was a day when great curtains of rain swept the fells and away and away stretched dismal wet hills. Every one of the London folk was still in bed with books and breakfast and the radio at nine o’clock. The little lad, Harry, was in bed with a Lego set and a gang of invisible friends. It was Harry who heard the sweep knock, the front door being under one of his bedroom windows.
    â€œFishing,” Kendal called up to him, wet as a man under the sea.
    â€œAny chips?” asked Harry.
    â€œHaven’t caught any yet. Chips is hard to catch. And the opposite sort of an affair.”
    â€œOpposite?”
    â€œAye—you throw chips in the deep end. Fish you fishes out. Can I step inside? I’m taking the big lads fishing.”
    Various older boys of terrible appearance emerged from the bedroom where they had all been put in together to keep the mess in one place. One was eating bread and marmalade, one was holding a paperback western. James, the tall thin Bateman one, was doing nothing but look vacant. Tremendous pop music flooded out from behind them and out of the front door across the mournful landscape.
    â€œIsn’t it too wet?” James said doubtfully.
    â€œWet is what’s needed for trout,” said the sweep.
    â€œThey’ll catch pneumonia,” said Mrs. Bateman fussing round in a clutched-up dressing-gown to get the sweep a cup of coffee.
    â€œNot at all,” he said. “Never int’ world. I never yet met a trout with pneumonia. These lads tell me they like the thought of fishing every time they come in my shop. It happens that there’s this day free, people not being over-fond of having their chimneys swept with dampness about.”
    The dampness flung itself against the kitchen windows like tidal waves. A tempest of wind shrieked.
    â€œI think I ought to do some work,” said James. “It’s a chance, a day like this. I’ve got exams you see.” He slunk back into the bedroom and his friends kept well out of the foreground too.
    â€œI’ll come,” said Harry.
    â€œNo you will not,” said his mother, “you can’t swim.”
    â€œOh, it’ll not come to that,” said Kendal. “We just wade. Only deep places is whirlpools and once in whirlpools