The Hollow Land Read Online Free PDF Page B

swimming’s of little advantage.”
    The mother waved a coffee pot helplessly about, looking urgently at her husband, who had just appeared in pyjamas, unshaven, with his hair very early-morning. “Aha,” he said. “Ha. Early call? Yes. Good to see you, Kendal. Forgotten I’d mentioned the chimney. Rather wet for it today, I’d think.”
    â€œIt’s fishing,” said the mother. “Kendal wants to take everyone fishing. Just the weather, he says.”
    â€œWonderful idea,” said the father. “Great. Grand. Couldn’t think what on earth to do with any of them today. Splendid. We can knock up a few sandwiches for everyone, can’t we? It’ll be an all day affair?” he asked hopefully.
    â€œIt will,” said Kendal, “and you’re welcome to come with us.”
    â€œAh well now then,” said the father, “it just happens that I can’t. There’s a phone call coming from abroad. I have to wait for it.” He looked out at the deluge. “Great pity,” he said. “Long time since I had a day’s fishing.”
    â€œThe telephone lines are down,” said Kendal. “The wind took them in the night. You’d mebbe hear it happening? Two trees across the Appleby road an’ all and a cargo of dead sheep strowed about all over it. Like an air disaster. Vet had to go and put them out of their misery. There’ll be no phone calls.”
    Mr. Bateman gave Kendal a look, picked up the phone, found it dead and gave him another look. “Yes,” he said. He glared thoughtfully at Kendal as if Kendal had arranged the wind, and Kendal stared serenely back. He was a short, broad man with a wide mouth and dauntless shoulders. He strikingly resembled the stone figure that had been dug up in the churchyard some years ago—a very early Saxon hackabout of the devil in chains. Bound hand and foot, this stone demon looked entirely comfortable, watching the torturer with an expression of the purest happiness. Queer words carved beneath meant “Beware or cop it”.
    It was possible that the model for this stone had been an earlier member of the Kendal family, for it had been discovered in a field below the church and Kendals had always lived below the church. “Well, since thirteenth century anyway,” he said. “A very funny class of persons lives above.” And if you weren’t careful he began to tell stories about them. All Kendals told superb stories—this Kendal in particular—and while he told them you found that you were going along with him in a sort of dream and had bought five pounds’ worth of fish and chips or seven fishing rods displayed in his window beside the bottles of vinegar and tomato ketchup; or had contracted to have your chimneys swept twice yearly till the turn of the century.
    Or as now—he had started on an account of last night’s storm: a tree struck by lightning in Jingling Lane that he’d heard tell had flattened the vicar; Blue Barns’ roof blown in whilst madam was out on her broomstick. And you found yourself trudging off towards his Land-Rover and the river to catch trout, wet, cold, ill-tempered as any group of prisoners in the world, when all you wanted was bed and toast and Radio Two. Harry and his mother, who had been expected to stay behind, were left with a built-up fire at Light Trees and a comfortable quiet morning.
    And afternoon, so it appeared, for there was no sign of the fishermen by four o’clock.
    And evening—for there was no sign of them by seven.
    Mrs. Bateman had done Normandie potatoes and the lovely smell of cheese and onions floated out of the windows and up the chimney and under the front door and away over the fell. “You’d think it’d tempt them home,” she said. But the river was far below and four miles westwards.
    â€œHot air only rises,” said Harry. “Only the birds’ll know