Алан Гарнер – Elidor (страница 2)
The drum turned slowly, and the names ticked by: and the drum stopped.
“Thursday Street,” said Helen. “Mind your finger. ‘Ten, seven L’.”
“Ten will be the postal district,” said Roland. “You turn the map wheel until number seven is level with these squares painted red on the glass, and then Thursday Street is in square L. There.”
“I can’t see it,” said Nicholas.
The map square was full of small roads, some too short to hold the name even when it was abbreviated. But at last the children found a ‘Th. S.’ jumbled among the letters.
“Titchy, isn’t it?” said David.
“It’s such a funny name,” said Roland. “Thursday Street. Shall we go and see what it’s like?”
“What?”
“It’s not far. We’re in Piccadilly here, and Thursday Street’s off to the right up Oldham Road. It shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“I might have known you’d think of something daft,” said Nicholas.
“But let’s do it,” said Helen. “Please, Nick. You and David’ll only start scrapping if we don’t. And when we’ve found it we’ll go home: then nobody’s bossed about.”
“OK,” said David. “That’s all right by me.”
“It’s still daft,” said Nicholas.
“Can you think of anything?”
“Oh, all right. This is your idea, Roland, so you take us. Can you find the way?”
“I think so. We’ll go up Oldham Road for a bit, and then cut through the back streets.”
They left Watt. David and Nicholas were better tempered now that there was something positive to be done.
“This is the turning we want,” said Roland after a while. “Down this next alley.”
“Mm,” said Nicholas. “It looks a bit niffy to me.”
The children had never been in the streets behind the shops. The change was abrupt.
“Phew!” said Helen. “All those fancy windows and posh carpets at the front, and it’s a rubbish dump at the back!”
They were in an alley that ran between loading bays and store-houses lit by unshaded bulbs: the kerb was low and had a metal edge, and there was the smell of boxwood and rotten fruit. Fans pumped hot, stale air into the children’s faces through vents that were hung with feathers of dirt.
Beyond the alley they came to a warren of grimy streets, where old women stood in the doorways, wearing sacks for aprons, and men in carpet slippers sat on the steps. Dogs nosed among crumpled paper in the gutter; a rusty bicycle wheel lay on the cobbles. A group of boys at the corner talked to a girl whose hair was rolled in brightly coloured plastic curlers.
“I don’t like this, Nick,” said Helen. “Should we go back up the alley?”
“No. They’ll think we’re scared. Look as though we know where we’re going – taking a short cut; something like that.”
As the children walked past, all the eyes in the street watched them, without interest or hostility, but the children felt very uncomfortable, and walked close together. The girl on the corner laughed, but it could have been at something one of the boys had said.
They went on through the streets.
“Perhaps it’s not a good idea,” said Roland. “Shall we go home?”
“Are you lost?” said Nicholas.
“No, but—”
“Now what’s all this?” said David.
Ahead of them the streets continued, but the houses were empty, and broken.
“That’s queer,” said Nicholas. “Come on: it looks as though Roland has something after all.”
“Let’s go back,” said Roland.
“What, just when it’s starting to be interesting? And isn’t this the way to your Thursday Street?”
“Well – sort of – yes – I think so.”
“Come on, then.”
It was not one or two houses that were empty, but row after row and street after street. Grass grew in the cobbles everywhere, and in the cracks of the pavement. Doors hung awry. Nearly all the windows were boarded up, or jagged with glass. Only at a few were there any curtains, and these twitched as the children approached. But they saw nobody.
“Isn’t it spooky?” said David. “You feel as if you ought to whisper. What if there was no one anywhere – even when we got back to Piccadilly?”
Helen looked through a window in one of the houses.
“This room’s full of old dustbins!” she said.
“What’s that chalked on the door?”
“
“Number Four’s empty, too.”
“I shouldn’t like to be here at night, would you?” said Helen.
“I keep feeling we’re being watched,” said Roland.
“It’s not surprising,” said David, “with all these windows.”
“I’ve felt it ever since we were at the map in Piccadilly,” said Roland, “and all the way up Oldham Road.”
“Oh, come off it, Roland,” said Nicholas. “You’re always imagining things.”
“Look there,” said David. “They’ve started to bash the houses down. I wonder if we’ll see a demolition gang working. They do it with a big iron ball, you know. They swing it from a crane.”
Something had certainly hit the street they were in now, for only the fronts of the houses were standing, and the sky showed on the inside of windows, and staircases led up a patchwork gable end of wallpaper.
At the bottom of the row the children stopped. The streets continued, with cobbles and pavements and lamp posts – but there were no houses, just fields of rubble.
“Where’s your Thursday Street now?” said Nicholas.
“There,” said David.
He pointed to a salvaged nameplate that was balanced on a brickheap. “Thursday Street.”
“You brought us straight here, anyway, Roland,” said Nicholas. “The whole place has been flattened. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“There’s a demolition gang!” said Helen.
Alone and black in the middle of the wasteland stood a church. It was a plain Victorian building, with buttresses and lancet windows, a steep roof, but no spire. And beside it were a mechanical excavator and a lorry.
“I can’t see anybody,” said Roland.
“They’ll be inside,” said Nicholas. “Let’s go and ask if we can watch.”
The children set off along what had been Thursday Street. But as they reached the church even Nicholas found it hard to keep up his enthusiasm, for there was neither sound nor movement anywhere.
“We’d hear them if they were working, Nick. They’ve gone home.”
David turned the iron handle on the door, and pushed. The church clanged as he rattled the heavy latch, but the door seemed to be locked.
“They wouldn’t leave all this gear lying around,” said Nicholas. “They may be having a tea-break or something.”
“The lorry’s engine’s still warm,” said Roland. “And there’s a jacket in the cab.”