'Lest we should forget (continued)'
by William EmslieSam's voice quavered, his eyes now sporting fully-fledged tears: 'She's had a
scene with my dad, in the pub, right? I'm dead.' Suddenly sobered, I bit my lip. 'Oh yeh
I hadn't thought of that. Sorry.' Sam grimaced. 'Better get home before Dad comes here looking for me,' he said.
I nodded. Ma Harbin's cackle was still in full rant at the front doorstep, so Sam left by
the back. My mum was cross after Ma Harbin's onslaught, but it didn't take too schmaltzy
a show of repentance to put the affair into perspective. After a bit, she was
even able to laugh at the old woman's display of rage, particularly when I
described the scene in the front garden of the Hammer house when she'd seen us. Then she took some coins from her purse. 'Here's your pocket money,' she said,
'and it's going to pay for those eggs. All of it, mind. Any extra is for that
poor woman's time and trouble.' 'Fair enough,' I conceded. She proffered me the money. 'So off you go: take this up to her house, pay her
for the eggs and apologise. I gawped in terror as the words sank in. 'What?!' My mother gave a frowning nod: 'You owe her an apology, Robert.' 'Y-yeh, b-but
' I spluttered, my hand shaking as I took the coins, 'you mean go
up to the Hammer house, kn-nock on the door? No way, mum. Nobody goesthere!' 'Don't be stupid,' snapped my mother, 'she won't hurt you.' 'You didn't see her with that stick,' I reposted. 'Anyway, the only people who
knock onthatdoor are those haggy women she has round for her coven.' 'For God's sake, Robert, you're thirteen years old! You don't still believe
that rubbish, do you?' 'I know it, Mum. It's not rubbish: she's a witch and I'm not going up to her
house. That's that.' My mother adopted a disapproving posture: hands on hips, eyes locked into mine.
'I could have paid Mrs Harbin for the eggs when she called,' she said. 'I
didn't. Firstly, because that's your responsibility. Secondly, I will not have
anyone believing that my son is a yob. Now, if you haven't got the guts to sort
it out and if you don't mind being labelled a lout, then you're certainly not
the young man I thought you were.' With which she turned to tend to the washing
up. Touché. That's the problem with mothers; good ones, anyway. They know
just where the pride-denting button is located. There was only one thing to do. I stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind me. I wasn't heading for Ma Harbin's; not yet. I turned towards Sam's place. I was
worried about him; Sam's dad could be a total psycho after a few drinks and he
did not like being shown up in public. I swallowed hard, and then rang the bell. Sam's mum came to the door rather
her than his dad, although the choice was marginal. She stared me out until I
spoke. 'Is Sam in?' Her response was the expected non sequitur: 'You've got a cheek coming round
'ere!' I tried again: 'Can I see him, please?' She cuffed my head. 'He's in his room, and that's where he's staying. Now get
lost.' I successfully ducked the second blow and skittered off down the street. This
was all standard fare from Sam's parents; after a few days it would be
forgotten, but till then we had to pretend that it was the end of the world as
we know it. Sam's bedroom was at the back of the house, accessible via an alley two doors
up. I negotiated the assault course of milk bottles and refuse sacks then threw
one of the coins from my pocket at his window. The face that emerged was not that of a happy bunny. 'What the hell are you
doing, you nutter?' he hissed. 'Can't you see I'm in enough trouble already?' 'You think you've got problems?' I whispered. 'Me mum says I've got to go up to
the Hammer house and apologise to Ma Harbin.' Sam's face fell further still: 'You're not!' 'No choice,' I mouthed. 'Your life's over, man!' I regarded him gravely. 'Sam, I can't do this without you.' He shook his head. 'No way: I'm stuck here till my dad calms down; that'll be
around the year 2000 on current reckonings.' We paused to consider. 'I know,' I whispered, 'tell him the truth for a change.' 'What?' 'Well, sort of the truth, right? Say you feel really bad about what you've done
and you want to go and say sorry.' Sam sucked his fingers contemplatively. 'Worth a go, I s'pose,' he mumbled.
'Wait for me round the front. If I'm not out in five, assume the answer's no.' He was conditionally bailed a few minutes later. 'Dad said OK,' he reported,
'but I have to come straight home.' Never before had we ventured past the iron gate at the foot of the drive to Ma
Harbin's. At the top we turned towards the great house; to where, within its
imposing stone pillared porch, stood its front door: a huge slab of
black-stained oak, by which there was no bell or button, only a vast brass
knocker in the full-sized shape of a clenched fist. We stared timidly at it, as
though scared it might, all of a sudden, leap into life and punch us out in
turn. Had I waited another second, I would have legged it, so in one swift manoeuvre
I reached out, lifted the knocker and let it drop, with a resounding thud, back
onto itself. At once, I began rehearsing in my mind the words of contrition I
had devised; I felt my lips moving as I did so, as though reciting a silent
prayer. The seconds marshalled themselves into what seemed like minutes, each one
augmenting the agony of he wait, bringing further fear afresh. 'P'raps she's
out,' suggested Sam, just as the sound of a bolt being drawn on the opposite
side of the door made us jump, then freeze like statuettes on a tombstone. The great oak door was pulled ajar, to a crack just large enough to accommodate
Ma Harbin's haggy visage, which leered at us, eyes mocking in the face of our
fearful torment. I tried to start the speech I had prepared, but my throat
would yield nothing more than a strained guttural noise. Then, to our horror,
she opened the door wider. 'Come in,' she said. Her intonation was not one of invitation; it was an order. Still I was
dumbstruck; Sam came to my rescue with a nervous, 'We really can't stay, Miss.' 'Come in,' she repeated, with yet more authority in her tone, 'I wish to speak
to you.' Shakily, we obeyed: I first, leading Sam by the forearm behind me. Suddenly the words I had been trying desperately to articulate gushed out in an
involuntary spiel. 'Hello, Mrs Harbin. We've come to say that we're really very
sorry about what we did. It was thoughtless and stupid and we promise that it
will never ever happen again.' I held out my trembling hand, the coins warm,
sweaty in its palm: 'This is to pay for the eggs.' She eyed up my offer disdainfully. 'Come through to the kitchen,' she commanded. 'Please, Miss,' said Sam nervously, 'my dad said I have to come straight home.' Ma Harbin regarded us in turn, her expression stern. 'Have you come to
apologise, or just to make a show?' Sam and I exchanged glances; it was a fair question, but there was only one
polite answer. 'To apologise,' I lied, doing my best to sound convincing. 'Well, then you will at least do me the courtesy of staying a few minutes to
hear what I have to say. Follow me.' Walking through the hall, I became aware of our surroundings. I was taken
aback. I had envisaged the house's interior as a ramshackle affair, which was
far from the reality unfolding before us. It was orderly, yet lived-in, imbued
with the scent of beeswax and an indefinable warmth. Other than the telephone
on a Queen Ann table at the foot of the stairs, nothing appeared to be less
than a hundred years old. A grandfather clock, its face bearing the ironic
legend TEMPUS FUGIT, gave forth dignified, lethargic ticks from the corner; a Victorian
dresser
exhibiting Willow Pattern plates stood by the entrance to the kitchen. Amidst
the array of china ornaments on its forefront were fading photographs of men in
military uniform. In the kitchen, an ancient range burned. Central to the room was what my aunt,
proprietor of the town's antique shop, would have called a refectory table,
carved from elm, sitting on which were three (yes, three) cups and saucers.
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