‘Now what’ve I said?’ he muttered. ‘Don’t take on. Drink yer soup.’
It was creamy broth with bits of meat and veg in it, the most wonderful soup in the world at that moment, but she still felt dizzy and floppy.
Uncle Tom had never shouted at her before. The lad, Jack, peered in through the window. ‘She’s got a fire going…She’s canny enough, Tom, to think of that.’ He turned to her with smiling eyes. ‘I reckon we’ve got another Miriam o’ the Dale here. How did you think all this up?’
‘I read Uncle George’s book.’ At least Jack Sowerby didn’t think she was stupid. ‘I tried to do smoke signals but it didn’t work.’
‘That’s grand. They’ll be right proud of you when they find out,’ he said, but Uncle Tom was scowling.
‘No they won’t. She’s for it when she gets back, if the look on my mam’s face is anything to go by. She’s lost us a day’s work.’
‘The snow did that for you. We can’t blame her for a blizzard. The poor kid’s half starved. Do you want a piggyback?’ Jack offered.
But Mirren shook her head. ‘No thank you, I’ll walk. I’ve caused enough bother. I don’t suppose you’ve done anything as daft as me?’ she asked them both.
Uncle Tom suddenly roared. ‘His mam says Jack ran away on the first day at school ’cos he couldn’t count up the cardboard pennies so he hid in the cellar of the pub and she and Wilf were run ragged trying to find him.’ He lifted her up as she was struggling and her legs had turned to jelly. He carried her down to the waiting sled, to the warmth of a horse steaming, then homewards over the snow.
It was a cold crisp morning with a weak winter sun, but the journey down was like bumping over ice and the poor horse slithered. How could she have wandered so far uphill–and to the end of the world, they said?
She turned to say goodbye to her house but it had already disappeared from view, hidden and secret once more. One day she must come back and thank it properly.
They were all lined up waiting in the kitchen as she was carried in and inspected for frostbite. Someone had blasted off a gun to give notice that she was safe. Two blasts and it would have meant she was a goner, so Carrie whispered.
‘You’ve given us such a fright, Miriam. Whatever were you thinking off?’ said Granny, rubbing her dry with a towel.
‘Not now, Adey,’ said Grandpa Joe. ‘She’s frozen through. Get her in that zinc tub and warmed up. Plenty of time for a sermon when she’s come to. Carrie can see to it.’
Soon Mirren was soaking in the warm tub, her hands and toes tingling, and then Carrie was towelling her dry.
‘Weren’t you scared all alone at World’s End?’ she asked.
‘I wasn’t alone. There were animals sheltering in there, and when the fire was lit, I heard—’
‘They say that ruin is haunted. You wouldn’t catch me up there for love nor money,’ Carrie added.
‘It’s a kind place. I didn’t see anyone. The walls are thick and warm.’
‘You’re a braver lass than me…World’s End is unlucky for some. That’s why it’s been left. It belonged to one of yours years back. They said his wife was a witch but I never believed it…your great-granny, Sukie Yewell. She never went to church. They say…but I shouldn’t be putting ideas in your head. You’ve had a lucky escape. We thought you were a goner. The snow’s taken many a soul off these moors. They know about you skipping school, by the way. I had to tell them.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Mirren, splashing the water with her foot. Carrie was wrong. World’s End was a kind house. It had sheltered her and saved her life. Now she must get dressed and face the grilling downstairs.
Soon everyone in Windebank knew the child was safe, found in the old ruin at World’s End. George Thursby, the postman, brought an update straight from Cragside lane end, telling Miss Halstead how the town child was found. Soon it passed from cottage to shop and pub that Mirren Gilchrist was a truant from school on account of her beating by Mr Burrows. He was called by the managers to account for such rumours and reprimanded for taking whisky bottles into school. Only his war record prevented his dismissal. His wife went to her mother’s on account of her health. The village was agog at the gossip, but Mirren was to know nothing of all this.
She was trying to be extra good for her grandparents, keeping her head down, waiting for the moment when she would be summoned to make an account of her behaviour. And so near to Christmas too.
‘Why does nobody like World’s End?’ she asked at the dinner table.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, child,’ said Gran. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Carrie said it’s haunted by a witch,’ she replied.
‘Nonsense, she’s making a cake out of a biscuit again. There’s nothing wrong with that place that a bit of repair wouldn’t sort out but it’s too far out to be much use to us, especially in winter. You did well to find it.’
‘It found me, I think. Can we mend it?’
‘Of course not, lass. There’s no money for that sort of whimsy.’
Grandpa was taking his tea into his study to do his sermon for the Christmas carol concert. Being a preacher was important and he was not to be disturbed when she passed his door.
Carrie began brushing Mirren’s hair out. It crackled on the brush.
‘Ouch!’ she cried as the lugs were combed out.
‘We should be paddling your backside with that brush, young lady, not pampering your vanity. Disobellience in one so young is a black mark. Truanting is what boys do, not nice girls,’ said Gran.
‘She’s learned her lesson, haven’t you?’ said Carrie, pulling Mirren’s hair so she nodded meekly.
‘Spare the rod, spoil the child, the Good Book says,’ sniffed Gran.
They all lined up against her two days later-Gran, Grandpa and Uncle Tom–and she stood as if a culprit before the constable.
‘We’re really disappointed in you, Miriam. If you were unhappy you should have told us instead of wagging off like that. You could have fallen in the waterfall or in a bog and no one would have known where you were. We are led to believe you’re a clever girl not a dunce…We never took you for a quitter.’ Grandpa Joe wagged his finger like he did in the pulpit when he spat out about the fiery furnace waiting for sinners. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’
‘I hate it there. I want to go back to St Mary’s school,’ Mirren sobbed.
‘That’s no answer,’ he said, ignoring her outburst. ‘It’s bound to take time for you to settle in. Tomorrow you will go down and apologise to Mr Burrows, and knuckle down to be a good scholar.’
‘I won’t,’ she snapped back. ‘He hates me. He won’t teach me anything.’
‘You will do as you’re told, young lady. I give the orders in this house. You must learn that when you do something wrong you take your punishment. Write a neat letter of apology in your best handwriting and I will check it over. You’ve got to get back to study. We’ll help you with that bit and that’ll be the end on t’matter. As for punishment, I’m sure you realise that there’ll be no pantomime trips or Christmas treats for you this year. Father Christmas doesn’t bring gifts to naughty children. There’ll be no outings until I’m sure you’ll not let the family name down.’
‘I hate you all,’ Mirren screamed, and Gran cuffed her around the ear, a right sidewinder. It stung her cheek and she stared, shocked. The room fell silent.
‘Out of my sight, you rude