The Hollow Land by Jane Gardam Read Free Book Online Page B

Celtic Camp like machine-gunners, looking over the landscape at James far below them.
    James sat on another slope beneath a crag with a book open on his knees and in turn watched a figure below him—old Grandfather Hewitson—who was parading along the dry bed of a beck slashing thistles.
    The four figures were the only signs of life for miles. It was a hot, still day. Light Trees was the only building in sight. No smoke rose from its chimney. Far away the Lake District mountains swam with heat.
    â€œHowever long is it going to be?” said Harry.
    â€œHe could sit there all day. And when he does get hungry and go in, there’s still your grandad.”
    â€œYou’d think he’d know every word of that book by now,” said Bell. “Does he do owt else but take exams?”
    â€œNot much,” said Harry. “He’s good at them.”
    â€œNot surprised, the time he spends.”
    â€œHe’s talking to your grandad now. Look, he’s put the book down. Maybe he’ll forget it and they’ll go off together somewhere. Maybe he’ll start helping your grandad thistle.”
    â€œI doubt. Grandad’s talking back at him now. He’s leaning on the scythe. James is in for a session. We’ll not get there today. We’d best give up and do summat different.”
    â€œOh no. No! Let’s wait on. He can’t sit there for ever. We mightn’t ever get another chance. All of them off to Penrith or London or walking, and nobody coming after us.”
    *
    â€œAre you sitting there for ever, Slim Jim?” said Old Hewitson to James on the lower level.
    â€œTill I know this chapter,” said James.
    â€œChapter eh?”
    â€œExams. It’s work. I’ve got to work this holiday.”
    â€œWork eh?”
    â€œScience.”
    â€œScience eh? I never seemed to hear much in my day about science. It must be enjoyable. ‘Thou doesn’t look as though thou’s working when thou
is
working’ as my father used to say to the travelling tinker.” He leaned on the short handle that stuck out of the long handle of the huge scythe and took a coloured handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it round his head. His large red face grinned piratically beneath. One of his blue eyes looked at the wide and silent fell and the other down at the thistles. The fells were pink with drought and the only sparkle came from the white of the salt-lick blocks for the thirsty cattle under the grey and silver trunks of the may trees. “Unusual hot,” he said, looking intently at the bumpy outline of the Celtic Camp. “Unusual quiet. Must be grand for you after London. Not that I’ve ever been there. Grand having nothing to do.”
    â€œMy mother says there’s plenty to do. Same old shopping and cooking and washing—and the washing’s more trouble because you have to take it four miles to the launderette. And my father has plenty to do. He writes for newspapers. He’s had to go to London today.”
    Old Hewitson considered this. Then he gave a sweep of the scythe and eight huge thistles toppled like towers. He was a short-legged, large-headed man like a gnome and not only did his eyes look in different directions, his feet had something of the same complaint. One of them seemed to press down deeper than the other. Like Rumpelstiltskin he had the look of somebody who had just stamped. The scythe, which he swung again, and again down crashed a city, was much taller than he was. He walked away up the beck swinging it and turned and came swinging back again.
    â€œUnusual, unusual, unusual hot,” he said. “Day for the seaside. Not that I were ever there above twice and the last time two year ago when that Harry had the fight with the Egg-witch and there was better entertainment at home. I’d not weep and die if I never saw the sea more.”
    He took a water bottle out of somewhere inside his trousers and