Elidor. Alan Garner
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.”
“The tailboard’s down, too. They’ve not finished loading all this wood yet.”
“What is it?”
“Smashed up bits of pew and floorboards.”
“Let’s wait, then,” said Nicholas. “Is there anything else?”
“No – yes, there is. There’s a ball behind the front wheel.”
“Fetch it out, and we’ll have a game.”
Roland pulled a white plastic football from under the lorry, and then he stopped.
“What’s the matter?”
“Listen,” said Roland. “Where’s the music coming from?”
“What music? You’re hearing things.”
“No, listen, Nick. He’s right.”
A fiddle was being played. The notes were thin, and pitched high in a tune of sadness. Away from the children an old man stood alone on the corner of a street, under a broken lamp post. He was poorly dressed, and wore a crumpled hat.
“Why’s he playing here?”
“Perhaps he’s blind,” said Helen. “Hadn’t we better tell him where he is? He probably thinks there are houses all round him.”
“Blind people know things like that by echoes,” said David. “Leave him alone: he may be practising. Oh, hurry up, Roland! We’re waiting!”
Roland let go of the ball, and kicked it as it fell.
He was about twenty yards from the others, and he punted the ball to reach them on the first bounce: but instead it soared straight from his foot, up and over their heads so quickly that they could hardly follow it. And the ball was still gaining speed, and rising, when it crashed through the middle lancet of the west window of the church.
David whistled. “Bullseye, Roland! Do it again!”
“Shh!” said Helen.
“It doesn’t matter. They’re pulling the place down, aren’t they?”
“I didn’t kick it very hard,” said Roland.
“Not much!”
“Never mind,” said Helen, “I’ll go and see if I can climb in.”
“We’ll all go,” said David.
“No. Stay here in case the gang comes back,” said Helen, and she disappeared round the corner of the church.
“Trust you to break a window,” said Nicholas.
“I’m sorry, Nick: I didn’t mean to. I just kicked the ball, and it seemed to fly by itself.”
“It flew by itself,” said Nicholas. “Here we go again!”
“But it did!” said Roland. “When I kicked the ball, the – the fiddle seemed to stick on a note. Didn’t you hear it? It went right through my head. And it got worse and worse, all the time the ball was in the air, until the window broke. Didn’t you hear the music?”
“No. And I don’t now. And I don’t see your fiddler, either. He’s gone.”
“There’s something odd, though,” said David. “It was only a plastic ball, but it’s snapped the leading in the window.”
“Oh, it was certainly a good kick from old Roland,” said Nicholas. “And listen: your fiddler’s at it again.”
The music was faint, but although the tune was the same as before, it was now urgent, a wild dance; faster; higher; until the notes merged into one tone that slowly rose past the range of hearing. For a while the sound could still be felt. Then there was nothing.
“What’s Helen doing?” said Nicholas. “Hasn’t she found it yet?”
“She may not be able to climb in,” said David. “I’ll go and see.”
“And tell her to hurry up,” said Nicholas.
“OK.”
Nicholas and Roland waited.
“I never knew there were places like this, did you, Nick?”
“I think it’s what they call ‘slum clearance’,” said Nicholas. “A lot of the houses were bombed in the war, you know, and those that weren’t are being pulled down to make room for new flats. That’ll be why all those streets were empty. They’re the next for the chop.”
“Where do all the people live while the flats are being built?” said Roland.
“I don’t know. But have you noticed? If we’d carried on right across here, the next lot of houses aren’t empty. Perhaps those people will move into the flats that are built here. Then that block of streets can be knocked down.”
“There’s the fiddle again!” said Roland. It was distant, as before, and fierce. “But I can’t see the old man. Where is he?”
“What’s the matter with you today, Roland? Stop dithering: he’ll be somewhere around.”
“Yes, but where? He was by the lamp post a second ago, and it’s miles to the houses. We couldn’t hear him and not see him.”
“I’d rather know where Helen and David have got to,” said Nicholas. “If they don’t hurry up the gang’ll be back before we’ve found the ball.”
“Do you think they’re all right—”
“Of course they are. They’re trying to have us on.”
“They may be stuck, or locked in,” said Roland.
“They’d have shouted,” said Nicholas. “No: they’re up to something. You wait