Free Gordon Williams by The Siege of Trencher's Farm--Straw Dogs Page B

house, unable to concentrate on his work, irritated at what he saw now was his own stupidity. In the kitchen he switched on the transistor radio which Louise used when she was cooking. It was some disc-jockey programme, a slimily ingratiating English voice smeared by what the idiot fondly imagined was an American accent. It made him even more irritated. How often in arguments back home had he used the B.B.C. as an example of public-interest broadcasting? Now it sounded like a third-rate copy of the worst kind of American huckstering.
    He heard the disc-jockey say news time was approaching. He walked through to the dining-room and then into the sitting-room. What he missed was people. This was life in a vacuum. The sooner he could wrap up Branksheer the sooner they would leave this place.
    Behind, in the empty kitchen, the news-reader gave details of a new wage freeze. Then...
    “Henry Robert Niles is missing from an ambulance which crashed while taking him to Two Waters. Niles, who was found guilty but insane at two separate murder trials ten years ago – one after he’d escaped and murdered a third child – was being taken from Trebovir County Hospital. At a public inquiry into his escape it was stated that he had a mental age of eight and would never be allowed to leave a maximum security institution. Police say snow and bad visibility on Tornmoor are hampering their search. Niles is wearing a white shirt, brown jacket and grey trousers. Two other men are reported to be critically injured after the crash...”
    In the sitting-room George Magruder punched his right fist into the palm of his left hand. He decided he would walk down to the school. It was ridiculous to stay cooped up here, like some neurotic in the early stages of paranoia. Maybe in a crowd Louise would be more reasonable.
    He put on the old rubber boots in the kitchen. The news reader said heavy snow would continue through the night in the west. He switched off the radio. Nothing like the jolly old British to tell you the obvious. It was snowing heavily outside. They probably made up their weather forecasts by looking out of the window.
    He took his nylon jacket from a hook, zipped up the front and pulled the parka-hood over his head, tying the strings under his chin.
    “Here we go, one man against the primeval elements,” he said, out loud, as he slammed the door. “A hundred miles to Nome and the wolves are howling for food. On – into the raging blizzard.”
    By the time he reached the end of the lane, his head bent to protect his face against the driving snow, he was engaged in a fantasy which was a combination of Chaplin’s Gold Rush and a James Stewart film, the name of which, for the moment, escaped him...
    * * *
    The children’s party was so happy Louise felt like crying. The Rev. and Mrs Hood had met everybody at the door, shaking hands and giving out sweets.
    “And this is Karen, that’s your name, isn’t it?” said the curate, bending slightly, his hands on his knees, smiling into Karen’s face. “Merry Christmas, Karen, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time with all these lovely boys and girls.”
    “Say Merry Christmas to Mr and Mrs Hood, Karen.” Louise smiled at the curate and his wife. “This is the first time Karen’s been to a Christmas party in England.”
    “You must tell us about Christmas in America, Karen,” said Mrs Hood. Mr Hood patted her head. Karen ducked away. “Don’t be shy now, we’re all friends here.”
    Louise saw Mrs Jean Knapman and two other women standing at the head of the long trestle table on which the children’s cakes and oranges were already laid, a Christmas cracker by each plate.
    Jean Knapman introduced Louise to Mrs Venner and Mrs Hedden.
    “We’ve already met,” Louise said to Bobby Hedden’s mother. Mrs Hedden smiled briefly. Louise was very glad of Jean Knapman’s friendliness, for she had been a little nervous about the party. She had the feeling they were not particularly