Free No Way Of Telling by Emma Smith Page A

They could have seen it easy enough when they were up higher, couldn’t they?”
    “Don’t talk so silly, Amy—a haystack’s not a building,” said Mrs Bowen with a sharpness that was altogether different from her usual tone of voice.
    The man in the knitted cap reappeared. Once again there was a consultation out of earshot.
    “Granny, where’s Mick?”
    “In the side-kitchen where no harm can come to him,” said Mrs Bowen enigmatically.
    “Why don’t you tell them?” whispered Amy, going close to her grandmother. “About him —why ever don’t you?”
    “Hush, Amy!”
    The tall man had turned towards them.
    “Where do those tracks in the snow lead to—the ones going up behind your cottage—to that haystack?”
    “It’s no haystack,” said Mrs Bowen. “Not any more, it’s not—just a few bales left over, that’s all, with a rusty old roof on top.”
    “The size of your haystack is of no importance to me,” he said, quite gently. “I’m simply wanting to know if it’s where the tracks lead to. Do they?”
    “Well, of course they do—where else?” she answered irritably. “We’ve been fetching down hay for those few sheep that’s back in the shed there—we’re minding them for our neighbour, Mr Protheroe. They’re his sheep and it’s his haystack, not ours. So now I’ve told you all there is to tell and if you’ll excuse me I’m going back inside—it’s cold work standing about out here. Come along, Amy—it’s time you were inside too.”
    But Amy was offended by the undeserved sharpness with which her grandmother had spoken to her, and she stayed where she was. Except for Mrs Bowen putting her hand on the latch, nobody moved.
    “We shall have to have a look at this haystack,” said the tall man imperturbably. “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to lend us your little granddaughter and then she can show us the way.”
    “You don’t need any showing,” said Mrs Bowen. “A blind man could follow those tracks—they’re clear enough.”
    “I’ll go with them, Granny—I’d like to go,” burst out Amy.
    “No, Amy—I’d sooner you came on in.”
    “Oh, but she wants to show us the way—don’t you, Amy? You needn’t worry—we shan’t keep her out for long.”
    He had called her Amy as casually as an old friend would have done. She was startled; and pleased, because it showed that somehow he knew she welcomed him even though her grandmother was so hostile. Grateful for such tolerance, Amy took a step towards him and as an old friend might have done, he caught hold of her hand. Again she was startled. His manner was careless but his grip was unexpectedly tight. It told her, like a secret between them, that no matter what her grandmother said he fully intended Amy to go with him.
    “I don’t mean to sound rude,” declared Mrs Bowen fiercely,  “but I don’t care for Amy to be out on the hill with strangers—and it nearly dark too.”
    “Oh, come now!” he said, refusing to treat this scruple seriously. “She’ll be perfectly safe with us. I give you my word.”
    Amy stood passive, her hand in his. She was glad he had asked her to guide him to the haystack and she meant to do it. Never before had she defied her grandmother; but then, never before had she felt for her grandmother what she felt now: resentment. Why should she be deprived of this treat, this moment of glamour? Why should she not go with him? Why not? He was on their side. He was what they had needed so badly last night and might even be in need of again—someone to help them, a protector. So why not?
    “Amy!—you heard me!”
    It was her grandmother who was behaving badly, Amy argued with herself—she was behaving unfairly, unreasonably! And mixed in amongst all Amy’s other emotions was a small wicked desire to punish her.
    “I’ll be all right, Granny—really I will.”
    “Amy!” cried Mrs Bowen.
    But Amy took no notice.
    They skirted the shed. He paused to flash a torch up and down the