I Shall Wear Midnight

Amber in a very safe place.’
    There was more than a hint of ‘You are sure about that, aren’t you?’ in the way he spoke, and Tiffany was careful to ignore it, and simply said, ‘I was.’ She tried to imagine Mrs Petty in a dreadful state, and it didn’t work. Every time she had ever seen the woman she had a look of baffled apprehension, as if life had too many puzzles and you just had to wait until the next one hit you.
    Tiffany’s father pulled his daughter to one side and lowered his voice. ‘Petty came back in the night,’ he hissed, ‘and they say that someone tried to kill him!’
    ‘ What? ’
    ‘True as I’m standing here.’
    Tiffany turned to Amber. The girl was staring at the sky as if hoping patiently for something interesting to happen.
    ‘Amber,’ she said carefully, ‘you know how to feed chickens, don’t you?’
    ‘Oh yes, miss.’
    ‘Well, go and feed ours, will you? There’s grain in the barn.’
    ‘Your mum fed them hours ago—’ her father began, but Tiffany dragged him away quickly.
    ‘When did this happen?’ she asked, watching Amber walking obediently into the barn.
    ‘Some time last night. Mrs Petty told me. He was beaten badly. In that rackety old barn. Right where we were sitting last night.’
    ‘Mrs Petty went back? After everything that happened? What does she see in him?’
    Mr Aching gave a shrug. ‘He is her husband.’
    ‘But everyone knows he beats her up!’
    Her father looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose to some women any husband is better than none.’
    Tiffany opened her mouth to reply, looked into her father’s eyes and saw the truth of what he had said. She had seen some of them up in the mountains, worn out by too many children and not enough money. Of course, if they knew Nanny Ogg, something could be done about the children at least, but you still found the families who sometimes, in order to put food on the table, had to sell the chairs. And there was never anything you could do about it.
    ‘Mr Petty wasn’t beaten up, Dad, although it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if he was. I found him trying to hang himself, and I cut him down.’
    ‘He’s got two broken ribs, and bruises all over him.’
    ‘It was a long way down, Dad – he was choking to death! What should I have done? Let him swing? He has lived to see another day, whether he deserves to or not! It’s not my job to be an executioner! There was a bouquet, Dad! Weeds and nettles! His hands were swollen with nettle stings! There’s at least some part of him that deserves to live, do you see?’
    ‘But you did steal the baby away.’
    ‘No, Dad, I stole away with the baby. Listen, Dad, do get it right. I buried the child, which was dead. I saved the man who was dying. I did those things, Dad. People might not understand – might make up stories. I don’t care. You do the job that is in front of you.’
    There was a clucking, and Amber walked across the yard with the chickens following her in a line. The clucking was being done by Amber, and as Tiffany and her father watched, the chickens marched back and forth as if under the command of a drill sergeant. The girl was giggling to herself in between clucks, and after managing to get the chickens to walk solemnly in a circle she looked up at Tiffany and her father as if nothing had happened and led the fowls back into the barn.
    After a pause Tiffany’s father said, ‘That did just happen, didn’t it?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘I have no idea why.’
    ‘I’ve been talking to some of the other lads,’ said her father, ‘and your mother has been talking to the women. We’ll keep an eye on the Pettys. Things have been let go that shouldn’t have. People can’t expect to leave everything to you. People mustn’t think that you can fix everything, and if you’ll take my advice, neither will you. There are some things a whole village has to do.’
    ‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Tiffany, ‘but I think I had better go and see to the Baron now.’
    Tiffany could only just remember ever seeing the Baron as a well man. Nor did anyone seem to know what was wrong with him. But, like many other invalids she had seen, he somehow kept on going, living in a holding pattern and waiting to die.
    She had heard one of the villagers call him a creaking door which never slammed; he was getting worse now, and in her opinion it was not going to be very long before his life slammed shut.
    But she could take away the pain,