The bus ride home was torture. I kept getting delicious wafts of the cake. She’d wrapped it up in greaseproof paper and tied it with string, like in the olden days, but the smell was escaping and tormenting me. I’d promised myself another slice when I got in. At least Dad and I could have scrambled eggs on toast and some cake for tea. I wondered briefly what he would have eaten for dinner. A picture of the meal Maggie had made popped into my head. Rabbit. I’d eaten a rabbit and I’d liked it. Who knew?
A few metres before the bus pulled into the bus stop I saw Joshua Kemp and one of his minions hanging around near the garage. It snapped me back to the present. What was he doing hanging around Compton Mallow again? There wasn’t much here and even less on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe he was still stalking Farah. I hoped Kemp didn’t work out Farah’s connection to the library. The last thing I needed was him showing up there. I got off the bus and hurried home.
The curtains hadn’t been opened – that was never a good sign. I stepped inside and for the first time I noticed the smell. It wasn’t like majorly disgusting but it did make me sniff. It was somewhere between my PE bag and the kitchen bin when it needs emptying. It wasn’t nice. Maggie’s house had a completely different smell. And it wasn’t just the scent of cooking that seeped from her kitchen. There was an earthiness about the hallway, like nature shared the space. But that could have been the draughty front door. Maybe if I opened all the windows it would make our place stink a bit less?
I looked into the living room. Dad was crashed out on the sofa and the TV was on. The smell was worse in there. I switched the TV off, drew the curtains and after a bit of a struggle with the latch, pushed the windows wide open. There was an empty whisky bottle on the floor but no sign of any plate. That was his dinner then.
I picked up the bottle and he stirred, shielding his eyes from the light coming in through the window. ‘Bloody hell, Tom,’ he croaked. ‘Switch the light off!’
I laughed. ‘It’s the sun, Dad. No off switch.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘At my friend’s.’ I scratched my head and wondered how I’d explain the bag of food I’d come home with. I wasn’t ready to share my friendship with Maggie. He wouldn’t understand.
‘I called you.’ He took three attempts to sit upright, still shielding his screwed-up eyes with his arm.
I checked my phone. ‘Nope. No missed calls today. You rang yesterday when I was leaving the library.’
‘Yeah. Right. You okay? You’re okay aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ I was a bit suspicious of the questioning. Dad wasn’t the gushy sort. I knew he cared but he wasn’t big on showing it. ‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s good.’ He held his head in his hands.
‘Are you okay?’ He didn’t look well. His skin was an odd colour and he’d not shaved. I also figured some of the smell was coming from him.
‘Err. Yeah.’ He lifted his head to look at me and blinked a few times.
‘Good. Did you want some tea? Mag… My friend’s mum gave me some eggs and cucumbers.’
Dad snorted a laugh. ‘Bloody hell, what can you make from that?’
‘We’ve got bread, so I was thinking either scrambled eggs on toast or cucumber sandwiches.’
‘Proper little Gordon Ramsay.’ He rubbed his stomach and belched. ‘I think I’ll pass.’ He glanced up. ‘But thanks for offering.’
I opened the bag to remind myself of what else was in there and got a waft of lemon drizzle cake. ‘And there’s this awesome cake she made. You have to try it. It’s like—’
‘Maybe later.’ He lay back down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
*
I finished reading The Rosie Project and placed it in the box, which I was keeping in the bottom of my wardrobe. It had been different to anything else I’d read. It was funny and my takeaway from the story was that there was someone for everyone out there, even the really quirky people – you just had to work out the best way to track each other down.
It was getting late and the house was silent. I went downstairs. It did smell a bit better. Dad was asleep on the sofa. There was yet another whisky bottle on the table. I gave it another look. This one was half full. I’d already put an empty one in the recycling. I needed to remember to put the bin out on Tuesday. We couldn’t go another week.
The room had grown cold. I shut the windows and drew the curtains. I stared at Dad. He was curled up on his side with his head on a cushion and his lips vibrating as he breathed. He looked quite peaceful. It seemed odd to wake him up to go to bed but I figured that I should. ‘Dad.’ There was no response. ‘Dad, I’m going to bed.’ I jostled his arm and he jerked awake.
His eyes stared through me in alarm, as if for a moment he didn’t recognise me. ‘Was wrong?’ His voice wasn’t his own, distorted by the alcohol, something that was happening so often I barely noticed.
‘I’m going to bed. Night.’ I turned to go.
‘Where’s my tea?’
‘You didn’t want any.’
‘You do nuffin for me.’ I hated that he got like this when he’d been drinking. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t this bad when he was sober. He wasn’t even that bad on beer but there was something about whisky that brought out the worst in him.
I wasn’t going to argue; it was pointless. ‘Right. Night then.’ He turned his body in an exaggerated movement almost swinging himself off the sofa. It was a good job he didn’t work Mondays – he was going to have an epic hangover tomorrow.
‘Don’t you walk away from me!’ His voice rose quickly. I paused in the doorway and watched him stagger to his feet like an old man. Maggie could move way quicker than him.
‘I’m going to bed and you should too.’ I kept my tone level so I didn’t annoy him further. ‘Night.’
‘No!’ He swung an arm as if trying to punch my words out of the room. Instead his fist made contact with Mum’s photograph and I watched it fall like it was in slow motion. It spun briefly, landed corner down and the glass shattered. Splinters flew across the floor.
‘Dad!’ Something inside me snapped. I shouted at him but there were no actual words. It was a primal cry, like an injured animal, and I wondered that I could make such a noise. I dropped to my knees and carefully picked up the frame. The photograph inside was scratched. A scar across Mum’s face. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I yelled but my voice was full of tears.
He reversed away and landed so hard on the sofa it jumped backwards into the wall. ‘You blame me. Don’t you?’ I knew what he meant and he wasn’t talking about the picture frame.
‘It is all your fault!’ I tried to control the sobs but they weren’t mine to own.
‘I’m sorry, Tom.’ His hooded eyes watched me. I took the photograph from the frame and stood up.
I rubbed my eyes with my torn sleeve. ‘I’m going to bed.’
*
I didn’t sleep much. I swung between being furious enough to batter something and crying like some little kid. I cried when Mum died. Not at first. I guess I was in shock. Those first few days I watched a lot of TV. I thought that was good because Mum didn’t let me watch too much TV. I remember Dad crying and wondering why and then it would pop back into my head and I’d remember that Mum had gone.
I was eight when it happened. It didn’t seem real to start with and then it hit me. Like someone had kicked a football at my guts. That hollow feeling that eats you from the inside. A despair that only sorrow brings. It felt like that now. Not just because of the photograph but because Dad was leaving me too. Not the same way Mum had done; his was a slow painful way to go. The alcohol was chipping pieces of him away. Rubbing him out.
I placed Mum’s photograph inside the front cover of my next book. It would be safe there until I got a new frame for it. Then I’d keep it in my room. I couldn’t trust Dad anymore.
16
MAGGIE
Maggie leaned back into the garden bench and hugged her mug of tea. She loved this time of the mo
rning when the world was drifting awake. It was chilly but spring was very much in full swing. The fresh canvas of sky like an ever-changing picture and the sound of the birds hiding in the trees. If she closed her eyes she could pick out the different birdsongs. The blackbirds were always dominant first thing with the thrushes adding in their tune soon after. When the wrens joined in she knew it was time to get moving. Getting mobile seemed to take her longer these days. Once she got going she was fine; it was merely first thing when everything seemed to have seized up overnight.
She had a fine view from the bench. Looking out across the patchwork of fields that gently tumbled away from the house she lacked a great incentive to stir; however, today she had a long list of things she wanted to achieve and first up was getting the trailer tyre repaired.
The quad bike wasn’t insured for the road but the tractor was. She hadn’t had the tractor serviced for a good few years but after a bit of TLC and a few plumes of black smoke out the back end it started. She filled it up with the red diesel she’d bought from Savage. She had quite a journey planned. The little grey Fergie was ancient and she wondered if it would see her through another year without any repairs. She sent up a silent prayer to whichever god was responsible for farm machinery and reversed it out of the barn. It had virtually no suspension and it was like sitting in a bucket, only less comfortable, but there was something exhilarating about taking it out on the road.
It did a steady pace for a vehicle of its age, having been made shortly after the war. Around Furrow’s Cross tractors were a common sight so any approaching cars waited patiently until there was plenty of space to overtake. As she neared the town that was a different story, but she didn’t care about being hooted at because she was having fun. The air was warm and the wind in her face made her feel like a film star in an open-top sports car, simply travelling at a far safer speed.
Even with a stop en route to drop off her trailer tyre for mending, it still took less than an hour for Maggie to bump her way to Leamington Spa, half the time it would have taken on the bus. It was only when she arrived that she considered that parking the tractor may be an issue. She turned a few heads as she chugged down the Parade. Her rusty old tractor was a stark contrast to the majestic white facades of the Regency spa town. She turned in to a side street and was pleased to find a nice wide parking bay. She popped a pound in the meter, shoved the ticket it spewed out into her pocket, pulled her bag from under the seat and set off on her mission.
When she returned some time later a traffic warden was looking the vehicle over and scratching his head. Thankfully the lack of windscreen seemed to be foxing him as to how he could issue a ticket. Maggie strode up to the tractor, slung her bags under the seat and got on board.
‘Er, excuse me, madam,’ said the traffic warden. ‘Is this your vehicle?’
‘No. I’m stealing it.’ She turned the ignition and was beyond grateful that it spluttered into life on her first attempt. She dropped the ticket she’d got from the machine at his feet and waved as she pulled away, safe in the knowledge that the little tractor’s number plate was obscured with mud so the chances of him tracking her down were minimal. Anyway what offence had she committed? None as far as she could work out.
While the trip home was quicker than the bus it was far less comfortable and the rain that started a couple of miles from Furrow’s Cross was an unwelcome accompaniment. She was glad to finally turn into her drive and trundle over the potholes. Even if it was a little like negotiating the surface of the moon, it meant she was home. Her bum was numb, she was soggy and her back felt like she’d been kicked all the way to Leamington Spa and back by an angry mule. Still, it had been a worthwhile trip. She parked the tractor in the barn and then climbed down, relishing the feeling of straightening out her spine. She took her bags inside and made herself a well-earned cup of tea.
She must have dozed off in the armchair after her lunch because something pulled her from her dream about Elvis Presley changing a washer on her outside tap. She sat for a moment and listened. The noise was faint but it was there – a distant rhythmic banging. At first she thought of Colin but he wasn’t that musically equipped. Maggie eased herself to her feet and did some stretching exercises to loosen up her limbs.
She put her cup and saucer in the sink and made her way outside, taking her air rifle from the utility on the way – it was a handy deterrent if there was anyone lurking about. The banging was more obvious here. She squinted down to the animals but it was too far and the land sloped away, making it difficult to see. Maggie was quite tired now. She’d had a busy day. She clambered onto the quad bike and set off down to the animal pens.
The ewes all paused to watch her approach and Barbara trotted to the gate when she stopped. They all seemed fine. The banging started again and Maggie looked straight at where the sound was coming from. The gate to Colin’s field was swinging in the breeze and there was no sign of Colin.
*
Maggie left a message for Savage but she knew he was in the thick of the lambing season and would be up to his ears in ewes so it was more of an awareness message that Colin was on the loose. She puzzled long and hard over whether or not to make the next phone call. It wasn’t exactly an emergency but even if she did track Colin down it was most definitely not a one-man job to get him securely returned to his field.
She dialled the number and waited, half expecting it to go to an answerphone like Savage’s had done.
‘’Allo?’ came a wary voice.
‘Tom? It’s Maggie.’
‘Hiya, Maggie.’ His voice changed in an instant to something bright. ‘Are you okay?’ And then switched again to a tone with an air of concern.
‘Yes. I’m fine but bloody Colin’s escaped. I know you’re busy but—’
‘No. I’m not busy. I’m just doing my homework—’
It was her turn to butt in. ‘Then you are busy. I’m sorry to have interrupted you. Don’t you worry. The daft beggar will come home when he’s hungry.’
‘I’ve nearly finished. I’m still at school using the computer. I can get a bus from here to Furrow’s Cross…’ He paused and she waited. ‘In like ten minutes. I’ll see you in a bit. All right?’
‘I’m a bit worried about your homework.’
‘I promise I’ll finish it on the bus. Okay?’ She could sense the smile in his voice.
‘That would make me feel better. See you soon, Tom. Bye.’
‘Bye, Maggie.’
*
Tom’s timing was perfect. She was taking a hastily whipped up Victoria sponge out of the oven when he knocked at the door. ‘Come in, it’s open!’ she called while transferring the sponges to cooling racks.
‘Mmm, something smells good,’ said Tom, coming into the kitchen, his nostrils flaring and his eyes wide.
‘It needs to cool and we need to track down Colin.’ Maggie swapped her oven mitts for some heavy-duty gardening gloves. She passed another pair to Tom. ‘You might need these. Come on.’
The quad bike was right outside. Maggie got on, being careful not to dislodge the air rifle.
‘What’s the shotgun for?’ asked Tom, his eyebrows registering alarm.
Maggie hooted a laugh. ‘It’s an air rifle. I use it for rabbits and in case I need to scare off a fox or something. I grabbed it because it might come in handy for shooing Colin back towards home.’
Tom looked even more confused. ‘Should you have a gun?’ His words were carefully placed.
‘I don’t need a licence for it if that’s what you’re asking.’ Tom pursed his lips but he didn’t respond. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked and he quickly got on board. Maggie set off along the route they’d taken before.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, he might be foraging in the woods.’ She’d already done one sweep of the farm with no luck but there was every possibility she’d missed him. His brown and white colouring was actually quite good camouflage.
Maggie switched off the engine near the main wooded regio
n and stood up on the bike for a better view. She swivelled around to scan the area. They only had a couple of hours before the light would start to fade.
‘Has he done this before?’ asked Tom, himself twisting around.
‘No. It’s my fault. I should have renewed the binder twine on the gate.’ You were always wise after the event.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll find him,’ said Tom.
Maggie sat back down, restarted the engine and carried on the circuit. But there was no sign of Colin. It appeared he had literally made for pastures new. Maggie drove back to the driveway and turned right where the track got narrower and more grassy. They bumped along, drawing the attention of the sheep on either side. They were dotted liberally across the green fields, like a cotton wool picture a child might make.
Maggie slowed the bike as they neared someone walking across the field towards the track. The man couldn’t have looked more like a farmer if he’d tried. Flat cap, dark green coat and wellies. Something was swinging in his hand.
‘Fraser,’ said Maggie in greeting as she cut the engine. ‘Tom, this is Mr Savage. He runs the farm that backs onto my land. Tom here is helping me out.’
Savage made a gruff noise.
‘I left a message. Colin’s gone walkabout. I’m going to sweep up to your place and round. Have you seen him?’
‘No. I’ve been out here most of the day. I’ll keep an eye out for him.’
‘Thank you,’ said Maggie, becoming aware that Tom was staring at what Savage was carrying. ‘Ah, poor little soul didn’t make it.’ She nodded at the dead lamb carried loosely in his large hand.
‘Lost four today. They’re birthing too quick. And I’ll be damned if the fox is having them,’ said Savage.
The Library Page 10