‘Why?’
‘They’re having a domestic,’ she said slowly, emphasizing each word.
‘What about?’
‘Oh, you know, late back from the pub. That’s how it started, anyway.’
Robbie went into the sitting room, which seemed to be full of Lucy, draped over a sofa, watching TV. He thought he might see if he could find a map with Brading Wood Farm on it. His dad had a collection of all the big Ordnance Survey maps for everywhere local. He liked to sit with them and plan long walks for him and Sheila, which they didn’t actually very often go on, but sometimes they did. It was as if his dad loved the planning as much as the walking, or just loved looking at maps and working out where things were and how they related to each other, running his finger over the contour lines and the red and yellow lines and the green woodlands.
‘Hi, Luce.’
‘Oh, hi, Robbie. Where’ve you been?’
‘Just out running.’
‘You do lots of running, Robbie.’
‘You’re right, I do.’
He hung around, hoping maybe she’d go, but she didn’t. So he went to his room to think. Mags had texted, ‘What’s the matter?’ so he texted back, ‘Scared.’
Dinner was the usual nightmare, though he wasn’t concentrating much. Somewhere inside he was still shaking.
‘You okay Robbie?’ asked Jess.
‘You’re right, Jess, he doesn’t look very well. You’re a bit pale,’ fussed Sheila.
‘Robbie?’ questioned his dad, as if Sheila’s fussing allowed him to fuss too.
‘I’m fine. I was running, maybe ran too far too fast.’
‘Running away?’ asked Lucy.
He really didn’t like that girl.
‘No. I don’t run away from things.’
There were candles burning on the table. Sheila liked to create an atmosphere, and Jess had a habit of flicking her finger over a flame to test the heat.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ said Sheila.
Jess ignored her.
‘And please don’t use your fork when your elbow’s on the table, Robbie, it’s very ugly.’
‘Dad does it.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Jess.
Dad looked flustered, and combed his fingers through his hair. He threw a conspiratorial glance at Robbie, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. Robbie felt a glow of happiness. His dad’s gaze returned to rest on the plate in front of him.
‘This is delicious,’ he said.
‘Good, good,’ said Sheila.
‘Did you have an interesting time in the pub, Alan?’ asked Lucy, stirring things up.
‘Some nice people in.’
‘What, like the Stricklands? They’re not nice,’ remarked Jess.
‘They’ve done no harm to me.’
‘They haven’t had the opportunity.’
‘Don’t give them one,’ said Lucy.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not an idiot.’
‘Who are these people?’ asked Sheila.
‘The Strickland brothers. Two of them,’ his dad explained. ‘Very old family, been farming here for centuries, three farms they’ve got, I think. They’ve always had a reputation.’
‘They don’t sound very attractive,’ said Sheila.
‘Oh, they’re attractive,’ said his dad. ‘Especially the older one, in this current generation. That’s the problem.’
‘Heartbreakers, you said, Dad,’ said Robbie, and his dad nodded.
‘Your Mags went out with the younger one. Billy.’
‘That girl has no taste,’ said Lucy. Robbie was too amazed to say anything.
‘And she had a friend, Fran, who was crazy about Tommy, the older one. They were quite a foursome, apparently, kind of Bonnie and Clyde squared.’
‘Presumably they didn’t end up the same way?’
‘Sadly, in a way, one of them did. Something went wrong, and Mags’s friend committed suicide. Typical Strickland story. Lady killers. Literally, in this case. Mags was pretty bruised herself, I’m told. In more ways than one. That’s what they’re like.’
‘Do they always survive?’
‘No, not always. They’re not a lucky family. Their father shot himself, years ago.’
‘What happened?’ asked Jess.
‘His wife found him in one of the barns. There were rumours they’d been quarrelling, so some people think she had a hand in it, but no one would dare accuse Eliza Strickland of anything. She’s a terror.’
‘I’ve met her,’ said Sheila. ‘I thought she was rather splendid.’
‘Me too, often,’ returned his dad. ‘Makes my blood freeze.’
‘You’re just afraid of strong women, Alan,’ said Sheila. Robbie could have sworn she was simpering.
‘When did you meet her?’ Robbie asked.
‘She’s very involved with the fair.’
‘Oh god, the fair,’ said his dad. ‘When is it?’
‘Next Saturday. I’m manning the second-hand bookstall,’ said Sheila.
‘We know, Mum,’ said Jess. ‘You’ve not stopped talking about it for months.’
‘I’m going to be giving our bookshelves a good going over,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s plenty we can get rid of. There are all those Mills and Boons of your aunt’s, Alan, I don’t know why you’ve kept them.’
‘Sentiment,’ said Lucy.
‘And your old books from uni.’
‘I can’t imagine our neighbours will want books on conveyancing,’ said his dad.
‘Well, what about all your natural history, then? You never look at it.’
‘I can’t imagine they’d want that, either. Coals to Newcastle.’
‘No, if you live in the countryside you’re bound to want books on the natural world.’
‘But they know everything they need to know. Anyway, I want to keep them.’
‘Suit yourself. I’m going to have those Jeffrey Archers, though.’
His dad raised his eyes and said nothing.
‘That really is unfair on the neighbours,’ said Jess.
Robbie had a text from Mags. ‘See you at bridge in 10.’
‘I’m going out,’ he said.
‘You are not,’ returned his dad.
‘There’s strawberries,’ said Sheila.
He texted Mags back. ‘Make it 20.’
*
As usual, Mags was sitting on one of the lower railings with her arms folded on the top one and her legs hanging over the water.
‘What’s happening, little bro?’
Robbie told her about what had happened in the woods and afterwards, and as he talked she began to stare intently at him and a confused, unhappy look came over her face. Then she stood up.
‘Have you said anything to anyone?’
‘No, why?’
‘Don’t. That’s the first thing. Don’t tell anyone.’ She ground the last word out of her mouth like a kind of snarl.
Here we go again, he thought.
‘Okay, sorry, Mags, I didn’t know.’
She began walking, up the hill, out of the village, shoulders hunched, hands deep in the pockets of her jeans. Robbie found himself skipping just to keep pace with her.
After a bit they came to the green and sat down on a bench. Robbie bit his lip and tried to think what to say, and Mags pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms round her legs.
‘Come on, Mags,’ he said awkwardly.
There was a little choking sound, and he looked at her to see her cheeks were wet.
He tried to put his arms around her, but she wrenched herself free.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone.’
He thought, it’s me that’s having visions and probably going crazy. I’m the one who needs help. It all means something to Mags, whatever it is, and she won’t tell me about it. As per usual.
He didn’t believe in it, anyway.
Didn’t believe in any of it.
>
Weird country stuff.
Okay.
He might as well go home.
*
‘Dad,’ he said when he got back. ‘How did Mags’s friend die?’
His dad was doing some late-night washing up, and held a glass up to the light to see if it was clean.
‘I’m afraid the poor girl hanged herself.’
‘In those woods, over towards the Stricklands’ farm?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just something someone was saying.’
‘An affair of the heart, as I said. Such things are best forgotten, as a whole.’
He went on polishing the glass.
13
WHEN ROBBIE dreamed of his mum he would wake up and feel as if he could hardly get out of bed. But tonight he was glad to see her and he felt sad, but not bad sad.
They were walking through rooms full of books. And, dreams being what they are, sometimes the books were there and sometimes they weren’t. His mum’s face was sharp and close and clear, he wanted to kiss her and he couldn’t, but she was still smiling at him, like she used to before she got ill. There was light everywhere, and someone singing a tune that didn’t seem to fit.
As they walked past the shelves, his mum put out her hand and books cascaded from them. As they fell they opened their pages and fluttered like wounded birds. They walked through room after room, and the books clustered in agitation around their feet. Then Robbie looked down to see the books had become rushing water rising around them, but his mum was still smiling and holding his hand. There was a door ahead, and they were trying to reach it, though they weren’t getting there however hard they tried.
He was beginning to panic, when the door opened and they were in a room he recognized. It was the room downstairs with the bookcases, the books all in place, and among them his dad’s maps, one of which lay open on the table. He and his mum were poring over it, and he could see everything on it in detail as if he was looking through a magnifying glass. Dancing Lane. Brading Wood Farm. His mum was saying something, but he couldn’t catch her words. Deep in the house the grandfather clock chimed.
Then they were in the wood, but his mum had disappeared and the hanging girl was there, only her eyes were open and sparkling and she was laughing. Together they watched a white hare running through the trees. Sometimes they could see her and sometimes they couldn’t. She wasn’t running away or towards them but round them, always to the left, like Mags had said when they were watching the hares in the field. Anti-clockwise, against the sun. Trouble coming. The girl raised her hand and the hare changed direction and ran down the hill towards Dancing Lane and the Stricklands’ farm.
*
Sheila was excited about her stall. By now there were piles of books all over the house and not so many left on the shelves. Every day when Robbie got back from school there were more piles, more shelves depleted.
So when the day came, there was Robbie with Sheila, in a big white tent that was too hot, selling old paperbacks to the locals. He couldn’t imagine why he’d agreed to help, but it was only for a while. There were lots of other white tents spread over a field that had a stream running round it, and there was a high ridge on the other side of the stream, quite cliffy, so it was all like some kind of secret place. Grey clouds were sitting on the other side of the hills, looking as though they meant business, and the heat was making his skin feel clammy. People from the surrounding villages had come, and it was only eleven o’clock but he could see Mags’s dad shuffling about looking as though he’d already been on the cider.
‘Everything fifty pence,’ Robbie shouted, holding the books up. ‘Dick Francis, fifty pence. Jilly Cooper, fifty pence. Sidney Sheldon, fifty pence. John Grisham, fifty pence.’ Selling shedloads, he was. He was quite enjoying himself.
‘How are you, Robbie? Nice to see you getting involved.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Allardyce, d’you fancy some books? Danielle Steele for you? Fifty pence each, or I can give you five for two pounds.’ And don’t patronize me.
‘No special promotions, Robbie,’ said Sheila. ‘Sorry, Mrs Allardyce. All for a good cause, you know.’
Robbie frowned. Special promotions? What did she think this was, Tesco?
‘That’s all right. I think I can stretch to two pounds fifty. Trouble is, I can’t read Danielle Steele.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of other junk here.’
‘Robbie,’ said Sheila.
‘And what are you reading now, Robbie?’
‘Catch 22.’ He was holding up a Jilly Cooper. ‘All books fifty pence each.’
‘That’s rather precocious of you.’
‘Fifty pence each. Doing my best, Mrs Allardyce. Pretty impressive for a fourteen-year-old, don’t you think?’
‘Would you like to come over to visit us again soon? Tea next Saturday?’
‘What, with Lucy?’
‘Well, it would be nice to see you on your own, you know. We’ve been meaning to ask you for ages. I hope you’re beginning to settle in more now?’
‘There’s lots of romances we’ve got here, Mrs A. They might be for you. Fifty pence a book, everybody.’
‘I’m sure he would like to come, Mrs Allardyce,’ said Sheila hurriedly. ‘Wouldn’t you, Robbie?’
‘Good, we’ll see you then, then.’
Not what they seem, Mags had said. Something made him uneasy, something in the tone of Mrs Allardyce’s voice, as if he was being taken for granted, as if they thought they could do what they wanted with him. Maybe Mags was right.
As for Mags, she was just outside the tent. Most of her was hidden by a flap of canvas, but underneath it he spied her faded blue Converses.
‘I’ll be back,’ he said to Sheila.
‘Don’t go, Robbie, you’re doing a great job.’ There was a pleading note in her voice.
‘Honest, I will,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Robbie, I need your help.’
‘Won’t be long.’
Mags was talking to his dad. He was in his shirtsleeves, and she was wearing a plain white t-shirt. Robbie heard her saying something about the beer tent. There was a worried look on her face.
‘Sheila’s let me go,’ he said. ‘So what’s to do here?’
‘Barbecues,’ said his dad. ‘Or rather BBQs. There’s a coconut shy. Or you might try the plant stall, you know, make a contribution to the garden. Best dog competition, raffle, rubber duck race over there by the stream, and they’ll be judging the woolliest sheep in about an hour.’
‘Beer tent?’ Robbie asked lightly.
‘No,’ his dad and Mags said together quickly.
The clouds were overhead now, almost black, and everything around sounded muffled. Thunder rolled like marbles in a shoebox.
‘The dogs are cute,’ said Mags.
‘I like the rubber ducks,’ said his dad.
‘Rubber ducks, then the dogs,’ Robbie said, deciding. ‘How do you race a rubber duck, anyway?’
It turned out you raced a rubber duck by picking a number out of a hat. Then a box of yellow ducks got tipped into the water and floated all the way down the long loop of the stream. There must have been hundreds of them, and the one with Robbie’s number on it was a lazy little waster that made exactly zero effort. His dad got terribly worked up, yelling at it as if it was in the Grand National.
‘Go on, Number Seventy-two! Go on, Number Seventy-two! What are you doing? Get into the faster water, that’s it!’ Mags thought it was hilarious.
‘You and Dad were being a bit cosy,’ Robbie remarked, halfway round, feeling possessive of both of them.
‘He’s all right. A bit sad about things, I think.’
‘I thought he reckoned you had something to do with that paint.’
‘No, he was being really friendly.’
‘Sheila does.’
‘Yeah, she doesn’t like me. But your dad’s okay.’
‘Mags?’ Robbie asked.
S
he wasn’t listening; she was too busy laughing at his dad.
‘Mags.’ He pulled at her t-shirt. ‘Mags, I need some answers.’
‘Not now, Robbie.’ She was running after his dad.
‘MAGS.’
Everything went quiet, and everyone turned to look at him. Mags stopped. He could tell she was angry.
‘I’m sorry, Mags, it’s just—’
‘I’m sorry too, Robbie.’
‘What did I see in those woods? I can’t sleep at night.’
‘Does she come back to you?’
‘No, but I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s Fran, isn’t it? Am I right? Something to do with your friend.’ She looked startled. ‘Dad told us the story.’
There was a buzz of voices around them again.
‘And you know, don’t you?’ Robbie went on. Mags had her arms folded, as if she was wondering what to do with him. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Not in front of all these people.’
‘Well, where, then? You’re always putting me off, you’re never telling me. All that stuff about white hares—’
‘Shut it, Robbie.’
‘—And now this. But this is different. This is about me, and you know something, and I’ve got to know what it is. I mean, like, for a start, am I going crazy?’
‘Do you feel like you are?’
‘No. But maybe I am, I just don’t know it. That’s what happens, isn’t it? People think they’re totally normal when they’ve turned into a fruitloop.’
‘You’re not mad, Robbie.’
‘That’s worse, right? That means there’s something happening and I don’t know what it is, and I’m in it now, I’m part of it.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘So tell me.’
‘It’s not so easy, Robbie. I don’t understand all of it. But it’s been going on a long time. A long, long time. I should have known better, but I got involved, and now it’s happening again. And I’m being bad, Robbie.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t want them to know about her. I don’t want them to find her.’
‘Why’s that bad?’
‘Because of what will happen.’
‘What is going to happen?’
Big drops of rain were beginning to fall and people started to run. Lightning forked over the hills.
‘Okay, you guys, let’s get under canvas.’ His dad had arrived.
The White Hare Page 6