After the noise and chaos of the crash, lying in the middle of the bush, looking up at the blue sky, he felt strangely peaceful.
‘Ouch,’ he muttered, feeling the pain of hundreds of thorns digging into him. He tried to extract himself from the bush but with every movement more thorns penetrated his skin. He attempted to stand but as he put weight on his right foot he felt it give way and an agonising pang of pain shoot from his heel. Struggling out of the bush, he tripped and landed face down. He rolled over and looked at his palms. He couldn’t tell how much of the thick red liquid they were covered in was berry juice and how much was blood.
Ovid hadn’t experienced such pain since Lorelli had added sulphuric acid to his bubble bath. He pulled out the thorns from his hand with his teeth but was still unable to put any weight on his right foot. When he tried crawling, every knock to his foot was agony. He raised his leg in the air and found a way of hitching himself forward on his elbows and one knee, over the muddy ground to the remains of his bike.
The back wheel was badly bent out of shape and the front had rolled out of sight. Had the bike been in better condition he might have been able to lean on it to get himself back to the manor. As it was, it was useless to him.
The brake cord had been cut. He cursed himself for not noticing it before. He turned his attention to the front wheel. Tiny scratches around the paintwork indicated that someone had loosened the bolt that held the wheel in place.
‘Lorelli,’ he said, but something about it bothered him. His sister’s schemes, like his own, tended to be better thought out than this. A loose wheel and a cut brake were likely to cause an accident but were highly unlikely to cause his death.
Once again, he noticed the sweet smell. It seemed to be coming from his bike. He sniffed, trying to locate the source, and discovered that the smell was stronger around the saddle. He undid the bolt that held it down, yanked it off and lowered a finger into the connecting tube. There was something moist and squishy inside. He retrieved his finger and saw that it was covered in a gold-coloured gooey substance. He raised his finger to his mouth and stuck out his tongue to taste it. It tasted sweet, rich and spicy.
‘Honey? Why would she put honey inside the bike tubes?’ he wondered out loud.
Then the answer to his question stepped into sight. Standing on all fours, a couple of metres in front of him, was a large, brown bear. It looked at Ovid and snorted, its nostrils flaring out as it did so. Ovid froze. The bear tipped back on to its hind legs, let out a low growl and fell back down, beating the ground with its forepaws.
.
WHAT TO DO IF FACED WITH A LARGE BROWN BEAR
Ovid had once read a book on bears, which began like this:
The popularity of the teddy bear among small children has led many to believe that bears are sweet and cuddly. This is wrong. Bears are large, muscular, wild creatures that will tear you limb from limb as soon as look at you.
The book went on to list bears as one of the most dangerous animals in the world. It also stated that, whereas bears are common in parts of America and Canada, there are no wild bears in the UK.
Faced with the current evidence, Ovid was reminded that you couldn’t believe everything you read in books. However, since it was his only frame of reference he tried to remember what other advice the book had given. He recalled it mentioning that in the event of coming face to face with an angry bear, the best thing to do was to avoid eye contact, speak calmly and slowly retreat.
With his foot still hurting, Ovid was unable to retreat, so he lowered his gaze and spoke in a low, calm voice.
‘My name is Ovid Thornthwaite. I mean you no harm,’ he said, feeling a little silly. ‘I was out cycling when my bicycle broke and I came off it and landed in that bush.’ He pointed to the bush but kept his eyes on the ground. ‘I know you can’t understand me but . . .’
His concentration was broken by a strange sensation on his outstretched finger. He glanced up and saw that the bear was licking the honey off it. Ovid quickly lowered his eyes, not wanting to anger the animal while its teeth were so close to his finger.
‘There’s more inside the bike,’ said Ovid, moving his finger gradually to the bike tube. The bear followed it down and sniffed the honey-filled tube, quickly losing interest in Ovid’s finger and licking the inside of the bike tube with its long tongue instead.
Careful not to make a sudden movement Ovid slowly brought his finger away and watched as the bear’s long tongue finished off the honey. Still unable to get away, he hoped that the bear would lose interest in him once the honey was finished, but as it retrieved less and less with each lick, the huge beast growled. It was still hungry. With the honey finished it turned its attention back to Ovid. It reared up then fell down on the bike, bending the frame.
Keeping his eyes lowered Ovid found a stick with his right hand and picked it up. The final thing the book had to say on the subject of surviving a bear attack was this:
Do not play dead. If you do this, you soon won’t be playing. The best way to survive a bear attack, if you have no other choice, is to fight back, preferably while shouting. In certain circumstances this has been known to scare a bear away but since the bear is likely to be bigger, stronger and faster than you, good luck.
Ovid took a deep breath and screamed, ‘GO AWAY AND BOTHER SOMEONE ELSE, YOU STUPID BEAR,’ while whacking the stick against the animal’s nose.
The bear looked genuinely surprised by this sudden change in tactic and to his immense relief it turned and fled into the woods.
.
HOW TO SERVE
Adam Farthing had the strangest tennis technique Lorelli had ever seen. His serve involved throwing the ball high in the air, waiting until it was virtually shoulder height, then leaping back and whacking it, more often than not sending it straight into the net, and yet Adam didn’t seem concerned about his shortcomings.
After his first double fault, he smiled and said, ‘I guess, that’s one nil to you.’
‘It’s fifteen love,’ replied Lorelli.
‘Fifteen for that one shot?’
‘That’s how the scores work in tennis: fifteen, thirty, forty, game.’ Lorelli was unsure whether he was joking.
‘Oh yes, silly me.’ Adam picked up the ball to serve again. ‘I’m getting it mixed up with squash.’
With his next serve he did manage to get a ball over the net. Lorelli sent the ball back to the left side of the court and watched as Adam ran across in an attempt to get the shot with his forehand.
‘It would have been easier to play with your backhand.’
‘My what hand?’ asked Adam.
Lorelli showed him.
‘Oh yes, that would have been easier,’ said Adam. ‘Is it my serve again?’
By the end of the first set he had only managed to win a couple of points, both from what Lorelli considered to be lucky shots.
‘Let’s have a break,’ said Lorelli, seeing Hazel approaching.
‘I’m not tired at all,’ said Adam cheerfully.
Hazel was carrying a tray with two glasses of fresh lemonade. ‘I thought you might be thirsty,’ she said.
Adam scowled at her. ‘No nuts in there, are there?’
Hazel lowered her gaze and muttered an apology.
‘Well then.’ Adam picked up a glass, took a sip then pulled a face. ‘It’s a bit bitter.’
‘Mrs Bagshaw doesn’t put much sugar in,’ said Lorelli, taking her glass. ‘Thank you, Hazel.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘It wasn’t her fault, you know,’ said Lorelli to Adam after Hazel had left. ‘Poor Hazel. Mrs Bagshaw is vey strict with her, making her work as a maid.’
‘At least she has a mother.’
‘Actually, she’s adopted. Her real mother abandoned her. Besides,
you should be grateful. You’ve still got your father.’
‘Him? Oh he’s useless. I mean, you’d think a lawyer would make good money, wouldn’t you?’
‘He earns enough to send you to Saint Swivels.’
‘Barely,’ snorted Adam. ‘Come on, let’s play another game. I really think I’m going to win a game this time. Or at least get as far as truce.’
‘Deuce,’ corrected Lorelli.
‘That’s the one. Is it my turn to serve?’ replied Adam.
.
THE HAUNTING MELODY
Ovid was beginning to lose heart. He had been shouting for help for the best part of an hour. He felt thwarted. He felt foolish. How could he have been so careless as to not check that the bike hadn’t been tampered with? He had let his guard down and Lorelli had taken advantage. He was in no doubt that this was her handiwork. He allowed himself a moment of admiration for his sister’s cunning. Acquiring a bear couldn’t have been easy.
But now he needed to get home so he was relieved to hear someone nearby whistling a mournful melody.
‘Hello?’ he shouted.
The whistling stopped.
‘Who’s that?’ replied Tom Paine, the gardener.
‘It’s me, Ovid,’ he replied. ‘I’ve hurt my foot.’
‘Keep talking,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll follow your voice.’
Ovid started telling Tom how he had fallen off his bike and hurt his foot, leaving out any mention of the bear or his suspicion that his sister was behind the attack.
‘Not a fun morning, then,’ said Tom, appearing from behind a tree, pushing a wheelbarrow full of cut flowers.
Ovid smiled at the sight of the old man. ‘It’s good to see you, Tom. Could you help get me home?’
‘Not a problem.’ Tom tipped the flowers out of the wheelbarrow and bent down to pick up Ovid, who winced in pain as his bad ankle banged against the side of it. ‘Sorry, Master Ovid,’ said Tom, placing him inside.
Ovid felt uncomfortable and he had to place an arm behind his head to stop it banging against the metal but he was grateful to be getting out of his predicament.
As he made his way towards the manor, Tom resumed his whistling. It was a strange tune that only seemed to consist of eight or nine notes before repeating.
‘What is that?’ asked Ovid.
‘Sorry,’ replied Tom. ‘A bad habit of mine, whistling, I’m afraid, sir. I spend so much time on my own I don’t even notice I’m doing it.’
‘Yes, but what’s the tune?’
‘Let me see.’ Tom whistled a few bars of it again, trying to identify it. ‘Oh, do you know, I think it was one of your mother’s.’
‘What do you mean, one of my mother’s?’ said Ovid.
‘One of the tunes she wrote.’
‘I knew she played the piano. I never knew she composed.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Tom. ‘Lovely little melodies. Never had no words though. I think you need words too, don’t you?’
‘Did she write them down?’
‘I’m not too sure,’ said Tom, ‘but I do remember her playing this one just before she passed away.’
Tom began to whistle again and Ovid wondered what it said about a woman who could write such a strange and haunting tune. He knew so little about his parents.
.
WHERE THERE’S BLAME
Tom parked the wheelbarrow outside the servants’ entrance. ‘I’ll pop in and get Nurse Griddle,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Ovid, surprised that Nurse Griddle’s sixth sense for injury hadn’t already brought her to the door. He hoped that Tom would find her quickly. He didn’t want Lorelli or Adam to find him in this vulnerable state. Growing up in Thornthwaite Manor had taught him to avoid being seen when one was at one’s weakest.
Although he felt certain that Lorelli was behind this latest attempt on his life, he still had to keep an eye on Mr Farthing and Adam. Their presence in Thornthwaite Manor had shifted the delicate balance of life there. Ovid missed having the clarity of a singular enemy in the form of his sister. The idea that there might be more than one now concerned him deeply.
He felt something land on his stomach and saw Cowell, Lorelli’s cat. Ovid didn’t particularly like animals, but at this moment of uncertainty he found something comforting and reassuring about Cowell’s purring. At least she was trustworthy.
‘Hello Ovid. What are you doing in a wheelbarrow?’ said a voice behind him.
Ovid craned his head around to see Mr Farthing peering down at him, clutching his leather bag to his chest. Startled, Cowell jumped off and scurried away.
‘I’ve hurt my foot,’ said Ovid as the large lawyer rounded the wheelbarrow and came face to face with him.
‘And your head,’ said Mr Farthing, adjusting his spectacles.
Ovid reached a hand to his forehead. He looked at it and saw blood.
‘Tripped over playing, did you?’ said Mr Farthing.
‘The wheel came off my bicycle,’ replied Ovid simply.
‘Statistically speaking, cycling is more dangerous than parachuting,’ said the lawyer.
‘I’ll stick to parachuting from now on, then,’ said Ovid sarcastically.
Mr Farthing laughed nervously. ‘No, no, no. I simply mean that the activities that seem safe are often the most dangerous . . . statistically, that is. As a lawyer I often find that. I’d be more than happy to inspect your bicycle. You may be able to sue the manufacturer for faulty goods. Where there’s blame, there’s a claim and all that . . .’
‘You think the manufacturer filled the tubes with honey in order to provoke a large brown bear to attack me?’ said Ovid, watching Mr Farthing closely for a reaction.
Mr Farthing laughed again. ‘What imagination you children have. Imagine that, a bear in these woods.’
‘Imagine,’ said Ovid drily.
‘Should I fetch Nurse Griddle?’ said Mr Farthing.
‘Nurse Griddle is away for a couple of days.’ said Mr Crutcher, appearing at the door.
‘Where is she?’ asked Ovid.
‘She’s away dealing with some family business. I’ll take you to see Doctor Scragg.’ He lifted the wheelbarrow by the handles and wheeled Ovid towards the car, leaving Mr Farthing behind.
‘Who’s Doctor Scragg?’
Mr Crutcher opened the car door and lifted Ovid out of the wheelbarrow.
‘He’s the village doctor.’
.
DOCTOR SCRAGG
Considering the number of close brushes with death Ovid had experienced in his thirteen years, it was surprising that he had never visited the village doctor but, until now, Nurse Griddle had been available and able to deal with every cut, bruise, graze and occasional bullet wound which the twins had inflicted on each other.
Ovid sat beside Mr Crutcher, looking nervously around the waiting room, reading the posters on the walls about various illnesses and ways to prevent them. He felt uncomfortable being in the village. On the way there, he had lowered himself in the car seat for fear of being seen. He knew that his fear was irrational. He understood that the village wasn’t full of rampaging hordes looking to burn down Thornthwaite Manor, but he also knew from Mr Crutcher’s local history lessons how, with a few exceptions, his ancestors had not been kind to the villagers.
The door opened and an elderly man in a three-piece suit pushed a wheelchair into the room. He had wiry grey hair and a well-lined face, which folded naturally into a warm smile.
‘Hello, Alfred, it’s been a while,’ said Doctor Scragg.
‘Thirteen years, Donald,’ replied Mr Crutcher.
‘That long? And this must be Ovid.’ Doctor Scragg looked at him. ‘You look just like your father. Do you need a hand getting into this wheelch
air?’
‘No.’ Ovid lifted himself into the wheelchair, before Mr Crutcher could help him. ‘Did you know my father?’
‘Oh yes, we were childhood friends. Now let’s get you into my surgery.’ Doctor Scragg wheeled Ovid towards the door. Mr Crutcher held the door open for them. ‘Thank you, Alfred,’ said Doctor Scragg.
Mr Crutcher began to follow them but the doctor said, ‘If you don’t mind, I prefer to see my patients alone.’
‘Of course. I’ll be right here should you need me, young master.’ Mr Crutcher closed the door behind them.
Doctor Scragg pushed Ovid up to the desk and then took his place behind it. ‘An excellent butler but a little overprotective at times, don’t you find?’ he said, taking a pen and writing something down.
‘Mr Crutcher has been very kind to me and my sister,’ replied Ovid.
‘Ah, your sister. Lorelli, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have a middle name, do you?’
‘No,’ said Ovid, leaning forward to see what he was writing.
‘This is your medical card.’ Doctor Scragg showed him. ‘The last time I wrote your name was on your birth certificate.’
‘My birth certificate?’
‘I remember that day very well. There was all that fuss about your sister being the first ever girl born into the family. Your father seemed most distressed but your mother was very calm about it, considering how much she had been through to bring you both into the world. Now, let’s have a look at this foot of yours.’
Doctor Scragg took off Ovid’s sock and examined his foot, gently squeezing it.
‘Is it broken?’ asked Ovid, wincing.
The Thornthwaite Inheritance Page 7