‘How very kind of you. I think I shall accept the invitation. It may give us some time to talk through your troubles, Mr Fletcher. They seem to weigh so heavily upon you, and you have been so hospitable to me that I feel it would be remiss of me not to pay you due attention and perhaps provide some advice.’
Freddie could see his mother’s jaw hardening. He could feel Mr Pheeps’s eyes on the family, and he fought the urge to look at him because to look at him would mean seeing that nauseating smile again.
‘I shall leave you in peace,’ Mr Pheeps said, withdrawing.
A few moments passed. The only sound in the kitchen was the gentle slurping of soup. The silence was eventually broken by Freddie’s mother.
‘I really don’t like that man.’
After his soup, Freddie went for one of his customary walks. There were some people on the streets, and they nodded and greeted him as he passed. Freddie liked that about Rookhaven: everyone knew everyone else, and there was always a sense that they were looking out for each other, especially since the war. Especially since . . .
Freddie stopped himself. It was best not to think about those things. It was best to move on, that’s what he’d heard his father say to his mum once when they thought he hadn’t been listening.
He passed Mr Biggins the tailor, a craggy-faced man in a grey suit. He was always whistling a tune. He was whistling one now as he walked down the street and tipped his hat to Freddie. Freddie recognized the song as ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’. It was a song his mum liked, and she always paused in whatever she was doing when she heard it come on the wireless. Freddie grinned and saluted him back. Mr Biggins kept whistling, but took a moment to wink at him.
On the other side of the road, Mrs Smith was helping her husband take in the fruit from outside their greengrocers. She saw Freddie and waved him over.
‘All right, Freddie? How are you?’ she asked.
‘Good thanks, Mrs Smith,’ said Freddie.
‘And your mum and dad?’
‘Good,’ said Freddie.
‘Take this,’ said Mrs Smith, offering Freddie an apple.
Freddie started patting his pockets. ‘But I don’t have my ration book.’
Mr Smith snorted as he carried a tray of vegetables back into the shop. ‘Ration book.’
‘Here,’ said Mrs Smith, forcing the apple into Freddie’s hand.
Freddie took it and pocketed it, not knowing what to say. Both he and Mrs Smith turned when they heard the familiar tap on the footpath.
Alfie Parkin was making his way towards them.
‘Hello,’ Alfie said to them, his voice quiet as he made his way past. He gave a wan smile.
‘Hello, Alfie. Lovely afternoon.’
They watched him make his way down the street.
‘That poor boy,’ said Mrs Smith quietly.
Mr Smith was now standing in the doorway, his hand on the door jamb. ‘At least he made it home,’ he said. Mrs Smith’s lip trembled and Freddie remembered her sons Arthur and David, and turned away, to save her embarrassment.
To Freddie it sometimes felt as if a great pall lay over the village.
As soon as he crossed the boundary between the village and the trees, Freddie began to feel airy and light again. He always felt freer here. The sun was shining, and the sound of the breeze in the trees was restful. That great pall would lift. He could forget his father’s simmering rage, the dark haunted hollows of his eyes, the way his mother would occasionally stop during the washing-up and just look vacantly out of the window.
Freddie heard someone talking away to his right. He followed the sound of the voice.
He rounded a tree and smiled when he saw Kevin Bennett kneeling on the ground. There was no mistaking his unruly shock of blond hair.
‘All right, Kev? What have you got there?’
Kevin turned round, his eyes big and round behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
‘It’s a bird,’ he said.
A tiny wagtail was wheeling around in circles on the ground in front of Kevin, dragging a broken wing behind it. Freddie approached slowly, not wanting to panic it any further.
‘What should we do?’ asked Kevin.
Freddie kneeled beside Kevin and picked the bird up gently. He could feel the panicked thrumming of its tiny heart, and for one second he was terrified it might burst, so he moved as slowly as possible, shushing the bird, stroking its feathers as gently as possible.
‘It needs a splint,’ he said.
Kevin pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted hard at the bird.
‘Will it die?’ he whispered, as if afraid to say the words out loud.
Freddie smiled at him. He took in Kevin’s moth-eaten tank top and his battered black shoes, which were one size too big for him.
‘It won’t die,’ he said.
‘Can I?’ said Kevin, reaching out a hand to pet the bird. ‘Course you can.’
Kevin stroked the bird gently, while it cheeped and fluttered between Freddie’s palms.
‘We’ll look after you, little birdy,’ said Kevin, his voice filled with awe.
Freddie felt a sudden warmth, a rightness. They would take the bird to his house and nurse it back to health. Everything would be . . .
‘Hello, boys, what have you got there?’
Freddie froze with the bird cupped in the palms of his hands. He didn’t want to turn round. He wished the bird’s wing could magically heal itself right now, and that it could fly far, far away from this place, become a speck in the sky.
‘Let me see,’ said the voice.
Freddie turned to find Mr Pheeps standing a few feet away from them, his head tilted in curiosity.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Freddie.
‘Nothing?’ said Mr Pheeps, his lip curling.
‘It’s just a bird,’ Kevin blurted.
Freddie could hear Kevin’s breath coming in short panicked gasps. Mr Pheeps leaned forward with his hands on his knees.
‘And who do we have here? What’s your name, young man?’
He smiled that impossibly wide smile. Kevin shook his head frantically.
‘His face,’ Kevin whispered to Freddie, ‘what’s wrong with his face?’
‘Run,’ Freddie hissed at him.
Kevin didn’t need to be told twice. He pelted away, while Freddie positioned himself between Mr Pheeps and the fleeing boy.
Mr Pheeps advanced towards Freddie with the slow, steady steps of a predator. Freddie wanted to run too, but he fought the urge. He wanted to show this man . . .
This thing, this thing.
. . . that he wasn’t afraid of him.
Mr Pheeps waved him forward. ‘Let me see.’
Freddie moved towards the man . . .
This thing.
. . . because he would not give him the pleasure of showing any fear. But his legs were shaking, and he just wanted to run.
Mr Pheeps cupped his own hands and Freddie laid the bird in them, immediately feeling like a traitor as it chirruped.
Mr Pheeps looked at it with feigned concern.
‘Blessed little thing.’
He stroked its feathers gently with his index finger.
‘Tell me, Freddie. Were you proud of him?’
Freddie’s voice felt tight and strangled.
‘What?’
Mr Pheeps shook his head patronizingly. ‘Oh, Freddie. Your brother, of course. Were you proud of him?’
Freddie swallowed. ‘Yes, I was . . . I am proud of him.’
Now Mr Pheeps gave him a look of mocking pity. ‘I am? I am?’
Freddie felt tears spring to his eyes.
Mr Pheeps turned his attention back to the bird. The bird was trembling, even as it fought to stay as still as possible.
Mr Pheeps sighed. ‘Is it true that he never came home?’
Freddie swallowed hard. The world was starting to blur. He nodded.
‘But you, in your quietest moments, you imagine that’s he’s simply lost, don’t you?’
&nb
sp; Freddie looked at the ground.
‘You imagine that he was merely injured and that he’s forgotten who he is, and that some day he’ll remember, and on that day he’ll come home. That’s what you imagine.’ Mr Pheeps leaned over him. ‘That’s what you hope.’ Pheeps made a mocking popping sound with his lips on the word ‘hope’.
Freddie ran a sleeve across his eyes.
‘I just think that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.’ He pouted at the bird. ‘Don’t you think that’s the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?’
‘Stop it,’ said Freddie hoarsely.
‘Stop what? Would you rather we discussed the truth? Would you rather I told you what I saw when I wandered through the world during the war? Would you rather I told you about the blood, the broken bones, the screams, the young men crying for their mothers? Would you rather I told you about one young man I saw in the dirt, looking up at me, his eyes pleading as the life drained from him? He could well have been your own brother.’
Freddie was sobbing now.
‘I see this is upsetting you. I’m so sorry, Freddie. Maybe we could discuss something else. Why don’t you tell me about the estate and the people who dwell within it?’
Freddie wiped his eyes. ‘No.’ He tried to take in a deep breath.
‘No?’
‘No,’ Freddie growled, angry now, despite his grief. ‘I’ve looked at your face. I’ve really looked at it, and I know one thing.’
Mr Pheeps looked genuinely surprised.
‘I know it’s not your real face,’ Freddie hissed through gritted teeth.
They both stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. Then Mr Pheeps raised his cupped hands towards his mouth. The bird was still trembling.
‘Poor bird,’ he said. He puckered his lips and blew the faintest puff of air on it.
The bird stiffened briefly then went limp, its eyes glazing over. Mr Pheeps opened his palms like a magician giving a final flourish, and the dead bird hit the ground with a soft flump.
Mr Pheeps wiped his hands.
‘I’ll see you at dinner. Perhaps your good father will be more forthcoming.’
Mr Pheeps turned on his heel and left.
Freddie went down on his knees and looked at the bird. He wrapped his arms around himself, fighting his tears.
Jem
Jem and Mirabelle spent most of the afternoon in the grounds. Though they talked and laughed as normal, Jem couldn’t help notice that Mirabelle seemed different in some way. Perhaps it was just the fact that she was walking in sunlight. Perhaps it was something more.
They played a long game of hide-and-seek, during which Mirabelle had been like a thing possessed. She was breathless with excitement, and yet Jem could see something else in her eyes – a strange kind of rage.
After playing, they sat together in a small copse of trees and a long silence descended. Jem could see Mirabelle was pondering something as she played with a small pebble between her fingers.
‘I don’t know what I am,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not who I thought I was. I don’t burn in sunlight, and now I know why I can’t do anything. It’s probably because I’m more human than the rest of the Family.’
Jem desperately tried to think of something comforting to say.
‘You don’t need to eat or sleep,’ she blurted.
Mirabelle looked pained. ‘Well, that’s very exciting, isn’t it?’
She flung the pebble away into the undergrowth.
Jem winced. ‘Are you thinking about her?’ she asked.
Mirabelle nodded. ‘Sounds strange, doesn’t it? I didn’t know I had a mother, and suddenly because of Piglet I feel like I knew her, and now it feels like I’ve lost her.’
She wiped her eyes with the heel of one hand, refusing to give way to the tears. She clasped her hands round her knees and breathed in viciously through her nose, rocking back and forth.
‘It’s like having hooks in my chest, and they tear.’
Jem placed a hand on Mirabelle’s shoulder, then was distracted by a sudden flapping sound. Four ravens landed on a branch above their heads, followed by the one-eyed raven from the house, who twitched his head and cawed imperiously to his companions. The others responded with their own throaty calls, and then the lead raven turned its one good eye to Jem and glared at her. It felt as if its gaze was burning right into her very soul.
‘What are they doing?’ she asked Mirabelle.
‘Being nosy,’ said Mirabelle, standing up. She waved her arms at them. ‘Shoo, shoo,’ she shouted, but the ravens paid her no heed, and Jem could have sworn that the one-eyed raven cocked its beak snootily and turned its face away.
‘Cwaw cwaw,’ it said, still turned away as if to express its indifference.
Mirabelle looked even more miserable. She shrugged at Jem.
‘I still don’t know what I am.’
‘You’re my friend. For what it’s worth.’
Mirabelle managed a smile. The smile vanished as she spotted something behind Jem, and Jem immediately felt her skin crawl.
One of the twins was standing right behind her. She was semi-visible, and she was fiddling with her pendant and looking sorrowfully at the ground. Even Jem could guess who it was.
‘What is it, Dotty?’ Mirabelle asked.
Dotty looked up, tears in her translucent eyes. Jem found the effect very perturbing.
‘I’m sorry, Mirabelle. It was all my fault.’
‘What was your fault?’ asked Mirabelle.
Dotty clamped her lips tightly together and shook her head.
‘Dotty?’
Mirabelle looked at her. ‘They think it was the boy.’
‘What?’ asked Jem.
‘Enoch and the others, they think it was the boy’s fault, that he stole the key, because he’s a thief.’ Dotty looked hurriedly at Jem. ‘No offence.’
Jem felt a hot little twinge of anger at the comment.
‘But it was me who gave it to him. I gave him the key to unlock Piglet’s door.’
There was silence in the clearing now, except for the sound of one of the ravens ruffling its feathers. Mirabelle looked as shocked as Jem felt.
‘Why? Why did you do that?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘Because I thought it would be fun.’
Jem thought Mirabelle was about to launch herself at Dotty, and, to be fair, she wouldn’t have blamed her, but her friend just closed her eyes, took a moment to compose herself and then finally sighed.
‘I see.’
‘In the end, though, it wasn’t fun, was it?’
Mirabelle shook her head wearily. ‘No, Dotty, it wasn’t.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
Mirabelle shook her head again.
‘Are you cross with me?’ asked Dotty, now looking at Jem.
Jem was a little taken aback by the question, but she could only answer honestly.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
Dotty bit her lower lip and looked frightened. ‘You’re not going to put me in a mirror like you did to
Daisy, are you, Mirabelle?’
‘No,’ said Mirabelle.
Dotty exhaled with relief. ‘Oh, good.’
‘But I will tell Enoch what you did unless you answer some questions for me.’
Dotty looked crestfallen. Her eyes started to brim with more tears. Jem almost felt sorry for her.
‘Who was my mother?’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t . . . I’m not allowed to even speak about it,’ she wailed.
There was a panicked movement above and Jem looked up to see the ravens flapping agitatedly.
Mirabelle looked sternly at Dotty. ‘Why, Dotty?’ Dotty shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything. Honest,
I don’t. Only they know, and they’re the ones who decided to keep it secret.’
‘Who’s they, Dotty?’
Dotty shook her head and clamped her mouth shut again.
‘Enoch,’ said Mirabelle.
&nbs
p; Dotty looked shamefaced.
‘And who else?’
Dotty trembled. She was becoming solid now, as if she couldn’t concentrate on staying transparent.
‘Eliza? Uncle Bertram? Odd?’
The ravens continued to flap, as if urging her on. Dotty shook her head.
Jem suddenly understood.
‘No one else in the house knows, do they?’ she said.
Dotty looked shocked.
Realization flashed across Mirabelle’s face ‘Dr Ellenby!’ she shouted.
The ravens began a chorus of caws. Dotty couldn’t help but nod. Mirabelle glared up at the ravens.
‘Just go away!’
The ravens took flight, wheeling for a moment above the trees before banking and heading for the house.
The silence was almost blessed now. Jem felt herself relax a little, despite the obvious manic light in Mirabelle’s eyes as she spoke to her.
‘Dr Ellenby would know. He’s the one person outside the house who Enoch really trusts. He shares the secrets of the Family. He would know, and he was there when . . .’
Mirabelle closed her eyes and swallowed. She took a moment to compose herself, then she looked at Dotty.
‘Go back to the house, Dotty. Don’t tell anyone you were talking to me.’
‘I’d tell you anything if I could, Mirabelle, really I would—’
‘Go back now, and talk to no one about this.’
Dotty turned and walked away, taking a second to look back furtively at Mirabelle.
Jem could see the determination in Mirabelle’s grey eyes.
‘I’m going to talk to Dr Ellenby,’ she said.
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
Jem felt a tingle on the back of her neck. She was speaking the words before she knew it.
‘Then I’m coming with you.’
Freddie
Dinner was a muted affair in the Fletcher household that evening.
Night was falling a lot quicker than expected. Freddie thought it was eerie and, while he knew it was irrational, he blamed the presence of Mr Pheeps. The man sat to his left and gobbled down his steak-and-kidney pie, occasionally grinning at Freddie with a mouth full of meat, and carrot, and pastry. Freddie’s parents were sitting to his right, but they seemed a whole world away.
‘A most marvellous repast, Mrs Fletcher,’ said Mr Pheeps with his mouth full.
The Monsters of Rookhaven Page 13