The station at Belthorp was hardly a station at all: no W. H. Smith, no Burger King, nothing but railway lines between two platforms and a footbridge over them. It was more of a halt really.
For the past half hour, Nesta had been able to see nothing from the window but her own reflection. The carriage was brightly lit and about half full of passengers. Nesta had a terrible feeling that everything was becoming much harder than she had ever imagined. She had thought to arrive at Belthorp in daylight, with plenty of time to find Mrs Dalrymple, and even to return to Casselton if necessary and board a late train going south. She had not bargained for slow trains and long delays.
At Belthorp only half a dozen alighted. Nesta followed them over the footbridge. Those in a hurry were soon out of sight; a mother and her little boy went more slowly, as did a strange-looking man in a long dark overcoat. Nesta made up her mind to stay as close as possible to the woman and child. The man in the dark overcoat was tall but hunched in a furtive way. Round his neck, with one long end dangling down his back, was a white scarf ending in silky tassels. It was the scarf that was most off-putting. It looked so out of place and eccentric.
All four passengers emerged from the station together. Nesta’s heart sank when the woman and child got straight into a waiting car. The man walked quite slowly to a spot further down the road, then stopped. Out in the darkness of a damp, foggy evening, Nesta stood still and did not know which way to go. The road to her left, where the man was standing, sloped gently downwards, as if towards a valley. To her right, the same road went more steeply uphill.
As Nesta looked up the hill, a single-decker country bus trundled into sight. The destination panel said ‘Belthorp’. The bus drew into the bus stop where the man was standing. So that was what he was standing for! Nesta hurried towards the bus, reaching it just after two passengers had alighted.
‘After you, my dear,’ said the man in the overcoat, standing back to let her pass. He smiled with a smile that showed too many very even teeth. His face was dark and foreign-looking. Nesta mumbled thanks and jumped on the bus. The man followed.
Nesta took coppers from her pocket and said, ‘The centre of Belthorp, please.’
It didn’t sound quite right but she knew no other way to phrase it.
The driver gave her a curious look, then said, ‘That’ll be the Green, pet. You’ll not be wanting to go to the terminus.’
He charged her a half fare without query. The man behind her bought a ticket to the Green. Nesta was pleased to see that there were other passengers on the bus. She hoped that some of them would get off at the Green.
The first stop was at the end of a row of cottages. This was Merrivale where Mrs Dalrymple lived, but Nesta did not know that. Several people descended there, leaving the bus nearly empty.
‘The Green,’ said the driver loudly as he drew into the next stop. He looked back to make sure that his young passenger had heard.
Nesta got up and left the bus. The man followed.
In the darkness, made worse by the fog, Nesta made out a wide expanse of grass with houses beyond some trees at the far side. Behind her was a row of stone buildings with steps up to their doors. The nearest one had a black horse on a sign over the doorway. The bank.
Further away, in the direction the bus had gone, was the steeple of a church, signs of a churchyard, and a dark alleyway leading off just before it.
‘Are you lost, love?’ said the man, coming up behind her and looking over her shoulder.
Nesta jumped. Way down the road was the block of shops the bus had passed. One of them still seemed to be open with lights struggling through the fog. But it was too far away to offer any protection. No one was anywhere near.
Nesta turned to face the stranger.
‘No, I am not lost. I am meeting a friend here. I’ll just have to wait.’
‘There’s a bench over there,’ said the man. ‘As cheap to sit as to stand.’
For a moment, Nesta had the terrible thought that the man was going to offer to keep her company. She gave him a look of extreme terror.
The man looked back at her and laughed.
‘I don’t eat little girls, you know,’ he said. ‘I am an extremely well-fed monster.’
He turned away and walked on into the back alley, where, though Nesta did not know it, his wife and children were eagerly awaiting his return home.
Nesta watched him go and then was glad to take his advice. She sat on the bench to think. But what thoughts, what dreadful thoughts on a cold, dark night!
What on earth was she doing there, searching for a woman she had never met, hoping for solutions to an insoluble problem? Sadness took over and her mind became a maze of muddled thoughts.
I have a broken heart.
It seemed to her that her heart had turned brittle and shattered into sharp pieces, crunching into themselves like glass, inflicting terrible pain on her ribcage. And it was true. Where her heart should have been there was the deepest hurt.
Her head of its own accord bent forward on to her hands and she sobbed.
‘Mom, oh Mom, why have I come to this?’
She tried to stop crying but the tears of days had burst out and would not be dammed.
‘Please, God, help me,’ she cried. ‘Somebody help me.’
At that moment, Nesta heard footsteps approaching. She drew herself back and rubbed her eyes with her sleeves. She looked furtively towards the path to see who was coming and sighed with relief when she saw it was just a boy of her own age, possibly younger. He was hurrying along with a plastic carrier bag in his hand.
As he came to the bench, he gave Nesta what seemed to be no more than glance as he passed, but it was a perceptive glance. Mickey Trent, though only eleven, was born to care about people. He cared most about his mother, but that did not exclude anyone else who might seem in need of help. Mickey walked just a few yards before turning back.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, looking down at Nesta.
‘Yes,’ said Nesta tersely. Then she looked up at Mickey and crumbled.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not all right. I am in dreadful trouble and I don’t know what to do.’
Mickey came and sat on the bench beside her, quite deferentially, and not too close. The plastic carrier bag was on the seat between them. It was full of books.
‘Can I get help for you? Is there anybody here you know?’
With one hand he indicated the peripheries of the village.
‘I’m trying to find Mrs Dalrymple,’ said the girl more hopefully.
‘That’s easy,’ said Mickey. ‘She just lives over there.’
He pointed diagonally at the row of cottages way over the west of the Green.
‘That’s Merrivale,’ he said. ‘She lives at Number 12. My best friend used to live at Number 13.’
Nesta looked at him curiously.
‘Do you know Thomas Derwent?’ she said.
‘That’s him,’ said Mickey. ‘He’s the one used to live at Number 13, before he went.’
‘Where did he go?’ said Nesta.
‘Away,’ said Mickey. ‘Right away from here.’
‘He’s the boy who disappeared, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Mickey, sealing his lips on the word.
‘I think I might be distantly related to him,’ said Nesta.
‘You couldn’t be,’ said Mickey spontaneously.
Nesta might have given a longer argument in return, full of invented circumstantial evidence, but she didn’t. She just looked directly at Mickey and held his gaze.
‘I could,’ she said firmly, ‘and I think I am.’
Mickey gasped and he understood what she was saying. Then he sneezed hard, further proof, if needed, that the girl was somehow part of the mystery that he and Mrs Dalrymple had silently shared these past weeks.
‘I think you should go to Mrs Dalrymple’s now,’ said Mickey. ‘She knows more than I do. And my mam’ll be getting worried. I’ve just been to Auntie Fay’s for her library books. I’ll have to be getting home. I’ll walk with you to Mrs Dalrymple’s door, if you come now. It’s on my way.’
Nesta rubbed her eyes again, got up from the seat, slung her bag on her shoulder and felt the beginnings of optimism. The worst was surely over.
They went through the white gate into the little garden. Mickey rang the doorbell. A light went on inside and then the door opened.
‘What is it, Mickey?’ said Mrs Dalrymple, looking down at the boy and glancing at the girl standing there beside him.
‘This is a friend of Thomas’s,’ he said. ‘She came here to see you, but she didn’t know where you lived. She says she’s related to Thomas. She wants to talk to you. I don’t think she’s from the papers or anything.’
And, true enough, the girl did not have the appearance of a reporter or a snoopy investigator!
‘Come in, the two of you,’ said Mrs Dalrymple, holding the door wide. ‘We can talk about it over a cup of tea.’
‘I can’t,’ said Mickey. ‘I’ll have to get home. My mam’ll just start worrying if I don’t.’
Stella Dalrymple smiled. Mickey’s mam was a famous worrier!
Mickey gave her a wave as he hurried off home.
‘Well, come in . . .?’ she said to Nesta, the raised voice clearly asking for a name.
‘I’m Nesta,’ said the girl.
‘And I’m Stella,’ said Mrs Dalrymple. ‘Come on in and tell me all about it.’