IT WAS dark by the time Robbie got back, and Sheila was cooking. He texted Mags to say he needed to see her. He had a feeling she would know something. About the girl in the wood, about the Stricklands.
Jess came out of the kitchen and gave him her look.
‘Problems?’
‘Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,’ she said. ‘Like, I mean, you’re not in trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Never mind. What are we eating?’
‘Salmon. With that sauce you like.’
‘Great.’
‘If Sheila doesn’t throw it at your dad first.’
‘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.