HE STILL HAD time to get to the bus, but he needed dry clothes first. As he ran along the feeding pier he saw people emerging from the bright lights of WetFun and faintly heard their voices carry. He had to be quick before his dad came back. He sneaked into Mourn Home and was upstairs in his room before he remembered it wasn’t just jeans and jumpers, but all his money had been in his bag as well.
He changed anyway, shoved his wet clothes under his bed. He was tempted to search his uncle’s suitcase, but didn’t think he could bring himself to be a thief on top of everything else he was being right now. He pulled more clothes from his wardrobe to fill a plastic carrier bag. Was he really going to leave home with just that? He kept checking the time. He had to move if he was going to get that bus.
Maybe Doug would understand if he took some money. Tim would pay him back the first opportunity he got. He dithered. He looked out of his window to see Bill and Doug at the water’s edge by the foot of the feeding pier. Cursing himself he opened his uncle’s suitcase and searched inside.
He rummaged under the clothes and in the side pockets. He found a cheque book but that was no good. He was beginning to panic. There were voices at the bottom of his stairs, then heavy footsteps coming up. He’d only just managed to get the suitcase closed and fastened again when Bill came in without knocking.
He was pale, tired. He noticed Tim’s wet hair, but only said, ‘Downstairs. We need to talk.’
It was probably to tell him about the meeting, Tim thought – hoped. He followed his father down to the kitchen. Roddy wouldn’t have grassed him up – there hadn’t really been enough time and he’d not gone in the direction of WetFun. He wondered if he’d ever find it funny that Roddy was now the one who believed. It was probably something Roddy would want to keep to himself for a long time yet.
Anne and Jenny were sitting at the table, both in their dressing gowns. Doug hovered near the back door, still in his coat. Tim was about to say hi, but then he saw his open bag, wet and dripping, on the tabletop.
‘What’s going on, Tim?’ Bill asked. Not angry – not quite, not yet. ‘I fished this out of the lake by the feeding pier not two minutes ago.’
Tim hung his head, stayed quiet. Roddy had thrown it in, but all it had done was drift ashore. He couldn’t believe he’d not looked harder for it. But then he hadn’t been thinking straight; he’d been in a rush, and freezing cold.
‘Tim?’ Anne asked.
But he shook his head.
Bill pulled soaking T-shirts and socks out of the bag. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’
Anne said, ‘Sit down, Bill. You’re making everyone nervous.’ But her husband ignored her. She turned back to her son. ‘You need to tell us what’s going on, Tim.’
‘Is it because of Sarah?’ Jenny asked.
‘No,’ Tim said.
But Bill rounded on his daughter. ‘What’s that?’
Jenny gave Tim an apologetic look, as if she wished she hadn’t said anything now. ‘They’ve split up,’ she said. ‘They broke up earlier this morning.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Bill growled. ‘There are more important things in the world than that sort of thing.’
‘Bill, please,’ Anne said. ‘Will you sit down and talk about this in a way that—’
‘No, Anne, I won’t. I’ve just had to spend over two hours with Vic Stones and his imbecilic cronies talking at me like I’m the idiot, then I come home to find my son’s clothes are packed into his bag and washed up on the shore. I want to know what’s going on.’
Tim stared at his hands. Cold water ran from his hair down the back of his neck.
When the telephone rang, everyone jumped.
Anne stood up, but Bill said, ‘I’ll get it.’ Even so he let it ring three times, four, while he stared at Tim. At last he went out to the hall to answer it. The kitchen stayed silent, although Bill’s voice was too indistinct through the wall to hear anything.
‘You’re going to have to tell us something,’ Anne said to Tim.
He looked at his watch. He was never going to get that bus, so what did it matter? And with that admission he felt exhaustion flood through him.
‘I agree with your father that we need to know what’s been going on,’ Anne said. ‘I don’t think there’s anybody in this house who isn’t concerned about you. We’ve all seen you’ve been worrying a lot recently. You know, this may be your last chance to get those worries off your chest.’
He knew she wanted to help, wasn’t offering him an escape route exactly, but perhaps a way to open up. And he dearly wished it was that simple. But maybe his mum just thought it was nerves; a touch of anxiety because of the Carving, butterflies about his first public reading. He wondered if she knew how deep his misgivings ran.
The door slammed back on its hinges as Bill shouldered his way into the room again. ‘What do you know about Stones’s boat?’ He leaned over the table towards Tim, his clenched fists on the scarred wooden surface. ‘The survey boat. Do you know anything about it?’
Uncle Doug and Anne exchanged confused looks. ‘What boat?’ Anne said.
Bill breathed heavily through his nose. ‘The survey people had a boat with a couple of thousand pounds worth of equipment on it, and it’s been sunk in the lake. They thought it had just come free of its mooring, but it’s been purposely wrecked.’ He forced Tim to meet his eye. ‘What is going on?’
It was well beyond the point of Tim not being able to tell the truth now. He felt overwhelmed with weariness and he gave himself up to whatever consequences would follow. ‘I did it for you,’ he said.
‘What? What did you do for me?’
‘I sank the boat so they couldn’t do their survey.’
The silence in the room lasted for only the briefest moment before everyone’s voices erupted at once.
Tim carried on talking – they could listen if they wanted to. ‘I was scared the scientists would prove the Mourn was all just a story. I thought if I sank their boat and wrecked their equipment they might not be able to do the survey. I didn’t want people to think Dad was crazy any more. I didn’t want that.’
Bill’s voice was the loudest, so he won. ‘What on earth are you telling me? Are you stupid? Look at me. Look at me! What were you thinking?’
Tim shook his head; couldn’t explain.
‘How do you think this makes you look as the new Mourner? That’s going to look bloody marvellous at the next town meeting Stones decides to hold, isn’t it? The thirteenth Mourner is a bloody thief and vandal!’
‘I did it for you.’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’
He looked at his mum and Jenny and Uncle Doug, but none of them seemed to be able to help him.
Bill paced like a grizzly bear. ‘And what do you think the police are going to say? We can’t have a Carving if the new Mourner’s got himself banged up in jail, can we?’ He smashed his fist down on the table. ‘Are you stupid?’ He didn’t seem to be able to contain himself and had to storm from the room.
The rest of them seemed to suck in a fresh, much-needed breath of air when he’d gone. His furious presence had seemed to starve the kitchen of oxygen while he’d been there.
‘What were you thinking, Tim?’ Anne asked. Her anger wasn’t as strong as the worry, the shock.
‘I did it for Dad,’ was all he could say. ‘Dad believes, and I want him to always believe – because it’s who he is, it makes him my dad.’
‘Do you really think he would care what that absurd survey of Vic Stones’s will show? He will believe until the day he dies, no matter what. That’s what makes him the person he is.’
Bill strode back into the room. He dropped something down onto the table in front of Tim. It was Old William’s diary. ‘Show me your reading,’ he said. Then when Tim didn’t move he flipped the book open and pushed it towards him. ‘Come on. I want to see which reading you’ve chosen for your Carving.’
‘I haven’t chosen one.’
Bill’s face flamed red behind his beard, even though it seemed to be the answer he was expecting. ‘I’m sick and tired of your—’ He slammed his fist down next to the diary, banging it loud enough to wake not just their guests but the whole of Moutonby. ‘This is a duty carried by better men than you for many years. Men that have made this house proud. I just can’t seem to get it through to you how important you are going to be to this town. You don’t care for the tradition. You don’t care that lives depend on you.’
Tim was rocked back in his seat by his father’s anger. ‘I do care,’ he said. ‘I do. And I’ve tried to talk to you about how I feel, but you won’t listen. You just keep shoving that book at me, over and over again.’ He looked at his sister for help; she knew. But she was just as shocked as he was. Her face was white, eyes wide. And when he turned to Uncle Doug the man was staring down at the tabletop, not meeting anybody’s eyes.
Anne tried to put a hand on her husband’s arm but he shook her off.
‘This book is what makes us a family. And if you don’t care about this family then you are no son of mine.’
Tim stared at him, feeling sick inside. He couldn’t have stopped the tears even if he’d tried.
Bill brought his angry face close to Tim’s. ‘Do you think—?’
Are you blind as well as deaf?’ At last Uncle Doug came to the rescue. ‘Can’t you see the boy doesn’t want to be the Mourner?’
Bill’s rage was as free-flowing as Tim’s tears. He turned it quickly on his brother.
Uncle Doug was unperturbed. ‘Open your eyes – the boy’s the same as me. He doesn’t believe in the bloody thing.’
Bill looked as though he was being attacked from all sides.
Very quietly Jenny said, ‘He told me he didn’t.’
Bill actually staggered on his feet. He didn’t know who to shout at, who to aim his anger at. He sat down suddenly on the nearest chair. The anger was still there, but it had been popped like an over-inflated balloon.
‘I was running away because I don’t believe in the Mourn,’ Tim managed in a whisper. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.’
Anne was next to him. ‘Tim, please, think about what you re saying.’
He was shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe in it. I’ve tried to – I wanted to be like Dad. But I don’t.’ He wasn’t sure if he could explain this to others out loud; he’d found it difficult enough for himself inside his head.
Anne had her arm around his shoulder, but she was looking at her husband. ‘Bill . . .’
‘Of course he believes.’ He sounded a little calmer, but the veins in his forehead throbbed. ‘He’s my son. His Carving is tomorrow. He has to believe because he’s the next Mourner.’
‘You can’t force him to do anything, Bill,’ Doug said.
‘He is the Mourner!’ Bill exploded again. ‘He has been since the day he was born.’
Tim was shaking his head; the tears ran and ran. ‘I don’t want to be.’
Bill tried to force Old William’s diary on him. ‘Read it! Read it! As my son, you are the Mourner.’
Anne took the book and came in between them. ‘We are going to have to talk about this sensibly, when we’ve all calmed down a little, yes?’ She handed the diary to Jenny, then took Tim’s shoulders to make him stand. ‘Let’s talk this through.’
Bill strode to the opposite end of the table as if staying close to his son caused him pain. ‘You are the new Mourner. There is no way around it. Your responsibility is not just to us but to all the Mourners who’ve gone before you.’
Tim was clutching at straws. ‘Jenny believes. Let her be the Mourner.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Read the book. Only you can be the Mourner.’
Again Tim looked around the room for help. His eyes met Jenny’s, and she held his gaze.
‘I’m the Mourner now, am I?’ he asked.
His mother took his arm, worried he’d make things worse.
Bill only scoffed at the question.
‘So as Mourner, I get to choose my Underbearer. That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? Yes?’ He swiped at his tears. All eyes where on him. ‘And I don’t want Mr Gregory. I choose Jenny. Jenny is my Underbearer.’
Bill gripped the back of a chair. ‘Tim . . .’ he warned.
Tim stood up slowly. ‘Yes, I’ll be your Mourner, and I’ll have my name carved into the stone tomorrow morning, if that’s what you want. But I’m not staying here. I don’t want to be here.’ He reached out and took the handles of his bag. ‘Jenny is my Underbearer, and when I leave home tomorrow it will be her job to take over my duties.’ He waited for somebody to say something, but nobody seemed to know what to say. So he left them to dwell on their own silences and went upstairs.