shading. Ivy has found a
roothold in the stone, and twines live and green
around her head.
When he woke up, the sun was shining through his curtain and his mouth tasted of garlic. Remembering the party, he groaned and rolled over; then, giving up the attempt to fall back into sleep, he shoved off the duvet and went into the bathroom to shower, washing last night away. He gargled with his mother’s mint stuff and cleaned his teeth, then stuck out his tongue to inspect it.
Dad would be up before long, getting ready for golf; his mother usually had a Sunday lie-in, and Katy rarely surfaced before eleven. Quietly Greg let himself out of the house, and got his bike from the garage.
The cool air revived him like a plunge into the swimming pool. He felt free, full of energy, cycling fast till he was clear of the town and heading towards the fringes of the forest. There had been a heavy dew, and the grass beside the road was shining, webbed with fine threads. It was very still, the
zizz
of his tyres almost the only sound.
On its ridge in hazy sunlight Graveney Hall was the ghost of itself, like the setting for a gothic film. Except that in the film it would be deserted, approached on horseback through swirling mists, whereas in fact there were a number of cars already parked along its frontage. They were keen, those volunteers. On the way here Greg had passed only a few dog-walkers, one jogger and a couple of kids delivering Sunday papers, but this lot had already clocked in. Parking his bike, he kept a wary lookout for anyone with shorts and a beard. He shouldered his rucksack and slung his camera case round his neck with the aim of appearing to be on a photographic assignment, in case anyone invited him to join in the back-breaking fun.
‘Hello! Greg, isn’t it?’ Someone was calling from behind a Volvo hatchback. He looked round and saw the woman with the bandanna over her hair—a red one today. She came over, smiling broadly. She had gappy teeth and a sunburned face and a posh voice. ‘You’re becoming quite a regular! We’ll be glad of your help, I can tell you.’
He indicated his camera. ‘No, I’m taking photos.’
‘Oh. Well, good—we need lots of those for our exhibition. Are you looking for Faith?’
‘Not really.’ He’d had enough of being pushed and pulled around by girls.
The woman took no notice. ‘She’s around somewhere—comes every Sunday, rain or shine. Off on her own most of the time. Well, I must get on. See you at coffee! Don’t forget—in the Coach House, eleven sharp. Lovely to see you again.’
You’d think she was his auntie. He wouldn’t mind coffee, though, having left home without breakfast. She strode back to her car, collected a big chill-bag and walked off, waving.
He wondered if he ought to tell someone about those yobby boys. First, he walked across to the corner of wall where they’d left their rubbish. This area didn’t seem to be visited by the volunteers, whose efforts were concentrated on clearing the house floor and laying their track and working lower down the gardens, but Greg saw immediately that the boys had been back. There was an addition to the acid-green spray-paint: GREG H IS A TOSSPOT. His fists clenched. And they’d lit another fire: he saw fresh ashes in the burned circle, and the blackened remains of sticks and fag-ends.
That settled it—it
must
be that boy Dean from school, the one who’d brought the note for Jordan. What was it? Yes, Dean Brampton. Ignorant little yob! Why should he have it in for me? Greg wondered. Irritation prickled him:
every
one seemed to be getting at him. But if they came here regularly, he’d catch them sooner or later. Then he’d show that arrogant little oik and his friends what they could do with their spray-paint.
He crossed the garden, skirting bandanna woman and her group, who were only a couple of metres farther along their track than when he’d left them last week. Recognizing Faith’s father among them,
roothold in the stone, and twines live and green
around her head.
When he woke up, the sun was shining through his curtain and his mouth tasted of garlic. Remembering the party, he groaned and rolled over; then, giving up the attempt to fall back into sleep, he shoved off the duvet and went into the bathroom to shower, washing last night away. He gargled with his mother’s mint stuff and cleaned his teeth, then stuck out his tongue to inspect it.
Dad would be up before long, getting ready for golf; his mother usually had a Sunday lie-in, and Katy rarely surfaced before eleven. Quietly Greg let himself out of the house, and got his bike from the garage.
The cool air revived him like a plunge into the swimming pool. He felt free, full of energy, cycling fast till he was clear of the town and heading towards the fringes of the forest. There had been a heavy dew, and the grass beside the road was shining, webbed with fine threads. It was very still, the
zizz
of his tyres almost the only sound.
On its ridge in hazy sunlight Graveney Hall was the ghost of itself, like the setting for a gothic film. Except that in the film it would be deserted, approached on horseback through swirling mists, whereas in fact there were a number of cars already parked along its frontage. They were keen, those volunteers. On the way here Greg had passed only a few dog-walkers, one jogger and a couple of kids delivering Sunday papers, but this lot had already clocked in. Parking his bike, he kept a wary lookout for anyone with shorts and a beard. He shouldered his rucksack and slung his camera case round his neck with the aim of appearing to be on a photographic assignment, in case anyone invited him to join in the back-breaking fun.
‘Hello! Greg, isn’t it?’ Someone was calling from behind a Volvo hatchback. He looked round and saw the woman with the bandanna over her hair—a red one today. She came over, smiling broadly. She had gappy teeth and a sunburned face and a posh voice. ‘You’re becoming quite a regular! We’ll be glad of your help, I can tell you.’
He indicated his camera. ‘No, I’m taking photos.’
‘Oh. Well, good—we need lots of those for our exhibition. Are you looking for Faith?’
‘Not really.’ He’d had enough of being pushed and pulled around by girls.
The woman took no notice. ‘She’s around somewhere—comes every Sunday, rain or shine. Off on her own most of the time. Well, I must get on. See you at coffee! Don’t forget—in the Coach House, eleven sharp. Lovely to see you again.’
You’d think she was his auntie. He wouldn’t mind coffee, though, having left home without breakfast. She strode back to her car, collected a big chill-bag and walked off, waving.
He wondered if he ought to tell someone about those yobby boys. First, he walked across to the corner of wall where they’d left their rubbish. This area didn’t seem to be visited by the volunteers, whose efforts were concentrated on clearing the house floor and laying their track and working lower down the gardens, but Greg saw immediately that the boys had been back. There was an addition to the acid-green spray-paint: GREG H IS A TOSSPOT. His fists clenched. And they’d lit another fire: he saw fresh ashes in the burned circle, and the blackened remains of sticks and fag-ends.
That settled it—it
must
be that boy Dean from school, the one who’d brought the note for Jordan. What was it? Yes, Dean Brampton. Ignorant little yob! Why should he have it in for me? Greg wondered. Irritation prickled him:
every
one seemed to be getting at him. But if they came here regularly, he’d catch them sooner or later. Then he’d show that arrogant little oik and his friends what they could do with their spray-paint.
He crossed the garden, skirting bandanna woman and her group, who were only a couple of metres farther along their track than when he’d left them last week. Recognizing Faith’s father among them,
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