The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (books for 7th graders .TXT) 📗

with the girl’s disappearance, and even if he had, he was just a man whose life had briefly run alongside theirs. Now that the work on the house was finished, it was unlikely they would ever see him again. Besides which, Wendy was thoroughly enjoying herself: baking and flower arranging and keeping up the constant battle against the weeds which were keen to make a comeback in her freshly planted flowerbeds. The house absorbed her in the same way as a new baby. It had a personality and needs. Even after all these months, there was something slightly unreal about its acquisition. The money arriving when it had, the other buyers dropping out. The magic of it all made her heart leap when she turned in at the gate, knowing that she could call it home.

They had only been living there for about a fortnight when she decided to broach a question with Bruce. ‘I’ve realized that something is missing. It will probably be a bit expensive, but we must have a grandfather clock to stand in the hall, next to the sitting room door. I know it’s the right place for it, because I saw a lighter patch on the wallpaper in that exact spot when I first came to see the house.’

‘Just because there was a clock before, it doesn’t mean there has to be one there again.’ Bruce sounded irritable. He was often irritable lately. She put it down to his having such a lot on at work. ‘Honestly, Wendy, you sometimes talk as if this house doesn’t belong to us at all.’

‘Of course it belongs to us. I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The way you talk about there being a right place for things, as if it’s all been pre-ordained. There is no right place or wrong place for anything, only places where we decide to put things.’

‘But I just know that is the right place for it. Where there’s always been a clock before.’

‘Oh, so it’s down to women’s intuition then?’ He sounded sarcastic.

Wendy decided to let the matter drop for now. A grandfather clock was an expensive item. She really ought to have gauged his mood before bringing it up in the first place.

‘I see they’ve confirmed the identity of that girl.’ Bruce nodded towards the television, where the early evening news was on in the background and had reached the local section. ‘It is that kid from Darlington who went missing in June – Leah, I think her name was.’

‘Her poor family … what they must be going through.’ Wendy directed her full attention towards the detective, who was appealing for anyone who had seen a necklace the girl had been wearing on the day of her disappearance. He held up a similar one, which the camera zoomed in on.

‘It’s not all that distinctive,’ Wendy said. ‘Lots of girls have got those necklaces at the moment. They make them up themselves from little kits of coloured wooden beads, with their names picked out, like alphabet blocks. Or you can get them ready-made in the gift shops at Whitby and places like that.’

‘But there won’t be many necklaces with Leah on them,’ Bruce pointed out. ‘It’s not a common name, is it, Leah? Not like Tracey, or Michelle, or Julie?’

‘I s’pose not.’ Her response was half-hearted. The bulletin had already moved on to a story about a robbery at a butcher’s shop in Middlesbrough. She stood up and crossed the room to stand beside the window.

‘Don’t you love the way the smell of roses comes in from the garden in the evenings?’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever noticed it.’

Wendy thought of telling him to come over and stand next to her, but she decided not to. He was already a bit umpty over the grandfather clock. He never seemed to understand how important it was to get the details right.

The only part of the house that definitely didn’t feel right was the study. Mr Broughton’s men had knocked through the cupboard in the hall to combine it with what had originally been the pantry off the kitchen passage, and with the shelves removed and the window unblocked there was plenty of space for a desk and some bookcases, but in spite of having this purpose-built area at his disposal, when Bruce brought work home he still spread his papers on the dining table and worked in there. And it wasn’t just Bruce. Tara steadfastly refused to consider doing her homework anywhere but in her own rooms. Wendy was forced to admit to herself that the study was not as pleasant as the rest of the house. She had chosen wallpaper printed with tendrils of green ivy, but she realized now that it wasn’t right for such a small space. It made her feel crowded. She invariably hurried over the hoovering and dusting, in order to be in and out of the room in the minimum amount of time.

The school holidays were almost over when Bruce’s parents came to stay. His father admired the house to an extraordinary degree and insisted on taking lots of snapshots, including one of Bruce, Wendy and the children posed outside the open front door. ‘We’ll show them to your auntie Greta,’ he said. ‘She’ll be thrilled to see how you’re going up in the world.’

‘We’re not going up in the world,’ said Bruce. ‘I’ve already told you that we only bought it because Wendy came into some money.’

Bruce’s mother, though politely complimentary, managed to inject a less positive note, saying that she hoped the burden of taking on such a big old place didn’t turn out to be too stressful, later taking Wendy to one side and asking whether she thought Bruce was quite well.

‘Of course he is. They’ve got a lot on at work, that’s all.’

Bruce’s mother always fussed over him, Wendy thought irritably.

‘I don’t think your mother liked the house,’ Wendy said.

Bruce’s parents had been waved away that afternoon, and they were relaxing on the sofa in the