Cold Boy's Wood by Carol Birch (if you liked this book TXT) 📗

‘Huh.’ He grinned. ‘Driving Phoebe round the twist.’ He went to get the tea and called back, ‘Imagine being stuck in a car with that all the way to Dorset and back.’

Terry sniggered nervously. ‘I’ve been chucked out,’ he said.

‘Chucked out?’

‘Who’s chucked you out?’ I blew on the leaf.

‘My uncle.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno.’

A long pause.

‘That’s awful,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

Can’t you go to your mum and dad’s? I nearly said that, then realised I knew nothing about them, had never even asked, and that as he’d been living at his uncle’s ever since we’d known him there was probably some good reason why he never mentioned them. ‘So what happened?’ I asked instead.

His eyes moved slowly. His cheeks were square and flat like his knees. ‘We don’t really get on,’ he said blankly, and after a moment, under his breath, ‘We used to.’

‘So where are you sleeping?’

‘At me mate’s.’

‘Oh right. Is that OK?’ Johnny brought the tea in. ‘Sleeping on the couch, are you?’

‘In the bath,’ he said.

I made sympathetic noises.

‘Kip here for a bit if you want,’ Johnny said.

Oh no no no no. Terry here all the time, lolloping about and getting in the way. His open mouth.

‘That’s OK, isn’t it?’ Johnny turned to me.

‘Oh yes,’ I said cheerfully, ‘till you get sorted.’

‘Only be for a few days,’ said Terry.

‘That’s OK,’ I said.

‘Sleep on this.’ Johnny indicated our messy settee. It was not quite long enough but if he curled up or put his feet over the edge he’d be OK. ‘You can park your car in the yard at the back of the co-op. I’ll show you where.’

What had got into him?

Still, Terry would be working, wouldn’t he? But then I remembered that a lot of his work came from his uncle, and now it would probably all dry up and we might just have him sitting around all day. And what about Lily? What if she wanted to bring Mark home? She’d go mad. I looked at the poor boy, bashfully smiling as he drank his tea, feeling mean and guilty for my ungenerous thoughts. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ I said, after he’d gone off to fetch his stuff. ‘Don’t you ever think about consulting other people?’

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ said Johnny, grinning, energised, but when Lily came home and found out what he’d done she threw herself dramatically about the place: ‘You haven’t! No! You haven’t! Oh, you idiot!’

‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’ he said, strumming his guitar. ‘What’s the big deal? He won’t be here long.’

‘This is awful. Awful!’

She actually screamed and flew into her bedroom.

‘God sake,’ he said.

‘Well, you can’t blame her. You could at least have—’

‘Sorry sorry sorry,’ he said, his eyes suddenly moistening. ‘I only do what I think is best, and I don’t always get it right.’

His good humour evaporated as if someone had pulled out a bung. He played his guitar doggedly and loudly, gazing fixedly at the hamster running between Harriet’s constantly moving hands. After a while she put the hamster on her shoulder and sat on the rug listening, staring back at him. I was dreading the knock on the door. When it came it wasn’t so bad. ‘Bloody hell,’ Lily said roughly, ‘stuck with you, are we?’ and bopped him on the nose with the hairband she’d just pulled out of her hair. He hardly spoke a word that first night. Whispered awkwardly a couple of times to Lily. Made up his bed on the sofa good as gold as soon as I told him to, and in the morning had it all neatly put away by nine o’clock, which, in our household, was pretty good.

28

So that’s that then. Decided. No way was he getting lumbered with another miserable mad woman. Enough of all that with his stupid mother. Still, he thought, in a funny sort of way she’s not a bad drinking companion.

It was the weather that made a difference. After that long spell of hot weather, back to cold nights, only this time there was more of a settled feel of winter in the air, and it was only September. A few days passed, he did nothing, the woman stayed hidden. Maybe she’d moved on. Can only hope. Or maybe she’d gone to another part of the woods, covering her tracks.

He took the scrap of paper out of the drawer in the kitchen table and read the name on it: Harriet Gilder. A number. Tried to think what he’d say. Hello, am I speaking to Harriet Gilder? Do you have a mother called Lorna Gilder? Well, I just thought I should let you know…

I mean really, what’ll she do when it snows? What does she eat? Must be tough. Madeleine had allergies. Allergies! his mum said. She’s just a picky eater. Couldn’t eat tomatoes and potatoes and cheese. Pizza and chips was out. Madeleine. Let her handle it. Pass it all over. He put the piece of paper on the bedside table and lay in the dim room with the light from the landing slanting in by the far wall and the wind out there shrieking.

Moved on by now surely. Ring in the morning. Ring Madeleine.

So he did. He got her husband.

‘Oh, hi, Dan!’ he said enthusiastically, and Dan realised he’d forgotten his name again.

‘Is Madeleine there?’

‘I think she’s around here somewhere – yes – yes – no. Oh! There she is. Maddy! Mads!’

And her talking in the background to someone.

He was being sensible. It stops here, he said to himself. It has to stop here.

‘Dan!’ She sounded warm and curious.

‘That woman in the wood,’ he said, ‘I don’t think she should stay there through winter.’

He told her everything, the exact location, gave her the name of the daughter and her number.

‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, ‘and she’s been in there how long? Oh, it must be desperately hard, that.’

‘Well anyway,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave it to you then, shall I?’

He could hear the husband talking in the background, or maybe it was the