‘Sure.’ I grabbed a business card from my handbag and waved it at her. ‘Sorry to be official. Got to dash though.’
I couldn’t think straight. I wrote the draw winner’s name as Sandy when it was Sadie and got all my shorthand symbols mixed up to buggery. I called the Church of England vicar ‘Father’ and dropped a complimentary scone smeared with award-nabbing jam on the grass.
After kicking Kai out of the scoopmobile (aka 2003 model Fiat Cinquecento) in Tylney, I found myself driving over to the other side of town, back out into the Vale. The road wound past field after field of bursting ripe fruit a
nd vegetables, bordered by high green hedges. Pick-Your-Own signs flourished like native plants beside wooden five-barred gates. Every few miles, a half-timbered village punctuated the lushness, all the schools and church halls turned into holiday cottages and second homes while the local families were priced out to Tylney and, ultimately, Birmingham.
In the distance, high blue hills surrounded the fertile basin, a barrier to be crossed if you ever wanted to look beyond the Vale. But some never did. And then some came back.
‘Willingham’, read the black and white sign, then, ‘Best Kept Village 2010’. It was still looking pretty spruce, the green bordered with summer flowers, even the ducks on the pond exceptionally well-groomed. The little flat-roofed bunker where I learned to read and write still functioned as a school, apparently, and a huge banner across the railings proclaimed that Ofsted had rated it Outstanding.
The Feathers was a gastro-pub now and there was a small estate of new-built houses right on the edge of the village, still dusty from construction and with stickers on some of the windows.
Leaving the village, the grass verge on the right gave way to a high red-brick wall, following the road for more than a mile. The Hall. I passed the gated entrance, catching my quick glimpse of the driveway until it bent to the right, cheating the viewer of any sighting of the house itself. The stone stags still stood atop the gatepost pillars and the little lodge was still occupied, judging by its tidy state of repair.
More wall again, yard after yard after yard, bending round with the road until I came upon the river, sparkling and replete with anglers on both banks and then, beyond it, the caravan site where I grew up.
I pulled into a lay-by near the entrance and got out, breathing in the air with its ever-present whiff of fertiliser. The blank wall of Willingham Hall faced me and I faced it. If I walked on another half-mile, I would come to the secret way in through the woods. Was I ready for that?
I walked up anyway. The road was quiet – it didn’t really lead anywhere except to the hills. The late-afternoon sun went behind a cloud and the swish of the trees in a little gust of wind was almost more unnerving than total silence would have been. More unnerving and much more evocative.
Here, a little way after the wall ended, was the broken section of wire fence. If I squeezed through the gap, I would be in the woods behind the house. I looked into the dark tangle of bark and branch and saw myself there, twenty years ago, allowed to play there while mum cleaned in the school holidays. I was against a tree, a captured squaw. The game was exhilarating and I enjoyed being caught and marched to my doom, until he broke off a section of branch and whipped my legs with it.
I shut my eyes tight as the memory flashed through; the pain, then the fear, then his sneering face right up against mine. I was seven, he was nine.
I can do what I like to you.
When mum had asked about the marks, I said I got caught on some brambles.
That holiday, and for all those that followed, I did everything I could to avoid having to go with mum to the Hall. I invited myself to Jamila’s; I offered to help Mrs Wragg, the caravan site owner, with all her errands; I even joined the church summer holiday club. Oh, how many brasses did I rub, all in the name of avoiding Joss Lethbridge.
Of course, I couldn’t get away with it every time. At least once a week I’d have to pack a bag with books and toys and trudge with mum up the long, long driveway. I’d follow her and her vacuum cleaner from room to room until, inevitably, Joss would track us down and ask if I was coming to play.
I’d say I was feeling sick, or I had hay fever, or was coming down with chickenpox, but mum never seemed to cotton on.
‘He’s trying to be friendly, Lucy-In-The-Sky-With-Diamonds.’ (Yes, that is my full registered name.) ‘Don’t mind her, Joss, she’s in a mood. It’s very kind of you to ask her.’
He didn’t always hurt me. Sometimes he was even quite nice. But that seemed all part of the game with him. I suppose he thought it kept me on my toes.
Whatever he thought, it was an occasion of major rejoicing when I left primary school and was deemed old enough to take care of myself in the summer holidays.
I tried to put a foot forward, to place it on that old ground, but a rush of something both bitter and sweet prevented me and I turned away, blinking out tears.
I thought about going to the caravans and looking up Mrs Wragg, but I wasn’t really fit for conversation and ended up driving back home.
When I say ‘home’, I mean the tiny one-bedroomed flat above Tylney Pet Supplies that mum occupied.
I fell into a coughing fit halfway through announcing my presence, my throat clogged by a cloud of patchouli joss-stick smoke, entwined with something a little less legal.
Mum was lying back on her collection of kilims and cushions with a guy in a New Model Army T-shirt. They had matching nose rings, which was nice.
‘How was the fete?’ asked the guy, I think he was known as Animal, more because he was a drummer in a band than because of any anti-social habits.
It was an innocuous enough question, but it sent both of them into paroxysms of giggles.
‘Great. Mum, do you know who’s taken the lease at Willingham Hall?’
She tried to focus, but the effort required was too great.