The Fearful (8 page)

Tim waited for Jenny to say no. He waited a good ten seconds or so while she prodded the ground with the toe of her trainers. Then she said, ‘Okay. But I'm not going out on the lake. I'm only watching.'

‘You can't!' Tim turned on her.

‘Why not? I said I'm only watching, didn't I?'

‘What if Mum and Dad find out?'

‘They won't if you don't tell them.' There was the sly sliver of a threat in Gully's words.

Tim did his best to pretend he hadn't noticed. ‘Jenny . . .'

But she was already letting Gully lead her away.

Scott winked at Sarah, took a step closer. ‘What do you say? How d'you fancy—?'

‘No!' She blushed furiously and snatched hold of Tim's hand.

Scott chuckled quietly and held up his own hands as if in submission. ‘Sorry, mate,' he said to Tim. ‘No offence. Didn't realize.'

Tim didn't know what to say. ‘Jenny?'

She glanced at him over her shoulder.

He fought for a good-sense argument. ‘What if . . .?'

‘Just cover for me.
And don't tell Dad
.'

He watched her hurry along the shore with the students on either side. He was amazed at the strength of her disobedience. And put out that she was going to the one place he'd always wished he could go himself.

RELUCTANTLY TIM FOLLOWED
Sarah into the house, into the kitchen, where everybody was enjoying the warmth of tea and gossip. It crossed his mind to tell his mother about Jenny, but he knew he'd never stoop so low. He wondered if she'd bump into Roddy Morgan, but reckoned that was her own lookout. He'd only just managed to get his coat off when he was cornered by a conspiratorial Cagey Brown.

‘Tim, Tim. Just the chap. Can I have a word, eh?' He moved even closer, pinning Tim against the wall. He was short, bald, with chunky metal glasses, and always wore saggy woolly jumpers that smelled of cat's pee. At least, Tim hoped it was the jumpers. He spoke in what he must have thought was a whisper. ‘I know your dad's never been too keen on me helping him out, but, you know, if you're ever stuck or worried or anything . . .? It'd be a pleasure. Absolutely. I'd be glad to help. So, I'm just saying, don't ever feel shy about calling on me, if you need me, if I can help. I'd be glad to.'

Tim thanked him uncertainly.

Cagey kept on smiling. ‘You'd be surprised what I can get. I could fill that feed sack for you quick and easy. And
I know, I know, you've got ties to Gregory and his butcher's.' He cast a quick, anxious eye around the kitchen to make sure Sarah's dad hadn't returned from his duties out on the lake just yet. He nodded as he talked. ‘I know that – what with him being your
dad's
Underbearer. And he's good at it; I'm not saying he's not, am I? I'm not saying that. But maybe it's time for a change. You know, in
your
eyes, when
you
become top man.' He was still nodding, as if pushing for Tim's affirmation.

‘Thanks, Mr Brown. I appreciate it.'

‘No, no, call me Brian. You're the Mourner now. Well, as good as. And I just want you to know that I can fill the sack as well as Gregory's butcher's. No worries, yes? Mine's only a small pet shop, I admit that, but as long as you know, I'm there if you need me.'

Tim didn't have a clue what to say. His forced smile was beginning to ache. He glanced around the room for help, looking for someone to escape to.

The regulars were all here. Brian Brown, of course – called ‘Cagey' by Tim and Jenny since they'd first visited his tiny pet shop and seen the shelves of wooden cages filled with shrill birds, scratting mice and dopey rabbits. (Tim had always quite liked that pet shop, had thought it looked cared for and clean, but Cagey's words just now had certainly been the wrong side of weird for his tastes.) Nana Dalry and Mrs Kirkwooding were gossiping competitively with Nana's neighbours, Tom and Rhonda Bye. Timid Mr and Mrs Hinton were quietly hiding in the corner by the oven. Ancient Eileen Such was being propped upright by the
librarian Clive Tucker, both talking, as always, about years long gone and over-fondly remembered. The Jessop family were at one end of the table; the two young children constantly being told to stop fidgeting, to sit up straight, to say thank you, to stop fidgeting . . . Sarah's mum was helping Anne by making more tea.

It didn't take a genius to work out that, apart from the Jessop kids, Tim, Jenny and Sarah were the youngest Saturday morning regulars by a good twenty-five years. Tom and Rhonda Bye's son used to come – until he'd got too old to be forced.

Jack Spicer appeared and was greeted like an old friend. He wasn't one of the Fearful himself, not officially, but he was well-liked and well-respected by everybody here. He had seen the Mourn after all. He moved around the room, clearly enjoying his particular status among them – like a more-famous actor turning up backstage at somebody else's play.

Tim managed to extricate himself – politely – from the conversation with Cagey Brown, but didn't get very far before Nana Dairy made a grab for him. Her grey hair was sticking up at clownish angles because of the wind and drizzle and she had sticky scone crumbs at the corners of her mouth.

‘Here he is!' she said loud enough for
everybody
to hear. ‘Here's my handsome grandson!'

He cringed, blushed uncontrollably.

She fussed around him. ‘Oh, but I expect you're excited about next week.'

If I had a pound for everybody who'd said that . . .

She prodded him and stroked him and straightened his clothes. ‘And I'm
so
proud, Timmy. We're all
so
proud. Aren't we
proud,
Grace?'

Mrs Kirkwooding smiled widely at him. ‘Of course we are. Who wouldn't be?'

He tried to duck away, but the old ladies had him cornered, trapped. Tom and Rhonda Bye were quick to close in, making him feel surrounded. It was up to Anne to attempt a rescue.

‘Please stop clucking, Mother,' she said, filling Nana Dalry's cup of tea for what could be the third time.

But Nana was having none of it. Her cheeks glowed with pride. ‘Have you chosen your reading for next week yet? I thought your father's was
very
nice today. So
very
nice. Wasn't it
nice,
Grace?'

‘Very,' Mrs Kirkwooding agreed. ‘I enjoyed it immensely.'

‘You'll have to choose a nice one for your Carving, Timmy. I remember your father's first Feed when—'

‘Your father has a gift,' Rhonda Bye interrupted loudly, ignoring the scowl on Nana's face. ‘Indeed he does. A real feel. He knows how to reassure us of all our worries and troubles.' She wasn't that much younger than Nana or Mrs Kirkwooding but shopped for clothes in the same places Jenny and Sarah did, and only unconvincingly squeezed herself into them. She was tanned like marmalade. ‘I'm told your grandfather had the gift as well. You have a pair or two of large boots to fill, young man.'

‘He'll fill them,' Nana Dalry stated almost aggressively. ‘He's very much like both his grandfathers. The gift of the
Milmullens, but there's equal Dairy in him too.' She squinted at Mrs Bye mischievously. ‘He's got a look of my Alan about him, don't you think? You were in the same class at school with my Alan – you must remember.'

Not for one second was Rhonda Bye going to admit she was the same age as Tim's grandfather. She turned to her husband. ‘Tom might be a better judge.'

But Tom Bye looked pissed already. ‘Hmm?' He seemed both surprised and frightened to be included.

‘Maybe you could have a word with Sylvie,' Anne said to Nana, judiciously changing the subject.

‘That dreadful American woman?' Nana Dairy wasn't impressed.

‘She's upset about missing the Feed, having come all this way. Maybe you could explain to her what it is we do, and why. I think she'd appreciate learning more about the old traditions.'

Nana perked up immediately. ‘What a good idea. Shall we, Grace?' Mrs Kirkwooding followed her.

Tim smiled gratefully at his mother and let her steer him away. He liked Nana Dairy – she was always generous at Christmas and birthdays – but she could be a bit full on when it came to the Mourn. And when she got together with Mrs Kirkwooding, they were formidable. Twice this past summer they'd torn a strip off some poor, confused tourist for not being respectful enough during the Feed. He was amazed she'd not said anything to Mike and Sylvie already. But looking at her, he guessed she was just building up to it.

‘Where's Jenny disappeared to?' his mother asked. ‘I could do with a hand.'

Tim pretended to look around the room for her. ‘Is she upstairs?' He moved on before she could question him further.

He didn't get very far. These people had sticky fingers; sticking to his clothes, gluing themselves around his wrist, dragging him back towards them.

The librarian, Clive Tucker, was loud and effusive. ‘Mark my words. Great day for Moutonby.' He beamed at Tim from under his silver ‘tache, his thumbs tucked behind his shabby red braces, and rocked on his heels. ‘First Mourner of the new millennium. Big responsibility. Reckon you're up to it? We'll see, won't we? See if you're made of the same stuff your dad is.' He nodded once, emphatically. ‘Now, Henry's Carving in 1813 . . .?' He sighed like a happy man sliding into a warm bath. ‘What a day for the history books!' Tim hated history.

Mr and Mrs Hinton were hidden in the corner. They were the most timorous of the bunch, who usually left at the first polite opportunity (after eating only half a scone and drinking half a cup of tea, but full of mousy apologies). Yet today even they found the courage to tell him how eagerly they awaited his Carving.

‘We're both looking forward to it,' Mr Hinton said, not making eye contact.

His tiny wife nodded quickly. ‘Yes,' was all she dared say.

Tim smiled well, feigned gratitude like a professional,
even though in his head he was rattling at the bars of a cage. And he couldn't help thinking that these people were supposedly his army and his allies against the likes of Roddy Morgan. But just imagine if Roddy Morgan could see him now! He actually flinched away when the ninety-three-year-old, paper-thin, paper-dry Eileen Such tried to take his arm. He didn't want to be near these people. He wanted to be far, far away.

As soon as his father and Mr Gregory appeared, ruddy-faced and damp with spray after their row out to the middle of the lake, everyone's attention turned to them. The Fearful all wanted to praise and paw the two of them now. They all wanted to tell Bill how much they'd enjoyed the reading and how wonderful a Mourner he was. So Tim took full advantage and sneaked away. He heard Sylvie asking her husband if he was sure he'd got everything on film as he made a run for his stairs.

Sarah followed him. ‘Tim . . .?'

He knew he couldn't duck out of talking to her now, but he was halfway up the stairs and didn't want to stop in case he was spotted and dragged back down again. ‘Come on,' he said, maybe looking a touch more furtive than he should. ‘Come up to my room.' He kept taking the stairs two at a time.

‘Don't worry. It doesn't matter. Not if you're in such a hurry.'

He caught the underlying tone of her voice and reluctantly stopped, wanting to avoid any arguments if he could.
‘No, come on up. Please. I'm not being mardy; I just want to get as far away from that lot as I can.' She wasn't happy; she stared at her feet. ‘We need to talk anyway,' he said, trying to reassure her. But he still had to say please a second time before she acquiesced.

His bedroom was in no better state. ‘Erm, still a bit of a mess. I meant to tidy up last night, but . . .'

She shook her head – didn't matter. ‘You seem funny,' she said. ‘Is it because of yesterday?'

He didn't want to talk about yesterday. ‘I just had to get away from everybody. They make me feel, you know . . . They're such hard work all the time – and so
clingy
.'

‘Clingy?'

She didn't seem to understand, but when he met her eye she looked genuinely concerned. He held her gaze, wondering how much he could tell her. Keeping secrets could be a lonely thing to do. Maybe she was the right person to confide in; he needed someone to talk to, didn't he? He found himself really wanting her to understand.

‘It's the way they talk to me and want me to be best friends with them and everything. And they all seem to think they
know
me. I reckon they must think I'm somebody I'm not. It's like they've already decided who I am, even though I still haven't figured it out for myself yet.'

Sarah looked disappointingly bemused. He saw the light half-smile on her lips, which could be twisted into a quick grimace of sympathy if needed – she just wasn't sure what to do with it. She was trying; she wanted to know why he was acting weird. But she just wasn't getting it.

‘Wouldn't you rather be doing something else on a Saturday morning anyway?' he asked, changing tack.

‘What like?'

‘I don't know – drama club or something?'

‘
Drama
club?' She was becoming more confused by the second.

‘Well, yeah, anything like that, I suppose. There're kids at school who go to that drama club in town, aren't there? And there're lads who do footie practice or go swimming or something. Or go to the cinema; maybe just hang around the shops. But at least they're all together, having a laugh with their mates. We can't do any of that because every Saturday we have to have a Feed.'

‘We have to have a Feed, or—'

‘Yeah, I know. I know all that. It's just . . .' He wasn't all that sure he was making complete sense to himself now, but pushed on anyway. ‘I'm just worried that those people downstairs are going to be my only friends.'