In Darkling Wood (2 page)

By the time the journey is over, I know not to call her Grandma or Nanny or Nan: her name is Nell. She doesn’t say anything about Dad, only that she hates hospitals. When I ask why, she pulls a face.

‘Yuk,’ she says. ‘Just yuk.’

The stinky dog is called Borage. He’s grey and shaggy and has doggy eyebrows, and he leans like a human when we take corners. So this is who I’m spending the next I-don’t-know-how-long with. Honestly, I’d have been far better off at home on my own.

We’ve driven two hours out of London to reach Nell’s house. It’s daylight now. The last few miles are on country lanes that actually have grass growing down the middle. I lose the signal on my phone. Things really don’t look promising.

Then the road splits into two. We take the right-hand part, which quickly turns into a track and
goes very steeply downhill. It carries on like this for a bone-shaking half a mile, then stops at a five-bar gate. The house is just beyond, surrounded by trees: both look really old. The building is made of grey stone, with funny arched windows and a front door so wide and dark it makes me think of castles. It’s called Darkling Cottage; the name’s nailed to the gate in brass letters. ‘Darkling’: it’s a funny word. Old-sounding.

‘Why’s it called that?’ I ask.

‘It gets its name from those woods.’ Nell points to the trees that surround the house on three sides. ‘Suits it, don’t you think?’

I don’t know. It sounds spooky to me.

‘Did Dad bring us to visit when we were little?’ I ask. ‘Because I don’t remember it if he did.’

‘No. He didn’t,’ she says.

As I open my mouth to ask ‘Why?’ Nell gets in there first.

‘You ask a lot of questions,’ she says.

I’d asked precisely two and a half.

‘Open the gate, will you?’ says Nell. ‘And let the dog out of the car.’

I do as she asks. Borage lollops off on great gangly legs, looking more like a baby horse than a dog.

Once Nell’s parked up, I get my bags and follow her round to the back of the house. It’s a fine, bright morning but the sun hasn’t reached here yet. Everything is still white with frost. I suppose the trees make it so shadowy; they come right up to the garden fence on all three sides. The garden itself looks well cared for, not like ours at home, which at the moment is ankle deep in dead leaves.

‘Do you like gardening?’ I say, then realise I’ve just asked another question.

Nell gets that same look she had when we talked about hospitals.

‘If I had a garden worth tending, yes,’ she says. ‘See there, where the ground’s lifted?’

She points to our side of the fence. All along it, the grass looks rough and lumpy, especially closest to the house.

‘Tree roots.’ She tosses her head as she says it, like she really hasn’t got time for all this. ‘If the blasted things grow any nearer to the house it’ll be dangerous.’

‘How?’

‘An old house like mine doesn’t have deep foundations, so if the tree roots grow too close and make the soil dry it causes the house to become unstable, you see. It’s called subsidence. The trees
themselves aren’t stable, either. All we’d need is a decent storm, and any one of them could come crashing down on the house.’

‘Oh,’ I say nervously. ‘Right.’

‘That’s the worst-case scenario of course, but they’re such a blasted nuisance, taking goodness from the soil and making everywhere so dark. That’s why I’ve decided to cut down the wood.’

‘You’re cutting down the
whole thing
?’

It seems a bit dramatic.

‘Don’t look so horrified,’ Nell says. ‘It’s only three acres of land –
my
land, I hasten to add.’

We stand silent, looking at the trees. They’re old and twisty and so tall I have to tip my head back to see them properly. Right at the top are crows’ nests; we’ve startled them. They fly above us, making a miserable croaking noise that sends a shiver through me.

‘You’re cold. Go on inside,’ says Nell, handing me the door key. ‘I’ll be in shortly for breakfast.’

Before I get a chance to ask which bedroom is mine, she’s striding off across the lawn.

Inside, the house feels really old. Unsure where to put myself, I dump my bags in the hallway. Nell’s right, it
is
dark in here – so dark I have to put the lights on.
More importantly, there’s no internet. No telly. And still no mobile signal, so I can’t call Lexie to see if she’s become a sister yet.

There are three massive downstairs rooms, all freezing cold and smelling of damp, and a kitchen that’s the size of a classroom. I settle in here; it’s got one of those old cookers you put coal into, which makes it the warmest room by a mile.

All morning, I keep the kitchen door propped open so I can hear the phone in the hall when Mum rings. Borage lies across my feet like a giant, hairy hot-water bottle. Time goes slower than slow. Yet my brain’s zipping about all over the place, and when I try to read a book or do homework I can’t concentrate on anything. In the end, I make Theo a get-well card on some paper I find in my schoolbag. At least now I’ve got something to take him when I visit. Not that I can draw, but he’ll like it because I’ve done it, though my T-rexes look more like killer pigs.

Finally Mum calls at just after two.

‘It’s all over,’ she says. ‘The operation went brilliantly. He’s such a brave chap.’

We both have a cry down the phone. It’s the relief, I suppose. Then Mum switches back into cheerful mode.

‘Are you okay?’ she says, sniffing back her tears.

‘I’m fine. Did you get hold of Dad?’

There’s a pause. ‘I’ve left him another message. He was probably in his workshop and didn’t hear the phone.’

I think of what Nell said about excuses. Now Mum’s making them
for
Dad, which, frankly, is weird.

‘How are things with Nell?’ Mum asks.

‘The house is really old. There’s no central heating or internet or anything.’

‘Oh heck,
really
?’

I don’t say much more because I don’t want her worrying, so it ends up with Mum babbling on. Maybe I’m a bit on edge but it’s like she’s trying too hard to sound normal.

The day drags on. There’s nothing to do here. Then there’s dinner. Nell takes something from the freezer and microwaves it on ‘high’. We end up with what looks like beef but it’s so rubbery I have to swallow it down with water. By the time Nell’s finished I’m not even halfway through mine.

‘You’re a picky eater, I see,’ she says. ‘Your father was fussy with food too …’

She stops like she’s caught herself out. Not that I want her to talk about Dad. Just the mention of him makes me want to kick something. How could he not answer his stupid phone, today of all days?

Nell sees I’m upset. She doesn’t say any more about the dinner I’ve barely touched and instead makes me a coffee with extra sugar.

‘I’ll be in the library doing paperwork,’ she says, and disappears.

For a while I sit, head in hands, feeling all sorts of miserable. Then there’s a shuffling under the table and Borage’s grey, whiskery snout rests on my knee. Outside, the wind makes a strange humming noise in the trees. I can’t imagine growing up here like Dad did, in a house miles from anywhere with no TV and no heating.

Right now, I can’t even imagine Dad. When he first went to Devon, I remember Mum crying and our recycling box being full of wine bottles. We saw him once a month at weekends, which felt weird. When Theo first got sick, I think we hoped Dad would come home. But he didn’t. He’d been gone two years by then and he had a girlfriend called Lara.
This summer they had a baby together, a little girl called Poppy. We haven’t met her yet, Theo and me, because since she’s been born our dad has been ever so, ever so busy.

Or, as Nell puts it, he started making excuses.

It’s nighttime now. I’m in bed wearing PJs, socks, two jumpers and the bobble hat that I knitted myself and am quite proud of. I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold in my life. Nell’s put me in the attic room at the very top of the house. It’s done up in this ancient-looking wallpaper that makes your eyes go funny because it’s line after line of yellow roses. There are no heaters in here. There’s not even a duvet. Instead, I’ve got blankets and stripy sheets and a narrow iron bed that looks like it’s out of
Oliver Twist.
It’s not exactly cosy.

Hospitals, on the other hand, are always warm. I wonder if Theo’s awake or asleep right now. Either way, Mum’ll be with him. Perhaps the hospital where Lexie’s mum is giving birth lets sisters on the ward, or maybe it’s only Kate’s partner who’s allowed. My mum gets to sleep on a sofa bed in Theo’s room: the
booklet from Cheetah Ward said so. And I’m glad he’s not alone, but it’s odd being here without them, like I’ve got this empty space all around me where usually there’s Theo and Mum.

In the end, I go downstairs in search of a hot-water bottle. But going through the cupboards all I find is dried pasta and dog food. There’s no sign of anything helpful. I can’t believe Nell doesn’t die of cold. Or starvation. Or both.

I’m about to give up and go upstairs when Borage starts scratching at the back door. I suppose he wants to go out.

‘Off you go then,’ I say, opening the door for him. ‘And don’t be long.’

But instead of going out he stands up on his hind legs, puts his paws on my shoulders and tries to lick my face.

‘Arrggh! Get off!’

His nose is in my hair and I’m panicking and laughing at the same time. What the heck is he
doing
? It almost knocks me off my feet. Then he drops down and he’s off across the lawn, looking like he’s got something in his mouth.

I wait on the doorstep. Somewhere in the dark, a fox barks. At least, I think that’s what it is. Perhaps it’s
a scream or a baby crying, I wouldn’t know. I can’t see a thing either. This darkness is total, not like at home where there’s streetlights and the sky’s purple so you can’t see the stars. Here it’s like staring into a hole.

Bit by bit my eyes get used to it. I can just about see as far as the fence, where the wood starts like a great big wall of black. There’s no sign of Borage though, and I get this sinking feeling that he’s found a rabbit or whatever it is dogs chase. I wait a bit longer. Hug myself because I’m getting cold again. He doesn’t appear. It’s then, as I tuck my hair behind my ears, that I realise I’m no longer wearing my bobble hat.

It could’ve come off inside the house. But then I think of how Borage went off across the lawn all pleased with himself. That pesky dog’s got it, that’s where it is.

I call to Borage but it gets lost against the noise the wind is making in the trees. It’s no good; I’m going to have to go looking for him. Stupid dog, I think as I stumble across the lawn. And stupid me for letting him out here in the first place. Nell won’t be happy if I’ve lost him. I’m beginning to wish I’d never got out of bed.

Finding the fence is easy enough. There should be a gate here somewhere; I saw one this morning. But it takes a bit of walking up and down before I find it. It’s
latched shut, though a dog Borage’s size could easily jump it so it wouldn’t hurt to look on the other side.

I hesitate.

The wood is darker than anything. What’s the point in looking when I won’t be able to see a thing? I might get lost. Or sprain my ankle.

Or something.

I’m not scared, though. Not as scared as I’ll be if I have to tell Nell I’ve lost her dog.

Taking a deep breath, I open the gate. It leads onto what feels like a path because the ground is smooth and flat, though it’s too dark to tell. Pretty quickly I’m fighting my way through brambles. They scratch at my hair and face, and when I put my arms up to protect myself they snag my jumper too. The path seems to run out, and I’m now walking blind into what feels like one gigantic hedge. It’s ridiculous. I stop, turn round, call Borage again. To my right, something rustles in the bushes. Thank goodness.

‘Good dog! Come on!’

I listen hard.

No dog comes bounding out of the dark. The rustling stops. I’m about to call again when I hear a crunch, the sound of footsteps on dead leaves. My heart starts to pound.

This is stupid. What am I doing here? Borage must know these woods inside out. He’ll find his way home.

Yet I fight the urge to run. I’m not a chicken. It’s only a load of old trees. Making myself breathe normally, I walk back towards the gate. I’m nearly there, nearly calm again, when to my left I see something white flicker between the trees. Quick as it appears, it’s gone.

There’s someone else in this wood.

My sensible self kicks in:
Go to bed. Get Nell
.

I rush at the gate. The latch won’t open. My fingers fumble and slip. ‘Come on, come on,’ I hiss under my breath.

At last the gate opens and I’m out on the lawn. It feels like safety, until I see the kitchen light is on and Nell silhouetted on the doorstep.

‘What are you doing, you silly girl!’ she cries.

As I get closer, I see she’s wearing old-man-style pyjamas. Her arms are folded across her chest.

I squeeze past her in the doorway.

‘Where’s Borage?’ she says.

‘I thought he wanted the toilet. He was scratching at the door and then he …’

‘So you let him outside, is that it?’

‘I didn’t know he would run off. But he took my hat and I went looking for him and …’

Nell raises her eyebrows.

‘… And I thought someone was out there,’ I say, realising how rubbish it sounds.

‘In the woods?’

I nod. My stupid eyes fill up.

She sighs. ‘It’s those frightful trees, that’s what spooked you. The sooner they’re cleared the better.’

Nell shouts Borage’s name and he appears almost immediately, going straight to his bed by the stove. There’s no sign of my lovely hat. Slamming the back door shut, Nell herds me up the stairs.

‘Now go to sleep,’ she says.

I’m glad to get into bed; I can cry now without anyone seeing. Pulling the blankets tight round me, I decide I hate it here. If I tell Mum tomorrow then perhaps she’ll come and get me. This makes me feel a tiny bit better.