Season of Secrets (10 page)

 

 

 

 

Grandpa brings us back from Dad's. All the way back,
I expect Grandma to be angry with us and I think
Grandpa does too, because he says, “It wasn't their fault,
Edie,” almost as soon as we come through the door.

Grandma runs her hand through her hair.

“I'm sure it wasn't,” she says grimly. Then she sees
Hannah's face. “Oh, come on, Miss,” she says. “Looks
like we've got you for a while longer. Let's see if we can
keep the new kitchen set in one piece, eh?”

 

But Hannah doesn't smash anything else.

It's November now and the nights are drawing in.
Every day it's getting darker. If my man's right, that
means the Holly King's getting stronger. Since we
came back from Dad's, everything has been heavier
and duller. Even the sky is heavy – grey clouds, with
grey sky behind them.

Dad only comes to visit us twice in all of
November. He doesn't stay in the house long – I think
he's frightened of what Grandma might say to him.
They've hardly spoken since our weekend at home.
He doesn't take us anywhere interesting instead,
though. We go and have fish and chips by the sea in
Alnmouth once and we go for a walk round the village
the other time – the same boring walk we always do
when we come to Grandma and Grandpa's.

Hannah doesn't fight and she doesn't break
anything, but she droops. When Dad talks to her, she
pulls away. Twice, when we're out together, she starts
crying for no reason at all.

I don't cry. I haven't forgiven Dad either, but I can't
say so. Not after what happened last time, I can't.
Dads are supposed to love you whatever you do, but
maybe that bit of Dad has broken, if he can send us
back here after one fight. What if one day we fight
and he just runs to our house in Newcastle and never
comes back home?

I start to dream about the Holly King. He's
snuffling round the house at night. He's bringing the
winter. He sends icicles down the chimney and frost
creeping up the walls of the house. He blows through
the cracks in the doors and taps on the glass of my
window. He's trying to get in.

I read a lot. I finish all the Secret Seven books and
start on a series about mysteries. Grandma complains
about how much it's costing her to order them all for
me and aren't there enough books in the library
already? But I've read all the Enid Blytons and
Jacqueline Wilsons in Hexham Library, so what am I
supposed to do? I help Grandpa in the shop.

I get very slightly taller.

December comes.

 

 

 

 

Christmas cards have started appearing through the
door. Hannah and I write one for everyone in school.

“What about Dad?” I say.

“Dads don't get Christmas cards,” Hannah says.
She's writing furiously, leaning over the table with her
head bent over her card. I look over her shoulder.

 

 

“You're not sending that!” I say.

“Of course I am,” says Hannah. She puts the card in
the envelope, licks it, and writes SWAMP on the back.

“Sealed with a mashed pea,” she explains. She looks
at the card thoughtfully. “Or mashed poo, perhaps
. . .
”

“Dad,” I say. “Can we send one to Dad? He sends
Grandpa and Grandma one.”

Hannah scowls at me across the table.

“Grandma and Grandpa and Dad don't live with
each other,” she says. “Yes? And we ought to live with
Dad, only we don't. And we don't want Dad to think
that's OK, so we won't send him Christmas cards,
because not sending Christmas cards is what you do
to people you're supposed to live with. OK?”

“OK,” I say.

Hannah nods.

“Right,” she says, and starts drawing little poos
over the back of her envelope.

 

I half-expect Dad to send us a Christmas card, but he
doesn't even send one to Grandpa and Grandma.

Who knows what that means?

 

You'd think Josh would be angry when he got a card
like Hannah's, but he just laughs.

“Read mine,” he says.

We all gather round Hannah as she reads it.

 

 

Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noel, Fröhliche Weihnachten, Feliz Navidad

This card is sold in aid of Save the Children.

 

I get a funny feeling in my stomach as I read the card.

“What's page three?” I say.

“It comes after page two,” says Matthew. He laughs.

“Creep,” says Hannah. “It's in
The Sun
. It's got
naked girls on it.”

Hannah doesn't get angry about her card either.
She reads it again and smiles. Then she puts it in her
pencil case.

I wonder if I'll ever understand my sister.

 

Christmas coming brings more things to worry about.
I ask Grandpa, “We will have stockings, won't we?”

“Course you will,” says Grandpa. He's unpacking a
big box of tins. “Put those on the shelf, will you,
love? I'll tell Father Christmas specially.”

I squash the tins on to the shelf, then come back to
the counter. There's a sticker on the till with some
useless barcode on it. I pick at it, trying to get it off
without leaving marks on the plastic. I know Father
Christmas isn't real. I know it's your mum really.

“Dad's got our stockings, though.”

“He can bring them.”

I pull at the sticker, trying not to leave marks on the
till.

“He
is
coming for Christmas, isn't he?”

Grandma's balanced on top of a stepladder,
pinning Christmas things to the top of the shelves.
She looks round, arms full of tinsel.

“Molly Alice,” she says. “For pity's sake! Of course
he's coming. Where else would he go?”

But I still worry.

 

We have a real Christmas tree, from Emily's parents'
farm. There are piles of presents already under it –
loads more than usual.

“Sympathy presents,” says Hannah. “Try and look
sadder next time someone comes round to visit and
we might get some more.”

We have more people to buy for this year too. We
have another trip to Hexham with Auntie Meg. I get:

Grandma – posh chutney and a fridge magnet with
Grandmothers Are Perfect
on it, in the hope she takes the
hint.

Grandpa – a bow tie with purple polka dots to
make him laugh.

Hannah – a punch bag to beat up instead of me or
Josh.

Dad – a photo frame with last year's school photo
in it, so he doesn't forget who we are.

We get a witch doll with stripy tights for Miss
Shelley and a box of chocolates for Mrs Angus because,
Hannah says, “If you give grown-ups sweets, they have
to offer them round. So not those – I don't like fudge.
Get those.”

I have loads of pocket money saved because there's
nothing to buy here except sweets, and Grandpa gives
us those for free. I buy a woolly hat and box of
chocolate Santas for my man – just in case.

 

 

 

 

I'm turning the Yale lock on the back door as slowly
and quietly as I dare. Grandma's in the shop, and she's
got sharp ears. I'm not allowed out on my own after
dark, which means I'm not allowed out at all in the
evenings now.

I pull the door open; quietly, quietly. Someone
laughs in the shop and I slide out under their noise,
pulling the door shut behind me. Free!

I've got a torch, and the spare key in my pocket. And
I'm not going far. I just want to leave my Christmas
presents for my man – just in case he came back.

 

The moon is out over the hills, pale and thin, with a
huge, frosty ring. The sky is a deep, dark blue. I'm not
frightened. There are shimmery beginnings of frost on
the grass and a sort of witchy-magic in the air and sky,
which fills me up with excitement. It's the sort of
night me and Mum like best.

His house sits low and mysterious under the dusky
sky. Like it's hiding a secret. My heart starts beating
faster. He couldn't have come back, could he? Just in
time for Christmas?

No. He couldn't.

The barn is empty. The oak tree looms over the
floor and out of the hole in the barn roof, branches
reaching out for the open air. I go and touch it. It's
cold. The wood is dry and dark.

Is it dead?

I don't know.

I put my presents down and sit on a bag of
concrete, I rest my head on my knees and wrap my
arms around my legs.

“I wish you'd come back,” I say. “From wherever
you are.”

Nothing happens.

I scratch around in the earth with the sharp end of
a bit of rock. I try and draw a full moon but it just
looks like a circle. I make it a head and give it horns
and round eyes.

It looks stupid.

I turn the horns into leaves, growing out of the
head. I draw long twigs shooting out of where the
person's nose would be, if he had a nose.

Above my head, the branches of the oak tree rustle.

I draw a gravestone around the person. Underneath
the grave, I draw a woman with long hair. I make the
hair longer until she's buried underneath it, like
Sleeping Beauty.

She looks like she's been scribbled out. Or like she's
buried alive.

“Can dead people come back and visit?” I say, out
loud.

The oak tree shivers. The branches move in
complicated welcome, or warning.

A hand reaches forward and covers mine.

“Who's dead?” he says.