The Fearful (16 page)

Tim couldn't help but let his relief show. He was always pleased to see his Uncle Doug, but this . . . This was
perfect
timing.

‘How're you doing, Timmo?' He threw an arm around his nephew's shoulders, pulling him a couple of steps away from Roddy. ‘Having fun?'

‘
We
were,' Scott said.

Uncle Doug made a point of letting his grin slip. ‘Was I talking to you?'

‘I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow,' Tim said.

His uncle looked at his watch. ‘It is tomorrow – if you know what I mean.' He turned to Roddy. ‘So, let me introduce myself. I'm Tim's favourite uncle.' He held out his hand to Roddy. ‘I'm Doug. You can call me Mr Milmullen.'

Roddy looked unsure, glanced over his shoulder at Gully and Scott. He didn't want to look intimidated in front of his new-found friends, so took Doug's hand with a sneery grin.

‘Hello there.' Doug pumped Roddy's arm hard. Harder. ‘Good to meet you.' He didn't let go and he was squeezing hard. He made to take a step forward, stumbled accidentallyon-purpose, and pushed Roddy right to the edge of the pier.

Roddy let out a yelp, and windmilled his free arm, his weight pulling him over. His foot slipped – he was going in.

But Uncle Doug yanked him back to safety. Dragged him so forcefully that his knees crunched as he fell forward onto the wooden planks.

‘Whoa! Saved your life there, Big Guy.' Doug grinned down at him. ‘You owe me one.'

Roddy slowly got to his feet, glaring at the man, undisguised loathing darkening his eyes.

Uncle Doug included the others in his smile. ‘So, it's been a pleasure, but I've just driven all the way up from London and I'm gagging for a hot cup of tea. I'd invite you all to join me, but I've decided I don't like you. Pick your cans and fag ends up on your way off our property. Goodbye.'

Gully looked like he didn't have a clue what had just happened. ‘We're staying here,' he said. ‘In the guesthouse.'

‘Are you? Oh well, guess our Bill can't pick and choose his customers these days. But that should change soon, with any luck.'

Scott said, ‘Are you going to let us in, then?' And even now he still had that underlying edge to his voice.

‘Guess I'll have to if you're paying for the privilege.'

Without a word, but somehow not seeming to back down, Scott slouched back along the pier towards the house. Gully flicked the last of his cigarette into the water and sloped after him.

Roddy didn't want to go. He was the type who needed to have the last word in a situation like this. ‘See you at
school, Monster Boy.' But he was quick to scuttle away once he'd said it.

Uncle Doug watched them go without losing his smile for an instant. ‘Well, well, well,' he said to Tim. ‘Want to talk about it?'

‘Well . . . Not really.'

‘No worries.'

Tim started to collect the frozen bits of feed that had been dropped.

‘Just kick it in,' Doug told him, and booted the fox over the side.

As they walked back towards Mourn Home Tim said, ‘Don't tell Dad, will you?'

‘No need to worry about that, Tim, lad. We'll just tell him you woke up when you heard me clattering about letting myself in. He need never know, eh?'

‘It's just that . . . I don't think I'm exactly, you know, flavour of the month at the minute.'

Uncle Doug once again put his arm around his nephew's shoulders. ‘Timmo, believe me, I've kept darker secrets than this from my brother over the years.'

And Tim suddenly felt hopeful. Maybe he'd find an ally in Uncle Doug, someone to understand. He held onto that hope as they walked back along the pier.

‘
PERSONALLY, I THINK,
it's one of the best jobs I've ever had,' Uncle Doug proclaimed over Sunday dinner. They were eating in the family dining room, which was a rarity. It was bare and cold through lack of use; they were usually happier in the kitchen, and never used the guests' dining room. ‘I'm good at it too,' he said with a wry smile.

He'd insisted that they eat in here today because of his ‘surprise'. He said he wanted Old William to see it too, meaning the portrait hanging on the wall. It was a stately, morbid representation, which nobody in the family actually liked; it just hung there out of . . . tradition. The once ornate table was marked and the carpet was worn with years upon years of chair shuffling. The times when the Mourner of the day would use the room for entertaining local dignitaries were long gone. Only at Christmas had Tim ever seen the huge fireplace lit.

‘Most of the big chains use mystery customers: Pizza Hut, Wetherspoon's, Little Chef – you name it. I have to check out the restaurants right under the staff's noses, without letting them know that's what I'm doing. And then when I send off my receipt, I get my meal for free.'

Jenny was impressed. ‘Sounds cool.' Tim nodded his agreement.

‘Thank you, Jenny. I think so too. It's the nearest I'll ever get to being a secret agent, eh?' He winked and laughed. ‘But I'm one of the few people I know who lives off free lunches.'

There was an awkward silence from the other adults around the table. The chewing noises seemed especially loud.

At last Bill managed to say: ‘As long as you're happy, Doug.'

‘That I am, Bill. That I am.' He grinned at Tim, who beamed back at him.

‘Doesn't sound like a job with many prospects to me,' Nana Dalry said.

‘Mother,' Anne said in a strained voice, ‘I'm sure Doug knows what he's doing.'

Nana Dairy didn't answer but her knife and fork rattled loudly against her plate as she finished her meal. She sat up stiffly, looking at no one in particular. She wasn't Doug's biggest fan, never had been since he'd gone to live in London, her belief being that he'd left her daughter and son-in-law in the lurch when they'd needed him most.

‘No, no, you're right, Mrs Dalry,' Uncle Doug said. ‘No prospects whatsoever!'

Jenny also rattled her knife and fork, then sat up just as straight as Nana. ‘I still think it sounds cool.'

‘Jenny . . .' her mother warned, not wanting any kind of bickering today.

‘But I'll tell you what makes it such a good job,' Doug continued. ‘It's given me lots of time to do other things, to do something that I've been wanting to do for years.'

‘What's that?' Tim wanted to know.

‘That's my surprise.'

The family sat waiting. Even Nana deigned to look at him.

‘But I think we should have pudding first, don't you?'

Last night Tim had out and out decided that his uncle was a saviour and a hero. Not just because he'd kept secret what had happened out on the feeding pier (which had fortunately gone unnoticed by the rest of the family), but because he hoped Doug would understand what he was going through. He was the Milmullen who'd moved away, after all.

He was Bill's younger brother so he'd never had to worry about being the Mourner. He'd moved to London when Tim and Jenny were born, but drifted back occasionally for prolonged visits, seeing as he'd not been able to hold down a job for more than a couple of years at a time. Although he still wasn't married he'd introduced the family to Sophie, Claire and Isabelle separately over the years, each one proclaimed as the love of his life and the most important person in the world to him. But they'd only ever met each of these women once.

He almost always forgot birthdays, and Christmas presents could be a bit hit and miss. If he'd been working he was generous and seriously splashed out, but if his cash-flow
situation was a problem the present was perhaps a little more
imaginative
. This explained why Tim and Jenny had each received a top-notch DVD player two Christmases ago, but only complimentary toiletries from some London hotel the following year.

He was well over six feet and ludicrously gangly. He picked up his glass of wine now and somehow reeled it in on his fishing-rod arm to take a drink. Despite his current job, despite all he ate, he was a stick insect – ‘hollow legs' was Tim's mother's explanation – but he had enough good humour for someone three times his girth. And despite everything, the Milmullens were always pleased to have him around. It was difficult not to like the man.

Nana Dalry, however, wasn't a Milmullen. ‘I won't be staying for pudding, dear,' she said. ‘I have to be home.'

Anne rolled her eyes. ‘Mother, you have never had to be home on a Sunday afternoon.'

‘Well, perhaps today is different. Perhaps I've made arrangements with Grace Kirkwooding.'

‘We both know very well that Grace goes to her granddaughter's for Sunday dinner.'

Uncle Doug was shaking his head. ‘No one is allowed to leave, I'm afraid. Not even you, Mrs Dalry. I'm not letting anyone set foot outside this dining room until I've shown you my surprise.'

Nana Dalry made a humphing sound but stayed seated. Anne said, ‘I'd better hurry up with the pudding then, hadn't I? Or am I not allowed to leave the room to fetch it?'

‘Pudding's an exception,' Doug assured her.

Bill stood up. ‘I'll go. Jenny, will you collect the plates?' He moved through into the kitchen. Jenny followed.

Tim watched them both go, feeling a twinge of paranoia – worried they might talk about him. He'd felt nervy throughout the whole meal anyway, because this was the first time he'd had to face his sister since yesterday morning, and his father since Jack Spicer had caused trouble. In fact they'd all seemed to be treading on eggshells around each other, not wanting to be the one to start the seemingly unavoidable argument.

Tim had told Bill that he'd been reading the diaries, but all his father had offered in return was a nod and a gruff ‘Good'. Nana Dairy's ears had pricked up at the mention of them, however, and she'd prodded at him with a couple of pointed questions. There had been no way he was going to elaborate for her why he was suddenly interested in the books, so he had become as uncommunicative as Bill. He certainly didn't want a lecture on the tradition from her today.

Right now she was grumbling about her next-door neighbour's cat using her flowerbeds as a toilet.

‘Terrible, just terrible,' Uncle Doug sympathized. ‘But remember, Mrs Dalry, today's nuisance moggy could easily be tomorrow's feed.' He seemed disappointed when nobody laughed.

Bill and Jenny served the apple crumble. Tim tried to catch his sister's eye to see if she'd said anything, but either she didn't notice or was purposely not looking at him. So Tim scrutinized his father. Unfortunately, same as always, Bill's feelings were well hidden behind his beard.

They ate quietly.

Tim decided he'd talk to his uncle as soon as he could. Because maybe Doug would know what it was he should do. He wished he'd mentioned something last night about how he felt, and explained exactly what the problem with Roddy and the students was. But he was sure Uncle Doug would be on his side. And he'd talk to him straight away, immediately after dinner if possible. Tonight at the latest.

But then he remembered he couldn't do anything tonight, because Sarah would be here. He shovelled down his dessert as fast as he could, suddenly nervous that if somebody looked at him right now, right this very second, they'd guess what he was planning. Every time he thought of tonight he forgot everything else – so he thought about it as often as possible.

‘Fabulous, Annie,' Doug said, licking his spoon so clean he could see his face in it. ‘You know, if you weren't married to my brother, I'd ask you to be my slave.'

Tim's mother smiled. ‘Thank you, Douglas. You're very kind. But perhaps that's why you're not married.' She started to collect the dishes.

‘Sit down, sit down,' Doug told her. ‘Surprise time. Don't you
dare
move.'

He reached for the small haversack he'd stashed under his chair. ‘Ready?' Eyebrows raised theatrically, he made everybody wait that little bit longer, milking the situation like a magician about to make a rabbit appear. Nana Dalry tutted at him, but it only widened his grin.

With a single smooth flourish he produced a huge hardback book from the bag and thumped it down onto the table. It was so large it made the glasses in the middle jump and chink together. Tim and Jenny leaned closer; their mother twisted her head to see. Even Nana Dairy was curious now.

Only Bill stayed where he was, but his smile was easily as wide as his younger brother's. ‘This is it, then,' he said.

Uncle Doug puffed out his skinny chest. ‘It certainly is, William. It certainly is. You didn't believe I'd do it, did you?'

Tim couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his father look quite so happy. ‘But you've proved me wrong, Doug.' He even laughed.

Uncle Doug beamed.

Tim was amazed. On the glossy front cover of this tome was a photograph of their house, shrouded in an early morning mist, with Lake Mou looming just behind looking about ready to swallow the lot. The title
The Legend of the Hundredwaters
was written in embossed silver letters, and underneath: ‘The Story of the Mourn'. Then, slightly smaller, but still in silver: ‘Douglas Milmullen'.

‘You've written a book,' Jenny said, eyes wide.

‘About us?' Tim said in disbelief, not sure he liked the idea.

Uncle Doug nodded. ‘About all of us. Your granddad, my granddad, his granddad; all the way back to the old guy on the wall and 1699.' He pointed at the portrait of Old William. ‘That's why I wanted him to see it.' He even held
it up for the portrait to see. ‘It's not a copy of the diary; it's more a history of the last three hundred years. But it's especially about you and your dad right now.'

‘Wow,' Jenny said.

‘Indeed,' Uncle Doug agreed.