The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall (3 page)

As Mum bustles off, shyness crashes into my chest like a punch. Automatically, I reach for my mobile – but of course with no signal, all I'm going to get is sniggers from the boy opposite if I pretend to check stuff on it.

So
at first I act like I'm terribly interested in what's inside Mum's folder, taking out the Wilderwood Hall paperwork with trembling fingers. Fanning out the A4 sheets, I already know that the only one worth looking at is the floor plan of the building, which hides the fact that it's a broken-down antique dump and instead shows the basic layout, with the building as an L-shape.

The main house is the longer part of the L. On the ground floor is a huge entrance hall – the poshly named “vestibule” – and four equally huge stately rooms (which are a state in real life, Mum says). Directly above those, on the first floor, are six shabby-and-not-chic bedrooms. That – all of that, amazingly – will be “our” part of Wilderwood Hall when it's renovated.

The shorter part of the L is the East Wing, with the original Edwardian kitchens and pantries and stuff on the bottom, and the servants' quarters above. Mum says we're going to be more or less camping out in the servants' quarters for now, since that's the least wrecked part of the house. Later, when
it's
renovated, it'll be where our family and friends stay when they visit.

Not forgetting the bands who'll come to use the
recording
studio RJ is having built in the old stable block.

And that, of course, is Mum and RJ's Shiny New Plan. RJ will rent out the studios and produce music here, and bands will not only stay, but they can use the house and gardens for photo shoots and videos. That's the side of the business
Mum
will run, since she's had loads of experience of that kind of thing in her old job.

And while Mum and RJ are busy with all of that, I'll be in one or another of these random rooms, staring into space…

Speaking of staring, I've had my eyes glued to these sheets of paper for for ever, and Mum's
still
not back. What now?

I glance around, and see that there're a few newspapers and magazines stuffed in a rack by the door. If I lean over, I can just about reach for one… And amazingly, the first thing I see is
not
a
Woman's Weekly
from 1972, which I'd kind of expected 'cause of the decor in this place. It's actually a lot more current; it's this week's copy of
Heat
. I grab it, welcoming the distraction.

How old does he look?
I wonder, as I speed-flick past an article about a bloke from a reality show
who
has teeth so bleached they must glow in the dark.

I'm not thinking about the reality star, of course; it's the café's only other customer who's on my mind.

I risk a quick glance; the boy is leaning over, scratching behind the ear of one of the dogs. I notice a couple of thin, plaited leather bands tied around his skinny wrist. Those, along with the messy, fair hair and faded, worn jeans make him look more like a surfer boy from sunny Cornwall than a country “laddie” stuck in the deepest, darkest chilly Highlands of Scotland.

I reckon he's about my age, or maybe a year older? He's bound to be at Glenmill High, I realize. It's no wild guess, since that's the only secondary school for miles around, not counting some boarding school further north, somewhere even
more
remote from where we are. Both schools pinged up when I was googling the area. Out of the two of them, I guess I should be glad that Glenmill's where I'll be headed in two weeks' time, at the end of the holidays. But “glad” is not a word I feel like using about anything these days…

At that thought, I suddenly feel a sharp pang of longing for everything about my old school, and
quickly
drop my eyes back down towards the table, pretending to scan the pages of the magazine so no one can see the tears prickling my eyes.

The clamour of different accents; the terrible guess-what-meat-it's-supposed-to-be lunches; the rush to get the best benches at break time; my best friend Shaniya. How weird to think that she and the rest of the girls we hang out with will be doing the bench rush without me. Will they sit there with their crisps and energy bars and talk about me and my new life? Or will they forget me quick as—

Hold on. My fingers stop blindly flipping the pages and I backtrack to something that surprises me so much I forget to breathe.

“So the bad news is there's no wifi, but the good news is they do have
these
,” says Mum, plonking a tray down on the table, laden with our drinks – and two Tunnock's Teacakes.

I say nothing, but just gaze up at her in shock.

“Wow, Ellis,” says Mum as she pulls out the nearest chair and sits beside me. “I have never seen you less excited about your favourite-ever biscuit. Are you OK?”

I'm pretty much the
opposite
of OK, as Mum can clearly tell.

“
I think I can guess what Shaniya put on Instagram,” I say, moving the magazine around so Mum can see.

Her hand stops in mid-air, mid-reach for the teapot. She gasps.

'Cause there – on pages 19–20 of
Heat
– is Mum, in a series of sneaked photos. Taken on a long lens, she and an adoring RJ are seen milling around, kissing, hugging in their happy bubble (i.e.,
before
they knew the photographer had them in his sights).

“No way! Listen to this:
Indie rock veteran RJ Johnstone stunned fans with his secret marriage to a mystery woman
.” Mum reads out the blurb that accompanies the images. The corny, dramatic words make her burst out laughing in that deep, throaty way of hers. The ancient waitress and the boy in the corner immediately stare over at us. They're probably wondering how such a tiny, pretty person can have such a dirty-sounding cackle. (Yep, it was another reason RJ fell for Mum.)

“Oh, good grief! Have you checked
this
one out?” Mum exclaims, and taps her finger on the photo at the bottom of the page. A photo of a familiar-looking girl in a lacy white top and skinny jeans, clutching a drooping bunch of flowers.

Yep,
it's me, snapped being sick over the side of the boat. At least – thank you thank you thank you – my long brown hair hides my face. Now just
please
don't let Mum read out the caption that goes with it.

“What's this?
Oops! A boozy bridesmaid mars the rock 'n' roll wedding of White Star Line's RJ
,” she says in a voice that's a little too loud for my liking. “As if! You're a seasick thirteen-year-old, that's all! Can't they get their facts right?”

(Whirl, tilt, shift.)

I've had exactly the right amount of travel-sickness pills today, and have so far survived the epic ten-hour drive here with only a sense of dread and not the faintest hint of queasiness. But now my head is swirling, and despite sitting down, I feel like the ground is dipping and moving beneath me.

“Ellis? Are you all right?” says Mum, placing her slim, cool hand on my forehead, instantly concerned. She's been really protective of me since my freak-out on the boat last week. But I guess she's always protective of me, anytime I've had one.

“Listen, Mum, can we just go?” I plead.

Urgh, my obvious desperation lands us
more
stares from the waitress, the boy, and even the dogs.

“
Sure – of course,” she says, getting up from the chair. “Let me just pay for this and ask the waitress for directions to Wilderwood. OK?”

“OK,” I mutter, and get unsteadily to my feet. There's a window directly behind me, and if I turn to look out of it, I won't have to see our untouched snacks and anyone who happens to be staring over.

Instead, I can take in the uninspiring view of the main street of Glenmill – except for the fact that it's blocked by a flashy, big Range Rover. The funny thing is, it takes me a second to remember that the stupidly expensive, bulky car is
ours
. It was RJ's present to Mum before he left, since he didn't think our old, tiny Fiat would make it as far as the end of our road back in North London, never mind all the way up to Scotland.

It's also a
guilt
present, obviously, since the band's promo tour of Europe and beyond got moved forward by a fortnight and he had to leave us to fend for ourselves here in Nowheresville…

“Uh, hi,” says a voice right beside me. Oh; it's the boy. Nerves kick in and my breathing does its panic dance – shallow and fast.

Still, up this close, I can't help noticing three things about him: he's a little shorter than me
(
plenty of people are); round his neck is a leather cord necklace that matches the bands around his wrist; and his eyes are small and dark … darker than you'd expect, considering the lightness of his hair. They remind me of an animal's eyes. No, a
bird's
. They are definitely bird-like. In fact, he's staring at me like I'm a worm he's sizing up for dinner.

“So you're the new owners of Wilderwood?” he asks me straight out.

“I suppose so,” I mumble in reply, though I can't say I've thought of the mansion that way. It's RJ's, after all.

“Wow,
you're
brave,” the boy grins. “What did you think when you first saw the state it's in?”

“I – I haven't.” I stumble over my words. “I mean, I've never been.”

Neither has RJ. He bought Wilderwood Hall online, like book or a kettle or something. How crazy is that? I remember Mum telling me I had to do proper planning and research about my history project on the suffragettes, and yet in the time she and RJ have been together they've made every huge decision on the spur of the moment, like it's madly romantic instead of just plain mad.

“
Wow,” the boy says, and grins again. “Well, that's it over there. See?”

I look where he's pointing, expecting to see a random big building. But all that's in my line of vision is an untidy terrace of ancient, tiny houses on the other side of the street.

“Where?” I ask, confused.

“In the distance,” says the boy. “You can only really see a bit of the East Wing.”

Then I get it; above the chimney stacks, distant treetops sway in the wind. And visible in a gap in the trees is one pointed gable, with two small windows in it. Funnily enough, those windows look a little … well, a little like
eyes
. Glinting eyes that seem to be staring, staring across woodland, fields, rooftops, past soaring crows and skidding clouds. Staring past all that – straight at
me
.

With a whoosh and a rush, everything tips to one side, and I slip and sink into cool darkness…

When I wake, it's like coming up for air.

I rise from my sleepy depths and blink at the light streaming through the bare window. The room's walls are a faded pale blue … that and the white duvet and fluffy pillows piled on the big bed make me feel as if I'm bobbing in frothy white horses in some faraway salty sea.

And bobbing beside me – on a fat pillow – is a Tunnock's Teacake, in its shiny wrapper. Smiling at Mum's jokey gesture, I take a couple of slow, deep breaths, and try to place myself.

The bed, the chest of drawers, the soft, fluffy rug on the rough wooden floorboards … they're Mum's, but this isn't our cosy old flat. I'm in a rough-and-
ready
room on the first floor of the East Wing of Wilderwood Hall.

A glint of light on glass draws my gaze to the two framed photos propped up on the chest of drawers. One is of Mum cuddling me, aged three, the two of us damp and sandy after a dip in the sea, and now all bundled in a big towel on the beach. The other is Mum's favourite image from the wedding. It's a close-up of her hand resting in RJ's, the matching white star tattoos visible on each of their wrists.

Was it only two weeks ago since Mum and RJ got married? Time seems to be so … so
stretchy
lately. Since RJ rolled into our world and sent it spinning in a different direction, I mean.

Wonder how early or late it is?
I think and glance at my watch. Ten thirty? I've been asleep for hours and hours and
hours
… I mean, I remember Mum making me lie down for a nap on her bed as soon as the removal guys had set it up and she'd put the sheet and duvet and stuff on it.

Obviously, I must've slept through the rest of Day One at Wilderwood Hall. I slept though the furniture being clanked and thunked up the back stairs and shifted into the various rooms of the first-floor servants' quarters. So that means I also slept
my
way through the Tesco grocery delivery, the planned evening explore of the house and gardens with Mum, the whole, long night, in fact.

Swinging my legs out of the bed, I realize I'm still in yesterday's leggings and T-shirt. I spot my kicked-off trainers on the floor and shove my feet into them, since the bare floor's bound to be a girl trap of rubble, nails and splinters.