Skull in the Wood (4 page)

It was then I heard it. In the distance, a low rhythmic sound, almost like a train, though even I know you don't get trains in the middle of Dartmoor. Especially not in the sky.

I looked up, and saw several dark shapes flying past, way up high in the air. Geese, big ones, black against the moon. The beat of their wings grew louder, and they were honking away, or whatever it is geese do. It was sort of eerie. I watched them disappear into the night, feeling cold to my bone marrow. The sound held on the wind, growing higher and higher, then faded away.

Everything was silent now – horribly, creepily silent in a way you never get in a city. I found myself missing the non-stop noise of London, wishing desperately that I was back there, even though it didn't really feel like home any more now that Paul had moved in. Then a cloud passed over the moon, and suddenly I was in darkness. The rocks in front of me seemed to grow about ten feet. The path disappeared. I could hear myself breathing way too fast. What an idiot I was for not having brought a torch, I thought. With shaking fingers I held up my phone and its feeble light.

It must have been a minute or two before the moon
cleared and my heart rate slowed. I didn't waste any time in heading back down the path, though I managed not to run. But I admit I wanted to, pretty badly.

Uncle Jack was still on the sofa, dead to the world, and Tilda hadn't come back yet. I tried to have a bath in the freezing bathroom upstairs, but the water ran cold before it reached about ten centimetres. In the end I gave up and sloped off to bed. To be honest, I was totally done in.

Even though I'd turned my nose up at it earlier, I was quite glad of the crochet cover because it was freezing in my room too. There was an ancient radiator but it didn't seem to be pumping out any heat. In the end I put my socks back on, and a jumper over my pyjamas. I lay there shivering for a while, listening to the sounds outside. First an owl – I'd never heard a real one before but you can't mistake it. Then something flying over, making a huge racket – a sort of low honking bark. More geese, I supposed, like the ones I'd just seen up on the tor. That, or a huge pack of flying dogs. Everything was blurring together now. And in seconds I was asleep.

4

Tilda

A
Sunday's no different on a farm – you still have to get up and feed the animals, but that obviously hadn't occurred to Matt. His door was firmly shut.
Making sure of his beauty sleep
, I thought crossly. I gave Jez her food and a bit of a cuddle. Then I put out mash for the chickies and wheat for the geese, and changed their water and saw to the puppies. Finally I came back inside to get the breakfast ready.

It's times like this when I really miss Mum. She used to cook us bacon and eggs on Sundays, sometimes with pancakes and maple syrup. There was always a fire in the grate and Radio 4 in the
background, and she'd make a point of taking us out on nature walks even though Dad usually had to do stuff on the farm. Since she died, a lot of that's been up to me, and I'm not much good at any of it. Dad says I am, but I know he's just trying to make me feel all right.

Anyway, I thought I'd impress him and scramble some eggs. Some of the hens are still laying well, even though it's nearly November now. I sell quite a few at the farm gate when we have a glut, to make a bit of extra pocket money, along with sweet peas in the summer – Mum's favourite. I wished she could have seen them this year. But then, I wished a lot of stuff, all the time. I wished she'd stayed home that day of the accident. Nothing was fair. The worst thing of all was that I was finding it harder and harder to remember her face any more. But it was no use feeling sorry for myself – I had to be strong for Dad and Kitty.

This morning Kitty was eager-beavering away in the kitchen and she helped me get everything ready. Then Dad came in, starving as usual because he'd been out in the fields. I got the eggs to a perfect consistency, not too hard, not too soft, and doled them out. City boy hadn't bothered to make an appearance yet, but I put his on a plate, too. If he couldn't get up on time he could just eat it cold.

I was glad I'd found an excuse to disappear last night with my friend Amy, and today I decided that the less I saw of Matt the better. Then Dad hit me with it: Matt was asking about Old Scratch Wood, so I was to take him out and show him around – no wriggling out of it. I said I was busy, but Dad wasn't having any arguments. He did his super-stern face and said it was either that or no pocket money, so I knew there was no point moaning.

It wasn't till we were finishing up our coffee that city boy showed. No apology or anything – he just walked in, yawning, sat down at the table and said hi. Like he expected someone to jump up and run around after him. Well, it wasn't going to be me.

‘Your breakfast is over there,' Dad said, pointing at the range.

Matt looked a bit surprised but went and collected his eggs – nicely congealed, I noted. Dad said he was sorry but he had to go out again, and was Kitty going to help him?

‘Are you mucking out the chickies?' she said.

‘Only the best jobs for you, darling,' said Dad, and she jumped up and shot out of the door after him.

So now it was just Matt and me. Great.

‘Apparently I've got to take you to Old Scratch
Wood,' I said.

Matt sounded bored. ‘Don't strain yourself,' he said. ‘I'm not that interested.'

‘Well, Dad told me you were really keen. He says I've got to show you around now you're here. It'll have to be later, though. I've got stuff to do. Farms take a lot of work. Speaking of which, there's plenty of washing-up.' And I left him to the dishes.

Round about midday, I shoved together a couple of pasties, some apples and a bar of chocolate. Then I had an idea. I ran upstairs, pulled something out from the back of the wardrobe and stuffed it into my rucksack. I smiled to myself.

Jez knew she was going on a walk – she's superintelligent like that – and started barking away, so I went to get Matt. He was sitting in his bedroom staring out the window. Pathetic. But he came down when I called him, and he even asked if he could borrow Dad's spare boots. I'd been kind of hoping he'd forget – the moor would have completely ruined his precious trainers.

We left the puppies for Dad to walk – they're just too much of a handful right now. They've got so big, and they're not properly trained like Jez is, because they'll be acting as a pack when they go off to the
Hunt. Dad quite likes having them, all the same – he says it's only neighbourly, what with the kennels being so near.

Gabe was hanging around again as we went out. I tried to give him the swerve but he headed straight towards us with his pitchfork in his hand, like the grim reaper or something. He had his music on and I could hear the tinny sound of Black Sabbath, the rubbish old heavy metal band that seems to be the only thing he ever plays.

‘Hi Gabe,' I said cheerily. ‘How's Alba getting on with the salsa dancing?'

This was a bit cheeky of me, I knew. Gabe's wife Alba has started going out twice a week to the village hall in a short skirt and it's been driving Gabe mad. He didn't take the bait, though.

‘I know where you're off to, Tilda Parson,' he said, taking out his earbuds. ‘And I know perfectly well you don't pay any attention to what I say. You haven't got the sense you were born with.'

‘Don't panic,' I said, stifling a giggle. ‘We're just going to look round the edge, and then we're coming straight back.'

He stared at me, then put the earbuds back in and shambled off towards the back yard.

Matt wasn't looking happy as we trudged through the front gate and out on to the moor. I bet he really hates walking. He probably spends all his time on the smelly old Underground.

It's quite a long way to Old Scratch Wood. We went past Long Field on the farm track, then the field that isn't ours any more, with Far Field behind it. I asked Matt if he wanted to see the sheep, but he wasn't interested, so we crossed over the road that goes to Widecombe and on to the bridle path that cuts round Thieves' Tor. I'm used to going everywhere on foot with Jez, but Matt kept moaning about it, asking me how long till we got there, like a kid in the back of a car. He's so annoying.

The moor's fine so long as you know where you're going and stick to the footpaths, but only if it's good weather. Loads of people have got lost when the fog's come down, and frozen to death, or strayed into mires and been sucked down under the mud. Dad says, ‘Pay the moor respect, and she'll let you alone,' and insists I always carry a compass. I told Matt this, and he laughed his head off.

‘Yeah, well, if you're so clever, take a landmark now and we'll see how well it holds up,' I said.

Matt shrugged and locked on to the road behind us
and the tor in front to get his bearings. Then I led him over a few hillocks and off the bridle path. We tramped through the soggy tangle of bracken and stunted gorse bushes. They were blooming yellow even though it was late in the year.

‘Kissing still going strong, then,' I said, and then felt my cheeks turn hot as Matt stared at me.

‘
When the gorse is not in bloom, then kissing's not in fashion
,' I mumbled. ‘It's an old country saying. Don't you know anything?'

‘Sorry, I must have been away when they did turnip-farming at school,' said Matt.

‘OK, then, tell me where we've just come from?'

Matt turned round. The road had disappeared from view behind the hillocks. It looked as if we were miles from anywhere. He glanced at the tor, then did a double take. There were now two tors in the distance. The stacks of grey stone rose up on either side of us, and the bridle path was nowhere to be seen.

‘Wow,' said Matt. ‘That's pretty strange. I could have sworn that was the tor we were aiming at.' He pointed to the right-hand one. ‘But I don't know. Wait. There must be traffic, surely.'

We both listened. No cars. The wind whistled round our ears. Small birds twittered from hiding
places among the heather stalks. Jez sniffed around, but didn't find anything.

‘That way,' Matt hazarded. I laughed.

‘Wrong,' I said. ‘That's our tor over there – the higher, fatter one. That's Thieves' Tor. The other one is Hunting Horn Tor. The road's back over there.'

Even I couldn't find the path we had left, so I led him all the way up to the grey stone stacks. The road reappeared down below, exactly where I had said it was.

‘Point taken,' Matt mumbled.

‘Wait until the fog comes down,' I said. ‘Then it doesn't matter how many landmarks you have, you've no chance of finding your way. Unless you've got Jez with you, of course. She knows everywhere round here.'

‘So you fall into a bog and if you don't die of hypothermia, you wake up to find you're looking straight into the red eyes of the Hound of the Baskervilles,' said Matt. ‘I know. I've seen Sherlock Holmes on the telly.'

‘Exactly. So pay attention.'

Matt glanced at me, suddenly serious.

‘Do you think it's OK to go to Old Scratch Wood, then?' he asked.

‘Of course it is.' I looked at him. ‘Why? Gabe's got you rattled, has he?' I started to laugh. The idea was hilarious.

‘Yeah, all right,' he said. ‘Maybe it
is
sort of stupid. But this place creeps me out. There's something strange about it . . .'

What a total killjoy. ‘Oh, get over yourself,' I said. ‘Stop being such a wuss. Anyway, it's another half an hour to Old Scratch Wood, so save your breath, you'll be needing it.'

We walked on for a while, Jez nosing around ahead of us. Matt looked really hacked off, but he didn't have a choice – he was far too much of a townie to find his own way home. I was having a good time, though. For late October, it was great weather, cold and bright and clear. I love the moor even when it's raining – you can still see birds and animals if you know where to look – but days like this are brilliant. All over the place clumps of dead bracken were glowing orange in the faint sun.

Far away across the moor, a horn sounded two long blasts.

‘Wow, the Hunt must be out,' I said. ‘What a perfect day for it.'

Matt stared at me as if I was mad. I turned my back
on him and scanned the horizon for riders. Nothing – they must be too far off. Shame. But maybe a good thing too – Matt would only have been snotty about it. I whistled to Jez and tramped on.

When Old Scratch Wood finally appeared, it was a grey-purple mist on the side of a valley with a rushing stream at the bottom. You can just see it in the distance from the back of our house, but up close it's really strange. As we drew nearer, the mist formed into a tight mass of leafless trees, silver against the grey sky. For some reason, we both slowed our steps and began walking on the narrow footpath at the side of the valley. Even Jez quietened down, suddenly glued to my heel.