He shook his head. He didn’t know why he was even thinking of such things. He’d never cared what the old man was called before; he had only made sure to avoid him. It wasn’t like him. Normally he’d be thinking about his Sunday dinner. He turned and scanned the graves. They were all around him now, as if they’d gathered in to block his way home. Down the hillside he could still see his mum in her Sunday frock, together with his friends’ mothers, their mouths all wagging but not a sound to be heard. She was a long way off. He turned back towards the house, wondering if he’d be able to spot the old man at a window, watching them but with nobody to talk to, and he noticed he wasn’t alone in the churchyard after all: there was a woman there too, dressed all in black, just like the old man. She had her back turned and was looking towards the house.
She was tall, the woman, and slender, and a veil was covering her hair, but he thought that it was long and dark, though he didn’t know why as he couldn’t really see it. She stood beneath one of the yew trees that surrounded the church. They were ancient things; they had been there for years and years, according to his mother, and they were heavy with thick old branches holding out their poisonous berries like offerings. He looked back at the woman. She wasn’t there any longer. Frank blinked.
There was a dark furrow in the tree’s trunk, a broken branch hanging loose. Together, the shape they made looked a little like a woman; it had only been an illusion. He had fired his imagination with Sam’s silly stories and now he was seeing things, just as he had before.
He forced himself to walk towards the tree. There was no reason to be afraid. It was just like monsters under the bed; he knew they weren’t real, but if he thought about them too hard he would end up lying awake, mistaking his breathing for theirs. There was a bench under the tree. There was writing on the back of it.
My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? Matthew 27:46
He pulled a face and backed away. That wasn’t a nice thing to write. Perhaps the vicar had chosen it, maybe while he was dreaming up another sermon about endurance. It didn’t feel that way, though. It seemed like the words had been there for a long time.
It was cold under the tree. Its shadow was sapping the warmth from the air. He looked at its fruit. His mum had told him about yew trees. Older than the church, and deadly; she said he must never ever eat any, not that he could see why he would. That was the reason for the church wall, she’d said, to keep people’s cattle from straying and eating the waxy needles. It was odd, but until then he’d thought the walls must be to keep the badness out, not to keep it in. Now there was Mire House. Was that something they’d wanted to keep out too?
His mother’s voice, raised and harsh, sounded like a curlew on the air. Frank whirled around and gave her a wave, seeing Mossy standing next to her, small and neat and good in his best clothes. He hurried across the tussocky grass, realising too late
that he’d stepped off the path. It was people’s graves he was walking on, the low mounds that must be hiding their bones. He grimaced and moved aside, edging by the back of the headstones, but it was no use; he couldn’t seem to keep clear of them. He tried not to see any of the names written upon them as he started to run.
*
The cake was not his mother’s finest. It was chocolate cake, but it looked beaten; the top sagged and the edges looked dense, as if someone had sat on it. He’d thought he could smell baking that morning but hadn’t dared ask what she was doing. There was usually afters, but he hadn’t expected his favourite. She knew he loved chocolate cake. On his birthday she’d decorate one with hard little silver balls she bought from the grocer. There were no silver balls on this cake – if there had been, they’d all roll inwards and gather in its sunken middle.
Everyone was sitting at the table, Dad and Mum and Mossy, and the cake stood between them. His mother was wearing her pinny and the silver cake slice she got for her wedding was raised in her hand. Mossy grinned and licked his lips and made slurping sounds, and it was then that Frank realised he wasn’t going to be allowed to have any.
She cut a big slice, extra wide, perhaps to compensate for its thinness. Frank could smell it, could see the thin layer of buttercream knifed through its middle. His mouth watered; he couldn’t help it. His mum had got out the good plates, the ones with the gold rims and little roses around the edge, the ones he and Mossy weren’t allowed to wash up on their own. She held one out for a moment before giving it to Mossy. He didn’t start in; he knew better than that.
She cut another slice and passed it to his dad, who grunted and sat forward in his seat. It wasn’t until then that she looked at him, her eyes sharp. ‘There’s cake for good boys,’ she said.
Dad looked up. He
had
started in, had a fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Now, Aggie,’ he said. ‘Let the—’
‘There’s cake for
good
boys,’ she said again, this time with emphasis, and Dad shut up. He knew when he could argue and when he couldn’t and this was one of those times he couldn’t. ‘Not for them as mess about. Not for them as plays silly buggers.’
Mossy, who had picked up his fork, looked at Frank, his eyes wide open. The sound of him catching his breath would almost have been funny under another circumstance, but not this one. Mum never swore. She told Dad off when he cursed, and if he did it on a Sunday, she’d slap his arm.
‘Not for them as – as climbs down walls, and does stupid things, and risks breaking their necks,’ she said, and this time her voice sounded funny and that was worse because she didn’t sound angry any longer. She sounded as if she was going to cry. She cut another slice of cake, balancing it with her thumb, and plopped it onto another plate. She picked it up and slammed it down in front of her own chair. She never slammed the good plates.
No one looked at each other. It was as if nobody knew what they were supposed to do. They had all stopped eating. Only Mum picked up her fork, cut a small piece quite delicately and deliberately, and held it in front of her mouth.
‘Mmm,’ she said, and that was it: her voice had broken some kind of spell. Suddenly Mossy kicked the table leg. He couldn’t seem to sit still. His cheeks were puffed out and air spurted between them. Dad made a choking sound in the back of his
throat, then burst out laughing. She clanked her fork down without taking a bite and pushed herself up and started to pile pots on top of each other.
‘Aggie – don’t,’ Dad said. He leaned back in his seat, tears pouring down his cheeks. Frank stared. ‘’E’s learned ’is lesson. Give t’ lad a piece.’
‘I most certainly will not,’ she said, and she turned and bustled towards the kitchen, her arms laden with dinner things.
Dad winked at Frank. ‘Tha’s done it now, lad,’ he said. ‘Tha’s done it now.’
Frank sat there in silence while Dad and Mossy laughed and ate their cake, completely stumped as to what it was he had done.
It was well into the afternoon when Frank came downstairs. Mossy hadn’t crowed over him because he’d had cake when Frank had had none, but then, he hadn’t had the chance. He peered into the sitting room, which his dad just called
the room
. He must have pulled the curtains to stop the glare of sunlight on the telly because it looked dark in there. His mum always complained when he did that; she said it was like a blackout. Frank didn’t know what that meant. Now his dad’s snores drifted from the direction of the settee. He didn’t know if Mossy was sleeping too or if he was just sitting there, all alone, in the dark.
Mum was in the kitchen and it was there that Frank went, pushing open the door very quietly to see her nodding at the table, her arms folded across her chest. The cake was on the side, underneath a wire cover to keep flies off.
He stood in front of her as she breathed deeply, dragging in the air and letting it go with a little
foof
. He could see the down on her cheek, the mole next to her lip, the eyebrows that were beginning to turn grey, catching up with the rest of her hair. She was older than his friend’s mothers. He wasn’t sure why, except that his dad sometimes joked about how
she’d insisted she wasn’t going to get married, that she was married to the farm already. It always seemed strange to Frank that it had been hers and not his dad’s, that she used to do everything all by herself. Then she spluttered and looked up. Her eyes focused and she started to smile, then she frowned again, as if she’d remembered she was supposed to be cross with him.
‘Mu-um.’
‘Yes, our Frank?’
‘I wondered—’ He paused. ‘I wondered if I could have a piece of cake, on’y it’s not for me, it’s for someone else.’
She raised her eyebrows in outrage. ‘Now don’t you dare tell me lies, Frank Watts. If you want cake, tell me you want cake. Don’t go pretending it’s for someone else or I’ll crown you.’
He flinched. ‘It’s not for me, honest. It’s for t’ owd man.’ He pointed, as if his mother could see down the lane and towards the mire from where she sat.
‘Really,’ he added, ‘it’s for ’im. It’s just, he was talkin’ to me t’ other day. Said he lives there all on ’is tod, and there’s no children, no nothing. She – his missus – died.’
His mother’s brow straightened. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I teld yer. ’E teld us.’
‘
Told
, Frank. He
told
you.’
‘Tha’s what I said.’
She pursed her lips. ‘E’s not friendly, yon.’ She said it like a challenge. ‘I’ve never known ’im ’ave a word to say to no one.’
Anyone
, thought Frank, but he didn’t say it out loud.
‘I took ’im a pie once, long time ago. ’E din’t want it.’
Frank sniffed. ‘Aye, well. Prob’ly not. Can on’y ask though, can’t I?’
‘An you’re not to call ’im t’
owd man
. ’E’ll barely be in ’is seventies, if that.’
Frank shrugged: it sounded ancient to him, an impossible age. He didn’t say anything, though, as his mum pushed herself to her feet. She did this as if she was supporting a great weight, and she sighed while she did it. She went over to the cake and lifted the cover and cut a slice. She put it onto a plate – one of the plain ones – and she sucked the chocolate from her thumb before holding it out. ‘You’re to tell
Mr Owens
I want me plate back,’ she said, and she sat down again at the table, heavily, and with more sighs. Then she looked up as if in surprise. ‘Still ’ere?’
*
As soon as Frank was outside, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done. But now he had the cake he had to keep on going. If he ate it himself, his mum would know. He walked down the lane, stepping carefully, feeling ridiculous. She should have covered it with something. Now it would be all dried up before he got there. Still, the old man probably wouldn’t know any different.
Mr Owens
, he thought.
His name is Mr Owens
.
He went in at the gate. It didn’t seem so bad falling under the shadow of the house now that he had a proper reason to be there. He marched up to the porch and knocked. The door was hard against his knuckles and he could imagine the dull sound being swallowed by the hollow rooms within. He didn’t suppose the old man had many visitors. He banged again, louder, and he waited. It felt like a long time before he heard something inside.
The door was yanked open and Frank found himself tilting forwards, as if he was going to fall. Mr Owens looked down at Frank and the plate and then back at Frank, and his expression, for a moment, was empty.
‘I brought you some cake, Mr Owens.’ Frank put on his best voice, his Sunday voice. ‘I thought you might like some. I – I asked me mum.’
The man stared at the cake, sniffing, as if he suspected it might actually be something else. ‘Cake, eh,’ he said.
Frank nodded vigorously. ‘Cake,’ he agreed.
‘Tha’d best come in, then. Watch yer feet.’
He took the plate and Frank followed him into the hall, kicking off his boots at the door like a proper visitor. His feet felt cold at once, and slippery, and he realised the hall had recently been mopped; it glistened with pools of water.
They went into the big room and Mr Owens settled into his wing-back chair, blowing out his cheeks as if the effort had pained him. He held up the cake. ‘Thank you,’ he said, forming the words carefully, as if he too was putting on a Sunday voice. He looked around as if a fork would materialise, and said, ‘Want some?’
Frank shook his head. ‘No, thank you. It’s fer you.’
Mr Owens nodded and tried to pick it up with his fingers. He licked buttercream from them and looked at Frank. ‘P’raps I’ll ’ave it later.’
‘I’m to tek t’ plate back. She said.’
He shrugged and started to eat, scooping rich chunks of cake into his mouth. Frank glanced around. He had thought the arrangement looked temporary before, as if the furniture had momentarily been pushed aside, but it was just the same now.
There was something he wanted to ask about, but he didn’t know how to begin.
‘Cat got yer tongue, lad?’
Frank took a deep breath. ‘I thought I saw a lady. At chu’ch. An’ in your garden. I thought I saw ’er twice.’
The man raised his eyebrows and went on scooping up cake. He was eating now as if he was hungry. He made a low grunting noise.
‘I dun’t think she were real.’
Mr Owens looked up sharply. His eyes were narrowed. He didn’t answer.
‘I wondered – I wondered, like, if it was—’ Frank’s words failed him. He shouldn’t be here; he shouldn’t have begun this subject. He was trespassing, any way he looked at it.
Mr Owens stopped chewing. Then he tossed his head and let out an odd rasping noise and Frank realised he was laughing. ‘Tha thinks it’s me missus.’ He put the last of the cake in his mouth and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if it was an effort. ‘Tha’s what tha thinks.’
‘Aye.’
‘It in’t.’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Tha should come an’ look at summat.’ Mr Owens picked up the crumb-filled plate but he didn’t give it to Frank. He balanced it, instead, on the arm of his chair. ‘Upstairs.’
Frank followed Mr Owens as he led the way back into the hall and up the stairs. He remembered the last time he’d walked up them and his face flushed, but Mr Owens didn’t appear to be thinking about that. He led the way, his unwashed smell trailing behind him, and Frank wished he hadn’t noticed it. It didn’t
seem polite to notice the smell of someone when he’d given them cake.