‘I’m so sorry, Sam, b’y.’ Emmett shakes his head. ‘I found me a good patch of partridgeberries over there.’ He points to a stand of bushes dotted with crimson berries. ‘I thought Becca was right behind me. Then Rupert starts barkin’ and fussin’, and then the next thing I knows she’s gone.’
Sam grasps the collar of Emmett’s jacket and hauls him to his feet. ‘Where was she the last time you saw her?’
Emmett points towards a clump of orange hawkweed near a stand of silver birches that border a dense wall of larches and thick-branched conifers. ‘Just there. She said she was pickin’ some flowers for her.’ Emmett jabs his finger at Sophie. ‘I’s looked everywhere, Sam. Been through the woods, alls the way down to Joe Gill’s field where he keeps that old horse.’
‘You couldn’t have looked everywhere or you’d have found her.’ Sam pulls his phone out of his back pocket and taps out a number. ‘Ace? Becca’s gone missing out by Pickersgill’s Woods. Get the boys together. Get here as soon as you can.’
‘It’s the fairies, Sam,’ Emmett says as he wipes at his wet face with his handkerchief. ‘The fairies musta taken her, just like they took that child down in Colinet all those years ago.’
***
Sophie picks her way through the bushes under the grasping branches of the larches. She calls out Becca’s name, even though she knows it’s fruitless. Becca could be just out of sight, around the next rock or fir tree, but she’d never hear the call.
Rupert lumbers past her, his muscular body and giant webbed feet smashing a path through the undergrowth. ‘Good boy, Rupert. Find Becca. You can do it.’
She follows Rupert through the scrub. How is it possible that she’s only been in Tippy’s Tickle for three days? The place has taken hold of her. She already feels closer to these islanders than any of the people she’s worked with for years. A fear grows inside of her. Bad things can’t possibly happen here. Not in this place. Not with these people. Her people.
‘Becca! Becca!’ she screams into the forest. She can’t stop herself.
After a few minutes the scrubby larches thin out and give way to a carpet of moss and green rootless liverworts where the branches of the firs and the spruce trees form an umbrella over the forest floor. A silence as thick as the moss engulfs her, broken only by the panting of the dog and the thud of its feet as it lopes deeper into the forest. The firs close around her like an enemy army. She squints into the shadows.
‘Rupert! Wait! Come back!’ She turns her ear in the direction Rupert has disappeared, but the forest has swallowed him just as it has swallowed Becca. ‘Rupert! Come here!’ But the dog is gone.
She stands on the moss, peering into the darkening forest. If she continues, she’ll get lost too. Becca. Becca. Where are you? She presses her hands to the top of her head and yells.
‘Becca! Rupert!’
The forest swallows her cries, smothering them in its velvet darkness. Her shoulders dropping in defeat, she turns and stumbles back to the clearing, following the path the dog’s huge paws have forged through the underbrush.
***
Florie enters the kitchen from the hall. ‘Any news yet?’
‘No, Florie,’ Ace says. ‘Sam’s still out with Zeb and Lloyd. Thor and I’s gotta get back to Wesleyville. We’ll come back tomorrow if we needs to. Just get Sam to call me.’ He pokes his brother on his shoulder. ‘C’mon, b’y. Sooner we go, sooner we can come back.’
Sophie watches the screen door slam behind them. Florie plods over to the coffee pot and pours herself a cup of coffee and joins Sophie at the kitchen table. Out by the tickle the motorcycles roar to life.
‘Finally gots Ellie asleep,’ Florie says as she yawns and rubs her eyes. ‘She’s right upset. Blames herself. Said it was a school day and she should never have let Emmy take Becca out.’
Sophie sets down her mug. ‘Emmett’s inconsolable. He’s locked himself in the store.’
‘That’s no place for him. He should be out there with the others lookin’ for her.’
Sophie sits back in her chair. She hadn’t wanted to say anything, but she couldn’t hold it any longer. The thought had been niggling at her all evening.
‘Florie, Emmett’s … okay, isn’t he?’
Florie jerks her head up. ‘What do you means by that?’
Sophie shifts in the chair. ‘I … I’m sorry, Florie. I just … He’d never do anything, would he?’
‘Are you saying he did something to Becca?’
‘No. Of course not. I just …’ Sophie presses her fingers against her temples. Bloody hell. Bloody hell. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was out of line. It’s just that—’
Florie pushes her chair away from the table with a loud scrape. She picks up four empty mugs and takes them over to the sink. ‘Those kinds of things might happen in the cities, but not out in these parts. Becca’s just wandered off, mark my words.’
Sophie nods. ‘Right. No doubt you’re absolutely right.’ Please God. Let her be right.
Chapter 26
Norwich, England – 14 March 1942
‘I hardly recognised you, maid. I was startin’ to think you slept in your uniform.’
Flashing Thomas a winning smile, Ellie brushes her hands against the full skirt of her jade-green tea dress. ‘I wasn’t working today, so I had a chance to wear something pretty for a change. Do you like it?’ She glances over at George, who is leaning against the bandstand beside her, rubbing his glasses with a handkerchief. ‘George hasn’t said a word.’
‘Well, then, George is blind as a bat.’ He holds out a hand. ‘You can’t pass up the chance of dance for St Patrick’s Day.’
‘I’m going to have a dance with Thomas, George.’
Thomas extends his hand. ‘Good to see you, b’y. Better put those glasses on before someone steals Ellie away while you’re not lookin’.’
George smiles lamely and shakes Thomas’s hand. ‘Hello, Tom. Ellie can dance with anyone she likes.’ He pats her clumsily on her shoulder. ‘She’s my girl.’
Charlie Murphy breaks through the crowd, ale sloshing over the tops of the two pint glasses he’s carrying. ‘Here you goes, b’y,’ he says as he thrusts a glass at Thomas.
‘Give it to George, b’y. I’m busy.’ He leads Ellie into the heaving sea of party-goers swinging to the band’s rendition of the latest Glenn Miller hit, ‘A String of Pearls’.
Charlie hands George the ale. ‘Down the hatch, b’y. Your shout next.’
George readjusts his glasses. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’ Taking a swig of the ale, he considers Ellie and Thomas swinging along to the bouncy tune. ‘Tom’s a good dancer.’
Charlie focuses on the laughing couple. ‘They gets on, those two.’ He gulps down half his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his uniform sleeve. ‘You don’t suppose anythin’s goin’ on with them, does you?’
George’s head snaps around. ‘Why should I think that?’