‘I did not like hearing him speak to you like that,’ he says gravely, and it’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him.
I change the subject.
* * *
A couple of days later, Dad drives George, Becky and me over to Theo’s house. I haven’t spoken much to George since his meltdown. He was very quiet when he returned to the house with Dad. Theo and I were out in the Yarn Barn so we missed him and Theo left soon afterwards. It was probably a good thing that Mum gave the phone to George rather than me when Theo called earlier. It gave the two of them a chance to clear the air.
It feels completely different visiting the Whittington residence now that Theo is a friend. I stare out of the window as Dad turns into the gate, driving slowly along the winding road surrounded by open fields. A herd of deer are lazing under the shade of a big oak tree. I would’ve missed them if it weren’t for the stag horns spanning majestically above the long grass.
‘Bloody hell,’ Becky murmurs from beside me when the house comes into view.
Built out of cream-coloured stone, with a myriad of windows reflecting the late afternoon sun, the large Elizabethan mansion is almost too breathtaking for words. The gardens are also out of this world: a yew hedge has been sculpted into interesting rounded shapes, and the rose garden before it is in full bloom, bursting with colour.
George, in the front, is silent.
Dad crunches to a stop on the gravel drive. The heavy wooden front door swings open and Theo comes out.
‘Don’t you have staff to open the door to visitors?’ Becky teases.
‘I’ve given them the night off,’ Theo replies with a grin.
I think he’s joking.
I lean forward to say goodbye to Dad, giving him a peck on his cheek. He’s picking us up at eleven tonight, which is about the latest he’ll stretch to these days.
‘Have fun!’ he calls from his open window as we make our way up the wide stone steps.
‘Ta,’ George replies, while Becky calls back: ‘Bye, Ivan, thanks for the lift!’
Theo stands aside to let us in as Dad waves and drives away.
‘Have you been playing pool all by yourself?’ Becky asks, seeing the long wooden stick Theo is holding.
‘Snooker,’ he replies.
‘Ooh, snooker,’ she says. ‘La dee dah.’
Theo rolls his eyes at her and shuts the heavy door behind us with a solid clunk. ‘I’m not being a twat. There’s a difference. Can you play?’ he asks George.
‘Only pool.’
‘Snooker’s easy to pick up.’
We’re standing in a huge hall, with highly polished dark-wood panelled walls. A double staircase winds up behind us, and above it, a large oil painting hangs on the wall. It features an opulently dressed man with a stern face and a grey wig.
‘I’m up for a game,’ I say.
‘Can we have a tour of your house first?’ Becky asks.
‘Er, sure,’ Theo replies equably.
He doesn’t take us everywhere, but he does show us his bedroom. It’s enormous, with dark wooden antique furniture and a four-poster bed that may be in keeping with the four-hundred-year-old-plus house but is completely alien in a teenage boy’s room.
Becky seems spellbound by the surroundings, but I feel cold. While Becky bounces on Theo’s bed and George studies another oil painting of an ugly old ancestor, I go and stare out of the huge window at the fields.
‘I love your view,’ I say to Theo softly. ‘You can see for miles.’
‘The window is my favourite thing about this room,’ he replies. ‘It’s the only thing I like, actually.’
I glance at him. ‘It’s a really nice house.’
‘Is it? I’d rather live at yours.’
‘It’s a little crowded at the moment,’ I whisper with a smile.
He shrugs. ‘I’d sleep in the Yarn Barn.’
‘Yarn Barn or Bunny Barn?’
‘Bunny Barn, actually. Fuck, I’d sleep in with the alpacas if that were my only option.’
I laugh and he grins at me.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Becky asks.
‘Come on, let’s go to the Games Room,’ Theo says instead of answering her. ‘You and George against Leah and me.’
George turns around and looks at us. I have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach as we make our way downstairs.
Chapter 21 Now
‘Tell me about your job at Forestry England,’ I say to George as we sit in the early evening sunshine outside the pub by the river.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asks.
‘What did you do there? How did you get the job?’
‘Well, I used to help grow and shape and care for forests, conserve homes for wildlife and build walking trails and things like that. As for how I got the job, I went from washing dishes to working in a garden centre, and from there to a tree nursery.’
‘Really?’ I smile at him.
He nods. ‘One day we had to deliver a bunch of trees to this big country house. I got talking to the groundskeeper – Ernie – and we hit it off. He was in his late seventies and very sprightly. Crazy salt-and-pepper hair and a big handlebar moustache. A real character,’ he tells me with a smile. ‘He said a position had come up on the estate and asked me if I wanted it.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Seventeen, but everyone thought I was older. Ernie took me under his wing. Trained me up, taught me about trees and the various diseases to look out for, and eventually he encouraged me to go back and finish my schooling.’
‘Did you?’
He nods. ‘It was hard work, but it paid off. Once I got the qualifications I needed, I could apply to work for Forestry England. Ernie was behind me the whole way.’
‘He sounds amazing.’
‘He is. We’re still close.’
‘Does he know about your history?’ About us?
He nods. ‘Over time, I told him everything. He was the one who encouraged me to come back here, actually.’
‘To tie up your loose ends?’
‘Mm,’ he replies shortly, picking up one of the menus he brought back from the bar.
I do the same and we fall silent.
The air is filled with the sound of chatter from the nearby tables and cars passing over the arched stone bridge. Sunlight is hitting the bridge and making the trees and grass look brilliantly green next to the dark water.
A memory comes back to me.
‘The water is like squid ink,’ I say, smiling across the table at him. ‘I’m a man of many molluscs,’ I add, quoting his words back.
He groans and hides behind the menu as I crack up laughing.
‘I can’t believe I said that,’ he moans.
‘It was funny!’ I insist.
‘I was trying to be,’ he admits.
‘It wasn’t all bad, was it?’
‘Of course it wasn’t.’ He puts the menu down. ‘I was in a bad place with what was happening with Sophie, but some parts of it were good. Really good.’ He scratches his arm, reminding me of what’s hidden beneath his shirt.
Impulsively, I reach across and take his wrist, pulling his arm across the table so I can study his tattoos. They’re very simple line drawings, each tattoo standing separately from the others. There’s a compass, with only the N marked on for North, I realise with a smile; an ink pen; and a silver birch tree.