The Fearful (13 page)

‘I understand the nerves, Annie. But earlier I got the idea it's more than that.' Bill was helping unpack the shopping. ‘He was talking like Tom and Rhonda's son. Tim should be the last person talking like that. I told him he had to read Old William's diary. I've left the key to the
study for him on the shelf.' There was a pause. ‘Not that he's bothered to pick it up yet.'

Tim didn't know the full story behind why Tom and Rhonda Bye's son had stopped coming to the Feed. He'd always assumed Colin had simply decided the Mourn wasn't real, or that he couldn't take the constant mockery that Tim also suffered. So yes, maybe the two of them did talk alike.

‘Do you think you should speak to him?' Anne asked.

‘That's what I have been doing.'

‘You said you told him to read the diary.'

‘Old William's words are better than mine.'

‘Maybe. But wouldn't he rather hear things from you? It's daunting the amount of responsibility he's got to take on next week, especially at his age.'

‘I had to cope when I was only fifteen.'

‘I know that, Bill,' Anne said, with a small edginess that implied she'd heard the story many times before. ‘But you were lucky enough not to have the likes of Brian Brown or my mother pawing you every chance they got. Some of our friends are a lot to cope with at sixteen. And Tim has never been as bull-headed or stubborn as you.'

Bill sighed. ‘That's just the way it is – I can't change more than three hundred years of history just because he's a little sensitive. His skin will thicken.'

‘I know it will. I just wonder if that's such a good thing.'

Tim wasn't sure how that description made him feel. He'd never thought of himself as thin-skinned or sensitive. He found himself moving away from the stairs, sliding closer towards the gap in the door to hear more. He'd never really
considered that his parents might have a different view of him than he did of himself.

‘I can't bend the tradition any more than I already am,' Bill said. ‘My father would never have let me stay on at school. I would have been out the second I turned sixteen – if I hadn't already left.'

Anne was quiet.

‘Clive Tucker was pulling me up about it earlier, saying the Mourner should
only
be the Mourner, not a student as well.'

‘Well, that's all right for him to say.' Anne obviously wasn't impressed. She was back at the table, unpacking boxes of cornflakes and porridge, forcing Tim to slink back up one or two steps again. ‘He already has his high and mighty university education.'

‘He does have a point, though.'

‘Times have changed. I don't see what the problem would be with letting Tim continue his studies as long as he wants to. You're fit and healthy; you keep saying you're far too young to retire. I can't see you taking up painting or gardening to keep your idle hands busy, can you? You'll be doing just as much as you are now. I always thought Tim could lead us in the Feed every Saturday, while you carried on the duties during the week. Just until he's decided if he wants to go to university or not.'

‘And if he decides he does want to go to university?'

‘He can come back at weekends. If he chooses Leeds or York, even Lancashire, he can catch a train on a Friday evening and be home by—'

‘It's
not
a part-time job, Annie. The Mourner collects the feed; the Mourner keeps the lake and the town safe. How's he going to keep everyone safe when he's however many miles away getting pissed in the student bar?' Bill wasn't angry, but he was determined to make his point. ‘Look at the two students who are staying here. Bloody waste of space, the pair of them. Do you want him turning out like them?' The rustling of his waterproofs sounded agitated. ‘What are they doing here anyway? Shouldn't they be, you know,
studying
?'

‘It's Reading Week,' Anne told him.

‘Hmm. Then they should be reading, not playing silly buggers out on the lake, don't you think? Whichever way you look at it, Tim doesn't need university because he's the Mourner. Old William's diary can give him all the education he needs for that.'

‘All I'm saying is that I hope you realize Tim won't suddenly turn into you next Saturday. It might take him a little longer to get used to his new responsibilities.'

‘I'll be there for him every step of the way. Of course I will.'

‘He's got more of my side of the family in him than yours. Jenny got his share of Milmullen.'

‘She's inherited my stubborn bull-headedness, you mean?'

Anne laughed lightly. ‘I didn't mean—'

‘It makes me wonder why you ever married me.'

‘Keep guessing.'

Bill laughed as well.

‘Don't worry,' Anne said. ‘Tim will make you proud. It's thirty years since your Carving, and as you always say yourself, so much has changed. Kids are different these days; the world expects different things from them. Just give him his own time and he'll make us all proud.'

‘I know he will. I'm just concerned for the lad myself. Three hundred years is a lot to live up to and there are plenty of people in this town who would dearly love to see us fail.'

‘I'm sure he knows that too.'

Bill pecked her on the cheek noisily and rustled his way to the back door in his waterproofs. ‘I'm not sure what time I'll be back. Remind Tim about the key for me, would you?' Anne said she would and wished him goodbye. He headed out into the chilly day again.

Tim stayed where he was after the back door had closed again, listening to his mother unpack the rest of the shopping. He couldn't explain how all that his parents had said made him feel (and he'd never heard them talk so privately, so intimately before – which made him feel doubly weird). He
did
want to make his father proud, of course he did. But the only thing that would make Bill proud was the one thing Tim wasn't able to do. The whole situation left him feeling oddly claustrophobic. But maybe he could do it if he had proof it needed doing.

He waited a few moments more, then walked into the kitchen pretending he'd only just come downstairs.

‘Is Dad out?' he asked, keeping up the pretence.

Anne turned from the sink where she was filling the kettle.
‘Yes. But he's left the key to the study for you on the shelf by the fridge.'

‘Okay, thanks.' He wanted to ask her what she meant by calling him sensitive, and whether it was a problem to be labelled as such. He managed to push the thought quickly aside. ‘Which room is Mr Spicer in?' he asked instead. ‘Is it number seven?'

‘No, that's for your Uncle Doug when he comes tomorrow.
If
he comes tomorrow. Mr Spicer is in number six.'

‘Thanks.' He turned to go. He was worried if he stayed too long he'd betray the fact that he'd been spying.

‘But don't go bothering him if he doesn't want you hanging around.'

‘I won't.' He was half out the door to the hallway.

‘Don't forget the key.'

He hurried back to the shelf by the fridge. ‘Got it.'

‘And do you know where your sister's been hiding this morning? She promised to help me with the shopping.'

‘Did she go to Sarah's?' he asked, because it was easier than an outright lie.

He took the main stairs two at a time. He was quietly amazed that his mother could talk about him behind his back and not even show the slightest signs of guilt. It made him wonder how often she and Bill did it.

He knocked twice at the door of room six, but Jack Spicer was out. Tim pulled a face, narked, impatient. He considered the key in his hand. Maybe he should do as he was told and read the book.

He checked his watch to see that it was gone twelve – the
pubs were open. He decided that if Mr Spicer wasn't in his room he'd probably be at his other favourite haunt: the Dows Bridges.

The pub stood on the lake (rather than the town) side of the twin, humpbacked bridges that were its namesake. Originally the tollhouse for anyone travelling into Moutonby, it wasn't that much younger than its more extravagant cousin, Mourn Home. And although the owners, Bert and Agna, had done their best to clean up its act in the last year or so, a paint job and new menu couldn't hide the overall impression that soon enough it was going to teeter over the edge and crumble into the river Hurry only a couple of metres below. One lane of the bridges had had to be rebuilt after the so-called earthquake of 1908, but the pub itself had always clung on tenaciously. It wasn't a place any of the Milmullens frequented and it took a swallow of courage for Tim to step inside.

The recently re-decorated family room at the front of the pub was bright and welcoming, and the vibrantly red-headed Agna flitted between the handful of tables that were taken up by young couples with toddlers. Tim was able to hurry through unnoticed. He knew not to look for Mr Spicer here.

The old-fashioned lounge bar at the back was dim, smoky, and if not exactly chock-a-block, busy enough with grumbling old men nursing their warm pints at rickety wooden tables. Tim hovered at the door. Bert guarded the bar, watching him. Bert knew him; of course he did, and
knew he was under-age, but wouldn't say anything unless he tried to order a drink. Which he had no intention of doing. He just wanted to talk to Jack Spicer, who was sitting by himself at the window.

He weaved his way between the tables. ‘Mr Spicer?'

The elderly man looked up, surprised to see him. He had to be seventy, easily, but still had a decent head of silver hair and walked tall and upright, if not particularly quickly.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Spicer.'

‘There's not a problem back at Mourn Home, is there?'

Tim shook his head. ‘No, no. Everything's fine.' He meant with the building itself, obviously. The people who lived there, however . . . ‘I really don't want to disturb you if you're busy . . .'

‘I don't reckon I can remember the last time I was busy.' Jack Spicer smiled sardonically. ‘I'm not sure if you should be here, mind you. What do you reckon your mum might say if she catches you?'

Tim could only shrug.

Mr Spicer chuckled. ‘Sit down, lad. Can I get you a drink?'

‘No, it's okay, thanks. I'm not old enough anyway.'

‘Of course you're not. Of course. But what about a pop?' He pointed at the dregs in his pint glass. ‘Could do with a top-up myself anyway.' When Tim nodded he eased himself up from his chair like it was an effort to work his bones and headed for the bar.

Tim prickled with the stares of the other old men, but hoped it didn't show. Now he was here he wasn't sure how he was going to broach the subject with Mr Spicer. He had
to be careful asking because the old man was easily irritated – as Tim and Jenny had now and again discovered to their cost. But when he turned to the window next to the table he realized the old man had a good view of the river Hurry and the lake – just the same as his table at breakfast, and his room in Mourn Home. Jack Spicer was still looking too.

‘So what can I do you for?' The old man plonked a glass of Coke on the table, dribbling a splash of froth over the side. He tutted at the shaking of his hand as he sat down. He acknowledged Tim's thanks, sipped at his pint, then said: ‘I don't know whether I'm willing to provide you with an alibi.'

Tim was confused.

‘Twagging off school yesterday afternoon?'

Tim blushed, remembering being spotted when he'd tried to sneak home. ‘Oh, no. No. That's not . . .' He tried to hide his face as he took a gulp of Coke. ‘No.' He swallowed hard. ‘It's about the Mourn.'

‘Is it now?' Jack Spicer eyed him deliberately.

Tim wasn't sure where to go from here. ‘You've seen it,' he said awkwardly.

The old man nodded.

‘You were talking about it at breakfast yesterday.'

The old man nodded again.

‘I was . . . Well, I wondered . . .'

At last Mr Spicer helped him. ‘Surely you've heard the story many times before?' Perhaps it was meant as an admonishment, but Tim got the impression the old man was very willing to tell his tale again.

‘Not really. Dad's mentioned it, told lots of people about you and everything' – Jack Spicer smiled at this – ‘but I don't know
exactly
what happened.'

‘“Exactly”?'

Tim shrugged. ‘Well, yeah.'

The old man leaned back in his chair but never took his eyes off him. ‘I'm not one of your Fearful lot,' he said.

‘Oh, yeah, I know.' He took a breath, wanting to say the right thing. ‘I suppose that's what . . .' He struggled for what he supposed. ‘You're the only person who's seen it—'

‘Recently.'

‘Yeah, recently. So you believe in it, because you've seen it. My mum and dad never have, but . . . but they . . .'

‘But they run the whole shebang.'

Tim was nodding furiously. ‘Yes. Exactly. You come back all the time, and you never come to the Feed when you're here, you just always sit where you can see the lake.' He gestured at the table, the window. ‘You've never seen it again, have you? And yet you still keep coming back . . .'

Jack Spicer took a deep breath. ‘I'm only the most recent to see it, you know? Even your ancestor – Old William? – even he wasn't the first. He might have named it, but there'd been stories told by the fishermen of something in the water for a long, long time before that. There's always been stories about the lake.' He stopped and tutted at himself. ‘Your dad tells that side of it better than me.' His eyes flicked to the window, the scene beyond. Tim waited impatiently.

Eventually Jack Spicer said, ‘My story.' He turned his gaze on Tim again. ‘My story is, I've been coming back
every year for nigh on thirty years. Two big reasons – one not so big. I came here with my wife the first time, just for a short holiday. We wanted to walk in the hills. And we had a fine time. I certainly wasn't looking for the thing, but I saw it. I made two local papers, and one of the tabloids. I shared page three, but don't remember her name.' He smiled ruefully, took a drink. ‘My wife, Mary, she died not long after we went home and got back to work. I come back over and over because I can think of her, and of one of the last good, happy times we spent together.'