LITMIR.BIZ

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was well advanced at home, with trees in full blossom and birds busy everywhere. Round here, everything seemed to be still waiting.

      Molly had switched her car engine off. A three-sided argument had developed between the tractor driver, a builder’s lorry, and a loud-mouthed youth on a red motorbike. “Sorry, folks,” she said cheerfully, opening her window. “A bit of local colour for you. That’s Tony Edge, our local Romeo.”

      “A great big scrape,” the boy was bawling at the lorry driver. “Have to be resprayed that will.” Then they heard, “Come off it, mate, you did it on purpose. I know your sort.”

      “Oh, he is ridiculous,” Molly muttered through her teeth. “As if the poor man meant to do it. Come on, Tony,” she shouted. “Move, will you. I’ve not got all day.” And she gave a sharp blast on the horn. At the sudden noise the young man jerked up his helmeted head and stared at the rusty old car ferociously. Colin was peering out of a side window, and their eyes met.

      There was something rather awful about Tony Edge’s face, though he was certainly handsome, tanned, with bold, even features, large eyes, and a good strong nose, and he’d recently grown a splendid moustache. No wonder all the village girls wanted to go out with him.

      But it was his eyes.

      Colin tried to outstare them, but he couldn’t. Something in that face forced him to drop his gaze and he peered down into his own hands, feeling vaguely foolish, not really understanding what was going on. He was shivering slightly, and his flesh tingled as if he’d just had a small electric shock. That awful stare had made their cousin’s cool, calculating look seem quite ordinary.

      He glanced at Oliver but all he could see was a narrow back. His cousin got dreadful car sickness. Perhaps he was taking this opportunity to vomit out of the window. Poor Oll.

      But Oliver was doing no such thing. He wasn’t interested in a slanging match between a village lout and a man in a lorry. He’d seen something much more interesting, and he wanted to take a photo of it.

      Oliver was often very secretive; he slid a small camera out of his pocket, pressed the “telephoto” button, and put it to his eye. His ignorant cousins would say it was only a sparrow, but Oliver thought that the small bird hopping in and out of the tangled hedge might be something much rarer. He breathed in, and clicked. It was the last film on the cartridge so he could get it developed quickly and sent off to his father. Just because they lived in London it didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in wildlife. He knew a lot more about birds than the Blakemans, anyway.

      Molly rammed her foot on the accelerator and they bumped noisily down the hill into Stang. The valley was quite large. Church, green, and duck pond formed the village centre but the road went on going down for some while, then turned up sharply, petering out in an old footpath called Coffin Lane. “There was a tax on salt in the old days,” Molly explained, “and they’re supposed to have smuggled it out of Stang in coffins along this track. Hence the name. I bet there were a lot of funerals!” At its lowest point the track bordered the edge of a deep pool called Blake’s Pit. This was the real heart of the village, she said, and several families still lived there, including the Edges, in houses above the water that clung for dear life to the steep valley sides.

      “It’s a grim old spot,” she muttered, turning in at a gateway. “Walk down later and have a look. Can’t say I’d fancy living there myself though. I like it up here, where the life is. Welcome to Elphins anyway, dears. Can you sort yourselves out? I’ll just go and find Rose, and I’ll bung the poodles in the shed for a bit, so you can bring your dog in.”

      “It’s the best house in the village,” Oliver said firmly. “My father said so.”

      “Elphins” was a rambling old place, black and white with a mouldy thatched roof in such bad repair it looked as if giant moths had eaten great holes in it. It was set well back from the road, in a tangled wilderness that must once have been a garden. Prill and Colin looked at it in dismay.

      “It obviously needs money spending on it,” Oliver said defensively, “But Molly’s not got any. That’s why she does bed and breakfast. Anyway, I like it.” And he lifted his suitcase out of the car and went up the path. The other two weren’t at all sure. Silently they manoeuvred their trunk out of the back and dumped it on the gravel. “You take that end,” said Colin. “It’s not too heavy.” But as they struggled with it he suddenly felt eyes on his back, and, glancing over his shoulder, he saw the face of Tony Edge staring across the road. The same strange feeling began to creep over him again, making him shiver.

      “Hang on,” he lied to Prill. “I’ve not got hold of it properly. Let’s put it down for a minute,” and he turned right round and gave the face a good stare. But it wasn’t Tony at all; this boy was younger, about thirteen, much squatter and more thickset, wearing an old donkey jacket and a dirty baseball cap. But the face was the same, and the same hard, dark eyes were boring into him, making his hands sweat. It was uncanny.

      “Look, have you got it?” Prill snapped. “Because I’m cold. . . Well, come on then.”

      All the time they were at the car the boy lolled against his fence, watching the proceedings with intense interest. Then the church clock struck six and he stood upright, straightened his cap, and stared up the road. But someone was coming towards them; he suddenly put his hands back in his pockets and slouched against the fence, watching.

      They saw the little figure creeping along, a small brown person enveloped in a dingy raincoat and carrying shopping. One hand held a plastic carrier with celery sticking out of the top, the other clutched the handles of an old-fashioned carpet bag.

      “Hello, Rose,” the boy called out. She stopped and looked up. Her hair was tucked out of sight inside a brown knitted pixie-hood that buttoned under her chin, and they saw a small oval face, smooth and freckled like an egg. It was hard to work out how old she was; she might have been twenty, thirty, or anything in between. “Want me to carry your bags then?” the boy hollered, and stepped forward.

      “No. . . no. . .” Rose stammered. The sad little face didn’t look anxious any more, it looked terrified. She started to run, but just outside Elphins the road was still cobbled and the ancient stones were loose and dangerous. Rose tripped and fell flat on her face. She clung grimly on to the carpet bag but the carrier landed on the cobbles. “Me eggs,” she whimpered. “All me eggs. Fresh today an’ all.”

      As the sticky yellow mess oozed out on to the road she started to cry. The boy by the fence laughed loudly. “That’s typical of you, Rose Salt,” he sneered. “You can’t even carry a bit of shopping home. Cheshire born and Cheshire bred, Strong in th’arm and weak in th’ead. That’s you.” And he set off, up the street. Rose, still spreadeagled on the stones, sobbed harder than ever.

      The two children were so taken aback they just stood by the car, goggling, but Rose’s wails had brought Molly out of the house. “It doesn’t matter at all, dear,” she said gently, helping Rose to her feet. “It wasn’t your fault. Come on in now, our visitors have arrived. And I saw you’d got tea ready, now that was clever of you, dear.” Then she called up the street in a very different voice. “As for you, Sid Edge, you’re Cheshire born too you know, just in case you’d forgotten. Thick as a brick, like all the Edge family,” she whispered to the two children, steering the sniffling Rose up the garden path.

      “Who is Rose Salt?” Colin asked Oliver, when they were getting ready for bed.

      “I don’t know. My father never mentioned her. I didn’t know she lived with Molly.”

      “I think she’s a bit weird.” Colin was jumping up and down as he pulled his pyjamas on. “This place is freezing. Do you think Molly would mind if I filled my hot-water bottle?”

      “Why should she?” Oliver was putting a pair of thick red socks on, to wear in bed. “She’s not the touchy type, you know.”

      “No, she’s nice. But what about Rose, Oll? She gives me the creeps. And why does she wear that funny hat all the time?

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