Convalescence (8 page)

He threw out the rake again and started to drag. When he turned back to the shore to deposit another load of stinking blanketweed, he saw me still sitting on the bank.

“Are you still here? Go on, bugger off. I've got work to do. Can't spend all my time blathering to you.”

“Amy seems quite worried about him,” I said. It was stretching the truth, but it seemed to engage his attention again.

“Worried? Amy?”

I nodded. “She thinks something might have happened to him. Something…nasty.”

He frowned. “Well, him and Hughie were always getting the rough edge of old Mother Rogers's tongue…the old witch…always getting themselves into trouble.”

“He left too,” I said. “Hughie?”

“Damned right. As soon as he was old enough, he packed his bags. I ran him to the railway station.”

“You drive?”

“Motorcycle combination. Stowed his luggage in my sidecar and he rode pillion.”

“Did he say why he was leaving?”

“Christ! Who do you think you are, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Just curious, that's all.”

“Well remember what curiosity did to the cat.”

“So why
did
he leave?”

“Fell out with his mother, I think. He didn't tell me what the row was about, but it must have been serious for him to up and leave like that.”

“Where did he go?”

“I know he bought a ticket for Waterloo in London, but where he went after that is anybody's guess. All I know is that he's never showed his face down here again. Shame really. Hughie was okay. Always treated me fairly…as an equal. Unlike that little shit O'Herlihy.”

He turned back to his work.

I wasn't going to get any more out of him, so I got to my feet and started back to the house.

“You tell Amy,” he called after me, “that if she's worried about anything, anything at all, she should come and tell me all about it.”

“Do you love her?” I called back boldly.

The unpleasant smile crawled over his lips again. “Yeah,” he called, “something like that.”

As I was walking back through the trees I heard a car crunching over the gravel drive. I stepped out from the trees and saw Mrs. Rogers's Mini sweep around the side of the house towards the garage. Mrs. Ebbage was unlocking the kitchen door, Amy beside her, holding two brown-paper carrier bags.

I wanted to call out to her but didn't want to get her into trouble. Instead I went back to the summerhouse and the
Eagle
annual.

I sat down in my deck chair, opened the book and my jaw dropped.

Dan Dare's chiseled features had been obscured by orange crayon. In fact, all the panels had been defaced in a similar fashion. I looked frantically around me but I was alone in the summerhouse. “You want me to help you,” I said aloud. “But how? How can I help?”

The pages of the annual began to flip over, as if unseen hands were turning them. After a few seconds they stopped, and I looked down at the pages that now lay open in front of me.

More orange crayon—more scribble—but this time the letters
TB
were written large across the two pages.

TB
—tuberculosis. Was this why he was making contact with me? Did he know that it was tuberculosis that killed my family and nearly killed me?

“Tuberculosis,” I said aloud. “Is that what you had? But how can I help you now?”

The annual slammed shut and was ripped from my grasp. It flew across the summerhouse, crashing into one of the windows and sliding to the floor.

“Oh, very helpful, very grown up,” I said.

I picked the book up, tucked it under my arm and went back to the house without looking back.

Neither my uncle nor Mrs. Rogers was present at dinner that evening. After missing both breakfast and lunch, I devoured in record time the meal Amy set down before me.

“My, you were hungry,” she said as she took my plate.

“He made contact with me again,” I said.

“Michael?”

I nodded.

“When?”

“This afternoon in the summerhouse. And there was last night.”

“But how?” she said.

I heard someone approaching from the hallway.

“Not now,” I whispered. “Meet me in the library later.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry I'm late for dinner, Jimmy,” Mrs. Rogers said as she swept into the dining room. “I had to attend to some business for your uncle.” She stared at the dirty plate Amy was holding. “Ah, I see you've eaten. Good. I'm glad my tardiness didn't spoil your meal.”

“It was very nice,” I said, not sure if she was being sarcastic. “Pork chops.”

She sat down opposite me. “It sounds lovely. Perhaps, Amy,” she said without looking at her, “you'll fetch mine now.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Amy said and scurried back to the kitchen.

“Your uncle sends his apologies but he won't be joining us tonight. He has some important work to attend to, so he'll be in his rooms.”

“It's all right. He must be a busy man.”

“Indeed he is, Jimmy. Indeed he is.”

When Amy returned she was carrying two plates—one containing Mrs. Rogers's pork chops, the other a delicious-looking slice of apple pie smothered in rich yellow custard.

She laid the plates down in front of us. “I asked cook to give you extra custard,” she whispered as she set mine down.

“Thanks.”

“Yes, well, that will be all for now, Amy. I won't be having dessert tonight, so come back in half an hour or so to collect our plates.”

Amy inclined her head and went back to the kitchen.

Mrs. Rogers sliced a piece of pork from her chop and popped it into her mouth, chewing assiduously. She swallowed. “My, that's good. Mrs. Ebbage has surpassed herself.”

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Now, Jimmy, I think it's high time we had a chat.”

I looked at her uncertainly. “Okay,” I said.

“So, tell me, are you starting to settle in here?”

I nodded. “I think so,” I said.

“Teething problems,” she said. “That business yesterday, when I found you in the west wing. I can understand your desire to explore your new surroundings. It's quite natural for a boy of your age, but I think your uncle made it very clear when he said the west wing was out of bounds.”

“Yes, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

She waved away my apology. “I won't mention it again, so long as we're clear.”

“Yes,” I said. “We're clear.”

“Splendid. Perhaps we can play cards after dinner?”

“Actually, I'm a little tired tonight. I was going to the library to read before I go to bed.”

“And that's fine too. Sensible, in fact. What are you reading?”

“It's a book by Geoffrey Trease—
No Boats on Bannermere
.”

“Really,” she said. “I don't think I've ever read that one.”

“It's about a brother and his younger sister who go to live in the Lake District, where they find the skeletons of Vikings and a hoard of buried treasure.”

“My word,” she said. “That sounds exciting…a bit too rich for my blood, I'm afraid. I'm a big fan of Barbara Cartland. Have you ever read anything by her?”

I shook my head.

“No, I suppose you wouldn't. Not really your cup of tea, I suspect. Lots of romance and kissing.”

I pulled a face.

“Yes, as I thought. Far better to stick with your Vikings and buried treasure.”

The conversation continued in a similar vein for another twenty minutes or so. Eventually she stopped eating, crossed her knife and fork, and laid them on her plate.

“Well, I'm sure you don't want to sit here listening to an old woman prattle on. Get on to the library with you and read your book.”

I started to rise from the table, but she laid a hand across my arm. “Thank you, Jimmy, for sitting with me. My son, Hughie, and I used to take all our meals together. Much nicer than dining alone. Come and see me for your tablets before you turn in for the night.”

“Yes, yes I will. I won't be too late.” I feigned a yawn and left the dining room.

I left
Bannermere
in my room and took the
Eagle
annual down to the library. There was no sign yet of Amy and so I sat down in my uncle's wingback chair to wait for her.

About thirty minutes later the library door opened and Amy slipped into the room.

“Sorry I took so long. Mrs. Ebbage had me tidying up the pantry. It seemed to take forever.” She pulled up a footstool and sat down next to me. “So tell me, what did Michael say?”

“He didn't say anything. He just did this.” I handed her the
Eagle
annual.

She took the book and rested it on her knees.

“Go on, open it.”

She opened the book and started flicking through it, glancing at me every now and then, her eyes growing wider with each turn of the page. She reached the end of the book. “But why would he do such a thing?”

“Go back.”

“What do you mean?”

I reached down and started flicking back through the annual until I found the pages he had written on. “You see?
TB.
He's written
TB
—tuberculosis. Do you think he knows that's why I'm here?”

She stared down at the pages for a long moment.

Eventually she said, “Did you look at the pages he's written on? I mean
really
look at them. Not at the letters, but what's underneath them.”

I took the annual back from her. On the pages Michael had written was an article, “Sporting Heroes of Our Time”. It pictured various sportsmen—Billy Wright, England's soccer captain from a few years back, John Surtees, the racing driver, and a few others—all had been scored through with the crayon. All except one. “That one hasn't been scribbled on,” I said.

“That's what I meant,” she said.

The picture left unscathed was of the England cricket player Dennis Compton. An action shot of Compton at the crease, bat raised, striking the ball for four. The caption underneath the picture had been scribbled out.

“Your uncle played cricket, didn't he?”

“Yes,” I said, “and for England once.”

“So maybe
TB
has nothing to do with your illness,” Amy said. “
TB
, Jimmy. Maybe he's trying to show you your uncle—Thomas Bentley.”

It hadn't occurred to me before. “You might be on to something,” I said. “Perhaps Michael's trying to get a message to him. Perhaps he's in danger of some kind. But why would he try to make contact with him through me? Why not try to contact uncle directly?”

I thought about this for a moment. “Maybe he can't. Maybe I'm the only one he can make contact with.”

“It could be that you've been so ill, so close to death,” Amy said. “I've been racking my brains about it since you first told me about him appearing to you. As I told you, we were very close, so why hasn't he appeared to me before?”

I shook my head.

“I'll tell you. It's because I'm fit and strong, that's why. Perhaps your illness has made you susceptible, more open.”

We tossed theories around for another half an hour.

Finally I said, “I'm going to have to go up, or Mrs. Rogers is going to come in here to see what I'm doing.”

“Yes, you're right,” she said and got to her feet. “I'm going to turn in myself.”

She leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek. “Good night, Jimmy. Sleep tight,” she said.

I felt myself blushing. “Yeah,” I said, “you too.”

And then she had gone, leaving me rubbing my cheek and wishing I were older.

Despite the questions racing around my mind, sleep came easily, probably the result of having lain awake the night before.

When the music woke me, I roused so suddenly it took several minutes before I could get my bearings. I finally sloughed of the last vestiges of sleep, got out of bed and threw on some clothes—tee-shirt, shorts and plimsolls. I grabbed my penlight and shoved it into my pocket, and then I left the room.

The music that seemed so loud in my bedroom was strangely muted out here on the landing. I walked towards the end of the landing and the corridor, but the farther I moved away from my room, the quieter the music became.

It had almost become inaudible before I turned and retraced my steps.

Back in my room the music was back at its original volume. Stupidly I checked my transistor radio, but it was switched off and there was nothing coming from its speaker. The music was coming from the window.

It was a sultry night and I had opened the window before I went to bed. Now there was a slight breeze rippling the net curtains. I went across, pushed the nets aside and stuck my head out into the night. As the music continued to play, my gaze swept the garden, finally alighting on the summerhouse.

It looked as it had looked earlier, with one difference. Coming from the inside I could see a faint glow of milky light.

I left my bedroom and crept downstairs to the dining room. The French doors were locked but the key had been left in the latch. I twisted it sharply and pushed open one of the doors. Seconds later I was out in the garden and padding across the grass to the summerhouse.

As I entered the building the music stopped.

“Right, I'm here,” I said. “Now tell me what you want.”

The light was brighter inside the summerhouse, but I couldn't see its source. There were no lamps—no lights of any description—but it was bright enough to see every inch of the summerhouse's interior.

My deck chair was where I had left it, as was the bamboo table. Apart from those, the summerhouse was empty. I looked about me for the source of the music but there was nothing.

Outside, a summer storm was approaching. I had already heard one distant peal of thunder, and now a wind was starting to stir the flowers in the beds, blowing the lupins over to one side and rippling through the ornamental grasses.