in the region of the last hedge. There was a hiss in the air. And the next second, Jack Sydenham’s ridiculous trilby hat lifted from his head and went spinning through the air, to land six feet away on the sand.
He was so startled, he let go of her wrists. They both stared at the hat, in mutual amazement. There wasn’t a breath of wind to have moved the hat so mysteriously.
Finally, Jack Sydenham took a step forward, then another, and picked the hat up.
‘There’s a hole in it,’ he said stupidly. ‘Two holes. One in each side.’
‘That’ll teach you to lay hands on my mother,’ called a clear young voice. And there was Timothy walking down the beach, with that appalling long black air-pistol in his hand. And Jane was just behind him, fixing Jack Sydenham with her most ferocious glare.
‘You young toy,’ roared Jack Sydenham. ‘That was a good hat. That was my best bloody hat. Cost me twelve quid . . .’ He closed in on Timothy.
The air-pistol came up in Timothy’s hand, quite unwavering. Pointing at Jack Sydenham’s nose. Rose stared horrified at the black hole in the end of it; she was sure it was loaded again.
So was Jack Sydenham. At least he stopped in his tracks and changed his bluster.
‘Have you got a licence for that thing? I’ll have the police on you . . .’
‘Please do,’ said Timothy. ‘Then I can tell them how you manhandled my mother. Common assault. If not indecent assault, eh, Jane? And three witnesses against one. You haven’t got a prayer, chum.’
His eyes and Jack Sydenham’s locked a long time. Then Timothy said, ‘I should push off, if I were you. While you still can.’
Jack Sydenham made a noise that was halfway between a yell and a groan. Then he was striding away up the path, away from the sea. Timothy watched him till he was well away, then turned and took careful aim at a can with a yellow label, lying on the sand among the seaweed, twenty yards away. The air-pistol chugged again, and the can leapt a yard in the air.
An icy hand clutched Rose’s vitals. Dear God, it had been loaded! And she had seen her son’s finger tighten on the trigger!
‘Timothy,’ she said faintly.
‘What?’ he said, very offhanded, loading again, and closing one eye, firing and making the can jump again. And again. And again.
‘Timothy, I don’t think you ought to have that gun. Not till you’re older.’
‘Would you rather have been raped, dear little Mummy dear?’
‘Timothy!’
‘We saw him from the village,’ said Jane. ‘We saw him following you down the path. We knew he was up to no good. So we ran back to the cottage and got Tim’s gun. We ran like hell all the way.’
Rose’s heart moved within her. It was the idea of them running like hell all the way. They stared at her, young faces full of concern, and she knew suddenly how much they loved her. Traitorous tears started in her eyes, and she knew she just couldn’t be stern enough to get the gun off Tim. It would be so ungracious to try. It would be punishing virtue, and she could never punish virtue.
‘He wasn’t after me,’ she said. ‘He was after Sepp Yaxley’s book. The one I found. The one that upset Mr. Gotobed.’
‘There’s something very odd about that book,’ said Tim, still quite cool. ‘I shall have to have a good close look at it. Meanwhile,’ he added, ‘Mr. Gotobed’s wheelbarrow is still sitting unguarded in the middle of the village. If somebody nicks it, we are in trouble.’
And the next second, to shouts of ‘Ta-ra’ they had taken to their heels up the path.
Rose followed, very shaken all of a sudden. Full of recent memories of love and hate that swept over her like waves. Jack Sydenham’s hate, her children’s love. She mustn’t underestimate either.
She must do something to soothe her nerves. She must do something to break the spell of this utterly strange place.
She would go and shop in Cley. It would do her good.
Six
Cley did her good at first. People said good morning in Cley, or at least nodded in a friendly way if you passed them in the street. The shopkeepers smiled and called her madam. Nobody thought her a monster. She bought yogurts and quiches and pasties and postcards of the church, and even more Coke for Mr. Gotobed, in case the kids coaxed him back.