III

The streets of Burnt Yarley were virtually deserted, the shops all closed. Even the little sweetshop, where Will had hoped he might soothe his frustration and his dry throat with an ice cream, was locked up. He peered in through the window, cupping his hands around his face. The interior was as small as the facade suggested, but packed to the rafters with goods, some clearly targeted at the ramblers and hikers who passed through the town: postcards, maps, even knapsacks. Curiosity satisfied, Will wandered on to the bridge. It wasn’t large—a span of maybe twelve feet—and built of the same gray stone as the tiny cottages in its immediate vicinity. He sat on the low wall and peered down into the river. The summer had been dry, and there was presently little more than a stream creeping between the rocks below, but the banks were fringed with marsh marigolds and clumps of balsam. There were bees around the balsam in their dozens. Will watched them warily, ready to retreat if one winged its way toward him.

“It’s all stupid,” he muttered.

“What is?” said somebody at his back.

He turned round, and found not one but two pairs of eyes upon him. The speaker, a fair-haired, fair-skinned, and presently heavily freckled girl a little older than himself, was standing at the rise of the bridge, while her companion squatted against the wall opposite Will and picked his nose. The boy was plainly her brother; they had in common broad, plain features and grave, gray eyes. But while she still looked to be in her Sunday best, her sibling was a mess, his clothes winded and grimy, his mouth stained with berry juice. He stared at Will with a scowl.

“What’s stupid?” the girl said again.

“This place.”

“ ’Tisn’t,” said the boy. “You’re stupid.”

“Hush up, Sherwood,” the girl said.

“Sherwood?” said Will.

“Yeah, Sherwood,” came the boy’s defiant reply. He scrambled to his feet as if ready for a fight, his legs scabby with old scrapes. His belligerence lasted ten seconds. Then he said, “I want to go play somewhere else.” His interest in the stranger had plainly already waned. “Come on, Frannie.”

“That’s not my real name,” the girl put in, before Will could remark upon it. “It’s Frances.”

“Sherwood’s a daft name,” Will said.

“Oh yeah?” said Sherwood.

“Yeah.”

“So who are you?” Frannie wanted to know.

“He’s the Rabjohns kid,” scabby-kneed Sherwood said.

“How’d you know that?” Will demanded.

Sherwood shrugged. “I heard,” he said with a mischievous little smile, “ ’cause I listen.”

Frannie laughed. “The things you hear,” she said.

Sherwood giggled, pleased to be appreciated: “The things I hear,” he said, his voice sing song as he repeated the phrase.

“The things I hear, the things I hear.”

“Knowing somebody’s name isn’t so clever,” Will replied.

“I know more than that.”

“Like?”

“Like you came from Manchester, and you had a brother only he’s dead.” He spoke the D-word with relish. “And your dad’s a teacher.” He glanced at his sister. “Frannie says she hates teachers.”

“Well he’s not a teacher,” Will shot back.

 “What is he then?” Frannie wanted to know.

“He’s . . . he’s a doctor of philosophy.” It sounded like a fine boast and for a moment it silenced his audience. Then Frannie said, “Is he really a doctor?” She had unerringly gone to the part of his father’s nomenclature Will had never really understood. He put a brave face on his incomprehension. “Sort of,” he said. “He makes people better by . . . by writing books.”

“That’s stupid,” Sherwood said, crowing the word that had begun their whole exchange. He started to laugh at how ridiculous this was.

“I don’t care what you think,” Will said, putting on his best sneer. “Anybody who lives in this dump has got to be the biggest stupid person I ever saw. That’s what you are—” Sherwood had turned his back on Will and was spitting over the bridge. Will gave up on him and marched off back toward the house.

“Wait—” he heard Frannie say.

“Frannie,” Sherwood whined, “Leave him alone.” But Frannie was already at Will’s side. “Sometimes Sherwood gets silly,” she said, almost primly. “But he’s my brother, so I have to watch out for him.”

“Somebody’s going to bash him one of these days. Bash him hard. And it might be me.”

“He gets bashed all the time,” Frannie said, “ ’cause people think he’s not quite,” she halted, drew a breath, then went on, “not quite right in the head.”

“Fraaaannnnie . . . ” Sherwood was yelling.

“You’d better go back to him, in case he falls off the bridge.” Frannie gave her brother a fretful glance. “He’s okay. You know, it’s not so bad here,” she said.

“I don’t care,” Will replied. “I’m going to be running away.”

“Are you?”

“I just said, didn’t I?”

“Where to?”

“I haven’t made up my mind.”

The conversation faltered here, and Will hoped Frannie would go back to her brattish brother, but she was determined to keep the exchange going, walking beside him. “Is it true what Sherwood said?” she asked, her voice softening. “About your brother?”

“Yeah. He was knocked down by a taxicab.”

“That must be horrible for you,” Frannie said.

“I didn’t like him very much.”

“Still . . . if something like that ever happened to Sherwood . . .”

They had come to a divide in the road. To the left lay the route back to the house, to the right, a less well-made track that rapidly wound out of sight behind the hedgerows. Will hesitated a moment, weighing up the options.

“I should go back,” Frannie said.

“I’m not stopping you,” Will replied.

Frannie didn’t move. He glanced round at her and saw such hurt in her eyes he had to look away. Seeking some other point of interest, his gaze found the one visible building close to the right-hand track, and more to mellow his cruelty than out of genuine curiosity he asked Frannie what it was.

“Everybody calls it the Courthouse,” she said. “But it isn’t really. It was built by this man who wanted to protect horses or something. I don’t know the proper story.”

“Who lives there?” Will said. As far as he could tell at this distance, it was an impressive looking structure; it almost looked like a temple in one of his history books, except that it was built of dark stone.

“Nobody lives there,” Frannie said. “It’s horrible inside.”

“You went in?”

“Sherwood hid there once. He knows more about it than I do. You should ask him.”

Will wrinkled up his nose. “Nah,” he said, feeling as though he’d made his attempt at conciliation and he could now depart without guilt.

“Fraaannnie!” Sherwood was yelling again. He had clambered up onto the wall of the bridge and was imitating a trapeze artist as he walked along it.

“Get down off there!” Frannie hollered at him, and saying goodbye to Will over her shoulder, hurried back to the bridge to enforce her edict.

Relieved to have the girl gone, Will again considered the routes before him. If he went back to the house now he could slake his thirst and fill the growing hole in his belly. But he’d also have to endure the atmosphere of ill humor that hung about the place. Better to go walking, he thought, find out what was around the bend and beyond the hedgerows.

He glanced back at the bridge to see that Frannie had coaxed Sherwood down off the wall and that he was now sitting on the ground again, hugging his knees, while his sister stood gazing in Will’s direction. He gave her a half-hearted wave and then struck out along the unexplored road, thinking as he went that perhaps the route would be so tantalizing that he’d make good on his boast to the girl, and keep walking till Burnt Yarley was just a memory.