something?â he said, getting to his feet.
âNo, no,â she said, waving him back down. âIâll be fine. Yes, I knew Rhona. She had a â how can I put this? She had a certain fondness for my step-brother, Noel.â
Freddie drained the last of his tea, the dregs tickling his throat.
âI thought you said that your step-dad had no one else?â
âMr Forster, Noel was seventeen-years-old when he fell to his death,â she said, leaning back in her chair, gazing at him thoughtfully, âabout your age, in fact.â
Freddie coughed nervously.
âWell, when I say fell, I do so only because it sounds less â painful, less violent. My brother was barely recognisable after my fatherâs combine had finished with him. It killed him too, inside.â
So thatâs why the guy at the window looked so miserable â haunted almost, he thought. Poor chap.
âI donât know what to say,â Freddie said, placing his empty cup down a little too hastily. âThatâs horrible, Iâm sorry. Was it su-?â
âHe fell, Mr Forster,â Ursula said. âFarms can be dangerous places.â
3
He peeked into the rear-view mirror as he set off again, searching for the sad face. But the man had gone. Ursulaâs directions, resting on his knee, seemed easy enough to follow. All being well heâd be meeting Rhonaâs friend in five minutes. Brilliant!
Ursula had remembered Rhona all right, choking on her tea at the very mention of her name. What had that been all about? And what had Ursula meant by Rhona having a certain fondness for her dead step-brother? Had they dated?
Yuck! he thought. He turned his attention back to the gravelled driveway. His stomach was groaning. He hadnât eaten since his late breakfast, which had consisted only of a hastily assembled baguette stuffed with ham, cheese and just about anything else he could find. Even half a dozen party sausages had been crammed in.
Then something caught Freddieâs eye. A hare was zigzagging along the verge, threatening to cross his path.
Unfortunately, he hadnât learnt from his earlier lapse in concentration.
His head snapped back into the headrest as the Corsa mounted the embankment. He stamped hard on the brake pedal. For a moment he lost control; the hatchback, having just been at his mercy, became a free spirit. The feeling of helplessness and the sudden lightness in his stomach prompted unwanted flashbacks of a sledging accident from the previous winter.
The Corsa stopped just short of what would have been a nasty drop.
Freddie wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Breathing heavily, he peered over the steering wheel, taking in the view of endless fields, similar to the one heâd had from the window in Ursulaâs study.
As Ursula had promised, Ridge Farm sat just off the main road which, after carving the village in two, meandered its way along the top of the hillside before falling away down the next slope. Freddie sympathised with his Corsaâs tyres as the car rumbled along the potholed track. Veering off towards the farm, the track was flanked by dilapidated sheds, apparently abandoned. Roofing sheets had collapsed from one such shed, taking down a side wall, to be consumed by a mass of weeds which had risen above the rubble. Amongst the weeds and rubble lay disused farm machinery and tools, left to decay.
To Freddie the shed looked like the rotting remnants of a forgotten-about home; a once great and well looked after haven, reduced to a state of greying disrepair.
He parked alongside a shabby four by four and slowly climbed out of the car. An inviting white farmhouse stood before him, his stomach grunting as the smell of cooking drifted from an open window.
âWell, well,â came a voice behind him. âRhona said youâre a greedy one, but look â thereâs not an ounce of fat on you.â
Freddie turned to see a
âNo, no,â she said, waving him back down. âIâll be fine. Yes, I knew Rhona. She had a â how can I put this? She had a certain fondness for my step-brother, Noel.â
Freddie drained the last of his tea, the dregs tickling his throat.
âI thought you said that your step-dad had no one else?â
âMr Forster, Noel was seventeen-years-old when he fell to his death,â she said, leaning back in her chair, gazing at him thoughtfully, âabout your age, in fact.â
Freddie coughed nervously.
âWell, when I say fell, I do so only because it sounds less â painful, less violent. My brother was barely recognisable after my fatherâs combine had finished with him. It killed him too, inside.â
So thatâs why the guy at the window looked so miserable â haunted almost, he thought. Poor chap.
âI donât know what to say,â Freddie said, placing his empty cup down a little too hastily. âThatâs horrible, Iâm sorry. Was it su-?â
âHe fell, Mr Forster,â Ursula said. âFarms can be dangerous places.â
3
He peeked into the rear-view mirror as he set off again, searching for the sad face. But the man had gone. Ursulaâs directions, resting on his knee, seemed easy enough to follow. All being well heâd be meeting Rhonaâs friend in five minutes. Brilliant!
Ursula had remembered Rhona all right, choking on her tea at the very mention of her name. What had that been all about? And what had Ursula meant by Rhona having a certain fondness for her dead step-brother? Had they dated?
Yuck! he thought. He turned his attention back to the gravelled driveway. His stomach was groaning. He hadnât eaten since his late breakfast, which had consisted only of a hastily assembled baguette stuffed with ham, cheese and just about anything else he could find. Even half a dozen party sausages had been crammed in.
Then something caught Freddieâs eye. A hare was zigzagging along the verge, threatening to cross his path.
Unfortunately, he hadnât learnt from his earlier lapse in concentration.
His head snapped back into the headrest as the Corsa mounted the embankment. He stamped hard on the brake pedal. For a moment he lost control; the hatchback, having just been at his mercy, became a free spirit. The feeling of helplessness and the sudden lightness in his stomach prompted unwanted flashbacks of a sledging accident from the previous winter.
The Corsa stopped just short of what would have been a nasty drop.
Freddie wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Breathing heavily, he peered over the steering wheel, taking in the view of endless fields, similar to the one heâd had from the window in Ursulaâs study.
As Ursula had promised, Ridge Farm sat just off the main road which, after carving the village in two, meandered its way along the top of the hillside before falling away down the next slope. Freddie sympathised with his Corsaâs tyres as the car rumbled along the potholed track. Veering off towards the farm, the track was flanked by dilapidated sheds, apparently abandoned. Roofing sheets had collapsed from one such shed, taking down a side wall, to be consumed by a mass of weeds which had risen above the rubble. Amongst the weeds and rubble lay disused farm machinery and tools, left to decay.
To Freddie the shed looked like the rotting remnants of a forgotten-about home; a once great and well looked after haven, reduced to a state of greying disrepair.
He parked alongside a shabby four by four and slowly climbed out of the car. An inviting white farmhouse stood before him, his stomach grunting as the smell of cooking drifted from an open window.
âWell, well,â came a voice behind him. âRhona said youâre a greedy one, but look â thereâs not an ounce of fat on you.â
Freddie turned to see a