Kingsholt Read Free Page A

the grandiose plans. Yet she didn’t altogether trust him. As the days passed, she realized there was something strange and bitter about the way he talked to her, almost as if – dare she think it – as if it was all her fault that Rosie had died. But then his voice would turn soft and lingering, so she couldn’t resist it. He had a deep, commanding voice, not like Dad, who often sounded breathless and exhausted, or Mum, who was always sighing. Chloe found herself telling him about her old house and the friends she really missed. But she never mentioned Sam. There was no need, she thought.

Chapter Three
    One day Nimbus said to Chloe, ‘Come up to my place. You can meet Gina and the baby, and maybe you can help Tammy. She can’t read any more than I can.’
    Chloe toyed with the idea for a long time, peeping from her bedroom window at the stone cottage on the slope above the wood. Then, one Saturday, when no one else was about, she found herself walking towards it, holding a book for Tammy, as if someone else had decided for her. She had refused to accompany Mum and Dad to the market, watching them sweep up the drive in the Range Rover, stopping while Mum opened the gate. Her mother had turned and waved, and for a moment, Chloe wished she had gone with them. Then the car disappeared round the corner and she caught sight of the smoke rising from Nimbus’s cottage like a signal.
    She went quickly through the dark wood, past the dead tree – the Nimbus Tree – and out onto the sloping field where the stone building stood. It was dilapidated, with a lopsided front door and a garden overgrown with thistles. Rusty toys lay about in the grass and Nimbus was holding an axe in both hands, swinging the blade down onto a large log.
    ‘Mind the thistles,’ he said but it was too late. Chloe tripped over a stone and put out her hand to keep her balance. A small prick of blood rose on her forefinger, a tiny, bright red sphere.
    Wiping it away, she looked up. A little way off, a girl – surely it was Tammy – was sitting on the grass, painting her toe nails bright red.
    ‘I’ve brought you a book,’ said Chloe, ‘We could read it together.’
    ‘No point.’ Tammy, barely looking up, ‘I’ve finished school.’
    ‘How old are you then?’
    ‘Sixteen, aren’t I?’
    She was slight boned with a mass of auburn hair round her pale face and blank eyes, one hazel, one green. She’s more like twelve, thought Chloe, and it’s not just her looks. It’s the way she’s painting her toenails, hunched up, intense, private, like a twelve year old acting big. She doesn’t like me, she thought.
    ‘Your dad wants you to learn to read,’ she said, ‘and I’ve especially chosen this book. It’s about a girl who hears voices. Well, it’s about St. Joan —’
    Tammy laughed. ‘Hears voices? I do that all right, don’t I Dad?’
    Nimbus put down his axe and looked up. His brown arms glistened with sweat. His jeans were torn at the knee and his old vest was full of holes.
    Tammy screwed the lid onto the bottle of nail varnish, took the book from Chloe and hurled it at the house. ‘That’s what I think of that.’
    ‘It’s not mine,’ said Chloe angrily. ‘It’s from Kingsholt. And if you feel like that I won’t bother again.’ She ran to pick it up. To her surprise Nimbus threw back his brown head and laughed.
    ‘She’s like me, eh? No truck with reading or writing. Give it a miss today, Chloe. Who knows, Tammy might end up carrying everything up here, see?’ He tapped his head. ‘Can you read my mind, Tammy?’
    ‘Sometimes,’ said Tammy, shooting him a conspiratorial look.
    She went indoors while Nimbus picked up his axe again and felt its edge. His arm swung back and down and the log sprang apart. He spoke softly as if he knew what Chloe was feeling. ‘There’ll be other days. She’ll get by, people like us always do. Come on in and eat with us, Chloe. We got baked taters today. She’s good at baked taters