Skull in the Wood

by Sandra Greaves

  14

  Tilda

  It’s chaos here. Everyone’s going completely mental about Matt. He hasn’t turned up in London and Aunty Caroline has been phoning us every five minutes for news. Finally she said she was going to drive to Dartmoor this morning with her boyfriend – she would have come straight down last night, only Dad told her she’d be much better off waiting in London to see if Matt showed up at home. Anyway, she totally insisted on coming today.

  I don’t remember when she last visited. Ages and ages ago, way before Mum died. She never came to the funeral – according to Dad, she couldn’t bear to. Just sent that huge posh bunch of flowers and said to call her if there was anything she could do – as if. Still, finally coming here would give her a chance to see how much the farm was worth, I suppose.

  I didn’t know what all the big fuss was about, personally. I mean, Gabe told us last night that Matt had taken the bus off the moor, so it wasn’t like he was lost or anything. Gabe gave us a whole load of guff about his stupid harbingers, too.

  ‘The boy thinks he can be free,’ he said, ‘but they won’t let him go for long. He’ll be back soon enough.’

  Dad kind of believed Gabe, at least about city boy coming back soon. He didn’t think Matt was in real danger, he just reckoned he was really angry – and mainly with me. But even so, Dad was going bonkers over it. We ended up having a policewoman round last night asking all these questions about Matt’s state of mind and stuff. You could see that she didn’t really think anything had happened to him – she only came because Aunty Caroline was in such a major panic. It was kind of cool, though, a bit like being in some detective story off the telly.

  But it was all a big waste of time. I was sure Matt would be absolutely fine – he’d be staying with some posh friends of his and laughing his head off at us. He was just trying to make a point.

  But yes, I felt a bit guilty now. So I supposed it had worked.

  I thought I’d better smooth things over with Dad, so after I’d got Kitty her breakfast I went outside to speak to him. He was in the cow field on the other side of the farm track, checking on the calves. Though they’re five months old, they still want to suckle and they’ve started really annoying their mothers now. I opened the gate and went over to him, hoping they might have cheered Dad up. Only it turned out he was still really cross, because he gave me this little talk that had me squirming.

  ‘I’m sure Matt’ll phone this morning,’ he said. ‘I’m just praying that Gabe’s right and he’s hiding out somewhere safe. But you need to do some thinking, young lady. If Matt’s back here tonight – and I hope to God he is – you’re going to have to be a whole lot nicer to him.’

  I tried to object, but Dad wouldn’t let me.

  ‘You know perfectly well that the farm business is nothing to do with him,’ he said. ‘So you can’t go on resenting the boy. And listen, Tilda, if you’re full of blame, it eats away at you. If you’re not careful it can end up ruining your life. And it ruins other people’s lives, too.’

  I looked away. I wasn’t going to apologise. Dad wasn’t being fair – he hadn’t been exactly friendly to Matt either. Anyway, how could I just pretend that everything was all right? What about the farm and what it had meant to Mum? Was Dad giving up on it – and us? Would he just let Aunty Caroline take it all away? My chest tightened with resentment.

  ‘Tilda’s very naughty,’ chimed in Kitty, who’d managed to sneak up without being noticed.

  ‘Shut up, dork,’ I said. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Tilda . . .’ said Dad, warningly.

  ‘I hope Matt’s back soon,’ said Kitty. ‘He can come and see the geese with me. They’re all splashing in the pond. They look really funny.’

  ‘Why don’t you jump in and join them, then?’ I said.

  ‘Right, that’s it, Tilda,’ said Dad. ‘No more pocket money for you for the next two weeks. And you’d better start having a long hard think about how you’ve been behaving lately.’

  He took Kitty off to see the geese. So it was just me and Jez. I went back to the house with her and helped myself to a huge slice of lemon drizzle cake. Jez sat at my feet in the kitchen and put her paw on my knee, gazing at me with eyes that understood and forgave everything. I stroked her thick black fur, feeling the anger slowly fall away.

  Suddenly I had a bad feeling in my stomach. I pushed Jez off and shot upstairs to my room. And guess what? The skull wasn’t on my dressing table any more. In all the hoo-hah over Matt, I hadn’t noticed. That pig had taken it with him, wherever it was he’d gone. But the skull was mine! It felt like the best thing that had happened to me in a long time.

  Matt was going to suffer for this.

  15

  Matt

  My fingers were white around the helm. The water ahead was rippling and darkening, and heavy gusts buffeted the sail, swinging it hard to one side. The main flapped viciously. I managed to get control before the boom swung across, but it was a close thing.

  I felt my head again. It had stopped bleeding, but it was really sore. I couldn’t believe a bird had done that to me. What was causing it all? I was sure Gabe knew, but he wasn’t telling. All he’d done was drop obscure hints. And judging by the weird things I’d seen already, whatever came next was going to be pretty bad.

  I really didn’t want to think about the gabble ratchet. That folk tale Uncle Jack had talked about – the pack of creatures rampaging across the moor – had sounded like a far-fetched story. But after those birds going crazy I wasn’t so sure.

  What I didn’t understand was, why me, why Tilda? OK, we hated each other’s guts and Gabe had said the gabbleratchet fed on anger, but that didn’t explain much. It certainly didn’t explain why a flock of curlews would take it into their tiny little skulls to attack me.

  The skull, I thought. That had to be it. I’d disliked it the moment I set eyes on it. There was something vicious about it – and somehow it was making things even worse between me and Tilda. We’d been tearing chunks out of each other ever since we’d found it. This time I was going to get shot of it.

  I decided to risk leaving the helm for a minute and turned the boat so that it was side-on to the waves. Then I eased myself down through the companionway into the cabin below and rummaged through my bag. My fingers closed around the box.

  It was a bad idea.

  The boat bucked violently and a cupboard burst open, spilling stuff all over the floor – tins of beans, cans of drink, plastic bottles. They rolled around at my feet as the boat rocked and shook and creaked. I could smell diesel beneath the boards and felt a whiff of nausea, a sear of acid at the base of my throat. My stomach started turning cartwheels. I had to get out into the fresh air.

  Back on deck, I slumped on the wooden seat and drew in salty breaths, trying desperately to calm down. My neck felt hot and clammy. I unzipped the top of my fleece and held it away from my skin. Focus on the horizon, I told myself. I tried, but it kept going up and down, up and down.

  I could feel my neck getting hotter. Suddenly I scrambled to the side of the boat and heaved over it. And again. I was vaguely aware of patches of vomit clinging to the outside of the hull. Then I just crashed down on the bottom of the deck, praying for it all to pass.

  I must have lain there for ages, just wanting to die. I’d never been seasick before – I’d always prided myself on my strong stomach, in fact. Now I was being punished. I didn’t care if I went down with the boat – anything was better than this.

  It was the rain that jolted me out of it. First a flurry of cool droplets on my face. Then harder, sharper, colder. Rain drummed on the deck and bounced back upwards. Slowly I struggled to my knees and stared out at the dark swell. I had to get back to the harbour.

  I fought back the seasickness and somehow managed to turn the boat round to face the way I’d come. Keeping busy seemed to help – it took my mind off the horrible up-and-down motion. But heading towards the harbour mouth was a whole lot cho
ppier than it had been on the way out. The tide must have turned, and now I had the wind behind me and the waves coming towards me, bashing hard against the boat. The rain was pounding down as if a whole ocean’s worth was falling on deck. I was getting soaked.

  I wished I’d put on the waterproofs before setting out, but it was too late for that now. All I could do was keep my course as best I could. Above me the sky was a sheet of steel. I thought of hot soup and Mum’s chicken casserole and sticky toffee pudding with custard. Home had never seemed so appealing.

  Helming the boat was taking serious concentration. She was tipping to one side, and I had one foot up on the seat to balance. But every buffet from the waves threw me off and it took all my strength to keep returning her to the course. Some of the waves smashed on the side and spray whooshed up into the boat. My trainers were soaking. My hair was sopping. And most of all, I felt stupid. Stupid for not having prepared properly, and stupid for having thought I could handle her in the first place. This definitely wasn’t what I’d bargained for.

  I was having to zigzag again to reach the harbour, but I figured it might be faster if I rigged the sails to take the wind directly from behind. Goose wings, it’s called. You spread the mainsail out one way and the jib in the other direction, like a goose in flight. I grimaced – geese in flight were the last things I wanted to be thinking of right now. But it was worth a try if it got me into Dartmouth before the weather really kicked up.

  Dreamcatcher plunged about a bit while I sorted everything out. But it seemed to work. With the sails spread, suddenly I could take advantage of the wind right behind my back. I could see the tower on the hill that marked the entrance, and made a course for that. We were skimming over the water like a dolphin.

  Then it all went haywire.

  I’d forgotten that goose wings is the most difficult point of sail. Get it slightly wrong, and the wind whips you round, and you’ve lost it – which is exactly what happened. One moment Dreamcatcher was perfectly balanced between the waves. The next, the boom swung round with a huge crash, taking the mainsail with it.

  The boat lunged over and drove hard up into the wind. The jib started flapping madly. And then, with a terrifying rasping noise, it ripped almost in half.

  Dreamcatcher bucked and floundered, totally out of control. Everything was clunking and bashing and screeching. Spray soaked me from head to foot. Above the din I was sure I could hear something else – an eerie whistling that made my hair stand on end.

  This is it, I thought. It really is. I’m going to capsize. The curlews, harbingers, whatever, had done their stuff. The gabbleratchet had won.

  I wished I’d phoned Mum when I’d had the chance.

  But I had to do something. Anything. I grabbed the mainsheet and dragged the boom in. There was nothing I could do about the jib – it was completely ruined. I wound it in to stop it flogging, then took the helm again. I knew exactly how expensive sails were. If I ever got back, Dad was going to kill me.

  I wondered if I should send up a distress flare before it was too late. And I’d need to get down below and radio for help. Channel 16. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Dreamcatcher. Dreamcatcher. Dreamcatcher. Latitude this, longitude that, immediate assistance required. Dad had practised it with me so many times I could do it in my sleep. Was I actually going to have to do it for real now?

  I looked round at the thrashing ocean. Then, slowly, my fingers tightened round the helm. I had to pull myself together. I had to take charge. And I wasn’t going to let the gabbleratchet beat me.

  Years of barked sailing instructions began to float back to me. Get a reef in the sail, you moron, I told myself. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before. It would cut the wind down and give me loads more control. I should have done it right at the beginning. If I’d had any sense.

  I edged to the companionway and found the box of safety clips just inside. Yet another thing I’d forgotten on the way out. If it’s at all choppy, you need to clip on to the boat in case you lose your footing. Dad would be horrified if he knew I hadn’t done it. I grabbed a clip and fastened one end to the ring on my life jacket, the other to one of the safety wires that runs the length of the deck. Holding gingerly on to the handrail, I inched out towards the mainsail. It wasn’t so bad really, even with the rain making straight for my eyes. I held on tight, lowered the sail and put two reefs in, then raised it up again. Now it was about half the size and wouldn’t catch nearly so much wind.

  I got back to the helm and switched on the engine. It chugged into life. Dreamcatcher rocked but stayed upright. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

  My progress wasn’t quick, but it felt a whole lot less precarious. The rain had eased off a bit, though I was sopping wet and my teeth were chattering. But at last I was at the entrance to the river. I steered the boat round the entrance buoy and in.

  Almost instantly, the wind died down, and the water was as flat and calm as if nothing had happened.

  Now that I was out of danger, other thoughts were sliding into my brain. What would Mum be thinking? I didn’t want to imagine it.

  My phone. I’d forgotten all about it in the chaos. I slowed the engine to a crawl, dived into the cabin and raced up with it again. I switched it on and miraculously there were a couple of bars. Even out on a boat I was better connected than on Dartmoor.

  Loads of messages kept arriving from Mum, but I ignored them. Biting my lip, I dialled her mobile. She answered on the first ring.

  ‘Matt! Oh, thank God!’ she said. ‘Where on earth are you? I’ve been worried sick.’

  ‘Listen, Mum,’ I said, stopping her mid-flow. ‘I’m on the boat, on the River Dart.’

  ‘What!’ said Mum. She sounded stunned. ‘Are you out on your own? Matt, what on earth—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t, but I am now.’

  ‘Oh, God—’

  ‘Everything’s OK. I’m coming in.’

  She snapped into sensible mode. ‘Be very careful,’ she said. ‘Are you wearing a life jacket? Good. Call me the moment you’re in the marina. We’re on our way to your uncle’s. We’ll talk later. Just make sure you’re safe. And I’m calling the harbour master right now.’ She rang off.

  Not long after, a grey launch came racing up towards me. As I got ready to go port to port, I realised it was the harbour master’s. He had a loudspeaker, and he was trying to talk to me. My heart sank.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Everything under control.’

  ‘Your mother asked me to check on you,’ he said. ‘She sounded very worried.’

  The shame of it. I blushed, hoping he couldn’t see beneath the wet.

  ‘I’m phoning her now to tell her you’re safe,’ the harbour master yelled.

  ‘Don’t worry, I already have,’ I said.

  He ignored me. Then he spun round and came up alongside. As I’d been dreading, he read me the riot act. What was I thinking of? Did I know how to handle a boat at all? And just how old was I, anyhow?

  I apologised, adding a couple of years to my age, and trying to look as sorry as I could. Finally he gave up.

  ‘Make sure I don’t have to do this again, young man,’ he said. ‘I’m not a nursemaid.’ He turned his boat and made off.

  I took it very slowly. It was well past midday by the time I reached the marina. I was starving and shattered, and I wasn’t looking forward to bringing Dreamcatcher into her berth. Getting out had been easy. Coming in again might not be so simple. I put out the ropes and fenders, cut the engine to a crawl and scanned along the line of boats for Dad’s berth.

  Then I saw them. Tilda and Uncle Jack and Kitty, standing on the pontoon and waving to me. Jez was barking madly. Mum’s work again, I supposed. I’d never imagined I’d be so pleased at seeing them again, but I could feel all my muscles relaxing.

  ‘Chuck us your ropes,’ shouted Uncle Jack.

  I inched Dreamcatcher into her berth, a
nd Uncle Jack and Tilda made the ropes fast on the cleats. I switched the engine off, and found I was shaking.

  ‘We were in Totnes looking for you when your mother called,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘Gabe told us you’d taken the bus. Here, get that wet stuff off and stick this on.’

  He passed me a huge fleece and a heavy green jacket. Tilda held out a towel for me to rub my hair. It was the first time she’d ever done anything remotely nice for me.

  ‘Birdbrain,’ she said. But she was half smiling.

  I could still feel the motion of the sea, up and down, up and down. It felt great to be warm again. It felt great to be off the water. But a single thought was shrieking inside my head like a power drill: I’d thought I could run away from everything, but I couldn’t. I was going to have to go back to the moor. Whatever weird stuff was going on there, I had to get to the bottom of it.

  16

  Tilda

  Matt was a total zombie in the car. He fell asleep about thirty seconds after gulping down a sandwich, so we didn’t get a chance to ask him anything. Dad said it was the sea air, but I think he just didn’t want to have to explain everything to us. Which wasn’t really surprising, given what an idiot he’d been.

  Even so, I couldn’t help feeling a bit impressed. I mean, Matt had actually nicked his dad’s boat and sailed it out to sea – that takes guts. I would never have imagined him doing something like that. It’s nice to know that for a posh townie with stupid shoes he’s not completely useless.

  I hadn’t forgotten the skull, though. He’d better have brought it back or there was going to be trouble.

  When we got home I had to wait a while to find out, because Dad made me and Kitty do the dusting in honour of the royal visit. Even though Matt had turned up safe and sound, Aunty Caroline was still on her way here.

  Finally I escaped and knocked at Matt’s bedroom door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called. I pushed open the door. He was lying on his bed listening to music on his phone. And meanwhile Kitty and I had been slaving away downstairs – all for his mum.