Chapter 1

There was a note through Tom's door when he got home from work. 'If you are the Tom Westwood who used to live near Kearsall Forest, I need to see you. Urgent. It's about someone we both used to know. I'll be in the Swan tonight and don't worry, I'll recognise you. If you can't make it I'll call at your place sometime. M. Carr.'

Ignore it, that's what he thought. Anywhere else, maybe, but not the Swan. Too crowded, too noisy, too young. But he was curious about it. Of course he was, so he called in there for just one quick drink. Nobody approached him so he didn't hang around.

After a couple of pints in the Griffin, he took the short cut across the Leisure Centre car park and along the unlit footpath behind the library. That was where he stumbled upon the girl lying beside the path. Dead? Injured? No, just hopelessly drunk. She had probably been there for some time because she was soaked through even though it had stopped raining long before then. He would have called for help but the phone outside the post office had been vandalised. Nothing for it but take her home and call for help from there. He knew he shouldn't, but what else could he do?

She could barely stand and he had to half carry, half drag her the quarter mile home. He fumbled with the gate whilst still trying to support her. Mrs Denny, his neighbour, brought her wheelie bin out. 'Evening,' she said and managed to fill the one word with enough disapproval for a whole orgy of unrighteousness. As Tom unlocked his front door and dragged the girl inside he could imagine Mrs Denny chunnering away to her husband. 'Look at him,' she'd be saying. 'His dear old Dad, fine chapel man that he was, scarcely cold in his grave and there's himself staggering home drunk with a little floosie young enough to be his daughter. Absolute disgrace, that's what it is. Absolute disgrace. Thank goodness he'll be moving soon.'

'Yes, indeed,' Tom muttered to himself. 'Thank goodness for that.' He carefully lowered the girl into an armchair and went to the phone. But now that he'd got her home, phoning emergency services didn't seem the right thing to do. Not at all. He could imagine the questions they'd ask – and he'd give the impression he knew more than he was saying. He knew he would. Better just cover her up for warmth and let her sleep it off. Except that she was shivering violently. She really did need to get out of those wet clothes. But she was far too drunk to help herself...

He woke early the following morning and went downstairs straight away. There was a lot of tidying up to do before the estate agent arrived to do the valuation. The girl's clothes were dry so he took them into the front room where she was still sleeping on the sofa. That wasn't a good idea, was it? Getting her out of those things. It might have been a better idea to have phoned Estelle. Yes, of course, that's what he ought to have done - phoned Estelle. He shook the girl gently. 'Time to get up,' he said. No reply. He tried again, a little louder. He shook her slightly.

'Piss off,' she grunted and rolled over.

The blanket fell to the floor. He picked it up and covered her. 'Come on, you need to get up. I'll make some coffee while you get dressed. And then I'll drop you off somewhere. But you need to hurry.'

'Piss off.'

She came into the kitchen while he was making coffee and toast. 'Where am I?' she asked nervously.

'Well, you're here at my place. Not far from where I found you last night. You were, er, well, out of it.'

'Where's Anna?'

'No idea. You were on your own. Where had you been?'

'In the Swan. I was meeting this guy and Anna said don't go alone. Hope she's all right.'

'Well, I expect you'll see her soon enough. Now why don't you have some breakfast? Then I'll drive you home if you like. I'm sure everything will look a lot clearer after a quiet morning to shake off, well... I mean, you must've had a skinful last night.'

'No way. Had one. Had to make it last all evening, as always. Then Colin came in with this really creepy mate of his and they bought us one. Anna must have gone with him, but I don't really remember. Bloody hell, you don't think he drugged us, do you?'

'Did he try to make you go somewhere with him?'

'God knows.' And that was the full extent of her story.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang. It was the estate agent.

'Morning, Mr Westwood. Marian Johnson, to do a valuation.'

'Bloody hell,' said the girl in the living room.

Once Mrs Johnson had finished Tom needed to pack himself some things, lock up and drive to Foxton Bank. He was going to spend a couple of weeks on Estelle's boat and he wanted to be there in time to get a replacement gas bottle for the heater. Already it was midday and the girl was curled up on the sofa looking as if she intended to stay as long as possible.

'So, er, sorry but I don't know your name. Can I give you a lift somewhere?'

'You're Tom Westwood, aren't you? I remember now. Saw you on your way out so I came after you, but you'd disappeared.'

'So how did you know me?'

'Saw you the other day. You were just getting home when I came looking for you. Only I bottled out.'

'Maybe you'd better tell me what you wanted.'

'It was this weird old guy in the forest. Called himself Tosser. Anyway, he told me about you.'

It made a little bit of sense. 'Sure he said Tosser? Not Thos? Thos Povey?'

'Could be. Oh bloody hell, right. They used to warn me about him. My Grandma always said don't go into the forest on my own cause Thos Povey would get me.'

'Your Grandma? So who are you?'

'Right, well, it's like this. You used to live in Kearsall once, right? Anyway Tosser, Thos, or whoever he is, said you knew the Ridley family. That's who I'm looking for. Alan Ridley, actually. He used to be my Dad.'

'Used to be? What does that mean?'

'What that means, Mister Smartarse, is he used to be my Dad till my Mum and me walked out and she divorced him. Which is why my name's not Ridley. Left that behind with all the other crap. I'm Melanie Carr now. Anyway, you've got to tell me what you know about them. Like where are they now? Do you know?'

'Haven't a clue. Sorry. It's about thirty years since I knew them. Susan, that's Alan's and John's young sister, was my first girlfriend.'

'Sister? There was no sister. I remember John. There was him and my Mum and Dad and my older brother and my Grandma. John lived in Northwich and the rest of us lived in the forest house at Ashton Moss. But there was no sister. I would have remembered.'

'Susan was real right enough. About ten years younger than Alan. Same age as me.'

'Bloody hell. She must have got out of it years before I was born. What was she like? Was she a complete prat like the rest of them? Too bloody holy to be decent.'

'That's how the brothers were. I'd agree with you there. But Susan was different. So why do you want to find Alan now?'

'Cause he owes me, that's why.'

'I take it you've tried calling at the house?'

'Sure. Nobody around. That's when I met this Thos Povey geezer and he said ask you.'

'Sorry I can't help you.'

'Oh well, never mind. I'll catch up with the bastard eventually.'

Melanie agreed – reluctantly, Tom thought – to let him drive her back home. And home turned out to be a squat in the old Horeb Chapel which someone had started to convert to flats and then abandoned. Melanie reckoned it was pretty good really – no gas or electricity but a lot better than the railway arches. And better than putting up her tent in the park and being moved on every night which was a pain in the arse.

Tom felt a twinge of guilt when he drove away. He wished he could have helped her a bit more. And leaving her at the old chapel didn't feel right. If he hadn't been going to Foxton Bank to stay on Estelle's narrowboat he might have been tempted to offer her a room for a couple of nights. But no, the chapel was fine. It was what she wanted. Much later than he had intended he set off, but at least he would be there in plenty of time for a meal and a couple of pints in the Cotton Tree.

 

Chapter 2

 

Tom had planned to drive into Frodsham the next morning to start house-hunting. But meeting Melanie had set him thinking about Susan. What had become of her? He used to think about her every day at first. And mope. And people would tell him to forget about her. She'd dropped him – it happens to us all, they said. You'll get over it, they said. Fat lot they knew about it. But he did get over it. She'd been leaned upon by her family to break it off, he was sure of that, but she wasn't going to change her mind and he wasn't going to try getting past that bloody awful brother of hers.

 

Thinking about her again, though, even after all these years, he went in the opposite direction and parked near the new café at Kearsall Station. He took the path which skirted the forest and brought him out at Ashton Moss. In front of him was Snig's Foot Cottage. The original building, a tiny timber-framed and lime-washed brick structure, leaned drunkenly against the red-brick gable of the newer house. A sale board pricked Tom’s curiosity so he walked round to the back where Mrs Ridley’s flower garden used to be. There was a new two-storey extension with its own front door. Much bigger now than Tom needed.

 

He walked a few yards down the lane at the back to the old sawmill where Old John Ridley used to store his building materials.  Looking back to the house, Tom tried to recall which had been Susan’s bedroom window, where she would often be looking out as he cycled up to the front gate.  Why not...? The idea was mad. Quite mad. But he would look no further – that was the house he would buy. He knew it already. That isolated place between the gentle slopes of Alvanley Hill and the forest, with just the occasional train to remind him of the bustle of elsewhere. He made a note of the estate agent's number and then set off along the path through the forest towards the village.

 

He rang Estelle from the pub when he went for a meal.

 

'Are you sure that's a good idea?'

 

'Don't see why not. After all, that other stuff, well, it's a long time ago.'

 

'I'm sure it is, dear. Now, Tom, there's something you should know. There's someone been hanging around your house. A thin, rather shabby girl. I found her in your greenhouse this morning and I think she might have been sleeping there. Says she knows you. Her name's Melanie.'

 

'Oh God, no. It's, er... Well, it's Melanie.' He told Estelle briefly how he had found her.

 

'Lying in a puddle, unconscious? So you took her home. Just like that. Like some stray cat?'

 

'There's more to it. She'd come looking for me. See, she's Alan Ridley's daughter and she's, well, trying to trace her roots, I suppose.'

 

'Tom, what are you getting yourself into?'

 

'Nothing at all. So, Estelle, can you just leave her? Tell her I'll see her when I'm back. And if you can, could you, well, make sure she's got whatever she needs? And, look, if I decide to go ahead with Snig's Foot Cottage, I'll be back straight away to put Dad's place on the market.'

 

He had hoped to persuade Estelle to be available to show prospective buyers around the house, but with Melanie and God knows who else having taken up residence in the greenhouse, he couldn't risk it. He could imagine what Estelle would say. 'The squatters? No they're not included in the sale. My nephew will take them with him when he moves out. He is planning to leave the fuchsias though.'

 

He arrived home about midday on Wednesday and before he was out of his car, Mary Denny, his neighbour, was there. 'Now listen to me, Tom,' she said. 'I'm saying this for your own good so don't take me wrong. It's that young floozy Goodness knows what you think you're doing, but I'll tell you this – your old Dad would never have stood for it. Not for one minute. You've got to get her out of there or there'll be goodness knows how many more of them before you know it. And this is a respectable neighbourhood. Out, that's what I say. No messing, just get her out. Anyway, did you have a nice little break?'

 

'Yes, thank you, Mary.'

 

'And you had such lovely weather for it. Boating again, was it?'

 

'That's right, Mary.'

 

'You're a lucky man, Tom. Me and Harold, we were going to go on a cruise once. You know, Mediterranean and all those places. But we thought it might not be advisable with his leg. That's when we went to Scarborough. So you won't forget, will you? Get that little floozy out before this neighbourhood goes right down the drain. It's not much to ask now, is it?'

 

Melanie quite cheerfully loaded her things into the boot of Tom's car. 'You know what?' she said, 'You're a decent guy really.'

 

'So where can I take you? What about...?''

 

'First, I need to go back to the squat. That bastard Colin Tudge locked me out and dumped all my stuff outside. God knows where Anna's gone.'

 

Tom assumed that she had things still to collect but, in fact, everything was already in the boot of his car. She just needed to check that it really wasn't possible any longer to force an entry. She kicked the unyielding door. 'Well, fuck you, then, Colin Tudge.' And they left.

 

'Left something behind?' Tom asked. 'Anything important?'

 

'Nothing.'

 

'So, er...?'

 

'You wouldn't understand.'

 

He didn't. 'Well OK then. Now do you want me to get my Aunt to take you round to the women's shelter?'

 

'Oh come off it, Tom. Is that what this was all about? You're kicking me out just like Tudge did?'

 

'So where do you want to go?'

 

'Can't I just stay with you?'

 

No, she couldn't, of course. 'I'll think of something.' he said. But all he could think of was the small cabin on Estelle's boat.

 

For two days Melanie stayed on the boat. Yes, her mother did still live nearby but no, Melanie was not going to go back there and just don’t ask why. She would have to move on fairly soon, of course. He didn't want it getting back to the lab that he was living on a boat with a nineteen year-old girl. Another few days, though, wouldn't hurt. He shrugged it off got on with the business of buying the cottage.

 

On Friday morning the agent told him that Ridley had accepted his offer for the house so he drove down to Kearsall and took a good walk around the Moss and had then lunch at the Station café. By the time he got back there was no sign of Melanie or of the bike he kept on the boat. She'd left a note in the galley: 'I've borrowed your bike to get to the station. Gone to Manchester to sort something out. xxxMel.' So was that it? Had she moved on at last? He made himself a pot of tea and settled down to watch the news before taking a walk along the tow-path to the Cotton Tree for a meal and to ring Estelle. He would go and pick up the bike in the morning.

 

As the news was ending, however, there was a bumping and banging on the bow apron. Then footsteps along the roof and a thump into the cockpit. The door burst open and in came Melanie, grinning broadly.

 

'Hi, Tom. I'm back.' She replaced the bike's padlock key on its hook. 'Have you had any dinner yet?'

 

'No,' he replied wondering how he was ever going to find a home for this little stray. 'I was just about to...'

 

'Let's go down to that pub, the Cotton Thing. And this time, I'm paying.'

 

'You've had a good day?'

 

'Could say that. Cashed in some insurance.'

 

'OK. Let's go then, and you can tell me about it.'

 

'Nope. Best you don't know,' Melanie replied and then, maybe thinking she had said the wrong thing, she added, 'But don't worry. I've not done anything I shouldn't have done.'

 

They went into the Cotton Tree and took a table in the window overlooking the river. 'So tell me what you've been doing while I was in Manchester.'

 

'I bought a house.'

 

'Oh wow, just like that. You went out and bought a house? Let me guess – it's some god-forsaken place in the forest. Right?'

 

Tom smiled. 'Right. A place you know actually. Snig's Foot Cottage.'

 

'Bloody hell, Tom, you're weird. You've bought the Snig? That really is... Well, it is. Really. Bloody hell, I can't get my head round this. Kept quiet about it, didn't you? You'll have to get it exorcised, you know, or whatever it is they do with creepy places. God, imagine that - the ghost of my old man spooking around the place.'

 

'I don't suppose he's a ghost yet.'

 

'No. Better not be. He still owes me, the bastard. Anyway forget that, I'm going to the bar to order, so what do you want?'

 

While they were waiting for their meal Tom went to phone Estelle and discovered that the estate agent had arranged a couple of viewings the next afternoon. No, he didn't need her to show them round. He could be there and back before early evening. 'But I'll probably take you up on that offer after the weekend when I'm back at work.'

 

Back at work, yes. He really did need to persuade Melanie to move on.

 

 

Chapter 3

As soon as Tom arrived, Mary Denny appeared at her front door. 'Here, Tom,' she called, 'there's been somebody looking for you. Poking round, he was and peering in through your windows. Right little Nosey Parker, he was. Came knocking on my door and asked me did I know where you were. Young fellow, good looking sort of chap but I can't say that I liked the look of him myself. So I told him I didn't know where you were. Well, I didn't, did I? I don't know where you keep that boat of yours.'

'No, of course not. Well, I expect there'll be all sorts of folk looking around until it's sold. Hope so, at any rate,' Tom replied.

'Yes, well I hope you know what you're doing.'

'Sure. Anyway, thanks for keeping an eye on the place for me.' What he meant, of course, was Nosey Parker yourself.

'Oh, right-oh, then,' said Mary.

He went inside and made a pot of tea whilst waiting for the estate agent. By the time the second couple had seen around the house he felt drained. None of them had shown any sign of real interest so he wasn't convinced when Mrs Johnson said, 'I think we might have a sale there,' after the second couple had left. 'There is someone else, though. I've booked him in for half past nine tomorrow. I trust that's suitable?'

'Sure,' Tom agreed. It meant he would have to stay overnight. No real problem with that although he was a bit unsure about leaving Melanie to her own devices on the boat. He had no way of getting a message to her. Just have to hope for the best.

Mrs Johnson arrived early the next day with the prospective buyer. He was youngish, with a dark complexion and straight black hair and was perhaps in his early thirties. Tom thought his pale blue jeans and close fitting white tee-shirt were intended to show off his physique and he took an instant dislike to him.

'Harrison,' said the man, holding out his hand.

Tom thought he detected a raising of Mrs Johnson's eyebrows at the mention of the name and didn't respond to the offered handshake. Immediately he felt bad about that. There was no need for rudeness. The man was a potential buyer, after all.

Harrison appeared to take a far keener interest in the house and even its contents than had any of the previous day's viewers. He needed to look into every cupboard and behind every item of furniture. Upstairs, Tom got the impression he was trying to visualise who might have used the bedrooms and the bathroom. He asked for a ladder to look into the loft. And then, presumably satisfied that he seen all he needed to see, he turned his attention to Tom.

'Vacant possession – when?'

'Pretty soon, actually. I'll soon be completing the purchase of my new place.'

'Doesn't depend on selling this first?'

'No.'

'Moving up-market?'

'Kearsall. Got a cottage near the forest.'

'Right.' He turned to Mrs Johnson. 'Okay, then, Marian, I'll be in touch. Ciao.'

 

It was late morning when he got back to Foxton Bank and, not having had any breakfast, he went straight to the Cotton Tree for an early lunch. But he also wanted to make a phone call because he was curious about Harrison. There was something about him, he couldn't say what, that bothered him and he'd been wondering about the person Mary Denny had seen. Nosey neighbours did have their uses.

'Mrs Johnson? Tom Westwood here. Just making some notes. I like to, well... The chap who came around this morning, tell me again, what was his name?'

'Colin Tudge.'

That was what he had guessed but the rest he could only invent. He needed to speak with Melanie and not be fobbed of with, 'Best you don't know about it.' But Melanie was not around. She had taken the bike again but had not left a note this time.

He locked up immediately, drove down to Hartsmere and parked just off the road where Mam Tunstall's cottage had once stood. From there he took the footpath through the forest that would bring him out at Ashton Moss. A short distance into the forest he turned down a narrow muddy track leading off to the left and followed it for a hundred yards or so until the path began to descend into a peaty hollow and the ground became very boggy. It always had been a wellies-essential hollow when he used to come here with his Gran looking for mushrooms, and he knew that it was even boggier now so that he would have to turn back and go the long way round. But he had to come because it was a special place.

He retraced his steps and skirted the hollow until the pines gave way to mixed broadleaved woodland and the track began to rise steeply and seemed to head towards the sky beyond the trees. At the top he emerged from the trees to the open space that had always been treeless. At the far side a leaning row of bare Lombardy poplars marked the edge of Ashton Moss and the line of the railway and in front of the poplars was the cottage that would soon be his own. For a moment it was thirty years earlier and he'd come to meet Susan.

 

Melanie moved out that weekend. She returned on Friday evening as bouncy as she had been after her previous excursion, but still saying nothing about what she had been doing. It was none of Tom's business, of course, but he was beginning to get suspicious.

'I saw someone you know whilst I was back home,' he said.

'Oh?'

'Colin Tudge.'

'What the...? Where?' She sounded a little worried.

'He came to look at my house. Made out he might want to buy.'

'Bastard. You didn't tell him anything, did you?'

'Nothing at all.'

'Good. If he shows up again, don't let on you know me, where I am or anything.'

'I thought he was your friend.'

'Not now, he isn't.'

'What's the problem? Anything you can tell me? Anything I can help with?'

'No, nothing. He's history. Tell you what, though,' she said, brightening up. 'You can drop me off at the station in the morning cause I'm going back to Manchester.'

'Got somewhere decent to go?'

'Sure have. Got fixed up with someone else. So Colin Tudge is definitely history.'

Before taking the train on Saturday morning, Melanie asked Tom to take her to the cottage on Ashton Moss. He parked in the Station yard and they took the footpath between the railway line and the edge of the forest where the birches were already full of catkins. After about a quarter of a mile the path emerged at the bridge directly opposite the cottage.

'There it is,' he said proudly.

Melanie said nothing at first. She seemed to shudder. 'I can't go any closer,' she said at last. 'Funny. I did a few weeks ago. But I can't now.'

'I expect I'll get to know where Alan is before long. I'll let you know, if you still want.' When he turned to look at her she was crying silently.

'He was a fucking bastard.'

*

On the day that Tom moved into the cottage there was a white BMW lurking in the lane beyond the railway bridge. It reminded him of a blue Rover which had once lurked just there over thirty years before. For a moment, he thought that maybe the same stupidity was going to break out all over again. Of course it wasn't – but what did become of Susan? He never found out and probably never would. Calling himself an old fool, he carried on to the cottage and opened up in readiness for the removal van.

It took a lot of manoeuvring to get the van round that bend and over the bridge onto the forest road. As soon as it was done the BMW drove away. Tom wondered if it had anything to do with Colin Tudge. Now there was someone else who had disappeared without trace – Melanie. Had she given up on the idea of trying to find Alan Ridley, or would she show up again?

Three days later Tom was sitting at an upstairs front window. The forest was almost completely green again, except for a still leafless ash which rose above the birches along the forest edge of the Moss. Tom was watching a short-eared owl perched on top of a fence post . He glanced at his watch. It had been there motionless for almost half an hour. Suddenly it took off and headed low above the Moss towards the trees. A fraction of a second later the sound which had startled it reached Tom. A car door banging.

He glanced down the lane. The BMW which he'd seen before was parked near the bridge and the driver was walking slowly towards the cottage. He couldn't be sure from this distance but he thought it looked like Colin Tudge. A little while later when he paused at the gate, there was no mistaking him. Tom didn't go downstairs right away. He waited and watched as Tudge hesitated by the gate, looking this way and that before coming through and approaching the door. Then Tom went down.

'Well, isn't it strange who chances along this lonely way. Mr Tudge, isn't it?'

The visitor smiled thinly. 'You going to let me in, then?'

Tom turned and his visitor followed him into the kitchen. 'Getting a bit worried about a mutual acquaintance. That's what it is, Tom. Don't mind if I call you Tom, do you? No, course not. Me, I'm Colin.'

'How do you know my name?'

'Done my homework, Tommy boy. Always pays to know just who you're dealing with. Know what I mean? Anyway, about this chick...' he stopped suddenly and it appeared as though he had seen something behind Tom. 'Look, I don't know where you come into this, but... Well, what I mean is...'

Tom turned around to see what was bothering Tudge. He had forgotten to put his air rifle away after bringing home the rabbit he'd taken earlier in the day.

'Wondered if you might have... well, like, maybe you've seen her?'

'Who?'

'Come on, Tommy boy. You know who we're talking about. The chick you picked up that night back in Lostock. Took her to your boat. Remember now? Just tell me where she is.'

'Why do you want to find her?'

'Listen, Tommy boy, I know all about you. I know where you live, where you work. I know about that boat of yours. But I don't know why you've got yourself involved with Mel, so I'm warning you...' He paused. 'No, let me put it this way – why does an old geezer like you pick up a kid like Mel? Get my drift? We're getting a bit worried about her, see. And I promised her old queen that I'd keep an eye on her. Make sure she's OK. So I don't want to have to tell her folks that the last I heard of her she was with some dodgy looking geezer who's old enough to be her father and who keeps a shooter on his kitchen table. Now do you remember where she is?'

'Haven't a clue.'

'Well, OK, then. I'll believe you for now, Tommy boy.' He took a business card from a plastic wallet and placed it on the table beside the air rifle. 'Phone me if she shows up.' Tudge turned on his heel and walked to the door. 'Ciao,' he called before pulling it shut behind him.

Tom watched as the BMW turned in the lane and drove away. What was all that about? Probably nothing much. He reckoned Melanie would be the sort of girl who lived in a world of make-believe – and Tudge was just a poser. But whatever, she was unlikely ever to show up again so Tom could just dismiss it all from his mind and get on with settling into the cottage.

Chapter 4

The outbuilding was beginning to annoy him even though he had no pressing use for it. It was pretty clear by now that Ridley was not going to turn up with the missing key. Only one thing for it – use his twelve-pound hammer and send Ridley the bill for repairing the door.

Two swings with the sledge hammer and he was inside. At the back of the building was a wide, shallow window which let in enough light for him to look around. There wasn't too much rubbish to be cleared away. In one corner a pile of about half a dozen paper sacks of cement which had set solid. In the opposite corner a pile of stuff covered over with a decorator's sheet. He pulled the sheet away. A stack of old half empty paint tins piled on top of a desk of some sort. He stacked the tins on the floor to the side to reveal a badly mistreated davenport writing desk. The sloping top had been wrenched from its hinges and was propped up in front of it. There were four drawers in the side. He pulled the top one open but, being far shorter than he expected, it fell to the floor. The three below it were all the full width of the desk.

Wondering why the top one was so short, he looked inside but could see nothing in the darkness. He reached in. About half way into top drawer housing he could feel what he suspected was a concealed drawer. Reaching underneath it, he found a finger recess and pulled it clear of the rail and then took it right out. Inside it was a pile of letters.

Back in the house, he sorted through the letters. Every one unopened. All addressed by hand to Mrs Winifred Ridley. And he recognised the writing, even after all these years. Susan's. He put them into order as best he could though not all the postmarks were legible. Should he open them? Maybe just one, the most recent? No, he ought to return them to Ridley. But why would he have left them behind? Probably didn't know about them. He couldn't imagine old Mrs Ridley going to the trouble of hiding them in an outhouse. Alan might. The obnoxious Alan. But if he was responsible he would have retrieved them, surely? Must mean he isn't around.

Tom sat at his table with the letters for nearly twenty minutes. He wanted to open them. Well, one. Maybe just one - the most recent, perhaps. But they weren't his. They were Susan's letters to her Mother, written after she had decided, though with her family's persuasion, no doubt, that she didn't want to see Tom any more. He should return them all unopened to John Ridley. He dropped them into a plastic bag, put them in the cupboard and began to prepare his rabbit for the casserole.

*

Ridley's office was a small portacabin in his Northwich builder's yard. He was poring over a set of plans and didn't hear his visitor come in. Tom tapped the desk gently.

'Yes? What now?' Ridley asked a little irritatedly without looking up.

'It's, er, the outbuilding...' Tom began.

Ridley looked up. 'Oh, Mr Westwood, it's you. Oh, right, your outbuilding. Look, I don't have they keys. They're missing and there's nothing I can do about that. So you'll just have to...'

'No, I got inside. Used a big hammer. It's...'

'And I suppose you want me to make good the damage. Is that it?'

'No, it's not that. There was some stuff in there...'

'Oh, for goodness sake, Westwood. We left some junk behind. I'm sorry. Do whatever you want with it. And if it costs anything to dispose of it, send me the bill. Is that good enough for you?'

'No, look, forget about all that. There was an old desk.'

'Oh, that thing. I know. Yes, someone once said it was valuable. My father did. But that was years ago and if it was worth anything then, it certainly isn't now. So you can keep it, scrap it, make bread boards out of it. Whatever you want.'

'There was something else, though.'

'Oh, for goodness' sake, what? Can't you see I'm busy?'

'Well, OK. I'll go, then.' He turned to leave.

'Hey, Westwood,' Ridley called as he stepped out of the door. 'You're the same Westwood, I've only just realised it. You're the same guy we knew years ago. Kept that quiet, didn't you?'

Tom returned to his car still carrying the bundle of Susan's letters. He should have just put them down and walked out.

 

When he got back to the Moss Melanie was waiting for him. She suddenly appeared from the side of the house as he opened the front door. 'Hi, Tom. Yes – me again. I need to stay here for a couple of days. That's OK isn't it? Please say it's OK.'

'Well, I suppose so. Problems?'

'No. Nothing I can't handle.' She went through to the kitchen. 'Hey, Tom, mind if I get myself a sandwich?'

'Go ahead. So what's the problem?'

'It's nothing really. Well, it's this guy actually. Pestering. You know how it is. Just need to keep out of his way for a bit.'

She came back into the living room with a plate of assorted bits and pieces from the fridge. 'Don't worry, Tom. I'm not going to clean you out. Anyway, I can pay my way now. Been working, you might say.'

'Doing what?'

'Doesn't matter.'

'How long are you, er, planning to stay?'

'Oh, God knows. I need to keep out of the way for a bit. You know how it is.'

'So this guy who's been pestering you? It's not your old friend Colin Tudge, is it?'

'Him? Tudge? Why do you ask?'

'He was here the other day looking for you.'

'Sod. Why?'

'Something about your mother being concerned. Said he'd told her he would look out for you.'

'The tricky bastard! Did he really say that? He'd spoken to my Mum?'

'That's what it sounded like to me.'

'He couldn't have done. No way. So what did you tell him?'

'Nothing. Said I hadn't a clue where you were.'

'That's OK then.'

And that was it. She didn't volunteer any more and Tom didn't probe any further, so he didn't really know whether it was Colin Tudge or someone else she was trying to avoid. She retrieved her rucksack and holdall from beside the log store and Tom showed her up to the small back bedroom and left her to sort herself out.

When she came down again he was sitting at the table with the bundle of Susan's letters in front of him and turning the most recent one over in his hand.

'What've you got there?' Melanie asked.

He told her briefly.

'Hey, that's weird. What are you going to do with them?'

'I should give them back, of course. In fact, I tried this morning.'

'You tried? How do you try to give something back and not manage to?'

'Went to his yard but he was so bloody, I don't know, pissed off at seeing me in his office that I just came away.'

'So just shove them through his letterbox.'

'Yes, maybe I'll do that.'

'But really you want to open them, though. That's right, isn't it?'

He smiled. 'Just makes me wonder... Well, after we broke up and I wrote to her a couple of times, did she get my letters?'

'Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. You should just forget about it. It's a long time ago – you said so yourself.'

'Yes, you're right, of course.' But he continued to turn the letter over in his hands.

'Mind you, it's pretty scary that I could live in this place for seven years and never know anything about Susan. My own Auntie, for God's sake. Hey, bloody hell, Tom, think about that. It makes you almost sort of my uncle. I mean being Susan's boyfriend. Hey, come on, let's open them.'

Tom continued turning the letter over. She walked across and snatched it from him. 'All right, then, if you won't I will.'

She went out into the kitchen and came back a few moments later. She handed him the opened letter. 'You'd better read this. I'm sorry, Tom. I'll look through the others – there might be something since that one.'

'Dear Mother, I have some news which I think you ought to know about. I have just learned that I have a tumour which has been causing the jaundice I've been suffering from recently. Apparently it's quite advanced and they have to operate right away. I don't know what the outcome will be but it could be quite serious. The girls are doing very well. Sarah hopes to go to university in the autumn. Kate keeps very busy with her music. If you feel able to reply at last, that would be appreciated. Love, Susan.'

 

There were no more recent letters. Melanie said so. Despite Tom's protests, she took the bundle, opened them all and sorted them into order. 'As there's no update, though, I guess I should just forget about it. Try to. Can't give them back to Ridley now, of course. Having opened them all.'

'I think you should read them,' said Melanie.

'You've changed your tune. A minute ago you were telling me to forget it.'

'Yes, but I didn't mean that. God, what a weird family they were. I suppose you must have been a bit of a weirdo yourself. Still are, really, aren't you? Hey, you're not another of the frigging Gilead people, are you?'

'No.'

'Thank God for that. Couldn't cope if you were. Ever married?'

'No.'

'No, me neither. Well, doh, I'm only nineteen. What I mean is I don't ever want to be married. Too much hassle. Was that it with you? I mean, you're not gay, are you? No, course you're not. Not with Susan and all that. Got any kids? I mean, like...since...' She sounded awkward and uncomfortable, as if she thought she had blundered into a touchy topic.

'No, no kids.'

'No, OK. Well, just read through those and then you can tell me all about Susan.'