The Finding of Freddie Perkins (2 page)

And so the thought Freddie had had, or rather the thousands of thoughts he had had over and over again, as they travelled up endless motorways to
live
with her at Willow Beck, had understandably been: ‘This is unquestionably, undoubtedly, going to be the most perfectly horrible ending possible to the worst year in history.'

* * *

In the fifty seconds since Dad had parked their car outside Willow Beck, got out, rung the doorbell, and been greeted by Granny P in her usual fragile way, Freddie had been able to swiftly conclude that all his thorough and careful predictions over the last few months had been right.

Willow Beck was a large, imposing building, rising up almost as if it had grown itself out of the stones already there around it. The house was grey, and surrounded by equally grey, craggy rocks that were
its only company on top of the steep hill it stood on. Freddie quickly counted the windows stacked up the far left hand side of the building through the window of the car where he still sat. There were four… then across, five – one for each gable – and every one was dark and lifeless-looking.

The door was huge and wooden, and Granny P, standing in the massive chasm left by its opening, looked comically dwarf-like. She was half in shadow because the light from the hall behind her was dim, making almost no impression on the dusky half-light surrounding the house.

Freddie sighed, swallowed tears in his now expert fashion, and bravely pulled the handle back just as Dad looked towards the car as if to gesture it was time for him to come. Freddie got out, his legs heavy and reluctant on the stone driveway, and walked slowly to the front door. His dad put an arm round him and together they followed Granny P into Willow Beck, the huge oak door slamming shut behind them with depressing finality.

It seemed like weeks ago, but actually when Freddie counted carefully it was only last Tuesday that they had arrived at Willow Beck.

Time went slowly here. As slow as the solemn grandfather clock in the gloomy hall whose pendulum seemed to limp as it swung to and fro, to and fro in
its monotonous dirge; as slow as Granny P climbing the stairs carefully and creakily one at a time – in fact, sometimes Freddie wasn't sure whether it was the stairs that were creaking, or Granny P herself.

Freddie decided to spend this rainy Saturday morning making a list in his head, reciting everything that was different, and horrid, about Willow Beck compared to Westgate Square Gardens – in the old days before the silence, that was.

His mind drew up two columns of opposites. It was dark, not light; cold, not warm; and full of old, dark things rather than bright colours. The chairs were hard, upright and dark, not all sinky-in-to and cushy like the big squidgy ones in the snug at home. Or like that massive one in Mum and Dad's room which he used to fall asleep in when he insisted on ‘staying up' to watch cartoons when he was ill, or lonely, or a bit frightened after a bad dream.

There was nothing to do here, no friends nearby to see, and nowhere to go. And sometimes, even though he was very rarely frightened in normal circumstances, Freddie had to admit that he found the wind circling the house at night as terrifying as the cry of someone in pain.

In fact, he had to remind himself that it was just the wind. Night after night, tense and breathless, he would edge along the corridor to Dad's room and pound on the door. But Dad seemed to fall asleep before he did now, and so Freddie would lie next to him – comforted enough not to be frightened, but still lonely, listening to the wind moan on and on around Willow Beck.

* * *

The worst thing about life here was how positively, adamantly, insistently and totally convinced his dad was that Freddie was going to
love
Willow Beck just as soon as he got used to it. It was like an endless repetition of the same play that they performed every day at some point between half two and seven o'clock that whole first week. Every day it was the same – the only thing that changed was how long Dad would wait before commenting on his ‘moping'.

He would urge Freddie to ‘just come on', assure him that he knew how tough it was leaving all his friends and blah blah blah; insist that he was sure Freddie would love it here if he just gave it a chance.

Dad droned on and on about how he had always wished that Granny and Grandpa P had had this house when
he
was growing up. And how, when he had come for tea with Great Granny and Grandpa McCormack, who had lived here when he was young, he had spent the whole time wishing he would just be allowed out of the drawing room to explore and explore. And then of course he would start going on about all that space outside. And… blah blah blah.

Apparently Freddie would ‘see'; he would ‘come around'.

But Freddie didn't see and was certain he wouldn't come around. He had heard this mantra so many times now, right from the first mention of moving to Willow Beck, and he remained completely unconvinced. His dad's memories and descriptions of the house, which his parents had inherited from Great-Granny and -Grandpa McC whilst he was at university, didn't seem to match the house Freddie knew at all.

His dad painted a picture of mystery, magic and excitement, as if behind every heavy oak door was a whole world of ancient treasure maps, secret passages and false panels.

But Willow Beck was not one of those houses you read about in stories – there was nothing magical about it. And certainly nothing mysterious, unless you counted why anyone would want to live there in the first place. Or why on earth they would want to collect and keep such a boring, dusty array of dark old wooden furniture and faded ugly knick-knacks.

And all that space outside that Dad seemed so excited about was grey, wild and cold. Even in July! Besides, what could Freddie possibly do with the space? There was no playground or hoop, and the steep slope of the garden, down seven or eight different levels of hill to the rough, gorsy fields below, was no good for kicking around his football.

Freddie concluded there were two options: either Willow Beck was totally different then, or something was seriously wrong with his dad's memory. Perhaps life in Lochside village had simply been so boring that even a trip to Willow Beck had seemed exciting.

But Freddie didn't see how that could have been possible, even then. Perhaps Dad was just trying to trick him into liking the house. Perhaps he thought Freddie would stop complaining about living there if he believed it was a house of secrets.

Well, Freddie was way too smart to fall for that. He wasn't going to explore the house's every corner hoping to find hidden passages, secret turrets and magical treasures. He wasn't that kind of kid.

Not any more.

He knew now that none of that stuff was real – least of all at Willow Beck. Freddie wasn't going to play along with some fairytale scheme to make Dad think he was happy and excited, however silent and sad Dad was these days.

Freddie didn't even want to try to hide the fact that he was desperately remembering
then
: Westgate Square Gardens on any day of the week, with hot chocolate, and painting – and Mum.

By the following Thursday the three inhabitants of Willow Beck had settled into an uneasy rhythm with each other.

Freddie had more than four long weeks left to somehow fill in the big, empty house, before school
would start. He didn't know how he would survive it. Time went so slowly here, and it was so dull.

Not that he wanted school to start either. Not here.

On the previous Monday, Dad had started his new job in Glasgow. He left too early for Freddie to summon the energy to turn over and check the clock when he came in to say bye before making the long drive in time for his nine o'clock start. Dad didn't get back until seven in the evening. So for most of the day it was just Freddie and Granny P in the house, except for two hours on Tuesday when Mrs Quinn came in to clean, seeing as how Granny P was too old to manage most of the proper housework. (Though Mrs Quinn seemed almost as ancient, and very nearly as frail, as Granny P herself.)

Granny P and Freddie ate a silent breakfast together at eight; a silent lunch at half past twelve; and a silent tea at fifteen minutes past six.

At least the quiet at Willow Beck meals was different to the silence at Westgate Square Gardens. It had less to do with a threatening,
other
presence, and more to do with the length of the oak dining table in the dining room, the state of Granny P's hearing, and her generally reticent manner. She always sat at
one end, and at that very first meal they ate together, Freddie had made a point of sitting at the opposite end – as far away as possible – and so that was where Granny P now laid his place.

When Dad was there, he would sit at the side of the table, half-way between them, and attempt to make stilted conversation both ways, like a polite interpreter introducing two alien tribes.

But when Dad wasn't there, there was quiet. And instead of talking, Granny P spent the whole meal very still – smiling at Freddie in between taking tiny mouthfuls and then chewing them very slowly.

Freddie didn't mind the quiet with Granny P, since it wasn't awkward, and because if she were to speak to him for any length of time, she would doubtless do what all adults did now. She would start by asking him lots of questions about how he was feeling, and then tell him how wonderfully
brave
he was.

Freddie hated those conversations.

Granny P was boring, old, quiet and frail, but at least he didn't have to talk to her.

Between meals they went their separate ways. Granny P usually spent the morning in the garden room or the library. Freddie didn't know what she
did in these rooms, but whatever it was, it was always quiet. In the afternoons she would potter round the house slowly, going in and out of different rooms on the second floor, dusting, polishing and cleaning everything she touched gently and lovingly – even the very ugliest things in the house. Freddie knew this because he saw her doing so sometimes through the open door of his room.

That was where Freddie spent most of
his
time. In his room. Sometimes he'd go outside and kick his ball around at the front of the house where the drive was flat, but mostly he stayed in his room, surrounded by his stuff, and able to think occasionally that not absolutely every last thing had changed.

* * *

But on Friday, at lunchtime, the meal didn't follow routine.

Halfway through her bowl of soup, Granny P looked at him for a bit longer than usual between mouthfuls. That was the first strange thing.

Next, she put down her spoon entirely.

Then she uttered such a loud and long sigh that Freddie was quite scared for a moment that she was
seriously ill. But with surprising strength she stood up, slowly pushed her chair under the table, and then walked round the side of the table towards him.

She came right up close until their faces were no more than a few centimetres apart, looked him in the eyes, and then moved away to slowly pull across one of the side chairs – making a screeching noise with it on the floor – until she could sit very close to him.

She sat on it. And then she spoke. Even though Dad wasn't there. Even though there was nothing specific to check on, she spoke.

‘Freddie,' she said in her whisper of a voice, ‘I've stayed quiet out of respect. But I have to speak now. I'm not going to ask you to talk about anything you don't want to. And I'm not going to assume anything about who you are now, how you're feeling, or what you think about this ghastly year. But we are going to talk about one thing…'

Freddie's heart was beating fast. Granny P had gently taken his hand as she started talking, though he had barely noticed till now, and whilst her little speech had been strangely comforting at first – it felt like she
understood
somehow – he was beginning
to feel nervous. What was she going to talk to him about? Was he in trouble?