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  ‘They took him to Casselton General, suffering from what they believed to be traumatic amnesia caused by his witnessing the crash.’

  ‘Do you believe it was?’

  ‘I am no medical expert,’ said Stella. ‘I have no beliefs one way or the other.’

  ‘Then what?’ said Rupert, pressing on.

  ‘I visited. I tried to bring him home to Belthorp for Christmas, but he wasn’t well enough to come.’

  ‘In what way was he not well enough?’

  Stella remembered the strange words Thomas had screamed at her, and the strange voice that appeared to possess him like some sort of alien spirit. She shivered inwardly.

  ‘I do not know why he was not well enough,’ she said with apparent calm. ‘As I said, I have no medical knowledge whatsoever. You should go and see Dr Ramsay.’

  ‘We already have done,’ said the inspector. ‘He has, as you will appreciate, been interviewed several times by various people. It was from his care that Thomas was apparently taken in the middle of the night.’

  ‘And his father’s sheepskin coat was left behind on the bed,’ said Rupert. ‘We know it was the same coat as that from which the strip on the tanker’s wheel was torn. That is a firm connection.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella. ‘I thought that was odd too.’

  She expected to be asked her opinion again and was rather taken aback by Rupert’s next line of questioning.

  ‘On this Monday morning after the boy disappeared, you came to the hospital to see him. You were shocked when they showed you the coat and told you what had happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella guardedly. ‘I was. Anybody would be.’

  She looked hard at Inspector Galway and said pointedly, ‘I was also amazed that the hospital failed to inform me of the situation when I rang the ward on Sunday.’

  Rupert was impatient to return to his own line of questioning. He ignored Stella’s barbed complaint. After all, it was of no concern to him.

  ‘But the words you were heard to say then were a puzzle,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t remember what I said,’ said Stella, but she was lying.

  The man from the Ministry looked at his notebook.

  ‘We have witnesses who heard you say, and I quote, “My God, it must all have been true.” What did you mean by that?’

  Stella took a deep breath and fixed her interlocutor with a penetrating gaze. Her amber eyes darkened as the pupils dilated.

  ‘I cannot remember saying those words; so I cannot possibly tell you what they mean. I must have been misheard, or perhaps I was simply confused.’

  Both men knew that she was not speaking the truth. But there was nothing they could do about it. And one of them was really rather pleased, even if it did mean that the mystery was nowhere nearer to being solved.

  ‘So what do you think happened to the boy and his father?’ persisted Rupert.

  ‘They went out of my life,’ said Stella sharply. ‘When my husband died, I thought I could never be hurt again. What happened just three weeks ago is like another bereavement. Please give me leave to mourn.’

  John Galway leant over and put one hand gently on her arm.

  ‘What did you do after you left the hospital that day?’ said Rupert, ignoring her last answer entirely. The inspector looked across at him, appalled at such callousness.

  ‘I went into St Mary’s,’ said Stella coldly.

  ‘The cathedral?’

  ‘It is where I go when I am at a loss for an answer. There is someone there that I can talk to.’

  ‘A priest?’ said Rupert, biro poised ready to write down a name.

  John Galway suppressed a laugh.

  Even Stella was drawn to smile.

  ‘Someone rather more important than that,’ she said.

  Rupert flushed as he realized what she meant.

  ‘And did you get an answer?’ he said rather spitefully.

  Inspector Galway stood up abruptly, appalled at the man’s rudeness and determined to dissociate himself from it. It was surely time to go!

  Stella smiled faintly.

  ‘Life’s not a textbook with all the answers in the back,’ she said. ‘I think you probably know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Rupert, putting his pen and book away in his breast pocket. The interview was clearly over.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  Saturday in York

  Alison left home ahead of Nesta. She was about to suggest their going together, to ask where and when she had arranged to meet Amy. Then she held back thinking that perhaps they both needed time apart. So she went alone for the early bus knowing that Nesta would be at least half an hour behind her.

  The bus ride was a pleasant one, taking her through neat suburbia and past fields where in summer cattle grazed, into the heart of the great walled city. She had sight of the narrow streets of the old town, and the Minster that towered above them. This had been her home for fourteen years, and fourteen years is a long time in anyone’s language.

  She got off at Piccadilly and wandered quite aimlessly from shop to shop, bought a new lipstick in Boots; then thought about taking it with her to Ormingat. It was a shiver of a thought, a self-tormenting shiver; such as one feels when an idea slips away and does not know how to put itself into words. The centre of York at noon on Saturday was so divorced from any inkling of space travel. Even in mid-winter, the streets were busy. In fact, they were busier today than on any day since Christmas. The English weather had done one of its brilliant back-flips. The sun was shining and the air was mild and balmy.

  She had no need to shop, nothing much to shop for now that she was about to leave this Earth. What should she buy? A book for the journey . . .

  The thought seemed ludicrous, as if she were going somewhere by train. The train for Ormingat will be leaving from platform 12 in five minutes.

  Alison spent nearly an hour in the bookshop in Davygate, drinking coffee and then browsing over the books in a shop that had become one of her favourite places. She eventually came out with a copy of Dombey and Son, one of the few Dickens novels she had not read so far, and an assortment of paperbacks, on offer at three for the price of two. There would be plenty of time after all – to read, and re-read!

  Alison walked round till she came within sight of the Minster. She looked up and down the familiar streets. I don’t want to live worlds away from here. On the three-year journey home, she knew she would cease to feel like this, she would come to cherish the thought of Ormingat, her birthplace and the beloved land of her childhood, but not yet.

  Coming out of Marks and Spencer’s, where she had bought some salad, and a cake for Sunday tea, she ran into Mrs Jolly who lived next door at Number 10.

  ‘Better weather, this,’ said her neighbour, beaming as if she had produced the sunshine by her own efforts. ‘You never know how it’s going to be. Two-faced January, my late husband used to call it, something to do with Janus looking both ways. Well, I am sure it’s very two-faced about the weather, snow, frost and flood, and now look at it! It could be April!’

  ‘Well, let’s hope it stays this way!’ said Alison, smiling and anxious to move on. Mrs Jolly was always a great one for talking! They parted and Alison walked a little faster for a while to make it look as if she were indeed pressed for time. Mrs Jolly was headed in the direction of Piccadilly. Alison quickly decided to go in the opposite direction, to make for the railway station, and get the bus home from there. It was not that she disliked her neighbour’s company. But today was not the day for it!

  In St Sampson’s Square, Nesta and Amy sat in the sunshine, their mission accomplished. Only the leafless trees betrayed the fact that it was still the middle of winter.

  The girls had spent an hour or more in Coppergate, mainly window-shopping, and then they had wandered round the town streets deep in conversation, though it was Amy who did most of the talking. Nesta was trying to hide her feelings, and whilst they were on the move she could just about
manage it. By the time they came to the square, the morning was over and they were feeling quite hungry. They sat down to consider where to go next.

  The new hockey boots were in a green plastic bag on the seat between them. Amy was looking forward to being on the new team, playing at the back and fiercely guarding the goal. Thoughts of it rambled on in her head and what she said when she spoke made sense to her, though not to Nesta.

  ‘She’s changed, you know. She’s like a different person.’

  ‘Who?’ said Nesta, roused from her own daydreams. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Amy laughed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You can’t read my thoughts. My mum says I’m always doing that! Amanda Watkins has changed. Now she’s organizing the junior hockey team she’s turned quite nice.’

  Nesta shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘She’s been thinking of asking you to play mid-field because you’re the best runner. But, I know this sounds odd after what happened, she seems shy of asking you. She wanted me to find out if you were interested. Not that I’d blame you if you weren’t.’

  Nesta gave Amy a look of such absolute misery that her friend was immediately alarmed. She wished she had not mentioned Amanda.

  ‘It’s not important,’ she said hurriedly. ‘If it still hurts, you don’t need have anything to do with her. Only you don’t mind me being on the team, do you?’

  Amy looked at Nesta anxiously. Loyalty was her watchword.

  ‘If you do mind,’ she added, ‘I won’t join in. It’s just a game after all.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Nesta quickly. ‘It’s something else altogether. Nothing to do with school.’

  ‘Tell me then,’ said Amy. ‘It can’t be all that bad. Surely it can’t.’

  ‘It can,’ said Nesta miserably. ‘It is. It’s terrible, but I can’t tell you anything about it.’

  ‘Nesta Gwynn!’ said Amy, bringing both fists down on the bag that held the hockey boots. ‘You can tell me anything. I am your best friend, aren’t I?’

  ‘You are my best friend, Amy. And you always will be, no matter what. But I can’t tell you. I really can’t.’

  ‘It’s best to tell, no matter what it is,’ said Amy. ‘Remember the bullying. When I told about that, it was all put right. It even helped Amanda, I think. She’s a much better person now.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Nesta. ‘I wish it were. It’s just we might be moving away soon. My parents might have to go back to Boston. And I don’t want to go. I’d love to be on the team, only I might not be here long enough.’

  Before Amy could ask any questions, Nesta caught sight of her mother coming up Parliament Street towards where they were sitting.

  ‘Look,’ she said, as brightly as she could, ‘there’s my mom. Let’s ask her to take us to Betty’s for lunch. She offered to this morning. But mind you don’t say anything about us going away. We’re not even sure to be going. It could be called off. And it’s supposed to be a secret.’

  They both stood up and waved hard at Alison, who soon saw them, waved back and came to meet them.

  ‘Come on then, you two,’ she said as she drew near. ‘Time for eats. I said this morning I would take you to Betty’s. I guess you’d be pleased to take up the offer now!’

  Afterwards, on the bus home, Alison said anxiously, ‘You didn’t tell Amy anything, did you?’

  ‘No, Mom, not really,’ said Nesta, looking not at her mother but out of the window at the Museum Gardens. ‘I did say we might be moving away from here, but not where or when, and certainly not how. There’s no need, you know, to warn me not to tell. Most of it is untellable.’

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  Matthew’s Return

  In the twilight, something silvery, like a winter moth, flitted across the back lawn at Number 8 Linden Drive. The presence settled lightly in the corner of the open porch. Then, with a swift shimmer, it rippled into full life and became Matthew Gwynn. The glass in each of the side windows vibrated. Matthew caught his breath and rested a moment against the house door. It was locked and there was no light from the kitchen.

  Matthew tapped several times, urgently but not too loudly. No one came. He stood back on to the lawn and looked at all of the windows he could see but there was no light in any of them. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was a quarter to five. He walked round to the front of the house, past the wall of a hedge that protected the property of the Marwoods at Number 6. He could not see their garden through the dense high evergreens; more important, no one on the other side would be able to see him. At that moment, in his sweatshirt and jeans, possibly locked out of his own house, he felt self-conscious.

  There were no lights at the front of the house either. No one home. And he had no key to get in. He strolled casually down the front path to the gate and looked towards the end of the street where the bus would stop. A bus did stop.

  Coming towards him, shopping in either hand, was Mrs Jolly.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Gwynn,’ she said as she approached. ‘Just seen your wife in town. Been a nice day, hasn’t it?’

  As she drew closer, she saw something that Matthew had not observed. His hands were covered in slimy vegetation.

  ‘You been having trouble with that pond of yours?’ said Mrs Jolly. ‘Saw you’d been draining it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew, rubbing his hand on an oil rag he managed to find in his jeans pocket. ‘There’s a blockage somewhere.’

  ‘Never did like garden ponds,’ said Mrs Jolly. ‘They’re always a nuisance. You’re forever having to do something with them. Either they dry up, or they smell, or they flood the garden. I’d get rid of it if I were you.’

  Matthew smiled sheepishly.

  ‘It was there when we came to live here,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s part of the character of the house. It might even be on top of an old well. I know we always find it easy to fill.’

  ‘Never thought of that,’ said Mrs Jolly, looking cautious. ‘Probably best left, then. Let sleeping dogs lie.’

  It did just occur to her that a dammed up well next door might send the water to other properties: water always finds somewhere to go.

  She walked on up to her own gate and waved cheerio.

  At least she didn’t mention the frog, thought Matthew gratefully.

  The problem was, what to do next. He walked round to the side of the house and contemplated the Marwoods’ hedge for some minutes. The next bus would arrive in about half an hour. He couldn’t stay skulking by the hedge for long. Standing in the back garden he might be observed. Paranoia maybe, but Mrs Jolly was never far from a window. A mist was coming up; the weather was on the change again. Matthew looked up and down the street, decided to spend the time walking the long way round to the bus stop.

  So he went out of the path and walked quite slowly, head down, towards the crescent at the opposite end from the main road. A gentle walk, all he felt capable of after the shock to the system that always attended the process of diminishing and increasing, would give time for the next bus to arrive. There was no one in sight. The mist thickened and he was glad of it.

  The bus passed by on the main road and stopped just a few yards ahead of him. He was relieved to see Alison and Nesta alight from it.

  ‘Allie!’ he called. ‘Nesta!’

  They turned, startled.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ said Nesta. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  For one hysterical moment, Alison thought that the spaceship must have moved somehow. Then Matthew reached them and said breathlessly, ‘I’m locked out. I didn’t have my key with me.’

  Nesta flung her arms round her father and sobbed.

  ‘You’re safe,’ she said. ‘I thought we might never see you again!’

  Alison looked round anxiously to make sure there were no passers-by. There weren’t.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Calm down now. We can talk about it when we get into the house.’

  She
turned them both round and set them off in the right direction.

  ‘You should have stayed on the back porch, Mattie,’ she said, shaking her head with a sort of motherly exasperation. ‘You might have known we wouldn’t be long.’

  Matthew didn’t bother to explain about Mrs Jolly and the pond. It could only complicate things.

  Once indoors, they all felt a need to draw breath. Matthew was still suffering the after-effects of diminishing and increasing in such a short space of time. Nesta was once again shocked and bewildered. To see her father emerging from the mist and running towards them had been almost like seeing a ghost. The calmest was Alison. The other two sat tensely silent as she put away the shopping and boiled the kettle to make them all a strong cup of Yorkshire tea!

  Bostonians from Ormingat, settling down to a reviving British cuppa, she thought wryly. We really are confused!

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  Fresh Instructions

  The house the Gwynns had ‘inherited’ had come to them complete with rather old-fashioned, comfortable furniture. Over the years, they had made few changes. In this respect perhaps they demonstrated that, deep down, they continued to feel that they were just visitors to the planet with no absolute right to place or property. To Nesta, on the other hand, this lack of change had always been reassuring.

  But we’re really Americans, aren’t we? And you and Daddy came from Boston.

  Nesta was sitting in the big, green armchair, automatically drinking the tea her mother had handed her, and those were the thoughts that came uppermost to her mind. The old green leather armchair was somehow linked to eternity. Ormingat was in the province of the elves and the shoemaker.

  Matthew was about to speak, but Nesta spoke first. She brushed her fine hair back from her brow, leant forward and said, ‘What is it like?’

  Matthew smiled back at her.

  ‘Not so bad,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s like going very fast down a steep chute. You feel a bit dazed afterwards: I’m still rather light-headed; but it soon wears off. You don’t really know that you have changed size at all because you are always the same to yourself.’