Skull in the Wood Read Online Free

acting like a mental case. It wasn’t like I saidanything out of order – she just went off on one. I didn’t get it.
    Once I was in, things improved. Uncle Jack said the farm computer was off limits except for emergencies, but I could watch TV for a while. Finally Kitty trotted up and announced that we’d better all have a wash and then it would be time for supper. When I say it like that it sounds a bit Famous Five, but she was just being nice. And believe me, I needed some of that.
    Amazingly, she’d even laid the table in the kitchen – this huge old pine number, all scuffed and ringed from stuff that had been spilt on it and scrubbed away. It should have looked rubbish, but it didn’t. Just sort of homely. Kitty had set out mats and forks and knives and salt and pepper and everything. My mum would be seriously impressed – she says I never do anything around the house. Then Uncle Jack came in and brought something out of the range cooker, and when he took the lid off, it wasn’t a burnt offering like I would have expected from him, but this casserole with dark purplish gravy and a fantastic meaty smell that had me almost dribbling on to the flagstones. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, thanks to Tilda, and now I realised just how hungry I was.
    â€˜This is Hector,’ said Uncle Jack, waving his fork atthe casserole. He’s totally lost it, too, I thought.
    Kitty grinned at me. ‘Hector was one of our bullocks,’ she said. ‘I didn’t like him a lot because he had a bad temper. But he tastes nice.’
    We’re on first name terms with our dinner? Still . . . I only hesitated a nanosecond, then dived in. And Hector was amazing. I’d never really thought about where the meat we eat at home comes from – but this tasted way better. We ate him with big hunks of bread, which we tore off and dipped in the gravy to mop it up. My mum would have had a fit at our lack of manners, but it really was great stuff.
    There wasn’t a lot being said apart from ‘Pass the butter,’ but once I’d staved off the first pangs of hunger I thought I’d try to find out what Gabe had been ranting on about.
    â€˜The bloke that works on the farm mentioned Old Scratch Wood,’ I said. ‘He told me not to go there.’
    Uncle Jack looked up from a forkful of Hector and pushed his hair back from his eyes. Suddenly I could see a resemblance to Tilda.
    â€˜Gabe?’ he said. ‘What else did he say about it?’
    â€˜I don’t know, really. He was going on about omens or harbingers or something.’
    â€˜Oh, you don’t want to pay too much attention toGabe’s stories,’ said Uncle Jack curtly, and went back to his supper.
    I squirmed in my seat.
    â€˜What’s barbingers?’ said Kitty.
    Uncle Jack actually smiled.
    â€˜They foretell that something is coming, darling,’ he said. ‘Like I can foretell that it’s nearly your bedtime.’ Kitty obviously had a good effect on him, because as he turned to me I could see he was already in a better mood. ‘Gabe likes to ladle on the local colour – he’s a walking folklore museum,’ he said. ‘But Old Scratch Wood is just a small wood on the moor beyond Thieves’ Tor. Not much left of it now, although it’s very old. One of the last native forests in England. The oaks there are ancient. Quite strange-looking . . .’
    â€˜Can we have pudding now?’ said Kitty.
    â€˜Yes, sweetheart,’ said Uncle Jack. ‘I’ll get out the treacle tart in a minute. But maybe you should go there, Matthew. It’ll be something for you to do, now you’re here.’ He gave me a probing look. ‘I’ll get Tilda to take you tomorrow.’
    I tried a dutiful guest smile, but a day out with Tilda wasn’t quite what I was after.
    â€˜Can I go, too?’ said Kitty.
    It was all I could do not to pull a face.