The Monsters of Rookhaven, стр. 36

Freddie

Freddie’s mother turned from where she was stirring a pot on the stove and exchanged a knowing glance with Freddie when her husband came in the door.

‘Ludicrous,’ Freddie’s father growled as he sat down at the dining table.

‘What’s ludicrous, dear?’ said Freddie’s mother, her tone deliberately light.

‘We had a meeting about the incident, and it was disrupted by that girl.’

‘Mirabelle,’ said Freddie, instinctively annoyed by the fact that his father wouldn’t use her name.

‘Have you done those accounts yet?’ his father snapped.

Freddie shook his head. His father shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his face twitching when he caught his wife’s warning glance.

‘Just try and get them done before the end of the day,’ he said, his voice a little gentler.

Freddie nodded. His father had him do the accounts because he reckoned it would help him ‘become a responsible individual’, as he described it. Freddie knew he was being groomed to take over the shop some day.

‘They say they’ll do penance for what happened with the incident and that thing getting out. If you ask me it isn’t enough.’

Freddie’s mother took some bowls over to the table and laid them out.

‘A cow got disembowelled and eaten, dear. There’s no need to be coy – you are a butcher after all. Incident indeed.’

Freddie’s father was rocking agitatedly in his chair. He looked at Freddie with a gaze that almost made him flinch. It was a look that contained hurt, fear and anger. Freddie hadn’t seen his father so agitated since . . .

He couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about James. He scribbled down some more figures and tried to block the world out.

‘Oh dear, it sounds like you do have a lot on your mind, Mr Fletcher.’

Mr Pheeps was leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb with his arms folded. He was still wearing that awful coat of his. With his straggly hair and wide mouth Freddie found it strangely difficult to look at him for too long.

‘That we do, Mr Pheeps,’ said Freddie’s father.

He said it in the pompous self-important tone that both Freddie and his mother recognized as his ‘I am about council business’ tone. The tone that implied he was doing the most important work in the world. Freddie’s mother was ladling vegetable soup into bowls, and she took a moment to look at Freddie and roll her eyes.

‘And tell me, what difficulties are you currently dealing with?’ asked Mr Pheeps.

‘If you must know, Mr Pheeps, we are currently having troubles with the inhabitants of the local estate.’

Freddie didn’t like the way his father sat up higher in his chair when Mr Pheeps spoke. He’d noticed that since they’d first met him his father always seemed very eager to please him. Almost as if the man had some kind of hold over him.

Mr Pheeps tilted his head and rubbed his hands together. ‘Estate? Which estate might that be? I’ve seen no estate in these parts.’

‘That’s because it’s been hidden,’ said Mr Fletcher.

Mr Pheeps’s mouth was an O of wonder, his eyes flicking back and forth, as if calculating something. Freddie felt a sudden wave of panic. He wanted to scream for his father to stop talking.

‘Hidden, you say? Hidden how?’

Mr Pheeps tilted his head again. Freddie’s scalp felt as if things were crawling on it.

Mr Fletcher looked slightly abashed. ‘Well, I’m not sure I can say—’

‘You can’t say,’ said Freddie’s mother, banging some spoons down on the table. ‘Would you like some soup, Mr Pheeps? You’re welcome to join us,’ she said without looking at him.

Mr Pheeps gave his best supercilious smile. ‘I think I shall politely decline the offer, Mrs Fletcher, as generous as it is.’

Mrs Fletcher nodded while keeping her eyes on her soup.

‘Why don’t you join us for dinner this evening, then?’ suggested Mr Fletcher.

Mr Pheeps beamed with delight. Freddie’s heart felt like a lead weight that was sinking straight to the floor.

‘How very kind of you. I think I shall accept the invitation. It may give us some time to talk through your troubles, Mr Fletcher. They seem to weigh so heavily upon you, and you have been so hospitable to me that I feel it would be remiss of me not to pay you due attention and perhaps provide some advice.’

Freddie could see his mother’s jaw hardening. He could feel Mr Pheeps’s eyes on the family, and he fought the urge to look at him because to look at him would mean seeing that nauseating smile again.

‘I shall leave you in peace,’ Mr Pheeps said, withdrawing.

A few moments passed. The only sound in the kitchen was the gentle slurping of soup. The silence was eventually broken by Freddie’s mother.

‘I really don’t like that man.’

After his soup, Freddie went for one of his customary walks. There were some people on the streets, and they nodded and greeted him as he passed. Freddie liked that about Rookhaven: everyone knew everyone else, and there was always a sense that they were looking out for each other, especially since the war. Especially since . . .

Freddie stopped himself. It was best not to think about those things. It was best to move on, that’s what he’d heard his father say to his mum once when they thought he hadn’t been listening.

He passed Mr Biggins the tailor, a craggy-faced man in a grey suit. He was always whistling a tune. He was whistling one now as he walked down the street and tipped his hat to Freddie. Freddie recognized the song as ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’. It was a song his mum liked, and she always paused in whatever she was doing when she heard it come on the wireless. Freddie grinned and saluted him back. Mr Biggins kept whistling, but took a moment to wink at him.

On the other side of the road, Mrs Smith was