Coombe's Wood (5 page)

With the washing-up bowl under her arm, Izzy locked up and strolled along the side of the building. As she walked past Mr Brown’s windows, she made a mental note to buy triple chocolate chunk cookies.

She climbed the stairs to the flat, stopping to stare at the innocuous door across the hall. Later, she’d be forced to knock, dinner prepared and waiting for her. Her stomach constricted at the thought. She didn’t want to be in a man’s house. He might be psychotic. He could be anything.

She bolted herself in, and made a pot of tea. With no chairs or sofa, she sat cross-legged on the floor by the balcony, staring through the lower pane, past the iron bars of the balustrade, and out to the woods.

After she finished her tea, Izzy lay on the floor of the living room and timed five minutes, her head resting to one side as she watched the second hand moved past each number. Part of a nursery rhyme came back to her.
What’s the time, Mr Wolf?
She dearly hoped this Feathers character was not a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The time read ten-past-four. She got off the floor, her back aching from lying on the floorboards, and paced the living room. Then she re-washed the lunchtime plates. She examined the shelves in Connor’s room, took them apart and put them together properly. She opened all the windows. Then it was too cold, so she closed them. She dried the dishes. Another forty minutes had passed.

A nervous shiver finished in an all-over sweat. She wiped her palms on her jeans and walked to her front door. She hadn’t heard them come back. With luck, they’d not caught anything. She’d say thank you from the threshold, and leave. She paced back through the living room, and out to the balcony.

A bitter wind blew, and she wrapped her arms around her body. Night had fallen early and thick clouds blotted out the view, only vague outlines of the hills distinguishable. She wondered where they were, perhaps in those woods. Maybe Connor was in trouble, and there was nothing she could do about it. She had let the best part of her life out of sight with some strange man.

She’d caught the scent of lavender on him earlier. Or thought she had. What normal man wears perfume? Certainly, no cologne she knew resembled lavender. Izzy paced back into Connor’s room, put the shelves against the far wall, and arranged his magazines and books on them. One of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books slid down. She picked it up, leafing through the pages. Rincewind amused her, and for the first time that afternoon, her worries faded away as she entered the bizarre world of wizards and living luggage.

A bang on the door sounded. Izzy jumped, dropping the book, and then jumping to her feet. She glanced at her watch, how long had she read? There was a second knock, followed by a woman’s voice calling, “Hellooo?”

“Who the hell?” Izzy muttered. She stayed in Connor’s room, not sure she wanted to meet anyone. Then the person rapped again.

“Coming,” Izzy called out, and put the book back on the shelf.

She opened the door to a middle-aged woman, a large bunch of colourful flowers obscuring her face. She peeked out between two sprays of gypsophilia. Pink lilies, carnations and chrysanthemums hid the rest of her face.

“Hi, hope I’m not disturbing you. My name is Cathy. I live in number eight, the flat above yours.” She held the bouquet out, exposing a skin creased by laughter. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to knock, but I lose weeks like some people lose socks.” She pushed the flowers into Izzy’s hands. “These are for you, a welcoming present.” Cathy grinned. “Hope you like them.”

“Thanks. I’m Izzy.” She took them, breathing in their perfumes. “I love lilies, and don’t they smell lovely?” She opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

“Love to.”

“You’d best come through to the kitchen. We haven’t got much furniture yet. I can do tea, though.”

Cathy peered into the rooms as she passed by. “Reminds me of when Lou and I moved in. For months, all we had was a bed.” She giggled. “Didn’t need much else.”

Izzy glanced at the clock. Quarter-to-six.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Ooo, yes. Two spoons. I never did manage to give up the sweet tooth. You know, Lou and I put a spare sofa in our storage unit. Would you like it?” She took her mug, and leaned against the counter. “It’s almost new, but Lou found a half-price deal at a furniture shop in Reading. He’s always wanted a leather one, and couldn’t resist. We were going to sell the old sofa, but apparently if there’s no fire rating thingy, no one’s interested.”

“I couldn’t pay you much
…
”

“We don’t want money.” Cathy chuckled. “Lord knows. You’d be doing us a favour.”

“You sure?” Izzy asked.

“Yes. I’ll tell Lou to get the trailer out and bring the sofa around tomorrow night. That soon enough?”

“Fabulous, thanks!”

“So, where’d you move from?”

“Chester. You been there?”

The other woman shook her head. “Don’t travel well. How far away is that?”

“Took us five hours.”

“Must have been a big reason for the move – work?”

“No. Personal.” Izzy shifted nervously against the counter.

“Bad break-up?”

“Something like that.”

“Shame.” Cathy put her half-full mug in the sink. “Sorry I can’t finish the tea. Lou’s back soon, and I need to get the tea on. You should come over, and we’ll have a proper chinwag, and a pot between us.” She smiled at Izzy. “Well, I’d best be off. Won’t forget about the sofa. And I’ll search around for any other things that might help.”

“You’re very kind.”

Cathy stopped halfway down the hall to the front door. “Don’t you have a son?”

“Connor. My very own shifty teen.”

“He’s quiet,” she said, smiling.

“He’s not here. He went out with Feathers and a boy called Oliver. Went on survival training.”

“He’s a strange one, Feathers. Harmless, but
…
different.”

“He is?”

“It’s nice to see the flat lived in again.” Cathy patted Izzy’s arm. “See you about, dear,” she said, and let herself out.

Izzy stood by the door, thinking. She wanted Connor back. Agitated, she took up pacing in the living room once more, striding in time to the second hand. She stopped dead as it ticked over to six o’clock. She didn’t want to face Feathers. She didn’t want to talk to him. How could she do this, look at him, smile. Connor would be waiting. Maybe he was desperate, wanting to leave.

With a deep breath, she went to the front door, she even got as far as putting her hand on the doorknob, and then she walked away. In her mind, common sense told her: Feathers was just a man. No harm would befall them during a simple dinner.

Cathy had said,
Harmless, but different
. What did that mean?

Seconds ticked by. She had to go.

Feathers’ door opened at her second knock. Connor stood there with a giant smile and rosy cheeks.

“Hi, Mum. What took you so long? We’ve been back for ages!”

He moved to the side, and a wave of tempting aromas tumbled over Izzy.

“We caught four rabbits,” Connor said brightly. “The farmers let Feathers trap on their land, because it helps keep the population down. I got to gut and skin one.” He spoke fast, his excitement bubbling over. “All the insides gooed out in a slimy pile. And the skin came off easy, like peeling an orange.”

“It did?” She took a step back, peering over her shoulder at her own front door.

“Come in, the stew’s almost cooked. We found the herbs as well, growing wild. Have you ever heard of alexanders? It’s a mix between parsley and celery. Feathers said it adds a peppery flavour. And there’s wild garlic growing in the woods.”

“Wild garlic? Hang on, you went
into the woods
?”

“Just near them. And nettles, he just threw them in the pot, they’re like a spinach or something. Lots of Vitamin A.”

She couldn’t stay on the landing. She’d been invited. Connor stood with his back to the door as he waited for her to enter.

“You’ve perfect timing,” Feathers called out.

“Go in.” Connor gave her a gentle push.

“Your boy is a wealth of information,” Feathers said as Izzy walked into the kitchen. A thick stew bubbled and popped in a large pot on the hob.

“Um, yes. He reads a lot.” She leaned against a counter on the other side of the room. “Looks good.” She nodded at the stew.

“Connor’s a natural. With a little more tuition, he’d survive lost in the woods for months.”

Izzy frowned. So much for the dangerous woods, then. It was clear there was some other reason she was being warned off.

Feathers sampled from the pot, ground in a mixture of spice from a tall wooden pepper mill, and threw in a handful of what looked almost like parsley. “You want a try?” He went to dip the spoon he’d sipped from back in the pot. She shook her head. She didn’t know what to say to this man. She concentrated. She could think of something if she tried hard enough.

“Thank you for taking him out. He seems to have enjoyed himself.”

“No probs, he was a pleasure. Helped that Oliver and Connor get along so well.”

“They do?” She tapped her fingers on the counter, examining the kitchen; unmarked pots filled with dried herbs filled a shelf. Underneath, fresh bunches of greenery hung from hooks.

“So, are you all moved in yet?” Feathers stirred the stew.

“Well, as much as we can be.”

“Why’s that?” He tapped the spoon on the side of the pot, and turned off the gas. To the right of the hob, a stack of large bowls waited. He began to ladle stew into them.

“Well, we don’t own much.” Her tummy rumbled.

Feathers didn’t look up.

“Actually, Connor has a bed.”

Feathers stopped ladling.

“I bought a set of shelves for his room this weekend. Oh, and a coffee table.”

“You don’t have anything else?”

“Money’s a little short. You know how it is. Or, maybe you don’t.” She gave a sharp burst of laughter. “You probably don’t.”

“It’s okay Izzy. You shouldn’t be nervous.”

She stared, unblinking.

Feathers took out a stack of bowls. “How much would you like?”

“Stew? Just a little,” Izzy said quickly.

Feathers’ eyes bored into her own, then he dunked the ladle into the pot and scooped up chunks of meat and vegetables.

“It’s good,” he said, and handed her a full bowl.

Not the little she’d requested, but the food looked tasty, rich
…
and
exotic. She gave a shy smile and sat down at the table, found in a space more like an alcove between the living room and the kitchen.

The boys were sat at the table, tucking in.

Savouring the first mouthful, she tried to place the unusual flavours. One was lemon, but the other – aniseed? The chair next to her shifted back, and Feathers sat down. She should compliment the chef; be polite and say a word or two about the quality of the food. But comments would lead to questions – and necessary interaction.

“Would you like some wine?” Feathers asked.

She glanced over to see he’d carried more than just stew from the kitchen. A large bottle of Piat d’Or now stood on the table flanked by two wine glasses. She gave a timid nod, and he unscrewed the top.

They ate in silence. Izzy shifted in her seat, the lack of conversation a physical weight on her chest, nothingness ringing in her ears. She swallowed with difficulty, and took a large sip of the wine. She glanced up at her host. His eyes were closed, perhaps savouring a chunk of meat. The boys on the other side of the table uttered small noises, sounds of pleasure as they scooped the food into their mouths. They hardly stopped for breath, chewing, swallowing, then pausing momentarily between mouthfuls to appreciate the dinner. She scraped her bowl, the pendulum clock in the hall loud, marking the passing of time in
half-second increments. The boiler in the kitchen clicked, followed by a series of small ticks, and then flared into life. Izzy sipped at her wine, her eyes returning to Feathers.

“How did you get your nickname?” Izzy blurted, as he got up to clear the table.

“How does anyone get a name?” he said, and stopped by the door to the kitchen. “It was given to me by elves.” Feathers smirked, then disappeared into the other room. “But seriously,” he called out, “it’s such an uninteresting story, I wouldn’t want to bore you with it.”

“Elves?” Connor laughed.

“Don’t knock it,” Oliver said, pushing his chair back. “Why shouldn’t they be real?”

“Because they aren’t!”
said Connor.
“Only crazy people believe in things like that.”

“Don’t be rude,” Izzy said, spinning her wine glass by the stem.

“What’s your flat like?” Oliver asked.