5thCLASS_97_185_jg:Layout 1 5/3/12 17:44 Page 115


Chapter Tree


We slog uphill to Cold Tarn* Woods. Not many people come here unless the tarn is frozen over and they can skate. It’s February but there’s no ice: global warming, I suppose. Pip hacks at the leafmould with the toe of her trainer. ‘So what’s he actually got, your grandad?’ ‘Some sort of cancer. I think it’s in – you know, a part you don’t mention.’ ‘Uh-huh. And it’s doing your head in? ‘Yeah, well: I’ve always got on great with him, see? He’s not like other old people: he’s interested, keeps up with what’s happening. You can have a conversation with him.’ ‘I know what you mean. My grandma and grandad don’t know what I’m on about half the time. They’re like, iPod: what the heck’s iPod? It’s as if they’ve already resigned from the world.’


She stops, snatches at the sleeve of my jacket. ‘Hey, look.’


We’ve come to where the trees thin out, giving way to a flattish area where gorse and bracken grow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it in winter before. The bracken’s died back, and there’s a big oblong of old concrete that must be hidden most of the year. We go over to it and I probe a crumbling edge with my toe. ‘What d’you think it is?’ Pip shrugs. ‘It’s just a slab of cement now, but I suppose it was a floor at one time.’ ‘Floor of what, right up here?’ ‘Dunno. Army camp maybe. Scout camp. Holiday camp. Look: there’s another over there, and another.’ We walk about, hacking at dead vegetation and peering into gorse bushes, and it turns out there’s lots of floors, if that’s what they are. Six at least. Most are the same size, but we find a couple that’re bigger, square instead of oblong. I try to remember if I’ve ever heard anyone mention a camp up here, but I don’t think I have. ‘Look.’ Pip’s found another but I’ve seen something else: a pathway like a line of stepping stones, almost buried. I start to walk along it but there are gaps, like some stones are missing. I need big strides, even jumps. Landing after a long jump my foot skids on green slime and I fall, slashing my cheek on gorse. I wince, screw up my eyes against the sting. When I open them and blink away the tears, I’m lying on mown grass, surrounded by long, low buildings. There’s no gorse, no pathway, no sign of Pip. Gripped by sudden dread, I scramble to my feet, glancing wildly around, seeing nothing I recognize. I start to sob; I can’t help it, I must’ve gone mad or something. Hearing somebody behind me I whirl, hoping it’s Pip, seeing instead a middle-aged woman who smiles and says, ‘You must be Joyce Ingham, we’ve been expecting you.’


What do you think has happened to Charlotte? What do you think this means?


* a small mountain lake or pond 115


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