There were three of them. They were Amanda’s new neighbours. She didn’t know if she wanted new neighbours. She wanted her old room, the house that was sold, the house that didn’t have a family in it any more. Now she had her grandparents, and this place: a white house with a low roof, a room under the eaves with a faded carpet and a musty smell.
“Scotland will be good for you,” Grandma had said. “A new start for us all. Plenty of fresh air.”
And here were friends for her already. Mrs McBride was the mother, and here were the two daughters. Morag leaned against the dresser, swinging her foot like a ballerina. She had brown hair and a long, pinched face. Kitty was older. She sat down at once on the sofa, sitting up straight, looking at Amanda with a direct gaze.
“What do you say, Amanda?” Grandma nodded towards the girls.
Amanda tried a smile. She couldn’t think of anything to say; then she saw that pointed foot, swinging and swaying. “Do you like ballet?” she asked.
Morag’s lips twitched and she shot a sidelong glance at Kitty. “Ballet?” she said. “No, I don’t like ballet. D’ye not know Scottish dancing?”
Amanda shook her head and watched as Morag skipped a few steps across the floor.
“Have ye no been to a ceilidh, Amanda?” asked their mother. Her tone was kind. “We’ll have to teach ye, won’t we, Morag?”
Morag pursed her lips.
“Have you heard o’ the ceilidh? Ye’d like it.” Mrs McBride laughed. “Ye’ll no be used to the accent. D’ye ken?”
Amanda frowned. “My name’s Amanda,” she said, and everyone laughed.
“Come on,” said Kitty, jumping up from the sofa and holding out a hand. “We’ll show ye where to play, won’t we, Morag?”
There were encouraging sounds from the adults. Amanda rose to her feet and Kitty grabbed her hand. The next moment they were heading up the lane towards a wooded hill, Morag and Kitty in front, Amanda following.
“We’ll go to the lochan,” said Kitty. “Ye do know what a lochan is?”
“No.”
They hurried on, past more small white houses, past a tiny store, past a cottage that was thatched in what looked like old heather. Water dripped from it. The sky was darker now, the clouds weighed down.
“Why’re your parents so auld?” The question came from Kitty.
“Why so
Amanda knew she would have to explain: that they were her grandparents, not her parents, because her parents were gone. There was an accident, and only she was left. She imagined the words, held in her mouth only, never reaching her insides. Just going out into the cold air where they would disappear.
“Here,” Kitty cut in. There was a low bridge and the start of a wood. A path wound its way into the trees, fallen leaves lying wetly on the ground. The gold and red of tall trees mingled with the dark green of pine.
Amanda trailed after them, her smooth soles slipping on the leaves, revealing streaks of black mud. Dribbles of lichen hung from the trees. Away from the path the ground was covered in little mounds, old branches maybe, covered in moss and tight, star-shaped leaves. Everything dripped.
“A boy disappeared here once,” said Kitty. “But we’re not scairt, are we, Morag?”
“No.”
“Are ye scairt, Amanda?”
Amanda looked at them.
Kitty turned and smiled. “How old are ye, Amanda?”
“I’m eight.”
“He was eight, too. He was eight, wasn’t he, Morag? When he disappeared?”
Amanda frowned. “I don’t believe there was a boy.”
“Aye, there was. A long time ago. An’ he vanished. They all thought he ran away, but we know he’s here. Don’t we, Morag?”
Morag nodded.
“We’ll show you.”
Amanda glanced back; saw the pathway winding towards the house. Thought of going home on her own, without her new friends, and everyone asking why. She nodded.
There was a man standing by the lochan. He stood by a small green hut, a wooden creel at his feet. He twisted a length of blue rope in his hands, around and around.
The lochan was a small lake, still and grey and edged with rhododendrons that weren’t in flower. A wide, even pathway circled it. “It’s pretty,” Amanda said.
Kitty snorted. “Come on.” She led the way to another path, narrow and dark, leading up the hill into more woodland.
The man watched them go. His face was heavily lined and he had a white beard like Santa Claus. He smiled at Amanda and she smiled back.
“Don’t look at him,” Kitty hissed. “He’s mad, he is. Everyone knows it.”
She stomped up the path, leaving peaty footprints. Soon they were stepping over branches, and mounds and grooves cut into the earth by run-off from the hills.
“Look,” said Kitty.
Amanda looked about. There were just trees with silver trunks, scarred here and there with black patches.
“Ye can see his face.” Kitty pointed.
There was a shape in the trunk of a tree, a growth sticking out. “It’s nothing,” Amanda said. “Just a bole.”
“Oh, is it now? Just a be-owl,” said Kitty.
“A bowl, a
But Amanda saw that it wasn’t a bole, at all. It was a face; the face of a young boy with closed eyes, the mouth slightly open, his two front teeth missing. His skin was smooth apart from deep grooves that ran through the bark like scratches.
“He was kilt here, tha’s wha’ I think. An’ they never found him.”
Amanda frowned. She reached out to touch the face. It wasn’t carved. It was growing in the wood, a living thing, damp and lightly greened with moss.
“Don’t touch it!”
Amanda turned and saw Kitty’s face, her eyes wide open.
“Ye mustn’t touch it. It’s bad luck.”
It was too late. Amanda’s fingers rested, lightly, on the bark.
“That’s bad luck, now.” Kitty marched off, back the way they had come, Morag trailing at her heels.
After a moment, Amanda followed.
Kitty and Morag had told her to meet them in the woods. Amanda glanced out of the window, seeing the empty lane, a formless grey sky.
“We’re your friends,” Kitty said. “We’ll play by the lochan.
What if she went, and they didn’t meet her after all? What if they went, and she didn’t? She sighed. Soon there would be school, and the girls would catch the bus together, share the journey every day. If she didn’t go to the woods – but no. It had to be them who didn’t show, if anyone. And maybe they would be there; maybe they really meant to be friends.
Amanda’s footsteps were loud on the pavement. She paused at the bridge, looking down into the white froth, listened to it crashing on the stones. She sniffed. Grandma was right; the air was clean here. It didn’t smell of anything at all.
She went in under the trees, kicking fallen leaves that stuck to her boots in wet clumps. The woods were damp, droplets of water clinging to strands of moss and lichen. She glanced down. There was a groove in the ground where water trickled through a carpet of pine needles. Something moved.
Amanda started, and then saw the velvet body of a vole, its tender nose twitching. She imagined the voices
