Ilam is in the dip of breathtakingly beautiful hills, and it’s a clear morning, the sky a forget-me-not blue – apart from one ominous cloud over the mountain of Thorpe Cloud. It may or may not be headed for us – it’s hard to tell.
We drive into the National Trust car park for Ilam Hall. It’s only eight thirty, and the place is quiet, almost deserted. A few staff bustle around the main courtyard, setting up for the day, but really we have the place almost to ourselves.
We make our way down through the terraced gardens and towards the River Manifold. Scarlett makes a point of staying at least five feet behind me most of the way, swiping at the trees with a bamboo stick she’s picked up.
As we walk I debate how best to broach the subject.
‘I do see how hard it is for you,’ I start eventually, as we near St Bertram’s bridge. ‘You probably don’t want to hear this, but I came from a broken home myself…’
‘No, I don’t want to hear,’ she says rudely, and I feel the heat in my face as we pass it, walking on to the next bridge.
‘Look, you’re not the first kid in the world who’s had to put up with a stepmother.’ I’m unable to control my sudden irritation.
‘Really?’ she says, even more rudely than before. ‘It’s not the stepmother I have a problem with,’ she continues.
‘Well good.’ I open the small gate to the bridge that leads to the fields, talking over my shoulder. ‘Because I do have your best interests at heart, whatever you may think. I’m concerned about you, Scarlett.’
‘Why don’t you just get lost, Jeanie?’ she snaps.
I stride over the bridge, biting back another retort. About to swing my leg over the stile at the end, the black cloud over Thorpe Cloud bursts.
The sudden deluge is so hard it stings my face.
Blinded by the rain, I concentrate on clambering over the slippery stile. On the other side, I turn to offer Scarlett a hand.
She’s not there. ‘Scarlett?’
She must have gone off in a strop – a ‘mard’, as they’d say locally.
Quickly I scan my surroundings.
A couple of ramblers cower beneath an oak on the other side of the river, brandishing a now soggy map. A woman in a red anorak with a black Labrador is walking up the far hill.
No Scarlett that I can see.
Cursing quietly, I make my way back over the stile, rain driving into my face and dripping horribly down my neck.
The most blood-curdling scream shatters the still air.
‘Scarlett?’
I rush over the bridge, slipping in my haste so that I go down hard on one knee. It’s agony, but I am up again immediately, dashing water from my face. ‘Scarlett?’ I’m yelling now at the top of my voice. ‘Where are you?’
Still no answer; no more screams.
I run along the riverbank for a few seconds. ‘Did you see her?’ I cry at the ramblers, but they just look stunned.
And then movement above me attracts my eye.
A dark, hooded male figure bolts, like a creature from Hades, out of the trees on the steep incline above the river, away and over the top of the hill.
‘Scarlett!’ I bellow, panicking, panicking—
And then a sodden figure launches itself into my arms, nearly knocking me down again. A sobbing Scarlett.
‘What happened?’ I ask frantically, trying to look at her face. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘He just grabbed me.’ She can hardly talk, she’s crying so hard. ‘I didn’t see him, and he grabbed me.’
‘Who did?’
‘This man. He came out of nowhere, and he held my collar tight, and he spat in my face.’
‘Spat?’ I can see red marks on her neck.
‘He said, “You better get your arse back to Malum House if you know what’s good for you”.’
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
‘Okay, love, calm down.’ I stroke her damp hair. ‘Keep breathing slowly, okay?’
The ramblers are here now. ‘Are you okay?’ the woman wants to know, all twittery.
‘She’s fine thanks.’ I take a tissue from her to clean up Scarlett’s eye make-up a little; black rivulets stain her pretty face. ‘Let’s get into the dry.’
In the distance a motorbike fires up.
I lead Scarlett back to the car park, scanning the area desperately, but he’s gone. Whoever it was has vanished into the peaks.
What better place to hide?
Over the horizon the clouds come, thick and fast now. The beautiful day is quite spoiled.
* * *
12 p.m.
* * *
Instead of going into Derby, we go home, so I can sort Scarlett out and change myself. I run her a bath so she can warm up.
About to go upstairs, she pauses, foot on the first step. ‘How did he know where I live?’
‘Jump in the bath, love,’ I say. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’
* * *
Just as she’s getting dressed again and we’re preparing to leave, there’s a knock at the door.
Oh God. Do I answer – or do I hide?
Another insistent knock.
No choice. Heart thumping, I look through the old spyhole – and I open up.
There on my slate doorstep, hiding behind an upturned collar and a huge pair of shades even bigger than her daughter’s, is Kaye.
‘Are they here?’ She seems desperate.
‘Who?’ I am disingenuous.
‘Oh come on.’