‘I’ll help you,’ Billy offered instantly, lifting the damaged wheel off the ground while Robyn took control of the handlebars. ‘Here’s your money,’ he handed it to her.
She took it and put it in her back pocket, not even bothering to count it. ‘Why are you being so nice?’ she asked suspiciously.
He gave her a look of feigned innocence, looking quite cherubic with his baby blond curls and fresh-scrubbed look. ‘I’m always nice to you,’ he grinned.
‘Like hell you are—–’
‘I’ll tell Mum you’ve been swearing,’ he announced triumphantly, a look of satisfaction to his face.
‘Oh, I see!’ She had to smile, humour got the better of her. ‘You don’t want me to tell Mum and Dad about the game of football, right?’
‘Right,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘You won’t, will you? Dad said he would stop my pocket-money for a month if I did it again.’
She raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Then why did you?’
Billy sighed his impatience with her. ‘Are you going to tell them or aren’t you?’
She sighed. ‘Of course I’m not.’
He immediately dropped the damaged end of her bicycle. ‘See you later,’ he grinned before running off.
‘I didn’t promise,’ she called after him.
He turned round and poked his tongue out at her. ‘I know you,’ he scorned. ‘You won’t let me down.’
Little devil! The trouble was he knew she wouldn’t let him down. She seemed to have spent the majority of her eighteen years getting Billy out of one scrape or another—and covering up for him. The five years’ difference in their ages had made her protective towards him, over-protective on occasion, forging a bond between them that meant she would always stand by him, no matter what he did.
It took her twice as long as it should have done to get home, mainly because of Billy’s defection, and it was with some relief that she leant her bicycle up against the garden shed before going into the house.
‘I’ll have a look at it later,’ her father assured her when she explained that it was damaged. ‘Did you happen to see Billy while you were out?’
She hastily looked away. ‘I think I might have done, I’m not too sure.’
Her father gave her a reproving look, not fooled by her evasion for one moment. ‘He’ll be home for lunch, I presume,’ he said dryly, one eyebrow arched enquiringly.
‘Oh yes—Yes, I suppose so. He usually is, isn’t he?’ She bit her lip at her slip-up, seeing her father’s amused smile and smiling back at him.
Her father owned the local shop and post office, her mother actually running the shop part of it, her father running the post office and delivering groceries to the people in the village who found it difficult getting down to the shop, mainly the older members of the community. It was a good arrangement, the shop was very profitable, and even Robyn occasionally helped out on her days off from the library when they were particularly busy.
‘What’s actually wrong with your bike?’ her father frowned now, sitting back comfortably in his chair, puffing away contentedly on his pipe, the newspaper open in his hand, enjoying the luxury of his one day off.
Robyn looked uncomfortable. ‘The back wheel’s a bit bent,’ she told him lamely.
‘How bent?’
‘Very,’ she admitted with a grimace.
He put the newspaper down. ‘How did that happen?’
‘A slight accident,’ she revealed reluctantly.
‘Accident?’ her mother repeated sharply as she bustled into the room with the vase of daffodils. ‘You haven’t had an accident, have you, Robyn?’ She looked anxiously at her daughter’s slender body.
Robyn and Billy both took after their father with their fair colouring and lean frames; their mother was short and dark, her figure on the portly side. She loved village life, enjoyed running the shop, although she enjoyed looking after her family most of all; her cooking was out of this world. Robyn often teased her mother about the fact that she only had to look at one of her own delicious cakes to put on pounds, whereas the rest of them could eat any number of them and not put on an ounce.
‘Not me, Mum,’ she grinned at her. ‘My bike. It—er—It sort of got driven over,’ she told them ruefully.
‘Were you on it?’ her father asked concernedly.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I was—I was picking those flowers for Mum,’ she explained, omitting the fact that they had been growing in the garden of Orchard House when she picked them. ‘My bike was on the side of the road and the car drove straight over it.’
‘Did it stop?’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered her mother. ‘Did you know that someone was living in Orchard House?’
Her mother nodded. ‘Mr Howarth. He’s been there two or three weeks now. Was he the one who drove over your bicycle?’
‘Yes, but it was my fault. I shouldn’t have left it outside his home. I was in the woods on the other side of the road picking those wild daffodils for you when it happened,’ she invented. ‘Mr Howarth?’ she questioned curiously, wondering why her mother hadn’t mentioned him before.
‘Richard Howarth—Rick, I think he said.’ Her mother rearranged the flowers in the vase. ‘He’s had the odd piece of grocery from the shop. I think he must do his main food shopping in Ampthull, because he’s only ever had the occasional loaf of bread and a few jars of coffee.’
‘Actually I don’t think he does shop in Ampthull,’ Robyn said slowly. ‘I don’t think he shops anywhere.’
‘You mean he doesn’t eat?’ Her mother was scandalised, believing that food was the panacea for all ills.
She shook her head. ‘Not so that you would notice.’ She frowned. ‘It was really strange—by his clothes he looked down and out, really unkempt, and yet he was driving a Jaguar, this year’s model too. You don’t suppose he stole it, do you?’ she asked eagerly, sensing a mystery.
‘Don’t be silly, Robyn,’ her mother said sternly. ‘Mr Howarth seems to be a highly educated man. Maybe he’s just an eccentric.’
‘Maybe.’ But she didn’t think so. Rick Howarth hadn’t liked them on his land, had wanted to protect his privacy at all costs. He looked and dressed like a tramp, and yet he drove a very expensive car, and as her mother had said, he spoke in a highly educated voice. Perhaps her mother was right after all, maybe he was an eccentric.
Her mother frowned now. ‘I don’t like to think of him not eating.’
Her husband put down his newspaper. ‘How about the fact that I’m not eating?’ he grinned at her. ‘Isn’t lunch ready
