towards the door, where the light was best. He propped himself up on his elbows and opened the tin he’d brought out with him today; it held a torch, a Famous Five book that his father had said he’d enjoyed when he was a boy, and some chocolate. He turned onto his back and shone the torch up at the ceiling. A spider, with a tiny body and eight long legs, ran across. He broke off a piece of chocolate, opened his book, and curled into a ball. He could hear the Atlantic in the distance, the waves crashing against the rocks. It would be better to live here than the cottage. Could he manage to spend the night without getting caught? If he went out when they’d all gone to sleep and came back very early in the morning, it might work. But if his mother had been that angry after he’d only been here for a few hours, he didn’t like to think what she would do if she caught him out for a whole night.
The Famous Five wasn’t very good; he’d have to find a different book for next time. On the way back, he knew better than to take the path that ran along the lawn, over his hidden stream. Instead, he climbed up into the forest. Huge ferns grew under the trees, moss clinging to their branches. Water dripped through everything. It was not an old forest, and very few of the trees and plants were native to Ireland. It had been planted by Philip the First. The paths were winding and thin and the undergrowth brushed your ankles as you walked. It was easy to get lost, to forget where the house was, whether the sea was behind or in front of you. He wondered if the visitors would be allowed to walk here. His mother had told him that there were only a few places they weren’t allowed to go: the new cottage, the Connollys’ house, the kitchen of the big house, and the island. Mr. Murphy, the man Mrs. Connolly had poured tea on, decided this, she said. Since then Philip had been repeating these places to himself in his head: their cottage, our cottage, the kitchen, the island. Sometimes the words took on the rhythm of his footfalls as he walked around; other times he matched them to songs he knew, fitting them into the place where the old words had been.
To avoid the workmen, he had deliberately climbed up to the highest point of the forest. Beginning his descent, he noticed that little signs had been planted along the path. A long, thin spike, with a green label at the top, named almost every plant and tree. He bent down to look at one of them: Pinus contorta, lodgepole pine. He knew the small slanted writing to be Latin, but “lodgepole pine” seemed a funny name for the relatively average-looking tree that sprouted high into the air above him. On his way home, he read the labels, then pulled each one out of the ground. When he reached the threshold of the forest, he hid them all under a giant fern.
At the edge of the lawn, he almost tripped over a sign: WELCOME TO DULOUGH . PLEASE DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS . He stepped back onto the gravel. He thought of all the places he wouldn’t be able to go. But surely this didn’t apply to him? He lived here, he wasn’t just a visitor, he knew how to walk on the grass so as not to ruin it. Bending over, he tugged at the sign, but it was much more substantial than the ones in the forest and it wouldn’t budge. He considered giving it a good kick, but he was in open view of the drawing room window and he thought that it would be too risky. He walked off down the avenue, looking back at it from time to time.
When he got to the cottage, it was earlier than he expected. The kitchen clock said a quarter to five. There was no sound but the crackling of a roast in the oven. He couldn’t believe it; they hadn’t had a roast since before the move and even then it was only on Sundays. Today was Friday. He peered through the oven window and felt the intense heat on his eyelashes and nose. He looked for potatoes and carrots and parsnips; they were all there.
In every room objects from the big house
The Famous Five wasn’t very good; he’d have to find a different book for next time. On the way back, he knew better than to take the path that ran along the lawn, over his hidden stream. Instead, he climbed up into the forest. Huge ferns grew under the trees, moss clinging to their branches. Water dripped through everything. It was not an old forest, and very few of the trees and plants were native to Ireland. It had been planted by Philip the First. The paths were winding and thin and the undergrowth brushed your ankles as you walked. It was easy to get lost, to forget where the house was, whether the sea was behind or in front of you. He wondered if the visitors would be allowed to walk here. His mother had told him that there were only a few places they weren’t allowed to go: the new cottage, the Connollys’ house, the kitchen of the big house, and the island. Mr. Murphy, the man Mrs. Connolly had poured tea on, decided this, she said. Since then Philip had been repeating these places to himself in his head: their cottage, our cottage, the kitchen, the island. Sometimes the words took on the rhythm of his footfalls as he walked around; other times he matched them to songs he knew, fitting them into the place where the old words had been.
To avoid the workmen, he had deliberately climbed up to the highest point of the forest. Beginning his descent, he noticed that little signs had been planted along the path. A long, thin spike, with a green label at the top, named almost every plant and tree. He bent down to look at one of them: Pinus contorta, lodgepole pine. He knew the small slanted writing to be Latin, but “lodgepole pine” seemed a funny name for the relatively average-looking tree that sprouted high into the air above him. On his way home, he read the labels, then pulled each one out of the ground. When he reached the threshold of the forest, he hid them all under a giant fern.
At the edge of the lawn, he almost tripped over a sign: WELCOME TO DULOUGH . PLEASE DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS . He stepped back onto the gravel. He thought of all the places he wouldn’t be able to go. But surely this didn’t apply to him? He lived here, he wasn’t just a visitor, he knew how to walk on the grass so as not to ruin it. Bending over, he tugged at the sign, but it was much more substantial than the ones in the forest and it wouldn’t budge. He considered giving it a good kick, but he was in open view of the drawing room window and he thought that it would be too risky. He walked off down the avenue, looking back at it from time to time.
When he got to the cottage, it was earlier than he expected. The kitchen clock said a quarter to five. There was no sound but the crackling of a roast in the oven. He couldn’t believe it; they hadn’t had a roast since before the move and even then it was only on Sundays. Today was Friday. He peered through the oven window and felt the intense heat on his eyelashes and nose. He looked for potatoes and carrots and parsnips; they were all there.
In every room objects from the big house
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