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But he need not have worried himself with thinking up excuses because no one stirred and he made it through the back door and out into the garden without raising the alarm.
Napoleon, curled up in the kitchen, rolled on to his back and watched him go outside, then trotted after, nuzzling at his hand. Patrick thought about shooing him back, but the presence of the black dog was comforting. He lay his hand on the dog’s flat, silky head, stroking his ears.
He should have brought his torch. He had forgotten just how dark it was here, no streetlights, no borrowed illumination from nearby houses.
Patrick stood and waited for his eyes to adjust, pleasantly surprised at the way the world slowly came into grey-blue focus and just how much light there really was from a half fat moon and a scattering of stars. He made his way across the garden, feeling the damp grass soaking through his shoes and wishing he’d worn his boots. There was still some heat in the night air and the scent of jasmine that wafted across the lawn from the terrace wall was almost too intense.
Patrick flinched as the gate creaked open. He cracked it just wide enough to slip through, Napoleon in tow. He had told the boy to meet him in the meadow, checking he knew where Patrick meant. It seemed like a logical place, the boy could get across the field behind his house and was less likely to be seen that way than if he had to come out of the drive and on to the road.
It occurred to Patrick, as he stepped out from the garden and into Rupert’s overgrown meadow, that he did not even know the name of this boy he had come here to meet or how long he would have to wait before he managed to get there.
Patrick made his way over to the fence and stared across into the field. The moon cast deep shadows, concealing the bullocks and the nettles and the long grass at the margins. Patrick stared hard and after a moment or two could just make out a figure making its way through the shadow and heading towards him.
‘Hi,’ Patrick said as he drew near.
The boy glanced back over his shoulder and then cast a searching look past Patrick and into the meadow.
‘It’s OK. I’m on my own.’
He nodded and then climbed up to perch on his side of the fence. Patrick, taking his lead, wedged himself on the other side with his back against one of the tall ash trees that formed part of the boundary to Rupert’s land.
‘Didn’t know if you’d come,’ the boy mumbled.
‘Said I would, didn’t I?’ Patrick told him. ‘Who are you anyway?’
His name was Da
Remembering their visit that afternoon Patrick considered that it should have been Off-White Farm or even Grey and Unwashed Farm, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Your mum not live there?’ Patrick asked. ‘Mine lives in Florida. She and Dad got divorced.’
Da
‘When did she go?’
‘About three week ago. Just before he died. The man what lived here.’
‘Was it your mam Rupert came to see?’
‘Rupert?’
‘Rupert Friedman. The man who lived here.’
Da
‘Did your dad not like that?’
‘Dad don’t like anything except stuff to do with the farm. He’s been making no money and it’s getting to him. Wurriting, me mam says. She wanted him to sell up and move to Epworth, get a job like she did, but he won’t have it. Mr Friedman came to our house. He sat there one afternoon talking to me mam when me dad came home and he wasn’t best pleased. Thought it were all a big waste of time and said so. She told him he were a big waste of time and they got into a big fight like they always do. Mr Friedman left and after he’d gone the fight got worse.’
‘Did you go to the shop to try and talk to him?’
Da
Patrick nodded his understanding. ‘Marcus, the man at the shop, he said you looked scared.’
Da
‘Why did you go to the shop?’ Patrick asked. ‘Why not just come here?’
‘I did,’ Da
He broke off, cast a resentful look back towards the farm. ‘When I got back home she’d gone. Dad said she’d waited till he’d gone out then packed her bags and cleared off. She never left a note or nothing.’
Patrick gnawed on his lower lip not knowing what to say. Da
‘Do you know where she went to?’ he asked.
Da
‘What about a friend?’
Da
It sounded as though Da
‘Can I do anything?’ he asked finally.
Da
‘What’s your mum’s name?’
‘Sharon Fielding. I don’t know what else to do. My dad won’t talk about her, he just says she’s gone and don’t care about us so I’d best forget about her.’
Patrick fumbled in his head for something useful to say. ‘Look,’ he managed finally, ‘the man who owns Fallowfields now, Alec, he’s a policeman. I might be able to get him to … well, to tell you what you could do.’
Da
It was almost four by the time Patrick got back to his bed and when he did, sleep just would not come. He could understand why Da