The Shell House Read Online Free

what had turned out to be a couple of hours’ manual labour. Unexpectedly, though, Greg had enjoyed it—and not because of the welcoming flattery of the volunteer group. For all their references to his strong young muscles, he’d found it hard to match the older people for strength or determination. He’d been flagging long before they showed any signs of taking a break, and had to force himself to keep shovelling. But it had been rewarding, seeing the trail of hardcore extending towards the garden entrance, imagining it as a proper finished track.
    Sprawled on the grass next to Gizzard, Greg flexed his arms. He was going to be stiff tomorrow. Definitely not as fit as he thought, not in the upper body, anyway. When the workers finally downed tools, they had invited him to share their lunch, a huge picnic over in the Coach House, set out on trestle tables. Everyone, it seemed, had contributed something—sausage rolls, pork pies, salads, fruit, fudge brownies. With a little encouragement, Greg had tucked in. People emerged from all over the gardens, some two dozen of them. ‘Oh, you’re Faith’s young man?’ one of the men said, with a quaintly old-fashioned turn of phrase. Why did everyone think he must have something to do with Faith? Presumably because they were the only two people under forty. But there had been no sign of her.
    ‘How’s the old slave-ship, then?’ Gizzard asked.
    Greg shrugged. ‘OK. We’ve got a couple of new teachers—Art and Physics.’
    ‘Young? Female?’ Gizzard’s eyebrows rose suggestively.
    ‘No. Both male.’
    Greg hadn’t seen Faith again before he left. He hadn’t felt like searching for her. With all that work to be done, how did she get away with not helping? He got the impression that her dad couldn’t bear to see anyone without a pickaxe or shovel in their hand. As soon as lunch was eaten, people started to drift back to their jobs; Greg found Michael and said, untruthfully, that he had to go.
    ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ Michael said. ‘See you next weekend, if you like? We’re always here Saturdays and Sundays.’ Not bloody likely, Greg thought, cycling down the rough drive; you’re not getting more free labour out of me. Anyway, he had his Saturday job. But now he found that Graveney Hall was on his mind: the burnt-out shell on its shoulder of land, the austere lines, the contrast between ruined building and fertile fields all round like a tide lapping at a shipwreck. He’d taken only five or six photographs, having been so successfully hijacked. Next weekend, or maybe one evening, he’d go back for a proper exploration, keeping well clear of Faith’s dad.
    ‘Who d’you go around with now, then?’ Gizzard asked.
    ‘Jordan, mostly. You know? Jordan McAuliffe. We’re in the same tutor group now.’
    Gizzard frowned. ‘Dark hair? Hardly ever speaks?’
    ‘He’s OK when you get to know him. He’s a brilliant swimmer, did you know? Butterfly and freestyle.’
    ‘How would I? He’s never said more than two words to me.’
    ‘No. Well.’ Greg didn’t find this surprising. Jordan McAuliffe had been in a different form throughout school, and was in any case a reserved, self-contained boy—the opposite of Gizzard. ‘He trains at the pool. He was there a lot over the summer.’
    Gizzard grinned. ‘While you were doing your
Baywatch
bit? Cor, I’d have swapped my holiday job for yours like a shot!’ Being pool guard, in Gizzard’s view, gave endless opportunities for eyeing semi-naked girls. In fact, it was more a case of watching mesmerized while the fitness fanatics ploughed up and down, or warning kids not to dive-bomb each other in the paths of struggling infant doggypaddlers.
    ‘I wouldn’t fancy being rescued by you,’ Greg said. ‘You nearly drowned me, that time in life-saving practice.’
    ‘Don’t s’pose I’d bother. You can look after yourself.’ Gizzard yawned. ‘We’re getting the barbecue out later. Want to stay? Mum,