2

They had stripped down to their thermals in the outhouse and stepped inside. The foil covering the bacon tray remained undisturbed. Their father's failure to emerge from the annex was strange but not yet concerning. They were certain he'd still appreciate their absence, so they threw their coats and kit back on and wandered back outside. They crossed through the holes in the hedges that led through Mrs Careen's garden, on past Number Seven and into Mr Armitage's. They strolled up past the frosted remnants of a garden that would soon be tended and inevitably return to marvellous bloom.

They passed to the left of the patio pond, opting to hop over a couple of the water features and stepping stones towards the low back door. Conor took a sharp and sudden in-breath.

"Shit."

He'd had that horrible moment when you slip on a sliver of ice and catch yourself.

They didn't knock. Just stepped down into the funny low cottage entrance and thought - as they always did watching the thick beam slide above them - of those future versions of themselves that would need to 'Mind Your Head'.

They walked through the kitchen, Calum moving the kettle onto the AGA as he moved past. It was quiet for a moment then. As soon as the whistle sounded, he called down -

"You here, boys?"

"Yes, Mr Armitage," replied Calum. "Do you want tea?"

"Of course I want tea, thank you, my boy," returned Mr Armitage.

They watched his shadow move past the hall away to their left, the rounded shell where his chin slid into his chest as he ducked between light shades and past close shelves. For a man who had lived in the house as long as he had, he never seemed to have grown accustomed to where everything was. He was far too big for it, you see. You got the impression from Mr Armitage that there would never be a house that would make for him a sensible abode.

"Why do we call them 'rooms', hey?" he often asked them, "There is never enough room inside."

He turned towards them, a one-man barricade slowly lumbering their way, chuckling at how they were wrapped up. The boys had never seen him need more than jeans, a tattersall shirt and his wax jacket. Conor swore he’d seen him in a fleece one day. Calum felt his great hands by his side and up into his armpits as his feet lifted off the ground. He'd slid the big chest over to the AGA and started to climb up to reach the top shelf where the teas were before Mr Armitage gave him the lift. He reached out. Paused.

"What tea do you want?" he asked.

"Cedar."

Front and centre. He slid the jar towards him as Mr Armitage lowered him to the floor.

They filled the filter with the cedar tea, and Calum filled the pot with water. As it steeped, they sat at the round breakfast table. Mr Armitage's long hair framed him well. His chin remained near his chest, a habit from unsuccessfully attempting to avoid knocking lights, ornaments, door-frames. His head low, he glanced up at them.

"Well, how is she?" he asked.

The boys started to tell him, but they could see that, though he tried, Mr Armitage quickly lost focus, looking out, as he so often did, at the field that housed the three sisters. They knew he wanted to listen. He meant the questions he asked, but his mind was always so saturated. It didn't matter to them; talking to him was, in truth, just a way the boys had to talk to each other. Conor noted how Calum's language had changed concerning Ella. It was no longer simple grief and confusion. He heard it now - he was terrified.

"So then she shot up," he said, "grabbed the poker out of the fire." He paused for effect, not caring that Mr Armitage was elsewhere, "and swung it at his head."

"She meant it too!" Calum continued. "You should have seen her eyes, Mr Armitage, they were wild. She looked like a completely different girl. She didn't even look angry, really. Just violent. No anger, Mr Armitage, I just can't understand it. You know her, I mean - she’s mad, right?"

"Mhmm, sounds horrid, lad." He replied without looking back at them, ever onward out to the sisters' field. It was nearly three months to the first planting. He was just waiting.

Calum paused, waiting for more, until eventually he just said;

"Well, she's gone now anyway, thank God."

"Gone?!" replied Mr Armitage, running back up from his inside travels. He came seemingly flying through the window and back into the room. "Where has she gone?"

"We don't know, we just heard the door slam last night, and wandered past her room this morning. The door was open, we peered in and - well - she was gone."

Conor spoke, finally, clarifying - "We mean, we think she's gone, Mr Armitage. We made breakfast today, went out for a while, and when we came back, Dad was still asleep, and there was still no sign of Ella. So, yeah, it seems like she's gone."

"That's not good, lads, she could be anywhere. What's your plan?"

"Honestly, Mr Armitage, I think we were both just quite excited for a quiet day and some time outside. Should we be doing something?" continued Conor.

At that moment, Mr Armitage got up and turned towards the corner of the room away to his right. With a great creaking groan from both the leather and the man, he sank into his low button-backed chair by the bookshelf. At last, he lifted his head. His legs stretched out across the rug, crumpling and creasing it in uncharted ways. Again, he looked out across the garden. He reached leftwards and down, his great fingers pawing across his books. All variations on a theme. Farming mostly. And Native American History. The great fingers alighted on a small white book, quite unlike the rest, a journal with large spaces between each of the pages. He flicked through the little white journal, the lads noticing no words, no drawings, just pressed flowers.

"Your sister gave me this book."

"What's it say?" asked Calum.

"I'm not sure, lad, a lot, I reckon." Replied Mr Armitage.

Conor reached out his hand, and he passed it across to him. He took it and slid it into the big front pocket of the hoody he was wearing. He told Mr Armitage that they really ought to be leaving and turned on his heel towards the low back door. Calum, frustrated to be going without the chance to process more of what Ella had done in recent days, shuffle-kicked his feet as he followed.

"Thanks for the tea."

"Most welcome, lads."