If all the secrecy and mystery were anything to go by, there were several people around here who were still haunted by the past, events that had shaped their lives and still echoed down the years from generation to generation.

Eighteen

The roaring noise came closer. Ella stood up from where she had been bending over the milking machine and caught her grandfather’s glance.

‘What on earth . . .?’ he began, and then, grimacing a little as he eased his aching limbs into an upright position, they went out of the cowshed together. On the seat of the Ferguson tractor parked near the barn wall, Tibby stood up, his back arched, his fur fluffing out. Ella moved across to him. ‘It’s all right, Tibs, it won’t hurt you.’

Tibby, at six years old, had grown into a large, sleek cat, showing a deceptive idleness that disappeared with the twitch of a whisker at the appearance of a mouse or young rat. Neutered, he displayed a condescending disinterest in the female of the species and seemed to spend his time either relaxing in the sun on summer days, stretched out in the yard in the shade of the pump or, in winter, curled up on the peg rug in front of the range, until shooed out by Esther when he got under her feet.

‘Useless, lazy animal,’ Esther would mutter, and Ella would smile to herself and tickle Tibby under his chin until he stretched out his neck, closed his eyes and purred blissfully. He spurned the attentions of anyone except Ella; only for her was there ever a welcome. He would walk across the yard to greet her, placing his white-tipped paws carefully one in front of the other as he moved, his tail straight up, but the end crooked like a question mark. Now, under Ella’s touch, his fear subsided and he sat down again, curling his tail around himself and across his paws.

But his huge green eyes were watchful.

The noise was coming closer. Ella shaded her eyes and looked up the lane towards the town. ‘It’s a motorbike,’ she said. ‘But who . . .?’

‘One of the summer visitors from the town, I expect.’ Jonathan was about to turn away to go back into the shed, when the machine came hurtling round the last bend in the lane and into view.

‘Oh, no, it isn’t,’ Ella said, excitedly, ‘it’s Rob!’

‘Rob?’ Jonathan turned back, his interest at once re-kindled. ‘Rob on a motorbike?’

But Ella was already running towards the farm gate and leaning over it as, the engine throbbing loudly, Rob pulled up and manoeuvred the motorcycle round to stop near the gate. He turned off the ignition and the engine spluttered and died. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat, his white teeth gleaming, his brown eyes sparkling.