“Stop fretting, Trig.” Jed flicked his stone across the crumbling tarmac. “I’m sure she won’t forget again.” He flicked a second stone.

Trig found a piece of broken tarmac and flicked that. It didn’t go as far as Jed’s. The two of them dropped on to their stomachs and had a flicking contest.

I looked out southwards. Beyond the cemetery. Beyond the boundary. Trees and hills and bushes, sizzling in the sun. Somewhere, hidden away, there was a barn. With Una and her sick dad in.

Unless she was lying, of course.

Which she could be.

But I didn’t think she was.

Only four and a half hours of school left.

Only four and a half hours till I see her again.

“We’re home! We’re home!”

Could Trig never do anything quietly? I’d planned to creep upstairs, grab the bag of food from my drawer and get over to the cemetery before Dad even realised I was back. Not much chance of that now.

“Am I pleased to see you lot.” Dad stuck his head round the kitchen door. “There’s so much to do, not least the laundry. It’s got to be done tonight, Maggie, party or no party.”

I sighed. Thursday afternoon. Our time slot at the laundry. I’d completely forgotten. It’d be another hour and a half at least till I got to the cemetery.

“Trig – go with Mags, will you? And don’t leave it all to her.”

Me and Trig got changed out of our uniforms and heaved all the dirty washing on to the handcart. Least it was sunny. Least it’d dry all right.

CHAPTER 13

“Hello, Maggie. It’s not often I see anyone up here in the cemetery on a Thursday evening.”

Mr Wetheral. What was he doing here?

He walked towards me, stick in one hand and a pair of shears in the other. Strong foot, weak foot. Strong foot, weak foot.

“Um, hello, Mr Wetheral.” I threw a sideways look at the hawthorn. Was Una there? Had he seen her? “I, um, just like to come up here sometimes. To, er, see the butterflies.”

“The butterflies?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you be better off going to the butterfly fields?”

Yup, I would. If butterflies was what I was really looking for.

“Well,” he said, “I’m sure you get plenty of butterflies over here too. Lots of stinging nettles round the old church, and as Mother says, where there’s stinging nettles there’s catterbugs.”

I glanced behind the tree. Stay hidden, Una, if you’re here. Stay hidden.

“I’ve been trimming the graves.” Mr Wetheral held up the shears.

“The graves?”

I looked at William Whittington and Georgina Millicent Cruise. They seemed as overgrown as ever.

“My family. They’re at the back of the church.”

The Wetheral graves. Of course. Neat and tidy and tended.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”