Seth said, “Mebbe. Ah dun’t know. I wun’t be surprised. He’s not said owt but then he went out with your lass behind your back, didn’t he? You know Cain. He can’t leave lasses alone.”

Ruben said, “Ah know. That’s why he’s got a mad woman with a gun after him. I wun’t mind but we’ve got a Jones gig comin up. He’ll have to get it sorted.”

They went off.

They say you should never eavesdrop because you might hear something you don’t like. And I had. I’d heard that everyone knew I molested blind people. But worse, I’d heard that Cain can’t leave girls alone. Not that I didn’t know that because I did.

I’d been tainted by his nose-licking.

I wonder how many noses he had licked in his life.

Bucketfuls, I bet.

I walked back along the path. Brrrr, it was dark and cold. Like Cain. Dark, cold, and heartless. A heartless nose-licker. But he was something else as well.

The thing I’d vowed never to remember again.

The thing that, no matter how much I try to forget, I remember.

That wild night up on the moorland path. When he had said to me, “Will you do summat for me? I want thee to kiss me.”

And I had done.

He hadn’t made me. I had wanted to.

The truth is . . . I’d liked it.

That was the most terrible thing.

Besides being a nose-licker and a rusty crow and an all-round terrible human being . . . he was a great kisser.

I had kissed him back.

And I wanted to kiss him more.

Snogging and Jazzles

ON MONDAY MORNING, AS I walked over the bridge to the woodland path, I heard loud gunshots from up on the moors. Surely Mrs. Bottomly’s not up there already, looking for Cain? I know everyone says she couldn’t shoot a pig in a ginnel. Well, when I say everyone, I mean Ruby. But maybe Ruby’s wrong, maybe Mrs. Bottomly is really good at shooting pigs in ginnels. But I don’t know what a ginnel is.

And why would the pig be in this ginnel, whatever it is?

I would ask Ruby, but she just looks at me like I’m a half-wit when I ask her to explain Yorkshire things. Anyway, I can’t be bothered to worry about Cain. He certainly doesn’t worry about me. It’s beginning to be a pattern. Why do boys kiss me and then don’t want to do it again?

Perhaps I’m not doing it right.

Maybe I should suggest to the Tree Sisters that we try snogging practice on the backs of each other’s calves again.

Oh, hang on a minute, last time it was horrific.

It was all right with Honey, she made it seem natural and sort of scientific. Saying helpful stuff like, “Yeth, good, onwy a bit thofter and not tho toothy.” But when I did it on Flossie, she started her Southern belle thing, moaning and saying, “Oh, that is so goddam niiiiiiice, Miss Lullabelle.”