A Private Haunting Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’m Dave, work in The Hand and Shears.’
    â€˜Good to know you Dave.’
    â€˜Good to know the Viking.’
    Jonas saw the smirk but decided it wasn’t a smirk. There was no need for it, and because there was no need it couldn’t have happened. He wanted to like all these people, every couple and clique, the kids from The Hub, trying not to enjoy themselves too much; the parental units at an appraising distance; Greg and Wendy, the permanent flush revealing the obvious storyline; Eggers and the pub boys, half-cut when they arrived and sawn through by nine; the primly woollen Grandees of Village Life like Mrs Hawthorne from the village hall committee.
    â€˜You will not believe this ,’ said Mrs H.
    The little group glanced forlornly at their empty glasses and across at the winking drinks. As one, they patiently turned their faces. Mrs Hawthorne, commanding obedience since 1958.
    â€˜I was at Sands Hill doing a risk assessment for the Beaver Cub walk. I parked the car in the car park and – ’
    â€˜ Careful ,’ said some innocent interloper who didn’t know the protocol. ‘I was there once and you – ’
    â€˜ Anyway . It was only four o’clock but there were a few cars, more than I would have thought. Then I noticed there were a few men huddled round one car. When I got a bit closer I saw a girl with hardly any clothes. On her knees and.... can you imagine ? How could I take the Beavers there?’
    Glances were exchanged.
    â€˜ Beavers don’t belong in a place like that.’
    Feet were looked at.
    â€˜Beavers should not be exposed to that .’
    Jonas had to flee. An instant classic , a story that people would tell for years and it happened at his party , that time Granny Hawthorne, because she must be called Granny even if no one called her that and maybe Jonas would start it off, another tradition born of the Norwegian, he of the parties, the nickname giver , so Granny Hawthorne said beaver a dozen times until silenced by a sudden explosion of laughter. To this day she’d have no idea why.
    â€˜Uncle Jonas.’
    He gave Lacey a sideways glance. She’d appeared half an hour ago, alone, no sign of her parents. Fourteen was a bit old for the uncle thing. He wondered if she was mocking him.
    â€˜Is it time yet?’
    The wheedling little girl routine annoyed him, the flirty edge a touch unsettling.
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    They walked hand in hand into the garden. Jonas wanted the boyfriend to be watching. Spencer P. But there was no sign of the kid. A few regulars from The Hub started clapping and whistling.
    â€˜Go Jonas!’
    â€˜He’s the firestarter.’
    â€˜Twisted firestarter!’
    Before Jonas began he gave a little bow to the crowd. Then he reached into a bag of straw and formed a clump into a ball. Next, he picked up his willow bow, wound the cord round a nine-inch wooden spindle and placed a small piece of bark under a v-shaped cut in the rowan hearth-board. He stepped firmly onto the board, fitting one end of the spindle into the groove in a small wooden bearing block and the other into a similar groove on the hearth.
    He could hear Big Haakon whispering. Long easy strokes, son, like with a woman . After a few strokes Jonas built up the bow speed, the smoke beginning to wisp now, furry shavings building in the v-notch. A few faster strokes and he put down the bow and picked up the bark, gently fanning the ember to a red glow. He carefully tipped it into the ball of straw, holding it up and blowing, softly, softly , then hard and looong , the straw suddenly bursting into flame. Then the bonfire itself, the straw ball setting off the cedar branches that he’d stacked in the centre, filling the night with a crackling sweetness that quickly became a roar, the woodpile dry as old dust and the flames licking high and rising as people stepped back and now oohs and aahs and nice one Jonas and didn’t everyone love a bonfire.